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meetmeatthecoda · 5 years

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Fic!!

@scifi-gk Here ya go!! :D The “tonight” I promised turned into “stupidly late bordering on early morning” but my posting usually does that sooo sorry about that :)) But yeah, here’s eight tiny chapters of fic based on this post called “Sweet OTP Things” which was just too damn cute to pass up. I used it especially to practice writing really short things really quickly. Trying to weave a believable situation complete with cute OTP feels in just a couple of lines is hard!! LOL so here’s my practice, basically! :D But I hope it’s still enjoyable! :)) Any feedback is loved and this will be posted on FF.net and AO3 as “Sweet Moments” with a link to the inspiration post! :) Much love y’all! <3

Give me more of Person A nuzzling into Person B’s neck because they’re cold and tired, and Person B m e l t i n g.

The heat’s on, filling the car with warm air swirling around them, slowly thawing their fingers and toes, numb from being out so long in the frigid December air. They’re huddled closer together than they normally would be in the backseat, gravitating toward the closest source of warmth in the dark.

Red sits very still, not wanting to disturb the odd peace and stillness that has settled over them here in the backseat, Dembe driving up front, seemingly immune to the atmosphere behind him. Lizzie is pressed close to his side, shivering slightly, and Red is cold too but he’s more worried about her. They were outside for too long and her coat is far too thin and –

Then he hears her teeth start to chatter and he simply can’t take it anymore. Red shifts to pull his arm out from where it is trapped against hers, his heart fluttering at her quiet noise of protest, and puts his arm around her shoulders instead, fully tucking her into his side.

Lizzie doesn’t question it, only exhaling a small breath in surprise, something Red can feel thanks to how close they are, and then it’s only a moment before she’s moving even closer, throwing her free arm around his waist and turning her head. He wonders for a moment what exactly she’s doing before he feels a cold shock on the warm skin of his neck and he completely melts inside as he realizes it’s her nose, because she’s nuzzling into his neck, her eyes closing with a quiet, contented sigh.

And Red stares wide-eyed into the darkness of the car, completely in shock as the secret love of his life cuddles with him.

Because Red?

Well, he’s warm now.

*7 more of these under the cut!*

Give me more slow dancing with no music, arms wrapped tightly around each other, breaths mingling.

She’s sitting on the couch, tucked into one corner, looking small and sad, her eyes heavy and wet. He feels his heart ache for her, wants to help her, always. And the only thing he can think to do is move forward and offer her his hand.

(It certainly isn’t the first time he’s surrendered to her.)

She looks at him in confusion, her brow furrowing and her chin trembling, looking so lost that he can only do one thing. He simply reaches down and takes her hand, tugging her gently but firmly to stand, pulling her without hesitation into his arms. She goes without resistance, not taking her hand back and unconsciously bringing the other up to rest lightly on his chest. With that, Red starts to move, just swaying slightly from side to side, taking her with him.

“What are we doing?” she asks quietly, a whisper, really, just breathing the question to him.

“We’re dancing, Lizzie,” he answers just as softly, slowly moving his free arm to rest around her waist.

“But there’s no music, Red,” she murmurs, sounding a little amused now and he’s so happy, even if it’s technically at his expense, loving the thought of her fondly shaking her head over his silly antics.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” he whispers, bringing his cheek to rest ever so gently against hers, silken and soft, warm and lovely. Perfect.

Lizzie.

“We’ll make our own.”

Give me more of Person A playing with Person B’s fingers because they’re bored, tracing the skin, examining the scars.

They’re only an hour into their long flight to Paris, nowhere near landing, and Liz is already restless. She’s finished the book she was almost done with when they boarded Red’s private jet and she was stupid enough not to bring a second one so here she is, tired of gazing out the window and too excited to sleep.

Bored.

Red is there next to her, as usual, occupied with a crossword puzzle, happy as can be. Liz would peer over his shoulder and try to help but Red likes to do his puzzles himself.

Stubborn man.

So, Liz can do nothing but stare, watch him frown at the paper, his bottom lip jutting out in the cutest pout, before his eyes light up as he thinks of the answer, hurriedly leaning forward to write it in. Liz feels her lips quirk up in a grin, something completely beyond her control. He’s just too adorable.

Liz’s eyes drift down Red’s arm, bared to her gaze by his rolled-up sleeve, and down to his hand, holding his signature red pen, neatly writing letters in the little boxes. His hands are really something, strong and capable, all long fingers and neat nails, a light dusting of blonde hair, and, when she looks a little closer, a curious collection of marks.

Liz frowns, leaning forward and unceremoniously taking Red’s writing hand in both of her own, running her fingers over the tendons and knuckles, and spying a faint line right above his middle finger. It could be from anything, knowing Red. Knife, sword, scissors. She can never tell with him.

“What’s this from?” she asks without preamble, tracing the long line with her own finger.

“Paper cut,” he answers simply, not questioning her sudden inspection.

Oh.

Liz smiles and hums absently in response, moving to run her thumb over the prominent bone of his wrist instead.

“Lizzie?” Red questions idly.

“Hmm?”

“As much as I’m enjoying this, do you think I’ll be getting my hand back anytime soon?”

Liz smirks to herself. She’s not bored anymore.

“Not until we get to Paris.”

Give me more soft kisses, lips barely touching, just chaste little things that leave both parties irrationally breathless.

It’s almost too much to bear, sitting this close to him, in some sort of tense limbo. They stare each other down, eyes not straying from one another, not challenging or cautious, more tentative and unsure. Their knees press together on the couch where they’re sitting, in the dimly lit living room of his latest safe house, where dusk fell quietly around them and left them suspended in this timid twilight.

Slowly, barely daring to breath, not taking her eyes off him, Liz moves her hand forward to lightly ghost her fingers over the back of his hand, resting on his knee inches away from her. She hears his slight intake of breath, sees his mouth open in surprise, as close as she is, and she revels in it.

It takes him a moment, a scared moment for Liz, waiting anxiously, but it isn’t too long before she feels rather than sees Red’s hand inch forward to brush her knee, and with that light touch, she knows she’s not in this alone.

(She never was.)

And it’s that thought that gives her courage enough to inch her head forward, leaving her hands to rest, their job done, and move her eyes to his lips. He follows suit, advancing at the same rate she is, slowly, achingly slow, as they get closer, until their lips finally brush. It is a soft, dry thing, barely there, and yet it is enough for a first kiss.

They pause, not moving away but not moving any closer as they consider each other in silence. Liz sees a gleam in Red’s eyes, something she can interpret easily and, oddly enough, feel reflected in herself, and it brings a flush to her cheeks. She felt something when their lips touched, something unfamiliar but very welcome, nothing jolting, not a shock or a spark. More like a smolder, warm embers starting to glow somewhere inside her.

Red examines her in turn and soon his eyes stray down to her lips, gazing at them in something akin to longing and it’s enough for Liz. She reaches out and kisses him again, keeping her eyes wide open, too enthralled by his face to stop looking quite yet as they share gentle, sipping kisses, Liz feeling as though he’s stealing her very breath, something she willingly gives to him. She watches his eyes drift shut, an action seemingly beyond his control. And as lips caress hers, so warm and persuading, she can’t help her own eyes starting to slip shut from the sensation, only one thought resounding clearly in her head.

(This is right.)

Give me more humming in the kitchen, making brownies at 3 AM for no reason at all.

He wakes to the smell of chocolate, smiling pleasantly before his eyes have even opened, wondering what Lizzie is making for breakfast, is she –

Wait.

Red is instantly alert and confused as he opens his eyes to see it’s still dark outside. He frowns and glances at the clock on Lizzie’s nightstand.

3:11am

Well. That’s odd.

He is out of bed within a few moments, tugging a white t-shirt on to accompany his striped cotton sleep pants before he pads out to the kitchen, stopping when he hears and sees Lizzie, completely at a loss for words or movement.

Because there she is, dressed in his button-down shirt and nothing else, all bare feet and a messy pony tail, humming softly to herself as she mixes some kind of chocolate batter in a big bowl, smears of it on her face and hands, looking up to smile brightly at him.

At three o’clock in the morning.

She’s going to kill him.

(He loves her so much.)

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” he thinks it’s a fair question, personally, but she doesn’t seem phased, just continues to stir happily.

“Making brownies!” she says, smiling.

Well, that doesn’t help.

“Mhm,” he murmurs patiently, now starting to smile himself, unable to stand in the face of her happiness without absorbing a little for himself. “And why are you making brownies at three in the morning, love?”

It’s Lizzie’s turn to look puzzled, which he finds hilarious, and she just shrugs at him, starting to scoop the batter into a large tin.

“Couldn’t sleep,” she says simply. “Wanna help?”

He blinks at her for a second more, taking in the unusual sight, and then nods. What else can he do? It’s not the most ridiculous thing they’ve ever done. And something about the thought of he and Lizzie puttering around in the kitchen together while the rest of the world is sleeping makes him as warm inside as the preheated oven.

So, he hurries forward to grab a spoon and start scooping, pausing only to playfully lick the smear of batter off her face, making her giggle.

They’ll sleep later.

Give me more holding hands, that simple act nearly overwhelming one or both of them, thumbs stroking over knuckles, fingers interlacing.

It’s all they can do, here in the back of an FBI SUV, in full view of Ressler and Samar in the front, with Ressler’s tactless eyes flicking to the rearview mirror at regular intervals.

It’s been another day, another life-threatening situation, another close call. This time they were both there, Red and Liz, as the team was surrounded, at least twenty guns pointed at them, the foreign hit men gesturing and yelling in a language none of them spoke. It was so scary, all of them fully expecting a gun to go off somewhere, and one of them to be struck by a stray bullet.

Killed by chance. Completely uncontrollable and unpredictable. Terrifying.

But backup arrived right in time and they’re here now, on their way back to the post office to be debriefed, no time to be alone in the near future. But they need something. So, by mutual agreement, their hands snuck forward on the seat until they touched and Red wasted no time in lacing their fingers together, almost too tight. But for Liz, it’s not nearly tight enough, and she’s squeezing right back, occasionally running her thumb over Red’s knuckles in her desperation to touch and be touched.

She can’t seem to regulate her breathing to anything other than short and harsh, knowing Red can hear her. And she can see Red’s other hand in a tight fist on his knee and she knows it would be touching her in a million different places right now if he had the freedom to do so. And Liz thinks that’s fair because if they were alone, she would have swung her leg over his hip and been in his lap long before now.

But, with them clutching at the only part of each other they can safely reach, their hands, here in the car, wishing they could be closer but holding themselves back, with Ressler and Samar talking quietly in the front, this is all they can do.

It will have to be enough. For now.

Give me more of Person A helping Person B with simple tasks, like brushing their hair, or putting on jewelry, where it’s obviously an excuse to be close to each other, but neither are complaining.

“Which do you think?”

Lizzie is standing in front of the mirror in their bedroom, holding up two beautiful necklaces, one with a sapphire stone and one with a pearl, asking him which goes better with her dark blue blouse.

“The sapphire one.”

Lizzie smirks.

“You’re just saying that because you bought it for me.”

“Nonsense,” sniffs Red, although she’s partially right. “It’s not my fault that any shade of blue in the world accents your eyes beautifully. What am I supposed to say?”

She’s too busy laughing to answer him, putting away the pearl necklace with nary a protest. Red sees an opportunity and steps forward quickly.

“Please, allow me,” he murmurs, his voice deep as he presses up behind her, closer than strictly necessary, taking the delicate necklace from her fingers.

He sees her roll her eyes good-naturedly in the mirror, but she watches quietly as he works the tiny clasp with ease, swinging the necklace carefully over her head, and securing it in the back, even gently pulling her long, dark hair out from under the chain.

He looks up then, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she slowly leans her head back to rest against his chest, and he wraps his arms around her waist in answer. She closes her eyes, contentedly resting against him, and they stand there for a few lovely moments before he feels obligated to speak.

“Lizzie, I thought we were going out.”

“Hmm,” Lizzie hums carelessly, not opening her eyes, snuggling back against him as Red presses a kiss to the top of her head. “In a bit.”

Give me more picking out baby names, painting nurseries, and cradling their children.

“Stacey?”

“No. Carl?”

“God, no.”

“Beth?”

“Hmm. Sam?”

“…Yeah, maybe.”

They share a brief smile before turning back to their respective walls. They are in the newly thought of nursery in their home, painting it a cheery yellow while trading baby names back and forth, Red throwing out girl names and Liz brainstorming boy names. It’s mostly for fun, seeing who can come up with the worst ones, but lately they’ve gathered some serious possibilities.

And she has a feeling Sam was just added to the list.

Liz dips her paint roller in the tray of paint and lifts it back up to the wall with a slight groan, her baby bump, now six months big, getting in her way a little.

“Are you sure you should be doing this, Lizzie?”

“Yes, Raymond, I’m fine, thank you,” she smiles at him over her shoulder. She loves him for asking and she knows he’ll only be doing it more in the coming weeks. It’s wonderful. “Hey, where do you think the rocker should go?”

“Hmm,” Red hums, coming over to dip his brush in the paint tray, dropping a kiss on her shoulder as he passes by. “Maybe in the corner next to the window?”

“Yeah,” Liz smiles, thinking about it, imagining Red holding their baby in his arms, rocking them to sleep, tucked in the corner of the room, maybe humming or talking to them, the baby squirming gently in his arms, their big blue eyes staring up at him adoringly. Her heart swells at the image. “Yeah, I like that.”

(It’s perfect.)

“Hey, how about Agnes?”

(Completely perfect.)

“Let’s add it to the list.”

#The Blacklist #Lizzington #mine #fanfic #inspired by a post that's not mine!#linked above #the fic is called #sweet moments #8 short chapters #lemme know what you think if you feel like it!#love y'all!#:D #<3

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megamegaturtle · 6 years

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gorgeous (chapter two)

Spencer Reid x Reader Fic

warning: friendships be forming with extra cuteness and realness.

(i will never post a chapter at a reasonable hour, i swear lol)

part one

(Ao3)

WC: 11.K

Summary: You’re early for your first day at work, but the universe is a funny thing where butterfly wings cause hurricanes from a wing’s single flutter. A story about how you and Spencer become friends and one day lovers.

tag list: @everyday-imfangirling @gigiree

Your story is starting, a new beginning with a new friend, when your doorbell rings on a quiet Saturday morning. A butterfly swarm wreaks havoc in your stomach, anxiety and nerves old friends you thought you forgot, but find you again with a little knock knock. You take a deep breath as you stuff your feet into house slippers. It’s too late now to cancel and fake sick.

Coming towards your door, you pause and fluff your hair in the mirror, trying to look presentable and clean one last time. You look through the peephole, the moment of truth wrapped wearing purple and a long brown coat. Doctor Spencer Reid rocks on the balls of his feet and you promise yourself not to throw up.

(You really want to throw up.)

Pressing the passcode into your alarm, the device happily beeps as you undo the chain latch and unlock both deadbolts. You pluck a bright smile to wear.

“Hey! Hi, hello—” oh dear, you’ve greeted him three times, might as well continue. “Hola, uh, ni-hao, hmmm, aloha, howdy, ohayou, bonjour—and yeah, welcome to my humble abode.”

A small smile rests on Spencer’s mouth, laughter at the edges. “Hi.”

You open the door wider and let him walk past you. Last second you snag the strap of his messenger bag unexpectedly, pulling him to a quick stop. Your nails briefly scrap the fabric of his coat before you shut the door behind you both.

You’re doing great, you tell yourself. A for effort.

A moment ticks before you point down at his feet, his brows furrowed in confusion. “Sorry. I have a no shoe policy.” Shuffling around him, you open a small cabinet and pull out a thing of slippers. “You can wear these if you’d like. They’re new! Or socks are fine, but no shoes please. Too much grime and stuff.”

Doctor Reid nods, mildly curious but nevertheless, sits down on your bench and pulls off his shoes. You notice his mismatched socks, deep purple and ruby red. You giggle and find them to be a good omen.

Spencer shoots you a brief look. “Yes, yes. They’re not matching, but I like them.”

Tension rolls out of you as you quickly redo your door and reset the alarm. “No, it’s cute. I hardly wear matching socks myself.”

“Oh?”

“Mainly because I’m very lazy to match them up together again though.”

“Well,” you hear him say, “I do mine for a bit of luck.”

You laugh again and gesture towards the kitchen.

“I guess today’s gonna be your lucky day.”

(Or maybe it’s yours since you’re so excited to have company with someone so cute.)

“You’re doing the recipe completely out of order.”

“Not completely out of order,” you say as you whisk the dry ingredients together. “Just...slightly out of order.”

You don’t bother looking up at Spencer, but you can feel his frustration roll off him like hot waves filling every inch of your kitchen. You do your best not to snicker at his expense as he reads to you the banana bread recipe once again that he’s already memorized perfectly.

“If you just set up everything before you started kind of mixing, this would have been a lot easier,” he chides, mashing ripe bananas into a bowl.

“Says the man with two perfectly good hands!” You shoot him a look, huffing incredulously.

“That I am using,” he points out.

If would have known you that a year ago that you’d have Dr. Spencer Reid in your kitchen making banana bread, you would have laughed so hard you would’ve cried. But here you are doing exactly that with you both talking. There is bickering and bantering. And your kitchen is filled with such delicious laughter that you might weep.

If only you got the courage to be his friend ages ago, just think how many more baking days the two of you could have shared. If only, if only.

“What are you anyway? Some kind of scientist or something?” you say, cracking the eggs in a small bowl.

Spencer’s face falls completely flat, but his tone only bubbles into annoyance as you flick flour his way. “Well, yes! I’m a doctor! And a bit of a scientist, I guess!” His hands fly up in the air, accidently knocking into a pot that hangs above your small center island.

You burst out laughing. “Chillax, my dude! Please don’t go breaking my kitchen,” you say between deep laughs. “I want my security deposit back.”

Spencer taps the counter with displeasure. “Then please just follow the recipe. This is like watching a bad chemistry experiment. Baking is a science,” he emphasizes.

You click your tongue. “Nerd.”

“Am not.”

“Um, are too,” you reply as you wipe a random spill. “Besides, baking is about love and love is more than some chemicals in your brain. It’s magic and all that stuff. And no facts you got tucked up in that noggin of yours is going to tell me otherwise.”

Reid takes a deep breath and chuckles quietly. “Are you always this...sassy?”

You flash him a quick grin. “Always.”

You grab the butter from the freezer and slice ¾ a cup to soften in the microwave as the kitchen quietens to the happy hum of radioactive waves. You look over up again, noticing Reid holding his chin in his hand, staring at you.

It’s a bit intense. The way he’s looking at all of you in your movements. His eyes pierce through you, catch your breath. It’s like you’re pinned under a microscope, chest ripped open with your soul exposed.

“Hey, don’t know if you know this, dear Doctor,” you try to joke, “but this is a no profiling zone.”

Spencer blinks once and denies it, his voice going an octave higher. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t profiling, I was thinking. Vast difference.”

You scoff, playfully rolling your eyes. “Oh no, believe me. I heard you thinking. I think everyone in the greater D.C. area heard you thinking, but,” you pause, grabbing both the white and brown sugar from across the island. “But I know exactly what you were doing and I don’t need you to profile me in my own home.”

Spencer remains quiet, a silly grin digging into his cheeks at your indignation. You huff once more and accidentally put the mixer on high in the dry ingredients bowl. Your surprised yelp is drown out by the sound of the beaters hitting the blow and Spencer’s laughter.

Flour, thankfully, is only slightly everywhere.

Your face runs hot as you turn it off.

“You're so stupid…” you mumble. “Shouldn't have invited you over.”

He takes a big gulp of air, but happiness still paints his face with a smidge of curiosity. “Why did you invite me over? Not that I mind helping you bake, but…” he shrugs.

You...merr. As you call it, not a grr or a groan, but your distress sound of merr that conveys all negative and embarrassing things in one small and concise phrase.

Spencer senses your discomfort and everything shifts to the unspoken words that the two of you haven't dared exchanged. He patiently waits as he leans against a counter and sips a glass of water. The only sound in the kitchen is the slight scraping of metal on metal as you whisk the dry ingredients again.

“Because I am sick of bad thought spirals,” you confess. “I'm sick of doubting myself and not being a good person and just--it’s dumb. I'm dumb. The whole time so like...fuck thought spirals where I don't think I'm good enough to be your friend.” You pause, you heart thumping in your chest and you—

— promised yourself that when you doubt yourself, that you’ll just dive head first, be impulsive because when you stop thinking, just for one moment, things go better than you’d ever assume. Your brain is your own worst enemy. So, you keep that racing heart and you clutch it tight. You feel your stomach twist and you don’t care anymore because you are taking a stand and this is your day and you

—are in control.

(Even if your brain tells you otherwise, if it tries to break you down again, make you stop talking, make you push all your fears into that little black box that sits at the bottom of your spine and let history repeat again and again.)

Butterfly wings cause hurricanes and you’re breaking down barriers with the wind at your back, wings jutting through your shoulders to carry yourself higher. No safety, just free falling into the moment, into this next commitment because you can’t turn back time.

“So, yeah. Fuck that nonsense. I’m gonna be your friend and I’m gonna friend you so hard and you’re just gonna have to deal with it.”

(You remember the triangle your therapist drew for you one day, about how bad thoughts consume you and you just sat there thinking you needed to break it. That you were stronger than arbitrary shapes that attempted to define you.

That you were good enough.)

You force yourself to look Spencer in the eye, well aware his brain is going into overdrive at what you said. How could it not? There was so much to unpack. Low self-esteem, self-hatred, wobbly self-worth.

But you will not falter. He will not forget your promise and you will not let yourself break it.

But he does the doctor thing and asks. “Are there good thought spirals? Is this a good thought spiral?”

He smiles small yet sincere and joy radiates from the center of your stomach, tender blooms unfurling in your bloodstream as relief sings throughout you. Your nose burns with intense emotion, your eyes wanting to shed tears, but you don’t want to be a crybaby in front of him.

You turn and wipe at your eye, ready to cream the butter and sugar together. “No, this is a good action spiral. Kicking down doors kind of thing.”

“Sounds intense.”

“I’m kind of an intense person,” you quip.

“I figured. I kinda profiled that about you,” he teases.

You throw a dishrag at him, the worries you had disappearing as you hear his laughter mix with yours. Being impulsive has proven once again to be your aid.

He comes to stand beside you, a good distance between the two of you but there is a connection and a comfort there now. You two are no longer separated by your center island, but are now standing on the same side of the room. He waits patiently as you cream the sugar and butter.

“Hey,” he starts, “by the way, don’t think that I’m not gonna—what was it?— friend you hard too,” he softly confesses.

You beam so wide the apples of your cheeks scrunch your eyes. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You quietly finish mixing the rest of the ingredients as Spencer beings washing a few assorted utensils. Soft music plays from your phone, your hums sometimes in time with a tune. Butterfly wings brush against your heart as you both work throws this friendly new beginning.

You fill both pans halfway with batter and pop them in the oven. Setting the timer, you glance over at your cozy living room area.

If this was a different kind of social call, you’d suggest watching something on Netflix. Throw in a perfect excuse to cuddle close and test boundaries to see how much you could get away with. But you refuse your heart the luxury of daydreaming something more passionate and most likely to be a plot from a nameless romance blurring in your memories.

Instead, you focus on reality, on being a better person than you were yesterday. You promised yourself you’d be more open—make this friendship happen because deep in your bones, you have this feeling that having Spencer Reid in your life will be worth it.

You take a deep breath and catch his attention. A nervous smile paints your face as you gesture towards the other side of your apartment. “C’mon. I wanna show you something.”

Spencer tilts his head with curiosity, but his steps pad quietly on your floor as you creak the second bedroom’s door.

“Excuse the mess,” you say, flicking on the bright overhead light.

Fresh paint perfumes the room. Canvases line the wall, stacked neatly by a lone bookshelf jam packed with art books and an old, beloved chair. A plastic tarp rests in the center, an easel propped up with a wet piece.

You hear Spencer gasp, his attention fixed intensity on the portrait you’re still painting. Your heart flutters as you wait for him to speak.

(You think it funny, that for someone so filled with words, art makes him speechless.)

“Wow, —” he says, your name soft in his mouth. “I didn’t—didn’t know you could paint!” He rushes, his words starting to fumble. “It’s—she’s so beautiful. Who is that?”

Love blossoms throughout you as you take a step forward and trace the rough edges of the canvas with your fingers. Luminous dark skin and a tender smile fill your vision, the ghost of laughter ringing in your ears. Her eyes twinkle at a joke you told her, this painting a representation of a candid photo you took earlier in the year.

“My soulmate,” you explain with affection. “A girl named Rosa, who I love absolutely without conditions.”

Spencer doesn’t say anything for a few moments, as if choosing his words carefully. He stands near your, his questions wrapping around you almost like a physical thing. “...what’s that like? For you to sound so sure?”

You think of late night conversations and exchanged e-mails, the calm that follows that if you need her, she’ll be there. In the trust of free falling without a parachute that she would defy gravity for a single moment to ensure your safety—that you would do the same. It’s—

“--never to be obligated to love someone, that I love her simply because she exists and there is peace in that. She is—She is my other half: my thoughts easy for her to untangle, the two of us on a shared frequency I’ve never had with someone else. We have no expectations of each other, just the hope to be lifelong companions and beloved friends.”

“Just hope?”

His unspoken question: is that truly enough? There is doubt in pause, his avenue unexplored by him and many others. To just love a friend as an extension of yourself and not want more.

You glance up at him and smile. “Of course. Just hope. Can’t make Rosa stay in my life nor can she do the same to me. We don’t cling to each other, Doctor. We just choose to exist with each other,” you say. “Rosa is—Rosa is not someone who I love romantically—that...that has requirements.”

Spencer reaches out and touches the edge of the painting. “Like what?”

“Mmmm. Well, I have to be sexually attracted to that person, for one. And that person needs to pay attention to me and spend time with me. That person has to have similar values as me, same wants to build a life together with me. This person just won’t be my soulmate and I’m not looking to fall in love with a soulmate,” you add with a small laugh. “Rosa is my carbon copy and I’m looking for someone to compliment me, make me a better person, challenge me—well, you get the picture, I think.”

(You thought you found that person already, already had two greatest loves of your life, but that—that, of course, never happened.)

The room falls quiet and you swallow, realizing you just—emotional dumped all over the good doctor and horror washes over you. You turn to him, your eyes wide and panicked, your hand flying to your mouth.

“Oh my god, I am so sorry, that was like—extremely personal and a lot to handle and—”

Spencer blinks before grinning, his hands tucked into his pockets. “No, it was...nice. You really love her and...and I don’t know, that sounds nice, to love someone without conditions.”

His eyes gaze away, as if he’s looking for something in the distance and your heart feels heavy in your chest. There is a bittersweet softness there and you wonder if his mind drifts away to someone else.

“Can I—” you try to say. “Was it—?”

—like how I love? you want to ask, but you don’t. The question too personal on your lips, but you know he’s heard it anyway.

Hazel eyes flicker to yours, a haunting smile hanging to his lips. “Maybe a bit of both, by your definition.”

“That’s still beautiful.”

“Is it?”

“I think so,” you say, guiding him back to the kitchen. “Love is like beauty; in the heart of the beholder.”

“You know it doesn't go that way,” Spencer’s voice says behind you.

You grin. “True, but do you want your heart to be constricted by other people or do you want to decide for yourself?”

It is quiet for a moment, the sounds of the oven the only thing making noise.

“What if I never move on? What if I never want to move on?”

You take a deep breath, choosing your words with care. “I think...I think if you feel that your love with Maeve is able to sustain you for the rest of your life, that's awesome. Breathtaking even. To be that devoted to someone even through…” you swallow, bracing yourself to mention the elephant in the room, “death. But,” you pause, “life continues, Spencer. It just depends on how you want to interact with it. I know for me, I need that kind of love in my life and I have a big enough heart to fall in love again. Yours seems to be a bit different.”

Spencer’s face pulls into a tight smile. “I always seen to be a bit different.”

“Different is good though. It’s human to be unique, or rather, it’s American to be an individual. You are only a byproduct of your nation,” you say, cheeriness in your voice. “And as for love, whatever makes you happy, Spence—-er,” you quickly add, feeling your eyes going wide at almost calling him his nickname. “Only you get to decided that, Spencer,” you emphasize the er .

The corners of his mouth relax and his smile becomes more genuine. “Thank you, ——,” he says, your name only adding to the moment of friendship. “I appreciate it.”

“Anytime, Doctor. I’m always here.”

And if there is one moment you can keep from today, it will be this one. Where sunshine streams through the window and outlines Spencer in a glorious halo. He smiles once more, wonderful and bright, like starlight and good things and trust for new beginnings.

“I know.”

You get lost in D.C. on weekends when work isn’t busy. There are sights to see, history under cobblestoned streets and your breath finds reason to stop ceasing. It’s beautiful, to be in your nation’s capital, but sad to discover all on your own.

When not exploring, you call Rosa, missing her company more than anyone from back home.

Sometimes you leave her long and detailed voicemails retelling your day. You might leave two or three because you have so much to say. Yet sometimes, there are no voicemails to leave, not when she picks up on the very first ring.

Her voice is soft and sweet, mousey and kind. “Hello, bestie?”

She always answers like it’s a question, like she can’t believe that you’re actually calling.

(You call on a schedule. You’re predictable this way and yet, after all these years, she still finds magic in your friendship, like you’re not quite all there.)

You squeal at her voice. “Rosa! I misses you!”

Her laugh bells gloriously. “I misses you too. How are you? Did you eat?”

“Yes, mom. I ate. I’m good. Just chilling at home. It’s—lonely, truth be told.”

“Mmmm,” she hums. “You’re always a bit lonely it seems. But you’re making friends! Like with Dr. Reid and Penelope! And Derek!”

“Yeah, I am... I guess, just,” you say, your voice quieter as your trace your feelings on your thigh. “Lonely. I think I’m always a little lonely.”

“That’s because your heart is too big for your chest.”

“Are you saying I’m the opposite of the Grinch?” you joke.

“Of course! That’s why I love you.”

She says it so effortlessly, like listing a fact. Which it is. Rosa wouldn’t be your soulmate if she didn’t love you You can’t help but smile fondly at the way she boldly declares it.

“I love you too. When will you become a real doctor and become my sugar mama?”

“Maybe after I pay off my student loans,” she chuckles. She pauses and you can sense her question. “Have you...have you thought about dating again?”

You suck in a breath. “Dating is hard...I wouldn’t even know where to start...”

“Oh, where’s my lion girl?” she chides. “You’re always so brave and yet you’re gonna run away again. Last time you ran away, you weren’t able to make a friend for two years, right?”

Rosa might wax lyrical poetry to you often, but apparently tonight’s not the night for her endless praises.

(She tells you what you need to hear despite that it’s not always wanted.)

“....okay, rude. And I don’t know! Dating means being vulnerable and how am I supposed to open myself up to a complete stranger again. Every boy I’ve ever dated has been a friend.”

She clicks her tongue, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why don’t you date a boy at work then? Aren’t you friends with them?”

“Rosa, you’re like the smartest person I know, but that is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said. Date a boy at work, she says. Like there are boys for me to date at work.”

“Well, I think there is one man you could date—-”

Your heart speeds up and you know exactly where this is going to go. It’s filed under “do not think about” for a reason.

“Oh, what’s that, Rosa?” you say. “Your patient is calling you? I’m going through a tunnel? Oh no! I can’t hear you--bleh!”

You hang up and toss your phone across the couch. Your heart is still racing as her text message comes through.

Think about it, dear. You know you want to .

“Ha, how wrong you are, my dear,” you say as you type back your reply.

(But not really. Rosa is hardly ever wrong about you.)

“Thanks for coming with me tonight, Penelope.”

The moon hangs fat in the sky as you pull out of the parking lot. Your cheeks are still cold, but your belly is full from delicious hot pot. You think of home and your friends who would go out late to eat shabu shabu. You’re glad you gotta do it again here.

Penelope giggles and rubs her hands together to create some heat, waiting for the car’s heater to kick in. A part of you wishes that you opted for the model with heated seats, but Penelope doesn’t seem to mind, her mittens jiggling with little bells.

“No, thank you , Miss Speed Racer! Tonight has been mind blowing. From an all-woman car meet to hot pot? I don’t think I’ve had hot pot? It's so delicious! Cooking all the meat, or my case tofu, and veggies. Like soup fondue!”

You grin and pull out of the parking lot, enjoying the way streetlights filter through the windshield. Like a little meteor shower as you go by each one just for you. Make a wish and see if it comes true , you loftily think.

“Haha. It is a lot like soup fondue! But it's just a fun thing to do and the girls were so lovely. I'm glad there is a woman car community in D.C.!”

“And what was that thing you were talking about the girl with pink in her hair? Something like tashi? ” Penelope asks.

“Itasha,” you state. “It means ‘painful car’ as in painful to look at or to your wallet. It's wrapping your car with vinyl mostly these days with anime or video game characters. Dudes are more into it than ladies, but it’s really cool driving around in a customizable car, I think! I would want more like Japanese pop-culture art on my car such as acid bears or something more than a hot anime girl, ya know?”

It’s part of the reason you bought a Japanese sports car. Itasha . Despite that it can look silly, a part of you would love to have a Kingdom Hearts dedicated wrap or something bright like Fruits Basket.

Penelope laughs and the sound warms your soul. It’s sweet, her ability to be completely expressive. “You really are a weeb, aren’t you?”

“Oh yeah. I am, but it’s just for fun. I like the pretty colors and cool fantastical stories and stuff. The way they just—blindly do the impossible and create worlds that are based on the impossible alone. That’s amazing and so, so hopeful…is that wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just—I didn’t realize you really liked Japanese pop culture so much or that you were so knowledgeable about it.”

“One of my capstone projects in college was about the American otaku community,” you say with a laugh. If only that version of you could see where you are now. Then you had wanted to be a diplomat and now you work for the FBI. Go figure. “It was for a class about fandom. Which, I must add, was a heckin’ blast.. So yeah, I might know a thing or two when it comes to trends and stuff,” you conclude with a satisfied smirk.

“That is so, so, so fascinating.”

You snort. “Don’t get me started. Please.”

“Oh, I think I want to get you a little revved up!”

You shake your head, giggling slightly as you gun it on the highway.

“Okay. Here’s a little fun fact for you: there is this growing trend called itabagu which means ‘painful bag’. Like the same thing with the painful car, right? It's more popular with the lady people so they can show off pins and keychains of their favorite characters. When I went to an anime convention last year, there were all these backpacks for sell that had a clear cut out, so you could decorate it however you wanted. It just so neat to see how everyone stylized their fandom love. So much boy love. Everywhere.”

“Why do you have this wealth of knowledge and have not been using it for evil ?” she stresses, glee drenched in her voice as you her see her googling away. Her mouth pops open as she sees cute bags and happy faces.

You laugh. “Like you said, I’m a weeb. Just a wonderfully dressed one! I keep my super geeky side a secret until the waters are safe. So much indie makeup is like… fan related too, you know. Shiro Cosmetics is dope for that. I really want a Backstreet Boys lip gloss.”

Penelope wheezes, clutching at her heart. “There is Backstreet Boys lip gloss and this is the first I’ve heard of it? And I call myself a goddess of the internet….”

“I think! I think that they still make it. I do know for a fact that at one time the creator made Nicholas Cage theme lipgloss and you could get one of Nic Cage dressed as a flapper.”

Your friend is thoughtful for a moment as she relaxes against the door. You can feel her gaze focused on you as you drive her home. “I’m really glad we became friends.”

You snort again, surprised. “Thanks?”

“No, seriously! I mean it, you silly goose. Ever since you walked into my office two years ago, you have just been such a delightful person and I’m glad we really are good friends.”

You smile softly to yourself, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Well, um, thank you,” you mutter. You click your tongue. “You know I’m terrible with praise…”

“Now that I know!” Penelope chuckles, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way. So, now I really want to go to a nerd convention with you! We can dress up together! Wouldn't that be fun?”

You smirk to yourself and cackle. “...woman, have you not found my cosplay Instagram?”

You almost swerve into oncoming traffic as Penelope grabs onto your arm while driving.

“YOU HAVE A COSPLAY INSTAGRAM?”

(And yes, you do. Though it might not always be safe for work. Wink. )

Friendship slowly sinks into your skin as words become easier with Spencer. Gone are the days you couldn’t talk to him. No, you can talk to him just fine now. Just about anything that floats through your mind.

“And, yeah. It’s just crazy to think that bananas have caused so much strife in Central America at the turn of the 1900s that companies like Chiquita—the one with the lady on the label, right?—known apparently as the United Fruit Company—oh my god, Spencer,” you pause, halting your steps and staring at him with wide eyes. “What if there was a UN of Fruits?” you whisper. “Little fruit diplomats .discussing international fruit policy!”

Without missing a beat, Spencer nods thoughtfully. “Well, the International Fund for Agricultural Development (IFAD) is an international financial institution and UN specialised agency dedicated to eradicating poverty in rural areas of developing countries. Or there is The Committee on Agriculture (COAG) is one of FAO’s—Food and Agriculture Organization of the United Nations—Governing Bodies providing overall policy and regulatory guidance on issues relating to agriculture, livestock, food safety, nutrition, rural development and natural resource management.”

You blink and tilt your head to the side. “I meant more like...fruits dressed up as politicians talking in funny accents,” you explain. He frowns slightly, almost as if he was the one who said something wrong. “But thank you for that new fun fact for my mental folder of other fun facts!” you add, bumping into his shoulder playfully.

It’s a reflex. The touchyness. You know deep in all your rationality that you should not pat-pat, or playfully bump, or touch your co-worker. But then you have your brain stem doing complete overrides that make you do it anyway. Be friendly, that animal brain says—show people affections because you’re good at that. Do onto others what you’d like them to do to you. Isn’t that golden rule?

So, far—no one has mentioned any discomfort at your friendly displays. They accept your endless high fives, waves, thumbs ups, and quick hugs. Even Hotch doesn’t scowl if you wave at him when you see him or smile big or get too close. And there has definitely been a friendly clasp of your shoulder when you’ve done something right.

(It took everything inside of you not to squeal with delight, but Hotch laughed anyway. Actually laughed, his stoic mask cracking. A part of you was afraid you brought upon an apocalypse.)

But Reid is different. He doesn’t shake hands with strangers and only hugs people when he’s extremely close to them. Despite the ease in conversation between the two of you, you don’t think for a moment that you’re in his most inner circles.

It’s like how in Japanese where everything is dependent of the relationship between the speaker and the other. How close they are physically, how intertwined their lives are together. Will you say kore if they’re right here, use their first name, and drop all formalities with them? Or do you are say they are , over there in distance, so far from you in friendship where last name-san is all you get with awkward smiles and stereotypical politeness.

You feel like you’re in the middle, you feel like you’re stuck in sore —just only close enough to the person speaking to be listening, but not quite close enough to breathe correctly and relish in the proximity where language falls away. That there are no distance markers forced between the two of you and you happily be right here instead of over there .

(Oh, if Penelope thought you were a weeb before hoo boy, if only she knew your thinking process.)

But troublesome doubts about relationship language evaporate when Reid shakes his head and opens the door for you as you walk into the office. “That’s me. Your fun fact guy.”

(He’s getting better at making little jokes, you notice. Or maybe he’s getting more comfortable making little jokes. Or maybe you’re rubbing off on him because that is something that you would most definitely say or—)

“Yes! And—and—oh yeah, I almost forgot,” you say as you gain your bearings again. “It’s crazy that unlike other cash crops like cotton, coffee, sugar, tobacco, or even cocoa, bananas aren’t processed at all really! They don’t spur for the development of other industries like textiles or more processed procedures. You just buy bananas from the store exactly how they were picked. The simple banana in all its yellow peeled goodness has caused so much trouble over being exactly how it is!”

Derek picks his head up from his desk and stares at you, shamelessly eavesdropping “Wait, what?”

You turn to him, eyes bright and laughter in your voice. “It’s bananas there are Banana Wars, Morgan. Bananas!”

Derek takes in a deep breath and laughs, going back to his paperwork. “I don’t even want to know.”

His posture says otherwise, but you both know that if you get started on a random topic again then you’ll just continue down that road and get completely distracted.

Spencer chuckles quietly before walking over to his desk. You do the same, your mind drifting back to political fruits and you can’t stop smiling.

Reid clears his throat, getting your attention. “Have you ever heard about the Cake War in Mexico?”

Your eyes go wide as you let out a bubbly laugh. “No! Tell me!”

His relief is palpable, as if he thought you would say “no” about Cake Wars in Mexico, which couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Okay, so it’s actually called the Pastry War and it began in 1832 when a French pastry chef known as Monsieur Remontel claimed that Mexican officers looted his shop outside Mexico City. Remontel and others continued complaining until Prime Minister Louis-Mathieu Molè demanded that Mexico pay 600,000 pesos or about 3 million Francs. Which, considered at the time, was an outrageous amount since the daily Mexican person only made approximately one peso a day. When president Anastasio Bustamante did not make the payment, the King of France ordered his Rear Admiral Charles Baudin to declare a blockade on all Mexican ports. And that is only a tiny bit on cakes caused incredible strife in Mexico.”

“Oh, you can’t end there, Spencer!”

“Okay, okay. After the City of Veracruz was captured by France and Mexico declared an all-out war, people started smuggling goods into Mexico—”

“ Baked goods, I hope.” You’re not a very good punner, but you try your best.

Spencer’s eyes narrow at your jest. “Ha ha, well, more like flour and one smuggling party had to leave about a hundred barrels of flour on the beach— which later will be known as Flour Bluff. And despite the fact that Mexico and France eventually came to a peace agreement where Mexico had to pay the 600,000 pesos, they never do and since France falls in 1870 and yeah. The Pastry War ended up affecting so many lives and really nothing came of it. Now, how is that for bananas?”

You open your mouth to reply, but Derek beats you to the punch. “The only thing bananas around here is about why the both of you—Pretty Boy I can understand, but you Sunny Girl, I’m disappointed—happen to know about meaningless wars.”

You stick your tongue out at Derek. “You’re just jealous that we’d beat you in game of Trivia Pursuit.”

Derek smiles and gets up from his desk. “Okay, you got me there. I’m gonna get more coffee and you both can continue.”

You roll your eyes and start to settle into your desk. Spencer’s silence alarms you and risk taking a glance at him.

“You okay?”

He hums. “I was just thinking...you don’t really get annoyed when I start rambling about things.”

“Well, duh. I love to learn, Doctor. And you teach me new things all the time. Why would I be annoyed by that?”

“I don’t know, just a lot of people are and you’re…not. That’s, as you would say, rad.”

You huff with a small laugh. “I’m glad I’m rubbing off on you a little bit then! But yeah, I mean, sure you can ramble but so do I. I think it’s rad you don’t stop me when I start talking about a subject that you already know about. It's nice for me to have the chance to explain despite that you already know said thing. You acknowledge that I’m dying to tell someone, anyone who’ll listen.”

“I know that feeling,” he adds with mirth. “And I don’t mind, you have a fun way of telling me about things. I like that about you. Your enthusiasm is refreshing.”

You swallow, your heart racing up without your permission. “Thanks!” you squeak, your smile weird and squirmy.

Your gaze drops down to files on your desk and you trace one with your finger, unsure what to say next, but you can’t deny how feeling blossoms in your chest. How something so offhanded and minor could make you feel—

( You’re so intelligent. You’re so fashionable. You’re adorable. You’re— )

Nope. This road is not worth travelling.

You set up a Tinder and swipe right a few times.

You delete the app before you can go on a single date.

(Sometimes guys just give you that serial killer vibe and honestly, no thanks.)

You’re finding your place in the BAU. Making a name for yourself with management that supports you. Penelope watches over you and guides you, but Hotch is the one who calls the shots. You find yourself at his desk one morning with a coffee in your hand.

He looks up from his paperwork briefly and welcomes you to sit.

“Is everything okay?”

Hotch’s voice is always quiet. You strain to listen and root yourself in the conversation. His speaking voice is different than his business voice when he’s barking orders at people. In the four walls of his office, he’s at peace and it carries in his cadence.

You nod and place the coffee on his desk, an offering for so much more than you’re about to say. “I just wanted to say thank you for hiring me. Today’s my five-month anniversary with the BAU and well, just thank you.”

He puts down his pen and looks at you. Sometimes you feel like he can see into you, see all the things you’re hiding, that you’ve covered up deep in your soul. His lips then curl in small yet meaningful smile as he grabs the cup and pulls it towards him. A small blessing seemingly washes over you.

“You’ve been a great asset to the department, I think. Garcia was right about you.”

You suppress a giggle, wanting to remain professional, but gently smile. “Don’t tell her that. She’d be so over the moon.”

He huffs good naturedly into his cup. “Now, that I know,” he says. “But I truly mean it. I’m glad you’re part of the team. Our line of work isn’t easy and you’re bright, caring, cheery, and efficient. We couldn’t have asked for a better addition.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“And now that you’ve gotten over whatever complex you have towards Reid, the team functions well. The storming session is over so to speak.”

You don’t comment on that, but you grin bashfully. “Um, well. It was immature and silly of me.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I think it was human. Everyone reacts to him differently, but yours came from a place of admiration and that to me seems more positive than negative.”

“The world is too tiring to always be negative, but either way, I’m glad I’m part of this amazing team.”

Hotch nods and takes another sip of coffee again. “Congrats on five months. Hopefully, we can make it to at least five years.”

Determination ignites through you. “Most definitely, sir.”

You are lost in a world of beauty. White flowers cover hillsides and pleasing music echoes for all to hear. There is a handsome man with dark hair and blue eyes wearing an adoring smile to a lovely woman. The relief is palatable between, the months apart straining their very souls.

Someone taps on your shoulder and you jump, an earbud falling out of your ear. Your phone clatters to the desk as you whip your head around to glare at intruder.

Spencer stands sheepishly behind you, rubbing the back of his neck. His hair is getting long again, touching the top of his collar. “Ah, sorry. Just wanted to know what you’re reading. You’ve been kinda quiet these days.”

You’ve been on a book binge and everyone knows it. You’ve been staying up late, eyes glued to your phone as you suck down another book at any moment’s notice. Or fanfic. Just something written that makes your heart squeeze so tight you feel like you’ll die from happiness.

(You might have a problem.

But you’re not going to call it that.)

Spencer is curious, staring at you with pretty hazel eyes, wanting to know what you’re reading on your devil device. He’s so tall in this moment, towering over you easily. It reminds you of the first day you met him, with excitement and glee at your edges.

“It’s not a classic,” you say. “Or even anything scientific.”

He shrugs. “It has to be good if you’re so into it. You’re reading a trilogy, right?”

Profilers. Always so perceptive. You take a deep breath and swallow. “Do you promise not to judge me?”

“Why would I judge you?”

“I don’t know. I like weird things?”

“I already know that. You have two full bookshelves devoted to manga in your bedroom.”

You cross your arms and roll your eyes, trying not to grin. “That’s not weird.”

You remember his outrage last time he was over. He was helping editing your dissertation, so you could submit it to academic journals. While you were working on the latest draft, curiosity got the best of him and he asked if he could check out the bookcases in your bedroom. His outspoken horror at your intense graphic novel collection was comical that you found yourself being distracted for the rest of the afternoon by sharing your favorites with him.

(He’s far more fond of your shoujo than anything else—much like his soap operas.)

“Maybe disappointing is the right word then,” he teases, smug as he leans slightly closer towards you.

There is a pull in this moment, calling you to stand up and brush the hair out of his eyes. You wonder if his hair is soft, what his skin under your fingertips would feel like. You allow yourself this brief guilty pleasure.

“You’re only upset that I don’t have classics for you. Besides, classics are weird. They’re what the youth call boring.”

Spencer doesn’t take the bait at your taunt. He rises up his on his tiptoes and decides to be cocky instead. “Your current favorite musical is about a Russian classic.”

“So? War and Peace is a lot more digestible when there’s singing. You should give it a listen like I suggested. The Great Comet of 1812 is amazing. Trust.”

“My mother would skin me alive,” he says with a laugh. “And look, I’m willing to ignore the finer pieces of literature to know what you’re reading. So, please tell me? I want something new to read.” The slight begging in his voice makes you smile to yourself.

“Okay. Um. I’ve been reading retellings of Hades and Persephone. I really like them. They’re cute, but there’s not many of them. Most of them are indie books or from small presses.”

“Oh, really? And you mean the Rape of Persephone, right?”

“Spencer, you and I both know that you know that it means ‘to abduct’ and not to actually rape. Don’t start.”

You puts his hands up in surrender. “You got me.”

(His eyes twinkle and there is a fondness in this exchange, if only you knew so long ago that this person would mean so much to you.)

“Anyway, just be glad I’m slowly getting over my alien hero romance stories. Because, hoo boy. Those would be...” you giggle mischievously. “Yeah, anyway. Hades and Persephone. This one I’m re-reading is the Receiver of Many . Super solid, really pretty. Maybe one too many sex scenes that kinda distract you from the main story, but it’s good. The second book, Destroyer of Light , now we’re talkin’. We definitely see Persephone come into her own and yeah. The makings of the Iron Queen are happening! It’s a good series, but it’s definitely borderline erocita.”

“Uh.” He makes a face, clearly uncomfortable.

You try your best not to laugh. “But this doesn’t sound like your cup of tea.”

“I don’t think it is. Sorry.”

You pause for a moment, tapping your finger against your chin. An idea strikes you then, bright and fresh, like the story still seared in your mind from the other night. “I do have something I think you’d like.”

“What is it?”

You reach for your phone and exit the current book you’re reading, deciding to dive into your Kindle Library. It’s still there at 100% completion, the book that stole your heart and made you start reading like a madwoman again. You swipe all the way left, finding an image of the book’s cover. You flip your phone around and show him.

“Deathless ?”

You girn. “Yes, Deathless . It’s about Koschei—the Tsar of Life.”

Spencer studies the cover, his fingertips brushing against yours as he takes the phone. “...who hid his soul inside a needle, hidden in an egg, within a duck, within a hare, which is in a chest, buried under an oak tree on the island of Buyan.”

“Yes. The very same. But it follows his young bride Marya Morevna and it is...” you say wistfully, your heart feeling full as you remember each stunning line. “It is like dreaming a glorious dream, Spencer, drenched in tradition and unapologetic with its descriptions. It’s grotesque as it is beautiful, with gnarled hands and fiery blazes.”

He glances at you, a goofy smile on his face. “You love it that much?”

“More than I’ve loved anything else lately,” you dreamily sigh. “Finding a good book is much like falling in love again.” He hands back your phone. “You should read it. And take your time. Read slow, soak up every word”

“You want me, of all people, to read slower?”

“I want you, of all people, to feel like you’re in a good dream. To sit there in a world someone created and absorb every moment. Anyone can read fast, Spence, but it takes discipline to read carefully. Don’t tell me that big brain of yours can’t create an intricate world?

Spencer hums. “My imagination is...not as detailed as my memory,” he confesses. “It’s more like impressions compared to the visceral things I recall.”

You lean back in your chair, your fingers tapping on your phone. “That’s okay, as long as you enjoy it. Make them good impressions. See something beautiful, however you define it.”

“Okay, I love to read, but even that sounds too romantic.”

“Be romantic, Spencer,” you say, tapping his shoe with yours. “Life is more fun this way. Gooey and cute.”

He wrinkles his nose, humor etched in his expression. “I’ll think about it.”

Later that night as you’re brewing a cup of tea, your phone buzzes with a new text message.

You are right. Being romantic is a little fun.

Did you like it?

I’m going to send a copy to my mother.

So, you loved it :D

Yes. The rhythmic repetition, how food is revered as if gold, the way the idea that physical act of living is so painful while death more muted. The mixing of magic and not. It really was beautiful. Thank you for the recommendation.

I’m known to have a few good ones now and then.

Now, if only you’d actual give War and Peace a try you’d see that you would like it just as much.

Never! TOO MUCH COMMITMENT.

(But of course, he doesn’t know it yet, but you are reading War and Peace , just very slowly.)

No matter the time of year, California heat greets you with a searing, passionate kiss as you make yourself outside of Bob Hope Airport. You’re home for a three-day weekend, going to wine and dine your mother in celebration of her healthy life.

You spot her before she sees you and run towards her like you’ve done thousands of times before. This time, you’re the the bigger and strong one; you scoop her up in your arms. Her embrace is warm and she smells exactly the same, like childhood and comfort all in her small frame.

“I’ve missed you so much,” she says.

“I’ve missed you too, Mom. So, so much.”

California traffic is like an old-toxic high school friend—somehow all you can ever talk about, but never changing for the better. But you don’t care as you drive home to the middle of nowhere. Your mom and your aunt bought some land in farm country. The new house isn’t the same one that you knew as you were a child, but it feels good to look up stars in the sky that aren’t airplanes or streetlights.

“I’m so glad that you’re home,” Mom says as you pull into the driveway.

You smile at her, watching as your cousins peek from the front door.

“Me too.”

“Next time you should bring a boy,” she winks.

“Mother!”

(Home is where the heart is and you’re just happy you carry yours with you.)

You take a sledgehammer and pound it into the wall. Tugging it out, you see there is a sizeable dent in the plaster and you grin, sweat cooling your face as you lift it and swing it again. You’re like a metronome, constantly hitting with even timing, the sound of the wall breaking music to your ears.

You’ve been here for a few hours, helping Derek demo a house he plans on fixing up. You wanted to learn some hands on handyman things and he offered immediately. Plus, destroying stuff is a lot of fun. Not that you actively destroy stuff, but it’s hard not to pretend to be some robust viking alien creature hell bent on decementing the Earth.

You hear a low whistle after your last smash and there is Derek standing in the doorway with a bottle of cold water. You breathe a small word of thanks before happily taking a soothing swig.

“Look at you go, Sunny Girl. You don’t look like much, but even I gotta admit you pack a real punch.”

You stick out tongue out at him. “I’m my mother’s only child so I have to be her daughter and son.”

“How’s she doing anyway?”

You wipe your forehead with the back of your hand. “She’s good. Her treatments went really well and her doctor says it looks like she’s in a state of remission. We’re just lucky we caught it so early or things could have been a lot worse.”

“That’s great to hear!” he smiles. “I hope she can finally come out to visit soon.”

Derek Morgan’s smile is such a sight behold. It’s warm and kind and you feel safer knowing he’s in your corner. His well-wishes and good attitude brighten your days beyond compare and you know exactly why he’s so important to Penelope. He’s just so—effervescent and wonderful to be around.

“Thanks, dude. And thank you for teaching me how to demo today too. I mean, it’s always the best parts of the HGTV shows and it’s kinda fun that I got to do it with such a rad person.”

He laughs, deep and rich from his belly. “Consider yourself lucky,” he jokingly warns. “Not everyone is allowed to come to the properties, but you’re a quick learner. And dang girl, I never want piss you off if here is a sledgehammer hanging around!” he exclaims as he points at the now mostly damaged wall. “Look at this! You’re just going to town in here.”

You giggle. “Teehee. What can I say? You just gotta grab the bull by the balls.”

The room falls silent as you both realize what you both said. You sputter and start to shout.

“By the horns, I meant by the horns!”

It’s useless over Derek’s loud laughter, vowing to never let you forget this.

Despite blushing madly and feeling extremely embarrassed, this day has already been perfect. You’re slowly spreading your limbs, creating friendships with the team on your own. It’s wonderful. To spend time with people one-on-one. You’ve been lonely for so long.

“So, I gotta know: are you seeing anyone?”

You snap your attention back to him and scoff. “Did Penelope put you up to this?”

“My Baby Girl might have mentioned that you’re not seeing anyone and well, I think that’s crazy. You’re young. Enjoy life. Have fun!”

Your lips twist and you shake your head. “I don’t know...I don’t think I’m ready right now. I was with Matthew for a long time and now...I’m not.”

“But you haven’t been for how long? Like almost over a year, right?”

“About a year or so, yeah. I thought he and I were going to start a life together. Get married, have two point five kids together while saving the world. But he’s in California and I’m here so. That didn’t happen.”

Bitterness sits in your ribcage, reminding you of broken promises. Of the life you’ll never get to have with the man who no longer exists.

“Would you want to get back together with him?”

“I mean, a part of me will always love him. He was this bright innocent kid when we started college. And so, so smart. He really is intelligent.”

Derek smirks. “Reid is intelligent.”

You roll your eyes. “Reid is emotionally unavailable and I don’t need to be a profiler to guess what you’re gonna say next.”

(You hope he doesn’t say it next. This is the one thing you don’t allow yourself to think about except in special situations.)

Derek puts his hands up. “Hey, wasn’t it you who said he was intimidating and awe-inspiring. And oh yes, my favorite bit, when you first met our resident genius, you called him gorgeous? Wasn’t that you or some other little adorable short stack?”

“Well, yes,” you say, a seething smile on your face. “That was me, but just because Spencer is objectively attractive, doesn’t mean that I’m actually attracted to him. He’s a co-worker and a friend.” Derek scoffs in disbelief. “What? I can find people attractive! Ben Stiller’s cute!

“What? No. That’s terrible,” he chides. “Ben Stiller? Really. Ben Stiller? C’mon, if you’re going down the celebrity route, pick a better one.”

“What! He has cute ears. Okay, George Clooney.”

“Everyone thinks Clooney is hot. I think Clooney is hot.”

“Alright fine. Garrett Borns.”

“Who?”

“Google him.”

Derek does and his face breaks out in a shit-eating grin. “Oh my god. He looks almost like Reid. This is great. Is this your type? Tall and skinny?”

“No, my type is quirky, intelligent, and…tall,” you mumble.

“So, Reid.”

“And Mattie! Looks nothing like Reid by the way. He’s tall, but he’s Indian, really buff, and might actually have a British accent,” you blush.

“I promise if you admit you’re attracted to Reid, I will stop bothering you about it.”

You stomp your foot. “You’re annoying, you know that? Fine, yes. Spencer Reid is very attractive in my books. There. Happy?”

Derek comes over and pats the top of your head. “Very.”

Winter leaves you less cold this year, your heart warm from extra cheer. Your mom comes to visit in excellent health. You exchange presents with your co-workers and everything seems like it’s going according to plan.

Your heart is a little empty, wanting to sip something sweet, but you can’t fault that there is progress in friendships that nestle in the soil under your feet. You have a family away from your family, a place to call home when you feel weary.

Midnight strikes and you leave kisses on everyone’s cheek, promising another sweet year with them.

There are days when cases happen right in the heart of D.C. and your heart sinks when come across somber faces in the bullpen. Never has you worked such massive overtime, assisting Garcia with analyst duties as her back-up. You don't bother wearing makeup when your skin feels so dehydrated and the purple under your eyes a new permanent feature of your face.

It is also the rare moment the team takes a small break to eat breakfast when Rossi grins at you.

“So, a little birdie told me that you said Reid is attractive.”

Spencer, bless him, chokes on his food. You, on the other hand, almost spit out your coffee.

Quickly, you turn towards the culprit and kick Derrek under the table. “You’re a snitch.”

Penelope plops down beside you and steals a piece of fruit off your plate. “Technically I was the snitch.”

“Wow. Et tu, Brute? Betrayed. Be-trayed.” You pout and stab a piece of bacon.

Penelope leans her head on your shoulder. “I love you.”

You playfully push her. Across the table, Spencer is beet red and you feel your face pain with a blush of your own. You clear your throat. “Well, to be fair, I think everyone on the team is super attractive. I mean, have you all looked in the mirror lately?”

Derek teases. “Nice save, princess, but I know what my ears heard.”

You glare at him. “Yeah, well, I thought what’s said at demo house stays in demo house, but look where we are now. But yeah, I do think Spencer is attractive…I guess.”

J.J. laughs, clearly enjoying this situation far more than you realized. “You guess? My memory might not be as good at Spence’s, but I will not forget the day Spencer came super dazed to the office because this pretty girl dressed in purple called him gorgeous. I did not see or hear any brain activity for hours.”

You laugh, partly due to embarrassment, partly due to surprise. “Oh my god, you thought I was pretty? That’s precious!” You place your hand under your chin, posing cutely. “You’re not wrong though!”

(You ignore the way your heart is speeding up. If you keep making jokes, hopefully things will go back to normal.)

Spencer carefully takes a sip of coffee, avoiding making eye contact with you. “I mean, yeah. You were pretty. All dressed up for your first day of work…” he hums. “It was cute.”

“Okay, but our Little Miss Sunshine here is also leaving out she finds Ben Stiller attractive,” Derek taunts. “Ben Stiller. And a Reid doppelganger.”

You kick him again under the table before glaring at your other co-worker. “Rossi, look what you’ve done. I thought we have an unsub to catch and yet here we are talking about who I find attractive. This is how we’re spending the American tax dollars?”

“What can I say, kiddo?” he says with a soft chuckle. “Though, Garcia did say your ex was a good-looking guy.” His eyes twinkling with curiosity.

You sigh in defeat and grab your phone. “Such nosey profilers, I swear,” you mutter.

“That’s why we’re so good at our job.”

You look up Matt’s instagram and you still when you see the first picture. It’s your ex-boyfriend with a very beautiful woman, long blonde hair and perfect white teeth. You bite the inside of your cheek and swipe to the next one, thankful there’s no company in this one.

You show the team your phone, a picture of Matthew shirtless on the beach with a surfboard at his side. He’s toned and bronzed, his black hair tousled perfectly atop his head. He’s definitely been hitting the gym, his arms and six pack looking good.

(You definitely hope he still feels miserable and cries himself to sleep at night.)

J.J. lets out a low whistle. “I thought he was supposed to be quirky, not a Calvin Klein model.”

You laugh. “He has his moments.”

Derek looks down at his arms for a moment, his little moment of insecurity a wonderful taste of revenge. “I take back making fun of you for Ben Stiller. Geez, do all your ex-boyfriends look that good?”

“One looks like a mountain man now, I think; however, I’ll be sure to parade whatever new guy I end up dating next to get your seal of approval,” you say with a huff.

Spencer wears an unreadable expression. “Well, we’d only think about your safety.”

J.J. giggles at his side, but before you can question anything, Hotch enters the room and before you know it, you’re all back to the grind.

Thankfully, the case ends two days later on a happy note. You’re free to have a few days off much to your relief. Freedom will only be yours if you can get to your car fast enough. Most the the team has already gone home for the day, so you find yourself alone at the elevator, waiting to go down.

Or, rather you think you’re alone. Spencer appears are your side, a little winded, but softly grins.

“I’m so glad we can go home,” he says, engaging in small talk.

Spencer doesn’t do regular small talk. His form of small talk is spewing fun facts and hoping to make the other person laugh. What in the world?

You cast him a sidelong glance, unsure where this is leading. “I just want waffles and cup of coffee.”

He takes a deep breath. “...do you mind if I join you and—”

“And give you a ride home?” you continue, wanting to follow this rabbit hole.

“Please?”

You end up in a diner not far from the office. It’s quaint with old booths and even older waitresses. You love how shabby it looks. You order coffee and waffles while Spencer does the same.

The car ride over was quiet, but now that you’re seated at a booth, you break the silence. “While I don’t mind the extra company, what’s on your mind?”

“Nothing is on my mind,” he says quickly, ignoring your curious stare, he plays with the sugar. “I just want to spend time with my friend.”

“Spencer.”

He peeks at you, his face wincing. “Was I that obvious?”

“A bit. Mainly because we both live in opposite directions from work and while I usually am a helpful person, I’m like literally the last person you’d ask to drive you home since it’s so out of my way and you are a polite person.”

“...okay, that is all true, but—”

“No buts, just what’s on your mind, bud? I feel like we’re about to get extra deep up in here.”

Spencer taps his fingers against the wooden table. You watch as he forces himself to commit to this. “I don’t know about extra deep, but yeah, my reason is personal, if that’s okay.”

“Just ask and we shall see. I’m sure it’s fine.”

He takes his time, thinking carefully before speaking. “I just. I know you were with Matt for a long time and just…how do you know that you’re ready to move on? I thought you were planning to have a life with him and everything.”

Oh. Well.

This was not what you were expecting.

“Okay, um. Well, this isn’t the first time my heart has been broken,” you start to explain, “so I have that going for me. And yes, I originally wanted to be lifelong partners with Matt, but I understood why we didn’t work out,” you say, your words rushed and weird. “First of all, a nation was between us. Second, our goals didn’t match. And third, we changed in ways that no longer parallel each other.”

You mark each point with a new finger. You list them as facts, the pain of saying them out loud barely there now.

He’s quiet again, your reasons hanging between you two. “And do you think you’re ready to move on?”

“Are you asking for my well being or for your own?”

Spencer sucks in a breath of air and you wait as he thinks of an answer. You try to eat, but your waffle isn’t as good as you remembered it being. Everything feels kinda cold.

“Despite losing Maeve,” he says, and you know this will not be an easy conversation. “We were only together for one hundred days give or take...and I never even held her hand, but the idea of moving on from her hurts.”

You press your lips together and lean into the booth, trying to string something positive and encouraging to say to him, but you only have one though.

“Then don’t move on.”

“C’mon,” he scoffs, “even I know that’s not completely healthy.”

“I don’t know, Spencer. I have a great-aunt whose husband died while saving his daughter and it’s been over thirty years and she hasn’t dated anyone since. That was the love of her life, as she was the love of your life. It’s just like that sometimes.”

“Yeah, she was—but I don’t know. This is the one thing I don’t know no matter how many times I try to reason it out. Just because she’s not here doesn’t mean I need to stop living...”

“Emotions aren’t rational, Spencer. If you don’t feel ready, you don’t feel ready. Our situations are totally different anyway. See, for me, the things I miss the most aren’t Matt. Matt can go fuck himself, but the things we did together? The way I felt? That’s what I want.”

“What do you mean?”

You play with a ring on your finger, needing to fidget as you open up your heart. “I miss...the security of knowing someone would always be there. I miss the dates we would go on. I miss holding hands and falling asleep to one person. I miss hugs and kisses and—just everything that makes up a relationship. Unlike you, I don’t miss a person. I miss a sequence of actions. Totally different.”

“Missing a sequence of actions does sound a lot better, I guess, if you have any to remember,” he says quietly, almost as if he’s confessing something he doesn’t say often.

Your heart aches for him. “You really never even met her once?”

“No.”

“Not even for a date?”

He shakes his head.

And the rest of the world goes on as normal, as if you didn’t just hear the most heart shattering thing. The diner is still somewhat noisy in the mid-morning. A kid is laughing, a waitress is calling out orders to the kitchen, and a fork clatters to the ground, but you’re stuck processing this confirmation, your heart twisting with every moment.

“I apologize for the lack of filter, but holy fuck, Spencer. That shit is tragic. Like I can’t even comprehend.” You bring your hand to your mouth, wanting to cover up all the pity that’s resting on your tongue. So, you choose not to say it. “I’m sorry that that happened. And that sucks and I don’t know anything else to say, but you’re totally allowed to be hung up on this. I would be so, so, so hung up on this! Actually, I think I am getting hung up on this for you right now!”

He lets out a weak laugh. “Thank you. I think you’re the first person who told me it’s okay to not move on. I... I don’t really talk about her to...anyone, but it’s kinda easier with you. You don’t make me feel like I’m obligated to feel a certain way about it. I feel less stupid about it, I guess. It was a just a mess, from start to finish.”

“Yeah, but who cares, it was your mess and no one can take that away from you. And it might be the romantic in me, but your relationship with her, the bits I do know, like the letters and your meet cute is rather...cute. It sounds like there is more good than bad.”

“I like to think there was,” he says, pushing his food on his plate.

You set your fork down and lean back into your seat. You don’t need to be a profiler to see exactly what Spencer is feeling or thinking. But most importantly, you know your friend needs you and you refuse him to continue now this road alone.

And then an idea strikes you like lightning. Brilliant and bright, coursing delight through you as see everything coming together in your mind.

“You know what,” you start, confidence in your voice. “We’re gonna do something fun. How good are you with spontaneity?”

“Uh, pretty good considering my job.”

You grin and link your fingers together. “Perfect. Okay, so tomorrow you and I are going to go an amusement park for funsies.”

Spencer’s mouth twists. “...funsies?”

“Yes, funsies. You desperately need it. So, dress down,” you order. “Comfy shoes and jeans please.”

“Um.”

“And you can’t say no because I’m doing you a huge favor by going super out of my way to drive you home as you told me a sad story over breakfast. And I’ve been dying to go anyway, so there’s that,” you finish saying in a rush.

You might have presented your case more childlike than intended, but Spencer seems to take be taking it into consideration. That is a victory in itself.

After a few moments, Spencer nods his head. “Okay. But there’s one problem.”

“What?”

“I don’t own any jeans.”

(You do your best not to face palm.)

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds #cm #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader

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rowanartist · 6 years

Text

Fan Fiction Quotes 2017: (part 2)

“Yeah, real handsome. All the dolls will be swooning.” Bucky winked, and it was easy as anything to reply, “There’s only one doll whose swoon I want, sweetheart”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/3588789?view_adult=true”>[X]</a>goofy and fun, I like it

“younger man hunched in a similar manner over his book, sitting crosslegged on Steve’s bed. Steve remembered glancing up from his sketch of something unimportant at the same time as Bucky looked up, and their eyes met, and they leaned across the bed toward each other. When they kissed, their bodies formed an arch over the bedspread, like the ceiling of a cathedral. Then they went back to what they’d been doing”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3588789?view_adult=true ”>[X]</a>nice imagery

“Sometimes, even with all of the positive developments - or maybe partly because of them, who knows - it all gets to be a bit much for Steve, which makes him feel guilty, because it’s not like he’s the one who’s working through seven decades of manipulation and brutality”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2741438 ”>[X]</a>relatable, the “why should I be the stressed one?”(note: talking heads song this fic, Bruce)

“such as interrupting one of Tony’s endless attempts to impress him with Midgardian science by saying, “Truly a valiant effort, my friend” and patting Tony on the head), ”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2741438 ”>[X]</a>amusing, I bet Tony has an opinion on that, not sure what though

[Steve]“Are you judging me right now?”

[Sam]“Not at the moment, no. But I reserve the right to do so at a later date, depending on what your dumb ass comes up with next"

[Steve]“Fair enough”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2741438 ”>[X]</a>comments

“Anytime Bucky gets in the elevator alone, JARVIS talks to him the whole time.”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/2508875”>[X]</a>awww

“ would wrinkle his nose, not because of the smell as much as what the smell meant”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2224137?view_adult=true ”>[X]</a>personal reasons: yeah I don’t like the smell but I’d never thought about it before until I learned of the part it played between my parents…I like this fic center

“Because I don’t understand,” he admits at last. “You’re–good. Everything about you is good. If anyone can see the truth about me, it should be you. I want to understand what you see in me so that I can try to be good again too” It feels ridiculous, having said the words aloud. <a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/1659689 ”>[X]</a>same paragraph as the next quote

“He has a fleeting half-thought about what it would be like to fling himself off the rooftop, but he knows he never actually will.”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/1659689 ”>[X]</a>…not actually suicidal?

“Guilt or croutons, Steve, those are your choices. You’ll just have to live with it.”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/801945 ”>[X]</a>I feel you Steve

“The Winter Soldier reads each and every label carefully, deciding between hydrocodone and acetaminophen and naproxen sodium.”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/3566312”>[X]</a>*whine* the first one is more heavy duty than the other two (Tylenol and Aleeve)

“He could simply read the title off the book, but he loves the way Bucky’s eyes light up when he gets to tell Steve about whatever he’s reading.”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/892502”>[X]</a>this is sweet, and the answer is amusing

“Figures. You love the man who sings about the little people. That’s so you.”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/892502 ”>[X]</a>I like the music section that follows this quote…

“He lets it sit on his tongue, imagines he can feel it dissolve into fats and proteins, weaving together to build muscle or stoking the fires of his mitochondria, warming him.”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/2832446”>[X]</a>meditative idea??

“A good spy never let on that his primary observations about the human character came from Disney films”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/4181880”>[X]</a>lol

“The human version of toast that lands butter side down, every time,”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4181880 ”>[X]</a>wow, what a way to describe Clint Barton!

“He craves [human closeness], Bucky knows, reveres it so much that he’ll never take it for granted, that he rarely dares to ask for it”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2364425 ”>[X]</a>relatable

“Genuine kicker of all Nazi ass, and he blushed like a schoolgirl. Dork.”<a href =“ http://archiveofourown.org/works/3122099”>[X]</a>comments

“He’s not so stupid he’ll ignore the fact that when Steven "My Blood Group is Apple Pie” Rogers threatens to end you, he means it literally literally.“<a href =” http://archiveofourown.org/works/3237080“>[X]</a>not actually from the fic rec but this one inspired one on the fic rec…

"hobo-sex-kitten ”<a href =“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3237080 ”>[X]</a>uhm, where else can that even be applied. Tony narration can be unique

“‘I’m Bucky Barnes.’ He meets him halfway for a second. ‘And I take my own orders.’”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2124084”>[X]</a>this line just stuck me

“Explain how necking with an estranged assassin is a favor,” Bucky replies, miffed.“<a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2156913”>[X]</a>this fic, the story game?

“Ah, shit, you came in through the window didn’t you?”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4176732”>[X]</a>made me laugh

“Being Iron Man doesn’t make his brain shut up, exactly, but it tunes out the shit that doesn’t matter better than anything else he’s tried, and he’s tried everything.)”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/492885”>[X]</a>makes me think about my boyfriend explaining how SCA fighting or shooting at a gun range are for him.

*pause on the fic rec, I’ll get back to reading it later

“Look man, all I’m saying is that for years you gave me someone to look up to for my entire life. ….You gave me someone to look to when I was feeling lost. I know that I’m nothing special, but you seem pretty lost right now. Figured you needed a little push, just like you used to give me.”<a href=“https://unclesteeb.tumblr.com/post/159553028886/steve-and-violet-save-the-day-and-then-bucky”>[X]</a>Steve and Violet pt5, Tumblr fic

“More than once, James has ended up on the couch with Sam playing with his hair with a nature documentary on mute. He does the narration. Orcas are assholes”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/8206688/chapters/18802994?show_comments=true&view_full_work=false#comment_78194408”>[X]</a>found because of unclesteeb.tumblr.com

“When Steve thinks about Sam his heart does this funny thing where it feels like it’s overrun with kittens and puppies. Everything’s tiny patters of fluffy feet and pastel sugar plums made of candy. ”<a href=“https://unclesteeb.tumblr.com/post/154535855440/hooray-the-day-is-here-heres-my-all-caps”>[X]</a>again, unclesteeb

“It’s always the middle of winter, Jimmy never dreams of spring, no matter that his entire life is about being reborn, again and again -”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/1818250”>[X]</a>nice symbolism, and I’m not even a literary nerd. Also, from the fic rec from before…

“It’s like he puts out some super pheromone that makes one believe in truth, goodness, and harebrained schemes.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/7584626”>[ch1]</a>I read the original story previously because of a fan art

“Confirm. Green thing Hulk is tough and focused. And it’s so big that it draws attention away from Steve”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/7584626”>[ch1]</a>amusing,particularly Steve’s reaction :)

“Building is a mission-assist for everyone.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/7584626”>[X]</a>awww/lol

“One day at a time, Sam says, unless it takes one minute at a time, and then you do that.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/7822196”>[ch7]</a>good advice from Sam, of course

Just all of chapter 8!

“It’s rude to assign gender without asking, Stark.”<a href=“https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/7896069”>[ch9]</a>response to Tony arbitrarily tendering one of his bots (admittedly he does it to annoy Tony but…) “Barnes receives a majestic eyeroll, worthy of bald eagles and amber waves of grain.”<a href=“https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/8062296”>[ch11]</a>amusing

“Assists in your mission to live a good human life”<a href=“https://archiveofourown.org/works/3456710/chapters/8062296”>[ch11]</a>awww! Cuteness, I love this AU at Halloween time!

“and sits crammed into the corners of sofas, staring out.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4806749?view_adult=true”>[X]</a>same Series as previous set. I relate. Is it “a desire for human hugs” (blame Frozen for the phrasing)

“America’s mighty chin of stubbornness juts out like Plymouth Rock.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4806749?view_adult=true”>[X]</a>lol “Captain Fret wearing his worried expression”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4806749?view_adult=true”>[X]</a>yup

“All of the Bucky/Banner introductions, throughout the universes, have generally gone as well as two introverted weapons of mass destruction meeting could go.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/7363342/chapters/22817636”>[ch6]</a>was inspired by the last one

“I get lost in that feeling. Sometimes I need to rehash everything to get it all back in order in my head.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2539586”>[X]</a>relatable I think from <a href=“http://oflittleuse.tumblr.com/post/101423922612/happy-halloween-to-celebrate-here-is-a-selection”>this fic rec</a>

“I know that we– well, I –the last few times we’ve tried to, um, God why can’t I just say this out loud?”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2676779/chapters/5986280”>[X]</a>because your normal Bucky. A lot of people feel that way, we shouldn’t have to but it’s not weird to! (Mini soap box)

“He’d found not one, but two, families in his long lifetime. People he cared about not because he had to, not because they shared any blood ties, but because they had come into his life when he felt like he had nothing else, and made it better.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2540360”>[X]</a>the importance of any type of family!

“Steve quirked an eyebrow, putting his hands on his hips in his best ‘Captain America does not approve of your sass’ pose.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2490143/chapters/5526164”>[ch1]</a>reminds me of doing the same with my boyfriend.

“It’s just- I know it doesn’t look like much but we found it together. Yeah, it’s kind of old and beat up, and it’s little and broken but it’s still good. Yeah, still good.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2490143/chapters/5538761”>[ch2]</a>yes, that probably does sound familiar! Disney!

“The Moon is a protector, Bucky. He’s bruised.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2513627>[X]</a>I’m not even sure what to think of this AU. I found it from ‘Brenda’s under appreciated fics’ rec, linked in one of 2017’s fan fic posts

"Shit,” he breathes. “When did you get so good at flirting?”

Steve gives his fingers a squeeze, remembering a similar look on Peggy’s face once upon a time, when he stood in front of her with a broken transponder in his hand.

“When I found someone worth flirting with.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2741438”>[X]</a>awww, smile

“not his tiny blond ball of fury (whom he now remembers is a large blond ball of righteous fury),”<a href=“https://musesfool.dreamwidth.org/768562.html”>[post]</a>from the linked post, inspired this <a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4789796”>fic</a>

“[Being surly to Captain America] It’s like being nasty to Superman. He could do it, but he’d just feel like shit afterwards. It’s not an experience he’s eager to repeat.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/4347650”>[X]</a>amusing, means he’s done that before…

“"Yes, Pepper,” they chorus like the good little schoolboys they might have been, once upon a time"<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2732783”>[X]</a>lol

“The next time he visited the pediatric ward at New York-Presbyterian, he brought a ton of socks and some puffy paint, so the kids could paint their own. The project was a hit with parents and internet knitters alike.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2358854”>[X]</a>awww!!

“Avengers Stitch and Bitch. ”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2358854”>[X]</a>comments

“he still has bad days where he sits in the dark by himself because the thought of being around anyone–even Steve–is like jackhammers in his skull and shattered glass under his skin. ”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2085093”>[X]</a>not nearly that bad for me, but I kinda get that

“refrigerator with a magnet that looks like his shield.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/2085093”>[X]</a>cute. Near the end.

“the one who doesn’t laugh as much or as loud as he used to, but whose eyes still crinkle in genuine humor at stupid puns and in wonder at some of the marvels of this modern age.”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/1342801”>[X]</a>quiet emotion, not a lack of sense of humor

“This whole talking about our feelings like adults thing is hard. It made me hungry again. Didn’t it make you hungry again?”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/860666”>[X]</a>amusing, don’t love the pairing 'cause I only know one of them and I really like him with Steve - though I’ve liked others

“he doesn’t have anything left but a broken heart and some sourdough starter”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/460793”>[X]</a>I’ve now seen a fair amount of Great British Baking Show

“ (Sure, the therapy sessions and the anti-anxiety drugs are helping too, but Steve’s always been a big believer in the efficacy of hard work and good food for making a person feel better after their world’s been turned upside down, and the bakery provides both in spades.)”<a href=“http://archiveofourown.org/works/460793”>[X]</a>any combination of methods that helps

#2017 #fan fiction

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