Chapter Text
Monday, September 4th, 2006:
That stranger was staring at him again.
Spencer chewed his lip nervously, trying to angle his body so he could glance over at the man in the corner of the coffeehouse without him seeing. To his dismay, the stranger was still watching him over the rim of his coffee cup, averting his gaze when he realized Spencer was looking back at him.
He’d been staring all last week, as well. Spencer noticed him right off the bat as he walked into his favorite coffeeshop, an establishment in which he had become a permanent fixture. Despite being a profiler and a student of human behaviour, it was impossible not to notice the man who kept staring at him: he was tall. Intimidatingly so. He had to be at least six-foot-five, though Spencer had only seen him standing a handful of times. Most mornings he was already seated with his coffee by the time Spencer walked in, lounging in one of the over-stuffed armchairs along the back wall of the Red Brick Coffeehouse.
He had a commanding presence about him, even though Spencer never heard him speak. He seemed important in his passivity, in the way he sat and sipped his coffee, but oddly enough he didn’t seem aware of it. His posture, with his slouched shoulders and his downturned chin, showed nothing but an intrinsic subservience, a lack of self confidence and a desire to blend in that seemed strange, coming from a man his size and build. He looked as though he should be at the top of his field, whatever it was he did for a living, and that he should be proud to be so, but instead, he acted a little lost… a little tentative, like he needed guidance.
He was definitely an enigma, and would be intriguing if his constant staring wasn’t so damn frustrating.
Spencer had a routine. He stopped by this coffeeshop every morning on his way to work, despite the fact it’s fifteen-minutes out of his way, because they have, to his palate at least, the best coffee in DC. Every weekday for the past year he’d walk through their double doors at six a.m. sharp, still groggily shaking the haze of sleep from his brain and desperate for his caffeine fix. He didn’t even need to order anymore: his triple shot americano with two pumps vanilla and lactose free milk was always waiting for him when he stumbled his way to the counter.
There was always a line at the cash, however, so as he waited to pay, he usually pulled out a book. No matter what he’s reading, he could get through at least a dozen or so pages while waiting for the woman behind the counter (a sweet old lady, but dreadfully slow; most likely attributed to the advanced arthritis in her knuckles) struggled to count out change. He’d read for a bit, pay for his coffee and leave, just in time to catch the six-thirty train if he walked quickly.
That’s how his mornings went, every weekday.
It has been his routine since he started at the BAU, and he’d grown quite fond of it.
So, he didn’t take kindly to this creepy giant mucking it up.
Maybe it wouldn’t come off as such a big deal if this guy didn’t seem like a total jerk. Besides being tall, he was muscular, dressed in sweats and a tee-shirt most days and seemingly stopping in for a coffee after his morning run, so Spencer just automatically assumed he was some jock asshole.
And he didn’t just stare; he’d only do so when he thought Spencer wasn’t paying attention, and the second Spencer would glance up from his book, the stranger would look away. It all seemed a little too familiar for his liking, hearkening back to Spencer’s horrid high-school memories of walking into the cafeteria to a sea of giggles and harsh whispers, only to have them cut out and everyone avert their gaze when he tried to make eye contact.
And this marked the third weekday morning he’s seen this guy here. Spencer frowned as he paid for his coffee, shoving his well-loved copy of Blood Meridian back into his bag and casting once last damning glare over at the stranger in the corner. Hopefully, with any luck, this would be the last time he’d have to see him there.
Friday, September 8th, 2006:
Four days.
Every morning for the past four days that jerk had been in Spencer's coffee shop, and every morning, he’d been eyeballing him.
He spotted the man sitting in his usual chair, long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle, his stupid eyebrows furrowed in stupid concentration as he read his stupid book. Spencer grabbed his coffee with a little more ferocity than necessary, murmuring a thank you to Lisa as he took his place in line, but try as he might he couldn’t tear his gaze from the infuriating stranger, who was flipping through the pages of his book at breakneck speed.
This was the first time Spencer had seen him read anything, and though it wasn’t odd to see people reading books in coffee shops (Spencer did so every morning), it was strange that he was reading Blood Meridian. It was one of Cormac McCarthy’s most difficult novels, an entirely strenuous book that would not prove enjoyable for the casual reader, but beyond that, it was the same novel that Spencer had been reading on Monday. He’d finished it that same day, sometime between arriving at the office and the end of his lunch break, and he clearly remembered reading it in the café that morning, as well.
Pulling Simulacra and Simulation from his bag, Spencer sipped at his coffee, glancing angrily up from the pages towards the strange man when he felt the heat of his gaze fall on him again. The instant Spencer looked up, the stranger looked down, a flush stealing across his cheeks, and the ire in Spencer’s stomach burned hot when he noticed how quickly the man was flipping through his own impossibly difficult novel.
There was no way he could actually read that fast, Spencer decided with an irritable huff. He’d pegged him as some asshole jock the first day he saw him, and based on his attitude, the staring and now his choice of literature, Spencer was certain he was correct in his initial assumption. Somethings never change, apparently: he’d been out of high-school since he was twelve, but once again he found himself tormented and teased by some jerk he didn’t even know, somewhere he was supposed to feel at ease. It was illogical, maybe even a little self-centered, but Spencer was certain this guy was trying to fuck with him.
As he paid for his coffee, Spencer made sure to showcase the cover of the philosophical treatise he had been attempting to read, taking his time slipping it back in his bag. If this guy wanted to stalk him through books in an attempt to get under his skin, so be it. He’d have a hell of a time finding a copy of Jean Baudrillard’s work in English, much less pretending to understand it.
Monday, September 11th, 2006:
That jerk.
Spencer hovered in the doorway to the café, struck dumb and unmoving until the patron behind him shooed him out of the way.
Apparently, Tall Guy likes Postmodern philosophy.
Apparently, he likes it so much he has no problem devouring it, spending less than a minute or two per page, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed in concentration as his coffee sat forgotten on the small table beside him.
How, Spencer wondered as he got in line, not even bothering to hide the fact he was staring, did this guy manage to find a translation and get three quarters of the way through it in one day? He paid Lori without looking at her, muttering a thank you.
Who was this guy?
Storming out of the café, Spencer let the door slam shut behind him, already formulating a plan of attack in his head. If that’s how Tall guy wanted to do this, then fine, Spencer could play along. But he clearly didn’t know who he was messing with.
Tuesday, September 12th, 2006:
Tall Guy seemed thrown for a loop when Spencer pulled out Engineering and the Mind's Eye the next day.
Feeling smug, like he’d finally bested him, Spencer decided to spend a little extra time in the café that morning, sitting at a nearby table and reading leisurely.
He was almost certain that, come tomorrow, his kind-of, sort-of stalker wouldn’t be bothering him anymore.
Wednesday, September 13th, 2006:
Or not.
Tall Guy was reading the same book Spencer was yesterday and, much to his chagrin, he seemed genuinely interested in it.
He was a remarkably fast reader, too. Judging by his posture, the way his eyes were moving across the page and the rhythmic tapping of his foot, this guy wasn’t just pretending to read, or skimming through. He understood it, and was completely engrossed, so much so that when a woman bumped into the table his coffee was resting on, he didn’t react. He didn’t even move. And he hadn’t looked up from his book once, not even to stare at Spencer, as he was often inclined to do.
How was this guy keeping up with him, if he was actually reading the books? Spencer’s taste in literature was varied and difficult. He liked a challenge for the most part, and only read pulpy throw away novels when he needed some downtime, when his brain was circling the drain. And yet, here was this random man, whom Spencer had just assumed was some dumb jerk, managing to match his pace and read the same books as him.
He couldn’t even be mad anymore.
Now he was curious.
Spencer made a show of grabbing his coffee, thanking Lisa loudly so Tall Guy would look up at him, before pulling out a book of his own from his bag. This time around, he’d grabbed an old favorite from his bookshelf for the sole purpose of trying to stump this guy, should he still be insisting on copying his book selections:
L'Être et le néant: Essai d'ontologie phénoménologique.
For once, Spencer couldn’t wait until the next morning.
Thursday, September 14th, 2006:
Tall Guy reads French.
Fascinating.
The shoe was on the other foot now, Spencer mused, staring at the other man. He was sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, and Spencer watched intently the way his hazel eyes flitted across the page, listening to the steady tap of his heel on the wooden floor.
Suddenly, the man looked up from his book and their eyes locked, the stranger catching him staring for once, if only momentarily. Spencer dropped his gaze, looking back at the book he held open in one hand, some pulpy piece of science fiction, though he couldn’t concentrate long enough to read a single word.
Spencer left the shop that day completely flummoxed, actively ignoring the spark of electricity that ricocheted through him when their eyes met over their respective books, as well as the churning feeling in his stomach that only made itself known the second the strange man had hit him with that shy little smile.
He had enough to worry about already.
Saturday, September 16th, 2006:
“What’s wrong with you?”
Spencer looked up at JJ with a start. She'd caught him red handed, brooding on their flight from Quantico to Ozona, Texas. While the rest of the team was bemoaning the loss of their weekend, Spencer was mentally sifting through the toughest books he owned, in every language he understood, in an attempt to come up with something that would finally stump his mystery man. He must have seemed particularly gloomy, if JJ felt she needed to check on him.
He appreciated the concern, but he had no idea how to begin explaining what his problem was. The whole situation was absurd, and add to it the fact that he just discovered he was definitely attracted to his maybe-kind-of stalker, and she would think he was absolutely nuts. “Nothing,” he settled on, giving her what he hoped was a convincing enough smile to get her to accept his explanation, and move on.
It wasn’t.
She sat down across from him with a sigh, and leaning over the table, told him, “You’ve been weird all week. Spill it.”
He felt like a child again, telling on his school-yard bullies to their teacher, and Spencer sunk down into his seat as he murmured, “It’s just this guy. He's been there every morning, at the coffee shop I like to go to…”
To her credit, she listened to the whole story with an air of sincerity, nodding along and trying to empathize. But the second he was done, wrapping up with an emphatic declaration that this guy “even reads French!” she finally cracked a smile.
“Why don’t you just go to another café if he's bothering you so much?” she asked.
Spencer pulled a face. “I’ve been going there every day since I’ve lived in DC,” he said, “and if this guy thinks he can just show up and creep me out to the point of me taking my business elsewhere, he’s sorely mistaken.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he said with a huff, “I got there first.”
“Well, I haven’t seen him, so I can’t say for sure,” JJ said, trying and failing to keep her amusement in check, “but it sounds to me like he’s not trying to creep you out.”
“What is it then?” Spencer asked.
“It sounds like he might have a crush on you,” she said, shrugging her shoulders when he looked at her dubiously, “Granted, he’s picked a really uncomfortable way of showing it, but maybe he’s just really shy?”
Spencer shook his head. There was no way, absolutely no way that anyone could be so socially inept that they’d think book-stalking is the best way to go about meeting someone. Normally he wasn’t one to talk about social aptitude, but even he knew that there were better ways to start a dialogue with someone that wouldn’t outright scare them away, or piss them off.
And he didn’t even want to touch on the thrill of excitement he felt at JJ’s conclusion. The mere thought that someone who looked like this mystery guy, who enjoyed technical books and classics alike, and who could keep pace with Spencer while reading philosophical treatise in its original French, would be interested in him, sent his heart fluttering in his chest.
“Either way,” JJ said, interrupting his thought spiral before it could get out of control, “You should at least talk to him. If it turns out he really is a creep, then you can tell him off, but you have to do something, or else you’re gonna be stuck looking for a different coffee shop.”
“No way,” he said, “they have the best coffee in the city.”
She quirked her brow, and Spencer sighed.
“You’re right,” he admitted, “I’ll talk to him when we get back.”
“Good,” she said. Patting his knee and seemingly satisfied, JJ sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, telling him to, “Rest up, Spence. It’s gonna be a long weekend.”
Monday, September 18th, 2006:
He tried.
He really did.
Spencer walked into the Red Brick Café on Monday morning with a sense of purpose, knowing that he had a plan and he would be putting an end to this nonsense that'd been plaguing him for weeks. But when he arrived to see Tall Guy flying through Absalom! Absalom! like it was nothing, like it wasn’t one of the most brilliantly difficult pieces of Americana ever written, he completely lost his nerve.
He wasn’t dressed in sweats this time either. No, instead he was wearing a red plaid button up on top of jeans, his longish brown hair curling around his ears where he’d pushed it back, just skirting the top of his collar. His sleeves were rolled up his muscular forearms, and tapered into wide, strong hands… he had really nice hands—
Spencer shook his head fitfully, rushing up to the counter and grabbing his coffee before he got caught checking out this guys arms like a creep.
It was nearly seven, and since they worked straight through the weekend on the case in Texas, Hotch had generously granted them the day off. With nowhere else to go, and nothing pertinent to do, Spencer snagged a seat by the front window, ensuring his back was facing the handsome stranger, lest he found himself inadvertently staring again. He settled in, letting the cozy warmth of the nearby fireplace, the exposed brick walls and natural lighting lull him into a sense of security, allowing him to relax and really get into what he was reading that hour. He was just wrapping up the first half, when he was startled back to reality by someone clearing their throat, right beside him.
Setting the book down on the table, bracing for the worst, Spencer glanced over his shoulder, his stomach dropping when he found the tall stranger standing over him, smiling shyly.
What the hell was he doing?!
This wasn’t part of his regular set of behaviours, and Spencer certainly wasn’t expecting him to ever approach him like this. He sat speechless, staring and unable to even ask what this guy wanted, when the strange man gestured to the empty seat at Spencer’s table and asked, “Do you mind?”
“Not at all,” Spencer replied without thinking, and to his complete surprise.
Maybe he was thrown off by the deep timbre of the man’s voice, or the way he kept nervously chewing on his lower lip, but Spencer was suddenly robbed of all higher brain function. He barely managed to keep his mouth shut and not hanging agape as the stranger climbed into the seat next to his.
“I have to apologize,” the strange man said, leaning on his forearms on the table and curling his fingers together, “I realize you must think I’m a total freak, and I meant to talk to you sooner, really, I did, but you never stay longer than it takes to buy a coffee and you always look like you’re headed somewhere in a hurry. I didn’t want to bother you, but I’m starting to think that what I’ve been doing is bothering you more than just talking to you would, so—” he finally took a breath, and said sincerely, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Spencer stammered, struggling to get his voice above a whisper and reminding himself to blink.
“Well, good. Thanks I guess, I'm glad,” the stranger chuckled and shook his head, his brow furrowing in askance, “But, and again I'm sorry, but I really need to ask... can you actually read that fast?”
The question took Spencer by surprise, and on top of the already unsettling situation, he found his words had fled him, and all he could do was nod dumbly.
That was enough, it seemed. The strange man laughed outright, seemingly pleased with himself as he said, “That’s amazing! You know, I’ve always been a fast reader myself, but I’ve been having such a hard time keeping up with you, and I just had to know if you could actually whip through books like its nothing, or if you were just messing with me.”
“I know that I must have been annoying you these past few weeks,” he continued on, even as Spencer tried desperately to snap himself out of this silly little daze he found himself in, where all he could notice were how broad this man’s shoulders were, the golden flecks in his bright, hazel eyes and his gorgeous smile, “but once I noticed how quickly you were reading, and the huge range of books, it was like I couldn’t un-see it.” He smiled wider still, if that were even possible, his cheeks dimpling, “I’ll admit, I’ve been more than a little fascinated by what must be going on in your head, and I was wondering if I could maybe join you? I’ve never read Sartre before, and I would love the chance to go over some of his expressions of existentialism.”
Spencer coughed into his fist, and looked around the coffee shop, checking to see if any of the other patrons noticed what was going on. This had to be some kind of a hoax, someone else had to be in on it, but there was no one. No one else was looking at them, and when he turned back to the strange man, his breath caught in his throat as he stammered in reply.
This had never happened to him before, not in his adult life. He’d never been at a loss for words, but there he was, sitting in front of a sweet, intelligent Adonis who was asking to debate philosophy with him, without a single thing to say.
Before he could make a total ass out of himself, Spencer was saved by the chiming of his cell phone, and he fumbled through his bag, taking his eyes off this handsome stranger to focus on the task at hand. Flipping it open, he saw it was a text from JJ, apologizing for having to interrupt their day off and saying they have a case that requires the full team, immediately.
“I-I’m sorry,” Spencer said, awkwardly rising from his seat, stuffing his book into his bag and grabbing his coffee, all while avoiding eye contact with the strange man, “it’s work, I have to go. It was…” He looked up, attempting a smile that turned out more of a grimace, “it was nice meeting you.”
Looking back, he’d like to say he exited the shop with a little more decorum than he did, but he couldn’t kid himself.
He basically ran out of the café.
Wednesday, September 20th, 2006:
In a total break from the norm, Spencer walked into the Red Brick Café at around midnight on a Wednesday, burnt out from their case in North Mammon, and desperate for a caffeine fix. He had a mountain of paperwork cinched under his arm, and more still stuffed in his messenger bag, the mere thought of which was enough to make him long for his bed, but also meant there was no way in hell he could go home. He knew from experience that when he was this tired, when they’d had this many cases in such quick succession, that if he was anywhere in his house, be it his couch or the kitchen table, he’d find a way to fall asleep, and there was no way he could leave this paperwork any longer. It needed to get done that night.
He must look rough, he thought to himself, as Lisa gave him a pitying smile, pouring him an extra-large mug of coffee and telling him it was on the house. He hadn’t gotten more than a few hours sleep since Sunday night, and he was still wearing yesterdays clothes, his other outfit dirty and crumpled in his go-bag. He desperately needed a shower and a good-nights sleep, but knowing that wasn’t in the cards for him, he graciously accepted the free coffee and turned around, looking for a place to sit. It was then, scanning the mostly empty coffee shop for somewhere comfortable, but not too comfortable, that he noticed a familiar face.
His book-stalker was there too.
Spencer had only ever seen him there in the mornings, either in street clothes or sweats, and while he wondered on more than one occasion what this man did for a living, he never once managed to come to a logical conclusion. At first, he might have thought it was something menial, or that he was a business man of some kind. He couldn't ever decide though, as he didn't have enough data to go on. But never in his wildest imaginings had Spencer ever considered this:
Tall Guy was a doctor.
His familiar, broad form was hunched over one of the tables, with patients charts and medial journals spread out across from him in every direction. They were stacked on top of one another, piled in different states of disarray, and he was pouring over them intently, looking exceedingly frazzled. Wearing blue hospital scrubs under a brown hoodie, he held his head in his hands, both to push his hair back and presumably keep his head from falling on the table.
He looked about as tired and dead to the world as Spencer felt.
Frowning, Spencer bit his lip and craned his neck just a little, managing to catch the heading of the nearest journal, open to a chapter on metabolic disorders. He thought that maybe he was struggling with a diagnosis, and a sudden jolt of guilt took Spencer by surprise.
JJ was right; he had made a lot of unfair assumptions about this guy.
He didn’t know what possessed him to go over there, but whether he actively decided to or not, it clearly didn’t matter. Spencer’s feet moved of their own accord, and before he knew it, he had sidled up to Tall Guy’s table, setting his coffee down on an empty space and clearing his throat, much like the other man had done on Monday.
Tall Guy looked up, startled back to the present, and immediately opened his mouth to speak, when Spencer, somehow finding his words, interjected. “I’m sorry for running off on Monday,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically loud in the nearly empty coffee shop, “and for the way I was acting. I’m not used to people noticing me, and I’m a little too used to people trying to get under my skin, so when you started copying what I was reading, I just assumed you were being a jerk. It was unfair, and I’m sorry.”
“Please,” Tall Guy said, gesturing for Spencer to take a seat, hurriedly trying to clear up the mess on the table and give him some room, “Like I said, I should be the one apologizing. I thought I might be bothering you, but I couldn’t stop once I started, and I really should have spoken to you sooner.” He attempted a smile, still bright and captivating despite his dull, tired eyes, “I didn’t mean to freak you out, I was just fascinated and I didn’t know what to do about it. I’m not the most adept at meeting new people.”
Spencer nodded silently, taking a seat beside him and sipping his coffee, so exhausted he barely had the wherewithal to be anxious.
The handsome stranger smiled a little wider, and held out his hand, “Shall we start over?” He watched Spencer intently, his hand hovering between them, and it wasn’t until Spencer took his offer and shook his hand that he relaxed completely, introducing himself as, “Doctor Sam Campbell.”
“Doctor Spencer Reid,” he replied.
Sam’s eyes lit up, “Oh, are you one of the new intern's?”
“Not that kind of doctor,” Spencer corrected with a smile, “PhD’s; three of them.”
“Wow,” Sam said, and Spencer nodded knowingly, having received that reaction on numerous occasions. “And what do you do with three PhD’s, Doctor Reid?”
“I’m a profiler with the Behavioural Analysis Unit,” he said, “In the—”
“FBI, yeah,” Sam huffed incredulously, his books forgotten for the moment, “So then, our jobs aren’t too dissimilar after all. We both try to help people.”
“I suppose so,” Spencer said over his cup of coffee, and as his curiosity got the better of him, he pointed down to the mess of books and folders in front of Sam, and asked, “What are you doing here so late?”
Sam’s shrugged, his eyebrows pinching together as he looked down, having forgotten they were there for a moment. “I got decimated in rounds today, and I need to step it up for tomorrow,” he sighed, shuffling his papers around, “Something about metabolic disorders… I just can’t seem to grasp it. I can study for hours, but the instant Doctor MacLeod starts asking about polyuria and nephropathy, my mind just goes blank.”
“Do you need some help?” Spencer asked immediately, sitting up in his chair, suddenly a lot less tired at the prospect of helping someone study, “I know I’m not that kind of doctor, but I have a personal interest in inherited genetic conditions. I find them fascinating.”
Sam raised a brow, “You study metabolic diseases for fun?”
“Mostly multifactorial inheritance disorders, but I’ve spent some time researching chromosome and monogenetic disorders.” Spencer sidled his chair a little closer, “I’d be happy to help, unless I’d be bothering you?”
Chuckling, Sam shook his head in disbelief, shoving one of the books over towards Spencer. “Honestly, I would welcome it,” he said, “I’ve been at this for hours, and a fresh set of eyes might be exactly what I need.” He smiled, watching intently as Spencer dug into the medical journal, flipping pages at breakneck speed, “Where did you even come from?”
“Las Vegas."
“You know what I mean."
“I’m a genius with an eidetic memory and I read exceptionally fast,” Spencer answered, tapping the folders in front of Sam authoritatively, “And while I have no problem helping you, I’m not doing your work for you, so you better start focusing more on your studies, and less on me, or else I’m just going to read this journal for my own benefit.”
“If you want to read the Journal of—” Sam laughed, tilting the book upwards so he could read the cover and smiling when Spencer shoved it back down, “Endocrine and Metabolic Disorders for shits and giggles, I’d be more than happy to let you.” Despite that, he turned back to his folders, sorting through them and trying to make some sense of the disordered mess, “But I appreciate the help, Doctor.”
“You can just call me Spencer,” he said softly, smiling though not looking up from the pages of the journal.
“Thank you, Spencer.”
“You’re welcome, Sam.”