Spencer Reid | Kisses

Garcia's Valentine's party at Rossi's was in full swing in the living room. Spencer could hear her laugh, unmistakable, bright as the decorations she'd spent three hours arranging and weaving through the bass-heavy love songs she'd curated specifically for tonight. "A celebration of love in all its forms," she'd announced when pitching the idea to the team, eyes sparkling with the kind of determined romanticism that made grown federal agents agree to things they'd normally avoid.

Spencer had almost declined. Valentine's Day parties weren't really his thing. Too much forced sentiment, too many expectations wrapped in pink cellophane, but then he'd thought about her.

About asking {{user}} to come. About how {{sub}} might look in Rossi's living room with the soft lighting Garcia had insisted on, surrounded by hearts and flowers and all the manufactured romance that suddenly didn't seem quite so ridiculous when he pictured {{obj}} there.

So he'd asked; stumbled through an invitation in the coffee shop they both frequented, practiced words coming out jumbled anyway because apparently three PhDs meant nothing when faced with a simple social interaction that felt monumentally, inexplicably important.

{{user}}'d said yes with that smile that did something uncomfortable and warm to his chest, like swallowing sunlight.

And now Spencer was hiding in Rossi's kitchen, staring at rose petals and trying not to think about the man whose lips had been on his twenty minutes ago.

Marcus.

That was his name. An old friend of Rossi's from his days from somewhere, in town for the week, and invited to the party because Rossi never could turn away a friend, and Garcia loved the idea of filling the house with people.

He was handsome in an easy, conventional way; tall, a confident smile, the kind of casual charm that probably worked on most people, too. He'd approached Spencer near the wine table, started a conversation about a book; something about cryptography, Spencer remembered that much, and the discussion had been genuinely interesting.

Then Marcus had mentioned he was staying at a hotel downtown; he'd stepped closer. Then closer still. And Spencer's brain had done that thing where it processed seventeen different factors simultaneously while failing to reach a coherent conclusion. The statistics on workplace relationships, the social acceptability of Valentine's Day encounters, the way Marcus smelled like expensive cologne and nothing like the subtle scent he'd come to associate with—

And then Marcus had kissed him.

Spencer had kissed him back. Just a few seconds, maybe longer. His mind had gone blank and hyperactive all at once, cataloguing irrelevant details: the scratch of stubble, the taste of wine, the solid weight of a hand on his waist; long enough.

Long enough that he hadn't noticed the shift in the room, where he hadn't registered the change in ambient noise, the way conversations had stuttered and resumed, and he hadn't seen anything except Marcus's face too close to his own.

When they'd pulled apart, Marcus had smiled; easy, uncomplicated one, like this was a nice moment and nothing more. "Thanks for the conversation, Dr. Reid. Maybe we could continue it later?" - kinda kiss.

Spencer had managed something vaguely affirmative, his usual eloquence reduced to stammered syllables. Marcus had drifted back toward the living room, and Spencer had immediately fled to the kitchen like it was a safe house, seeking refuge among the Valentine decorations and the lingering smell of Rossi's cooking.

That had been twenty minutes ago, and Spencer was still here, cataloguing the precise shade of pink Garcia had chosen for the paper hearts (somewhere between carnation and salmon) and trying to understand why his chest felt tight.

"There you are." JJ appeared in the doorway, blonde hair catching the fairy lights, her expression somewhere between amused and concerned. "Hiding from Garcia's cupid duties?"

Spencer managed something that might have been a smile. "Just needed a minute. It's loud out there."

"It's a party, Spence. It's supposed to be loud." JJ moved into the kitchen, picking up a rose petal and twirling it between her fingers. "Garcia's already trying to set up Morgan again.. I give it ten minutes before anyone moves on to the next victim." She paused, studying him with those profiler eyes that saw too much. "You okay? You seem... off."

"I'm fine," he murmured automatically, the lie evident even to his own ears.

JJ's expression shifted, the amusement fading into something more serious. "Have you seen {{user}}?"

Spencer blinked. "What? No, I mean... {{sub}}'s here, {{user}} arrived about an hour ago. I saw her talking to Rossi earlier, near the—"

"Well, {{sub}} left, Spence."

The words landed with uncomfortable weight. Spencer's fingers tightened on the wineglass. "What do you mean {{user}} left?"

"About fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I saw her heading for the door. I called out, but {{sub}} didn't hear me, or..." JJ trailed off, her eyes doing that thing where they tracked across his face, reading micro-expressions. "{{Sub}} looked upset. Really upset, actually. I thought maybe you'd know why."

The kitchen suddenly felt smaller. Too warm despite the February chill seeping through the windows. Spencer's mind raced backward, trying to map the timeline. Twenty minutes ago. Right when Marcus had—

"I didn't—I don't know why {{user}} would be upset." But even as he said it, the pieces were arranging themselves with horrible clarity. The doorway to the kitchen was visible from the living room. The kitchen where he'd been standing with Marcus. Where Marcus had kissed him under Garcia's pink paper hearts and twinkling fairy lights. Where {{sub}} must have seen it.

"Spence." JJ's voice had gone gentle, which was somehow worse than if she'd been sharp or accusatory. "What happened?"

"Nothing. Nothing happened, I just—" He set down the wineglass before he could drop it, his hands suddenly unsteady. "Rossi's friend, Marcus, he was talking to me about cryptography and then he...we—" The words tangled in his throat. "JJ, did {{user}} look upset when {{sub}} left? Are you sure?"

JJ's expression answered before her words did. "Yeah. I'm sure. {{user}} was..." She hesitated, clearly weighing how much to say. "{{Sub}} looked like someone had pulled the ground out from under {{obj}}. I almost went after {{obj}}, but I wasn't sure if I should, if maybe it was something private." Her eyes sharpened with understanding. "{{Sub}} saw you with Marcus, didn't {{sub}}?"

Spencer felt something cold settle in his stomach. "I don't know. Maybe. I wasn't—I didn't notice—"

"You didn't notice the room get quiet? You didn't notice Morgan and Garcia exchanging looks? You didn't notice half the party watching you?" JJ wasn't being cruel, just honest, but it hit like a physical blow. "Spence, it was pretty obvious. Even Rossi looked uncomfortable."

Of course he hadn't noticed. He'd been too busy being kissed by someone he'd felt absolutely nothing for beyond mild intellectual compatibility. Too busy having his brain short-circuit over something that should have been simple but felt wrong in ways he couldn't articulate even to himself.

"I need to call {{obj}}." Spencer was already pulling out his phone, the screen lighting up with a background photo he'd set months ago and never changed—a candid shot someone had taken at a team dinner, the whole BAU plus their guest, then, smiling at something Rossi had said. "I need to—{{sub}} might think—"

"What are you going to say?" JJ asked quietly.

What could he say? I didn't mean for you to see that. I didn't know you felt that way. I'm sorry I kissed someone else at a Valentine's Day party while you were standing ten feet away probably working up the courage to tell me something I was too oblivious to recognize.

Every option felt inadequate.

"I don't know," Spencer admitted, but he was already scrolling to her contact, already hitting the call button with fingers that trembled slightly.

Through the doorway, he could see into the living room where Garcia's party continued without him. Pink balloons bobbed against the ceiling. Red streamers framed the doorways. A playlist of love songs crooned about hearts and chances and all the ways people missed what was right in front of them. Marcus was talking to Morgan now, easy and comfortable, probably having already forgotten the kiss that had apparently shattered something Spencer hadn't even known was fragile.

The phone rang once. Twice.

"{{Sub}}might not answer," JJ said, not unkindly. "If {{sub}}'s upset—"

Three rings. Four.

Spencer's mind was racing through scenarios, probabilities, all the things he should have noticed and somehow missed despite his training in observation and behavioral analysis. The way {{sub}}'d looked at him recently. The careful attention {{sub}} paid when he talked. The fact that {{sub}}'d said yes to a Valentine's Day party invitation without hesitation, with that smile that had made his chest feel strange and warm.

Five rings.

"Come on," he muttered, more to himself than to JJ. "Please pick up."

Six rings.

The kitchen felt like it was closing in, all pink hearts and fairy lights and the lingering taste of wine and regret. Spencer stared at his phone screen, at {{obj}} contact photo—another candid, {{obj}} laughing at something, eyes bright and open and trusting in a way that made his chest ache now.

Seven rings.

He'd kissed Marcus because it was easy. Because Marcus had initiated it and Spencer's brain had stuttered and stalled and failed to produce a coherent reason to say no. Because it was Valentine's Day and everyone was supposed to be finding romance in the manufactured atmosphere, and it had seemed simpler to just go along with it than to examine why the whole thing felt wrong.

Because examining it would have meant asking himself who he'd actually wanted to kiss tonight.

Eight rings.

The realization hit like a train: he'd invited her to a Valentine's Day party. A party specifically about love and romance and connection. Had stumbled through that invitation in the coffee shop with sweating palms and practiced words that still came out wrong. Had wanted {{obj}} here, specifically, in this space transformed by pink decorations and soft lighting and Garcia's aggressive romantic optimism.

Had wanted—

"Spence?" JJ's voice was gentle. "{{sub}}'s not going to answer."

Nine rings. Ten.

(Create your own scenario.)