Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

22. Darkness is about to Pass

A slightly uncomfortable silence settled between you two. You took another sip of your sangria, wishing that the pitcher on the table wasn't empty so you could refill.

"So, between the two of us," JJ began at last, training her blue eyes on you, "what's been going on between you and Spence, lately?"

You nearly choked on your drink, managing to pass it off as a grunt of confusion. You cleared your throat and asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well, to be honest, I've... noticed it for a little while too, but Garcia's got it in her head that he's got a little bit of a 'crush' on you. And you've been spending a fair amount of time together," she answered with another huffed laugh. "We were just wondering. But I hope you know that I won't say anything you don't want me to. I'm, uh, not really one for gossip."

You blinked, and your heart rate picked up. You instinctually responded, "We're just friends."

She smiled, her brow creasing slightly in confusion. "You can't honestly tell me you don't notice the way he looks at you."

Of course you did. You loved the way he looked at you. And you knew what she was talking about. Spencer was literally in your apartment by himself while you were sitting here. He'd been sleeping over every night for the past few days, sleeping in your bed with you despite the fact that you knew better than to not only let him do such things but actively encourage him.

You wanted him there with you. His mere presence chased away the shadows that loomed over you. He filled long cold nights with comfort and warmth. He made you less afraid of yourself.

But you were still just friends, even if a part of you was starting to acknowledge that you perhaps didn't want to be just friends anymore. It was not a want you could indulge, at least not until you closed your own case.

So you gave JJ a tight smile. "We're just friends," you repeated. What else could you say?

JJ breathed another laugh to herself, turning her gaze back down to the table. "Okay," she said, "that's fine. Just..." She trailed off, tightening her grip around the base of her glass. She rolled the bottom around on the table between her hands as she considered her next words. Finally, she looked back up at you. "Spencer's had a tough break. Don't make it tougher for him."

Her tone left no room for questions nor discussion nor denial, but you took offense to the implications it held—that you would ever try to hurt him. You couldn't blame her for thinking you might; you hadn't exactly presented yourself as the most nurturing individual.

But, still, the fact that it was a thought in her mind left a bad taste in your mouth. Especially since you knew that you could not be what he wanted you to be at this point in your life. You knew you couldn't give him what he wanted.

But you just kept pretending you could.

So you just pressed your lips together and echoed for a third and final time, "We're just friends."

She didn't look convinced. You didn't try to convince her.

The two of you sat in silence until Garcia and Prentiss, at last, returned.

After paying the bill, the four of you said your goodbyes in front of the restaurant. You got into an Uber and leaned your head back, closing your eyes with a sigh.

And when you finally arrived back at your apartment, you found Spencer lying on his side on your couch, fast asleep with the main room lights dimmed. The television was set to a nature documentary about the ocean, and David Attenborough's quiet voice pervaded through the space. Spencer had one arm bent under his head as a pillow, his legs curled up to fit on the couch, and a soft blue light was cast on his face from the television as the documentary delved into the mysteries of the Mariana Trench. Your copy of I Know This Much is True by Wally Lamb was resting on the glass coffee table in front of him.