Criminal Minds Imagines

wherever you are (is the place i belong) | spencer reid

(can you tell i've been watching too much stranger things with the 80s references)

When Spencer reaches the door of your shared apartment, he's not entirely surprised to hear the sound of Toto's Africa playing. With a key in the lock and turn of the handle, he opens the door to the sight of you.

You, dressed in your pyjamas and one of his stolen cardigans, dancing to an 80s radio and poking holes in a store-bought meal.

He leans against the door for a moment, watching you when you believe no one's watching. The sleeves of his cardigan slip beyond your wrists, and you slide them back with a sigh, turning to place your meal into the microwave.

The song reaches its final chorus, and Spencer makes his presence known by closing the door and removing his shoes.

"You're home," is the first thing out of your mouth.

He looks up from placing his shoes to meet your gaze, your tired, smiling gaze. His breath catches in his throat. Spencer's come home to you millions of times before, with you in varying degrees of exhaustion, disarray and clothing styles, but this you is his favourite.

The you that's always welcome to greet him, wearing items stolen from his closet when he was away on cases. The you that dances to decades-old music in her pyjamas. The you whose diet primarily consists of mac and cheese, who he has to constantly nag to eat more vegetables and drink more water.

You. His best friend and roommate and hopefully lover if he can ever get the courage to ask you out, you.

"Hi," he smiles back.

"You feeling okay?" You ask as the microwave chimes. The smell of mac and cheese fills the air as you place the now-hot meal back onto the counter, searching for a fork in the drawer.

You never ask, did you get them? or how did it end?; rather, your only concern is for him. For how he was feeling. On too many nights, you'd woken to his screams or increasingly louder mutterings.

But from the look in his eye and a shake of his head, you can tell this case was far from ordinary. You're no profiler, but you recognise the downturn of his head, the glaze of his eyes, the burden on his shoulders.

So you comfort him with the only thing you can think of.

Meal forgotten on the counter, you turn to your playlist and queue up a song. Spandau Ballet's True begins to play, and you hold out your palm to him. "Dance with me?"

He's only just gotten through the door, just returned from being away for a week on this particular case, but his bed has never looked so depressing. Spencer accepts your hand, and you slide it to your waist with a smile. Your hands fold behind his neck, and he brings his other hand to your hip.

The two of you sway back and forth in the living room, Spencer gently twirling you out of the way of the furniture. It's an old dance, one performed many times before after every difficult case, but one that's just as meaningful every time.

You and Spandau Ballet are there for him every time, and he's never been more grateful to call you his. To come home to you each day, after each case, and know you'll be dancing in his arms if the world gets too loud.

This is his hiding place, his comfort zone, and yet. This is his greatest dream realised, and yet. You're only his by association, known as his roommate or best friend or Reid's crush, as the team knows you by. Never y/n, never his by touch and taste and caress.

But then you do things such as rest your head against his shoulder, and he gets to kiss your head. You'll tilt your head up to meet his eyes, and he gets to wonder how your lips would feel against his own.

Only this time, he doesn't have to wonder. He gets to know.

Before his mind can assess your body language, assess the look in your eye and the rapidly closing gap between your mouths, Spencer's body has moved of its own accord to lean forward. To tighten his grip on your hips. To press his lips to yours.

But still he hesitates, not so far gone that he forgets to ask for consent. And with a breathless nod, you grant it to him.

The kiss is slow, tentative, the both of you testing the waters for the first time. Spencer brings one hand up from your waist to slide into your hair, and you sigh as his fingers slip through the strands. Your own fingers press deeper onto his neck to bring him closer to you, consuming your senses with him.

His kiss is delicate, almost afraid of breaking you, almost afraid of crossing the line from friends to lovers. His hands are gentle on your skin, a warm caress only given out of pure love. But then you push into him a little harder, and your lungs protest as your lips meet his again and again. He's quick to follow your lead, eagerly matching your pace.

When your lips finally leave his, your eyes don't open, brain trying to hold onto that tenderness for just a moment longer. Spencer's breath is hot against your lips, the scent of mint lingering in your nose. The air is filled with the sound of your breathlessness, and your smile widens when you meet his eyes.

"I've, uh... I've never actually kissed anyone before. Anyone that really mattered, I mean." His voice, slightly hoarse from kissing you, diminishes in volume as he speaks.

Spencer braces himself for the teasing he'd certainly receive from Derek, the raised brows from Emily. The pity from Penelope.

Instead, you take his face in your hands. Your touch gives him the courage to meet your gaze again, and you smile at him.

"I'm honoured to be your first."