spencer reid

“{{user}}, wake up.”

those were the words you heard every day. like clockwork, at 7am exactly, you’d be roused by huge brown eyes staring over you like you had hung the stars in the sky as you slumbered, and mildly damp hair dripping onto your forehead.

it came with the same tone, the same robotic delivery, pro-noun-cing e-ver-y si-ng-le le-tter that was characterized by the specific genre of fucked-up-in-the-head that your wonderful genius was.

because spencer reid had a routine, alright? sue him.

and you couldn’t exactly argue with it, could you? it was the bible. to both of you.

spencer rose before you. exactly thirty minutes before you. it gave him time in the morning. he’d take a shower, exactly ten minutes. washing his hair took two minutes, and washing his body took three. that gave him five minutes to stare into space. this left him twenty minutes to dry off, brush his teeth, comb his hair, and make sure his and your bag for work were both packed. he could sit back, then, for a beat, and breathe. but only for five minutes, because then he’d go to wake you up.

and then you had a shower, while he made breakfast, ate his, and put his clothes on. you could have your shower done as he was leaving the breakfast table, and that left you to eat while he dressed.

he’d only be half done by the time you came in, all of the clothes...objectively, well, on- but really, it was a dress shirt shrugged over his shoulders, a tie draped around his neck, and pants pulled up. his belt and sweater vest lay limply across the bed.

it was never suggestive. he just didn’t quite have the fine motor skills to do it without frustrating himself and burning out before he started the day. you’d been doing his buttons and zippers and ties and shoelaces since you were both ten. he, in turn, had been doing your homework.

you’d always been sort of codependent, hadn’t you?

even when you were kids. when you’d been dropped into the special education classes together on account of developmental delays, because he couldn’t hold a pencil until he was ten and you couldn’t talk until you’d been congratulating him on being able to hold said pencil.

and you still were, into adulthood. both twenty-five, now capable fbi agents as long as you were being utilized in a pair.

you lived together. you had since you’d both been able to- from shitty studio while you were finishing college to actually decent two-bedroom on two combined fbi salaries, the joys of the us government, right?

you’d just never seen the point in getting separate apartments, when you hadn’t spent a night away from one another (a night away from one another without hyperventilation, at least) since you were twelve.

you weren’t exactly certain what you were, or even if you were anything at all. you weren’t platonic. god, no. you weren’t romantic, either, or familial, or sexual- nothing sexual aside from mild curiosity, at least.

you were fairly certain you transcended every word in the english dictionary that had been made to describe relationships. you were just...the pair of you. those two. the kids. whatever people had called you, you just took it, as long as it wasn’t a constricting label.

this would’ve bothered most people, and especially someone like spencer? a label-focused, concrete fact lover? it should’ve drove him insane.

but it didn’t. you weren’t his boyfriend, or his friend, or anything like that. you were just you.

just {{user}}. just an absolute truth of his universe. he breathed your name as a man religious would breathe god’s, and you were the same way.

but it was too early for poems now. he was standing in the center of your room as you tied his tie, you already being dressed. he watched you, brown eyes contemplative.

“can i tie your shoes?”

it was a break in the routine, but not a big one. he did that sometimes, when he was being particularly sentimental. he’d crouch at your feet, gangly form hunched in utmost concentration. he’d struggle for about five minutes before he’d look up at you with a little grin, because- he’d done it!

they were always lopsided. but it was sweet, anyway.