Criminal Minds Imagines

selfish | spencer reid

first fic, and it's spencer !! I hope you love this fic as much as I do :)

This was a case like any other.

The stakes were high—what else was new?—and the UnSub's arrest evolved into a shootout. Before Rossi could get a clean shot, a bullet had grazed your arm and killed a police officer. Your getting injured wasn't new (really, it'd be more surprising if you didn't), but JJ still wrapped her arm around you, Derek and Hotch still asked if you were alright, Emily still held your hand. Penelope still smothered you in a hug. Rossi still shook your hand.

But your Spencer? He didn't inspect your wound, didn't berate you for your carelessness or run off another statistic on the odds of an injury in the field. He didn't follow the usual routine of kissing your cheek and coddling you until you were healed.

Instead, he opened his mouth and blurted, "I don't think we should see each other anymore."

Your heart skips a beat in the worst possible way, your brain a broken record repeating his words on a loop. "I... what?"

"You're always getting yourself injured and I... I can't stand to see you get hurt." That was the naked truth of it: each time you were hurt in the field, Spencer struggled to reassure himself that you would be okay, to remember a statistic or concrete fact to ease his anxiety. He could not afford the distraction, he told himself.

Field agents needed to set aside their emotions and remain objective, lest their judgement be clouded. And Spencer's judgement had been clouded on more than one occasion.

"You can't be with me because you don't want to see me get hurt?"

"That's correct, yes."

You wish his tone wasn't resolved, that you could persuade him to see reason, your reason. Instead you ask, "What makes this injury different from the others? Why do you get to decide how this relationship ends?"

"I can't keep doing this, y/n. It's not sustainable." Always scientific, always the pessimist. Why couldn't he ever take a leap for love? Why couldn't he fully give himself to you?

"Spence—"

"You're a distraction, and I..." He takes a deep breath, forcing the words past his lips. "I don't need that. There's nothing more I have to say."

He leaves you alone with the ambulance, alone with your thoughts. Alone with your tears.

—

Your skin is warm as Spencer trails his fingers down your body, gracefully pressing his lips onto your collarbone. He delights in your sighs, testing the waters of your pleasure. Your hand curls in his hair, tugs, and he brings his mouth up to meet yours.

You smile into the kiss as he settles between your knees, hand sliding up to hold your cheek. He breaks the kiss and your lips chase his, aching for another taste. But he's firm, breath mixing with yours as he murmurs, "You're beautiful."

Spencer wakes to sheets twisted around his legs. Eyes still closed, he reaches a hand out for you, only to find... you're not there. Reality crashes into him like a train, and his mind reminds him of the fact that you're not his anymore, you sleep in a different bed now.

Reality hurts, his memory is alluring, and Spencer just wants to go back to sleep. But then his phone rings on the bedside table, and he answers the call with a groan.

—

"Reid..."

Spencer tunes out Morgan's voice with some effort, wrapped in a memory. That eidetic memory, once serving him well in catching criminals and party tricks, now serves only as a reminder of your lips on his, your fingers framing his face, your gentle touch on his skin.

He knows that if he concentrates, he can still hear your sighs in his dream, trace the curve of your lips. He'd do anything to be there, to be back in your apartment and in your arms. Instead, the team's flying out to New York to hunt another case, catch another criminal.

"Reid." There's Emily's voice now, and the sound of a female voice that belongs to anyone but you abruptly drags him out of his reverie.

His gaze snaps into focus on the case file in JJ's hand, and he blinks away the final remnants of the dream.

"Reid, you okay?" Derek's voice is gentle, and Spencer knows what he must look like — messy hair, messy mind, messy thoughts of you.

"Yeah," He blinks away the concern, but his eyes meet your gaze. Spencer looks away before he can linger, but knows you're watching him in his peripheral vision.

He wants you to stop. He wants you to continue. He doesn't know what he wants.

—

Another case completed, another criminal caught.

The BAU bullpen is dark, lit only by the light escaping Hotch's office and the lamp on Spencer's desk. It's late, even for you, and you're still not entirely sure why Spencer told you to "come find me later." But he's always led to more questions than answers, and you find him muttering over the case file as you approach his desk.

"Hey," your voice can't be more than a whisper, and he pulls his eyes away from the gruesome images in his hand.

"Hey," comes his reply.

"You, uh... you wanted to see me?" Your hands fumble together, touching the finger where your promise ring once was.

"Yeah, I..." Spencer pauses, lets his mind catch up to his mouth, thinks through what he wants to articulate. He's not entirely sure why he asked you to come, either, but he knows that he misses you and he wants to apologise. And the words that leave his mouth aren't pretty, they don't solve anything—all Spencer knows is that he loves you and should have never given you up, distraction or no. He's realised that he cannot afford to lose you. "Is it selfish for me to miss you?"

You blink in surprise, staring at the lonely brunette before you. There's something in his eyes that suggests he really does miss you, really does regret letting you go. But if he truly needed you, truly loved you, why would he let you go?

"You don't need me, Reid," you eventually sigh, and your words hurt him in more ways than one. "You said so yourself. I'm an unwanted distraction, remember? Of course you remember."

What happened to Spence? What happened to you? What did he allow to happen?

"Of course I need you, I always need you," the words leave his mouth before he can think, before he can analyse your tone and speech pattern and wrap his head around the fact that you think he doesn't need you. As if it hasn't always been you.

Instead, you shake your head, and back away from him. Spencer seizes the opportunity to drink you in—eyes slightly glassy, arms crossed against your chest, head turned away from him. Tears that mean you're upset, distance that means you're uncomfortable, all signs pointing to the glaringly obvious truth that he's lost you for good.

"Don't— Don't do that, don't profile me like one of our UnSubs." Your voice has hardened now, and he brings his gaze from your posture to your eyes. "You clearly don't know me at all."

"y/n, I—"

Your name on his lips is desperate, and it takes every ounce of your will to not take the extra step into his arms. But you pause, silent, waiting for him to continue.

His silence speaks volumes. You know that if you linger, if you allow yourself to touch him, you'll never be able to walk away. So you turn toward the exit, head stubbornly facing forward.

Risking a final glance, you allow yourself one second to drink him in. To admire the way a strand of hair curls over his forehead, framing his features. To look into the brown of his eyes, to wonder at the depths of his imagination and ingenuity. To love his gentle heart.

But the second's up, and you leave the BAU a hollow vessel.