he’s a passenger princess, he smokes constantly, he has an alternate persona named fucking Crash, he grew up isolated in Alaska, he can’t stop saying odd shit, he hallucinates while driving, he has synesthesia, his mattress is on the floor, he has a crucifix even though he’s not religious, he’s good at drawing, he might mow your lawn, he doesn’t sleep, he’s an alcoholic, he did a mandatory stint at a mental hospital, he’s haunted, he’s been shot three times, he’s been gutted, he a a bartender, he makes dolls out of beer cans, he’s a nihilist, he thinks the light’s winning
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hi, i’m not sure if your requests are open, forgive me if not, but i’ve been thinking about bombshell!reader and spence lately. not sure if you’ve written this already or something similar, but how about them sharing a room on a case? similar to alaska.
fem, 1k
Spencer predicted the outcome of the roommate situation fairly quickly. Ignoring whatever data he might have in his head about the team, Spencer was always going to end up sharing with you tonight, because the universe hates him, and because you quite like him.
It's nice to be someone first choice, if nothing else. “Me and Spencer will share, obviously,” you say, holding out your hand for a keycard.
Hotch passes it over without complaint. He doesn't have to say keep it professional, you will (ish), and he doesn't have to ask Spencer if he's okay with this arrangement. Despite endless exhausting teasing, everyone knows that you and Spencer are actually friends. Or, he thinks you are.
You certainly feel quite friendly as you hike your bag higher up your arm and sew the other arm through his. “Let's go. I'm so tired I might fall asleep on the way there.”
You don't look tired. Spencer struggles to understand how every emotion you wear suits you. How every time he looks at you, you're prettier. He read a book recently on human attraction, and less factual but perhaps his most strongly believed takeaway from the book was that a person grows more attracted to the person they're attracted to, like a loop, or an ouroboros snake eating its own tail, forced over and over to make the same stupid mistake. What is he doing? Does he really think this is a good idea? Is he in love with you? How couldn't he be? You walk arm in arm to a room you're going to share and you don't care that he smells sickly of arnica and deodorant mixed together. You ignore the dark circles under his eyes, dark circles you never seem to have, always so perfect, always so you.
“This one?” you ask, coming to a stop. “Room… 108?” He takes your bag and you smile gratefully, inserting the key, and legging open the door. “Tada. Home sweet home, Dr. Reid.”
The hotel room is small and stale. Clean, sure, but questionably, with yellowing furnishings and sparse furniture. There's a double bed, two nightstands, a cubby bathroom close to the door, and a single chair near a small free standing countertop opposite of the bed, hosting a microwave and cups with hot chocolate sachets.
“Wow,” you say, beaming, immediately breaking for the bed.
“Wait, wait! We have to check for bed bugs.”
You hold your hands up in surrender.
Spencer peels the sheets back and uses the little torch on his keychain to investigate the mattress while you sit on the floor, one leg crossed beneath you and the other stretched in front of you as you sort through your clothes. You hum as you fold a shirt cleanly and make a pleased sound that may prove to give him indigestion as you unearth your pyjamas.
“Spencer, can I shower first? Do you mind?”
“I don't mind.” He turns off the torch, satisfied. “Thank you. For letting me check without being annoyed.”He says the second bit quieter than he means to.
“Why would I be annoyed?” you ask, standing up in a whirlwind of pistachio perfume. Low notes of something sweet and caramelised haunt him as you drop your hand on his shoulder. “I'm gonna shower really fast, I swear. Should we get dinner? I bet we could order something to the front desk.”
“I'll see if they have any menus.”
Sitting in bed with you, later, showered and fed and drinking microwaved hot chocolate from paper cups together, Spencer has a strange flash of pleasure. Talking to you, seeing you with your hair in its protective style for the night, your skin shining with lotions and serums, and to have the revelation that you really do have dark circles under your makeup, it all feels private and special. Because you're still undeniably beautiful, and you act like he's worth sharing that with.
He feels overwhelmed, in all honesty.
You can sense it. You do your best to calm him down.
“Finish your drink, babe,” you say, knocking him on the thigh with your knuckles. “It was a really long day.”
“I'm fine.”
“Yes, you are.” You giggle at yourself. “Sorry, I'm being serious tonight, I decided.”
“Why?” he asks, puzzled.
“I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”
“You don't.”
You put your hot chocolate on the nightstand and sink back into the pillows, looking every bit a movie star as usual despite your fresh face. It's your expression, the confidence behind them, that makes you so beautiful.
“What are you thinking?” you ask.
He looks down into his hot chocolate, swirling the drink around and around. “You're beautiful.”
It catches you off guard. You're quiet for too long, panic festering in his chest.
“You are too.” You put your hand on his thigh. When he brings his haze to your face, you've closed your eyes, a small smirk playing on your lips. “Wanna brush my teeth for me?”
“No.” You both laugh. “Sorry if that was out of the blue, before.”
“I say worse to you,” you say. “Lay down with me. We can snuggle.”
Spencer lays down. You don't snuggle, but your hand stays pressed to the side of his thigh, and the smell of your perfume lingers despite your shower. It must've been caught in your hair.
“It's weird,” you say, facing the ceiling, “I'm not tired anymore.”
“It's called learned arousal.”
Your laugh is a shock. “Oh, is it now?”
“Not like that. Are you thinking about work? If you think about certain things while you're in bed, it starts to make it so you think about those things on instinct. You've conditioned yourself.”
“I don't think so,” you say. “Well, maybe. Mostly I just think about you, Spence. And not like that.” You laugh again, so much laughter Spencer could conjure the sound from memory alone. “Sorry, I shouldn't have said that. I promise I'm not trying to harass you.”
He stares at the side of your face. “I know what you mean. I think about you too.”
“Well, good to know I'm not in this torture alone,” you say softly.
It is the worst night's sleep of Spencer's life, but he thinks he might want to do it again.
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