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Spencer’s in a slump. He can’t deny it, even with the forced smiles and the constant “I’m fine”s to the team, day after day.
He knows the lack of sleep has manifested itself in his appearance—his undereyes are so dark he looks like he’s been punched, his hair is more unruly than usual, his clothes are rumpled. He’s even been having trouble focusing. Stumbling over his words. Mixing up numbers when he rambles, which isn’t even all that often anymore.
He knows the team’s been concerned, too.
Hotch has been glancing at him more during briefings and keeping an eye on him when on cases.
Frankly, Spencer’s getting a bit annoyed by it all.
And then, when he’s staring through the report on his desk, Penelope strolls into the bullpen like a woman on a mission, planting herself next to him, her hands on her hips with a wide grin.
Spencer sighs. “Garcia—”
She interrupts him. “I have a proposal for you.” She’s not hiding her excitement well; her legs are jumpy, her heels stuttering in place on the linoleum where she stands, and she’s even slightly shaking, positively vibrating with eagerness. Spencer holds in a groan. “I feel like the Good Doctor needs a bit of a pick-me-up. So, I’ve done what I do, and made some calls, and oh,” she grins impossibly wider. “Long story short, you have a date!”
Spencer blanches. “What…?”
Garcia just nods. “I set up a reservation for you two at Gianni’s—it’s this totally adorable little Italian place, you’ll love it.”
He can’t quite make out the rest of her rambling. He feels like his hearing is going again, like his headaches have come back full-force. He coughs, successfully ending Garcia’s rant. She just looks at him, a flicker of worry crossing her bright features before she sighs, taking a seat on the corner of his desk. She sets a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Spencer, you can’t lie to me, like, at all. I know you,” she wiggles his shoulder with a cheeky grin. “You’re, well… you’re struggling. We can see it, and, hey,” she leans down to smile softly, more reassuring. “You don’t need to treat it like a date if you don’t want to. I just know someone who I think you’ll click with, and I think it’ll be fun. Y’know, to let loose for a bit? Eat some good food, drink some good wine, have a fun, not death-slash-kidnapping-slash-totally-terrible-things-based conversation? I mean, honestly, Reid, when’s the last time you had a normal conversation with someone outside of us?”
And, well… that makes Spencer pause. He thinks—really, genuinely thinks. About two weeks and four days ago, he made a call to a semi-local bookstore to see if they had a first-edition copy of The Outsider by HP Lovecraft in stock. (They didn’t.)
Since then, cases have taken up most of his time. He mostly spends his days working on cases at the BAU or reviewing the files at home.
Garcia knows she has him beat when Spencer hangs his head. She grins and claps her hands like she’s won a prize. “Yay! So, head home before it’s dark out, yeah? I’ll text you the details! It’ll be fun, don’t even worry about it!” She grins before heading back to her office down the hall, and Spencer sighs, putting his head onto his desk.
Spencer stands outside of the restaurant for, probably, longer than socially acceptable. He really would’ve rather not come, but then he started feeling guilty. He didn’t want to hurt Garcia’s feelings by refusing her, and he didn’t want to potentially hurt whoever she had set up to meet him by standing them up, even if he had no idea who they were.
The sign over the door says Gianni’s in blinking red neon, and he thinks the establishment seems… painfully fine, from his view into the windows. It’s not overly fancy, not exactly the vibe of a romantic first date. He mentally thanks Garcia for that.
He wrings his hands one final time before pulling open the glass door and stepping inside.
The hostess smiles brightly at him. “Hi! Welcome to Gianni’s,” she glances around him for a moment. “Party of one?” The smile turns to pity.
Spencer purses his lips in a tiny smile. “Uh, no. I have a reservation actually, under, uh…” he blinks. “Under Garcia?”
God, this is awkward. Spencer nibbles on his lower lip, glancing around the room as the hostess takes a look at the book beside the register. She nods. “Of course, sir. Right this way,” she grins, leading him to the back of the dining room, to a small table nestled in the corner right beside a huge window, the lights of the city nightlife shining through the glass.
He takes a seat with a small smile. The hostess says she’ll have someone over to take care of him shortly, and Spencer just nods before looking outside. It’s started to rain slowly tonight, small round droplets pattering the concrete sidewalk. He follows the lines they leave on the glass like a lure.
When the waitress comes over, she simply introduces herself—Sasha. She says she’ll come back once he’s settled, before leaving two laminated menus on the table and, strangely, taking the wine menu with her.
Spencer starts skimming over the menu, lower lip locked between his teeth. He worries the corner of the laminate between his fingers. Why is he so nervous? It’s not like this is a real date, after all, Garcia even told him it would just be something casual for him to get his mind off of work for a while. But he can’t help the strange stuttering in his chest when he thinks about it, meeting someone he doesn’t know for dinner. It’s not that he’s worried, no, he trusts Garcia. Even if her methods are, well, blunt, he knows that she knows him well enough not to drop a bomb on his lap in the form of a conversation partner.
He’s lost staring through the laminated cover of the menu when he hears footsteps nearing his little alcove in the corner. He glances up, and, well. Is it dramatic to say his breath catches? He’ll deny it if—or rather, when—Garcia asks.
You’re standing with a slightly nervous smile, the remnants of small raindrops clinging to your hair, with wet streaks shining on your skin. You wave shyly at him. “Hi, uh, are you Spencer?”
Spencer’s standing before you can even finish speaking, the chair scraping against the hardwood. He cringes. “Yeah- yes. Hi,” he smiles.
You extend your hand to shake before pulling it away quickly. He frowns. “Penelope mentioned you don’t really do handshakes,” you chuckle. “Can I sit?” You point at the chair across from him. Spencer nods, sitting back down in his seat, watching as you shed your coat and hang it on the back of the chair, before taking a seat across from him. You smile at him, introducing yourself. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long? I didn’t expect the rain to hit when it did, and I didn’t bring an umbrella.”
Spencer shakes his head with a small laugh; just the barest exhale from his nose. “Uh, no, don’t worry. I just got here. And I didn’t bring an umbrella either, so,” he grins back at you. “Don’t worry.”
“You said that twice,” you grin, all teeth. Spencer can feel the warmth flush his neck. “Don’t worry,” you echo. “Maybe the rain’ll let up by the time we leave.” You pick up the other menu, so casual, and Spencer watches you like a creature he’s never seen before.
His phone buzzes from its place on the table. You don’t look up from your menu, but Spencer can see a faint smirk on your face with a hint of mischief or mirth in your eyes. He scrambles to look at the screen, only to be met with a text from Garcia.
PG: Is she there yet? Call her pretty! And don’t forget to smile! You’ll be fine, Einstein <3
Spencer sighs, turning his phone off and tucking it into his messenger bag, hanging off the back of his seat. He murmurs a small apology, and you simply shake your head before lowering the menu. “Was it Pen?” At his guilty look, you grin and shake your head. “She was badgering me, too. Don’t worry.”
Spencer can't hold back his tiny smile. “We’re saying that a lot.” You just laugh. Any tension that might’ve lingered over the evening seems to dissipate into thin air.
It doesn’t take long for the waitress, Sasha, to return to the table, this time carrying a bucket filled with ice and a bottle of wine sticking out of the top. Spencer’s eyes widen comically, and you can only laugh as Sasha sets the bucket down. “A 2003 Pinot Gris,” she explains as she takes the bottle out and begins to fill both your glasses.
“I- I didn’t order any wine,” Spencer says, a strange, pathetic tinge to his voice as he helplessly watches his glass get filled. He hopes it’s not too expensive.
Sasha shakes her head. “It was requested when the reservation was made. Miss Garcia said she had your bill covered tonight.” She places the open bottle back into the bucket, the ice shifting around it. “So don’t worry. I’ll be back in a moment to take your orders,” she winks before stalking off.
You both stare at each other for a breath. The silence is broken with your contagious laughter, picking up your glass and raising it for a toast. “Well then. To Pen!”
Spencer grins, slowly raising his glass to gently clink it against yours. “To Garcia.”
Conversation flows naturally, more easily than Spencer had expected. Even when he went on an unintentional ramble about how fettuccine alfredo isn't really Italian, and how the word “pesto” literally means “to crush”, and how Pinot Gris is a French wine, not Italian like Pinot Grigio, even though they’re basically the same thing, and how a wine like this tends to pair well with pasta because of its dry, acidic profile that can cut through thick, creamy sauces.
When Spencer cut himself off to take a full, proper breath, he freezes. You have the sweetest smile on your face, your head resting on your hand like you’re really listening, like you’re actually interested in his long, unnecessary rambling. He takes a gulp of his wine and cringes. God, he hates wine.
When the food gets to the table, you grin at him. “I thought fettuccine alfredo wasn’t really Italian?” It’s a tease, yes, but Spencer doesn’t hear a trace of malice in your voice.
He shrugs, twirling some onto his fork. “I mean, it was technically invented in Rome, but it’s not the same. This version of fettuccine alfredo is an Americanized recreation from 1920s Hollywood,” he says, taking a bite. “Still, that doesn’t mean it’s not good.”
You chuckle, taking a bite of your own food. You grin at each other across the table like teenagers with a secret. It’s nice. Comfortable.
“So,” you start, pouring the last bit of wine, splitting the amount between your glass and his. “Aside from your impressive knowledge of the wine menu, what do you do when you’re not reading about Italian cuisine?”
Spencer shrugs, setting his fork down. “I, uh, I read. A lot.”
You smile. “Yeah, you seem like a reader. Anything that’s not like, work or Italian food-related, though? I’m sure you have hobbies outside of… well, the obvious.”
He nods. “I guess. I’m kind of a nerd about a lot of things, honestly. Not that that’s a hobby,” Spencer clarifies, his shoulders relaxing at your chuckle. “I’m really into old, out-of-print books. You know, the ones that—”
“The ones that cost a small fortune and have that weird, dusty smell?” You cut in, simpering. Your eyes crinkle. Spencer finds it painfully sweet.
He smiles. “Exactly,” he exhales a laugh before taking a sip of his wine. “I like to collect them. It’s kind of… calming, I guess.”
“That’s really cool,” you grin. “Y’know, I used to be super into photography when I was younger. Like, just… taking random pictures of random things.”
Spencer tilts his head. “Really? Like a hobby, or—?”
“No, no,” you laugh. “Just random moments. Sometimes the best things happen when you’re not looking, y’know?” And if there’s a part of Spencer’s heart that flutters in understanding, that whispers “you, you, you,” like an echo in his chest? Well, that’s between him and his internal organs. “Anyway, I haven’t even touched a camera in years.”
“Why not?”
You shrug. “I don’t know. Life got busy, and now it just feels kind of silly to start again. I do kind of miss it, though, I guess. The idea of capturing something, like… pure. Unfiltered? That’s still pretty appealing.”
Spencer smiles softly. “Don’t worry,” and oh, there’s a warmth in his gut that has nothing to do with the wine. “You still have time.”
“You think so?” There’s a far-off, wistful look of something not unlike hope that swims in your eyes.
He nods, and Spencer wonders if it’s too early to consider buying you a gift.
By the time you’re done, you’ve shared a small plate of tiramisu between you both. The rain outside the window hasn’t let up; if anything, it looks like it’s only coming down harder now. You and Spencer are still mindlessly chatting as you stand, and he helps you put your coat on. You look back at him and smile like a fool.
You walk outside the restaurant, and Spencer stops at the hostess’ station at the front, slipping a fifty to Sasha, and smiling softly as she balks.
The rain is pouring. You groan, “I took the metro here,” you say, raising your voice over the sounds of fat droplets hitting the sidewalk.
Spencer nods, tugging his coat tighter around himself. “Me too,” he glances towards the street. “We can get a cab?”
You nod, watching as he rushes into the rain, out from the cover of the awning, to wave down one of the yellow cars driving past. He beckons you over as one slows to a stop at the side of the road.
You follow Spencer, sliding into the backseat behind him and sitting beside him as the driver turns. “Where to?”
Spencer clears his throat. “Uh, two stops, if that’s alright?” The driver simply nods, and you tell him your address, a faint nervous tremble in your voice.
The ride to your apartment is almost silent, save for quiet murmuring from the backseat. Like you two can’t help the conversation, like you can’t bear not talking to each other for even five minutes.
When the cab pulls up to your apartment complex, you grin at Spencer, about to speak, when he climbs out of the car behind you. He mutters to the driver that he’ll only take a minute. “What’re you doing?” you ask, looking up at him in confusion.
Spencer shrugs, leading you to the doorway to the building. “I wouldn’t be a very good date if I left you to walk to your door alone.” He says it so simply, so easily, it almost shakes him. He can’t believe how nervous he was, not that long ago, refusing to even think of this dinner as anything more than a way to get his mind off work.
You grin widely up at him, letting yourself inside and holding the door open for him. “I suppose you’re right,” you lead him to the elevator. “You wouldn’t be a very good date. But I wouldn’t hold it against you,” you tease, pressing the button for your floor—eight. Spencer tucks that information away. “Don’t worry.”
You wink, and Spencer can’t hold back his soft laughter. He’s quiet on the elevator ride, too busy just looking at you. You’ve managed to shatter every one of his expectations and preconceived notions in no more than a couple of hours. It’s strange, but welcome. You’re welcome, now. Always.
When the elevator opens, and you lead the way to your apartment door, you turn around to face him fully. “Thank you,” you smile softly, looking up at him. “I had a really good evening, Spencer. Thanks for not running off.”
He purses his lips, smiling back at you. “I had a really good evening, too.” His hands start to wring again. “And, I wouldn’t have run off. Don’t worry.”
You chuckle, a glint in your eyes. “Well, still. Thanks. For the company, tonight. And the conversation. And all of the new facts I’ve just learned about Italian cuisine.”
Spencer blushes. He shrugs, his hands moving to clutch at the strap of his messenger bag. “Glad to provide newfound knowledge, then,” he chuckles.
And before he can overthink it or second-guess himself, Spencer bends slightly, pressing a soft, feather-light kiss to your cheek. Your eyes go wide for just a moment before warmth floods your cheeks, and a grin that surpasses even sunshine itself takes over your face. You inhale shakily and unlock your door. You keep your eyes on Spencer as you step inside. “Thanks again,” you breathe. “I’ll um, I’ll text you?”
Spencer nods before beginning to walk backwards toward the elevator. He wishes you a good night and watches you slowly close your door.
He doesn’t step onto the elevator until he hears your door lock, and then he’s rushing back outside, into the pouring monsoon, before throwing himself into the backseat of the taxi.
The driver just laughs at him, at his cheeks all blotchy and red. Spencer clears his throat and awkwardly gives him his address.
He’s inside his apartment and toeing off his shoes when he realizes he never got your number.
Spencer freezes. He yanks his phone out of his bag with all the decorum of a deer in the road, and notices the abundance of missed texts from Garcia.
PG: How’s dinner going?? Is it awkward??? Did you say anything weird yet????
PG: Guess things are going well!! Don’t worry about the bill, it’s on me!!
PG: And DON'T COMPLAIN ABOUT THE WINE!!!!!!!
PG: Oh I’m SO excited to see your face tomorrow, Reid! I told you this was a good idea!
PG: Here’s her number, in case you were too stunned and totally in love with her to ask for it ;)
Spencer sighs, grateful for the inclusion of your number that saves him the awkward embarrassment of asking for it. He can’t keep the smile off his face as he adds it to his contacts, and types out a quick message. He sends it before he can talk himself out of it, and leaves his phone on the couch as he heads into his room to change.
Spencer: Hi, this is Spencer. Have a good night, and thanks again for dinner! It was really enjoyable. Hope you don’t mind me getting your number from Garcia, I only just noticed we hadn’t exchanged contact info :)
If Garcia ever asked, Spencer would deny it, but he runs out of his bedroom with his shirt still in his hand when he hears his phone buzz on the couch.
You: hey spencer! you have a good night too, dinner was super fun. you’re a fun conversationalist. and if you hadn’t gotten my number from pen, i would’ve asked her for yours, so don’t worry :)
He grins down at his phone before turning it off and pulling his shirt on. He brushes his teeth with a smile on his lips, crawls into bed with his face sore and his cheeks cramping, and begins to fall asleep to the sound of heavy rain pattering on his window.
It’s not until he’s curled up between the sheets, half asleep, that he realizes he hasn’t thought about work or cases all night.
Well then. Thank you, Penelope Garcia.