Fit for Purpose

Summary: You’re helping your boyfriend prepare for his annual fit test, but you may have an ulterior motive. Unsurprisingly, your genius boyfriend has figured you out.

A/N: it’s been such a while! I’ve been so snowed under with work recently but I desperately wanted to post something today! I hope this is okay, please let me know what you think!

MasterlistIRequests

The morning was filled with a fresh breeze, the wonderfully warming sunshine, and the increasingly distant panting of your boyfriend.

When the uneven, if still repetitive, noise of his struggle faded into obscurity beneath the subtle sound of wind rustling between the trees, you stopped your light jog. With a puff of air, you briefly raised your face to the sun before turning back to face Spencer.

“You okay back there?”

He didn’t reply, not that he seemed able to between his heaving breaths, but he gradually reached you. His lips parted as though to speak but all that managed to leave him was another struggled heave of breath as he collapsed forwards. Bent at the hips, hands on his knees, he very slowly caught his breath.

Wryly, you smiled down at him and raised a hand to rub his back. When he had regained at least some of himself you offered some water. He took the offered drink gratefully before heaving another breath and asking with a dramatic groan, “how much further?”

Twisting your lips, you decided to go easy on him. “We were gonna go another mile that way, but… we can head back now?” He nodded eagerly, eyes screwed shut in struggle, but made no move to follow your suggestion. “You need a minute?”

“Yeah,” he told you - almost deflating in relief, “yes, oh god.”

You tried not to giggle as he complained, gesturing instead for him to take a seat on a nearby park bench. Heavily he sat down, head falling back as his body all but went limp. You perched beside him, feet perching on the wood and knees hugging into your chest. Watching him, you couldn’t help but feel a little guilty.

Itwas true that the fit tests could no longer be waived away, new policies coming in and demanding protocol be followed, but it was a slight exaggeration that Spencer had to work this hard to train to run a mile. You had every confidence that a week and a half would have been enough time to train him up to the distance and the time. However, you had a vested interest in him doing exceptionallywell.

Somehow, it had fallen that both Spencer’s and Garcia’s fit tests fell at the exact same time; a coincidence that you and Morgan had more than taken advantage of. You would do your best to train Spencer, Morgan would do his best to train Garcia, and whichever of them managed the fastest time were the winner. What did they win? Nothing. What would you win if Spencer was quicker than Garcia? A hundred bucks. It was a friendly competition and nothing more, except neither Spencer nor Garcia were actually aware of the arrangement.

In an effort to assuage your guilt over the whole clandestine affair, you spent your winnings on Spencer without fail. After all, he had earned the money and, truthfully, three straight years of Morgan’s abject confusion and frustration at how fast you could make Spencer run was prize enough.

Spencer’s breaths were beginning to slow beside you and so you turned to watch him. “It must be getting easier?” You asked lightly when he seemed coherent enough to respond.

Finally regaining the ability to speak in full sentences, he looked to you as he shook his head. “You would think so.” You expected him to say something else alongside that; some long-winded list of statistics regarding stamina, cardiovascular fitness, or whatever else, but he remained silent.

Concern filled you; Spencer had a lot to say, you didn’t like it when he was quiet. Lightly, you bumped shoulders with him, “you okay? You’re… kinda quiet.”

All of a sudden, he looked incredibly bashful. His head dropped, hair falling around him as though to hide from your view, and he shook his head. The red flush creeping up his neck made you smile. “What?” You pushed, affectionately soothing a hand through his hair.

When you had first ventured on this relationship Spencer likely would have kept his eyes down and struggled through an explanation. Now with the familiar comfort of you beside him, he lifted his gaze to yours, and smirked through his reply; “I was thinking about how much fun our mornings used to be.”

A light blush dusting your cheeks at the suggestive memories he was referring to, you smiled. Teasing lightly, you told him, “that counts as exercise too you know.”

The laugh he gave shook his shoulders even as he verbally disagreed; “well, actually,” you rested your head upon his shoulder, eyes caught on a small bird darting through swaying branches, “on average a man’s heart rate barely rises above one-thirty during sexual intercourse,” you hummed a small noise of interest, “so, really it can only be classified as light to moderate exercise.”

With a sigh, you lifted your head. “That’s a shame.” After a moment of pondering, you turned to him with a creased brow, “is that true even when it’s particularly,” your fingers walked up his thigh as you waggled your brows, “vigorous?”

You felt a surge of delicious victory as he shifted in place and his hand came to grip yours, preventing your fingers from travelling higher. “Even then, unfortunately.”

With a groan, you rose to your feet and pulled an unenthusiastic Spencer up beside you. “One more week, sweetheart.” You reassured, pulling him softly into an easy jog beside you, “then we can have our mornings back.“

He nodded with a sigh and a smile, excitement shining in his eyes, but made no response as his breath was already beginning to struggle from him.

———————————————————————

Getting back to your shared apartment you had quickly excused yourself to jump in the shower. You assumed, by the tiredness pulling at his every movement alongside the way he all but collapsed onto the sofa, that Spencer needed a minute to recuperate anyway.

Now, feeling freshened and squeaky clean, you emerged with a soft towel wrapped around you. Spencer had managed to extract himself from the sofa in the time you had taken, now laying sprawled on the bed looking almost asleep. Giggling at the sight of him, you moved to him and trailed light fingers through his hair. You smiled as he cracked open an eye to watch you.

As he returned the gesture with a smile of his own, a hand tugging playfully at your towel, he looked thoughtful for a moment before he murmured a defunct question at you. “You know I’m a genius, right?”

Eyebrows creasing, taken by surprise, you stuttered out an amused scoff. “How could I forget?”

With a groan of effort he sat upright, looking up at you as his hands lightly skittered over your hips. “For the past three years,” he began, thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the cotton towel, “after every fitness test, you have bought me a present.”

Getting tongue tied, unsure where he was going with this but intent on playing it cool, you shrugged. “Well…” you struggled immediately, “I- you deserve a treat after… all that effort.”

“All the gifts have cost a hundred dollars,” you didn’t say anything, so he specified, “exactly a hundred.” Hands upon his shoulders, you steadied yourself.

“Erm…” was all you could think to give. You felt a little settled by the fact that he was still smiling up at you and still delicately massaging circles into your skin.

“Is that a coincidence?”

You bit your lip, looking at him through your lashes in a sudden burst of embarrassment. “…no…” you admitted with a grimace.

A laugh escaped him, “I knew it.”

Puzzled, expecting him to be at least a little agitated by you treating him like a horse to bet on, you couldn’t help but quietly query. “You’re not mad?”

Pulling you lightly, settling you on his lap with your thighs spread around him as your towel struggled to retain your dignity, he shook his head. “Well, I have to pass this test anyway,” his voice had dropped an octave, his finger tracing the path of a water droplet over the curve of your collarbone, “this way we both win.”

A low hum, almost a purr, escaped you and you cocked your head. Hands clasping behind his neck and eyebrow raised, you asked; “how long have you known?”

Eyes catching yours, even as his hands effortlessly relieved you of your towel, he smirked. Eventually, he gave his vague reply. “A while.”

Rolling your eyes, even as you leaned into the large hands that smoothed over your skin, you rasped out a teasing response. “So mysterious.”

A laugh shook his figure lightly as he pulled your hips closer to his with a commanding hand on your waist, the other hand falling between your thighs.

You gave a whine, eyes closing as you basked in the familiar but still enticing feel of his touch, but an errant thought sent a chuckle past your lips.

An answering laugh of his own framed his next question, “what is it?”

Hands framing his face, you ghosted your lips over his before murmuring your response. “I was thinking we should try to get your heart rate over 130 this time.”

Extra Credit

Summary: Reader visits Spencer at his office and inadvertently discovers that some of his students are interested in more than his seminars.

A/n: Please let me know what you think! Thanks so much for all the follows recently ❤️

MasterlistIRequests

The receptionist had been incredibly helpful, directing you to your destination succinctly and perfectly. You had allowed yourself an extra ten minutes, wanting to be on time but doubting your own ability to navigate an unfamiliar environment. The building, at least the parts of it you saw on your journey to Spencer’s office, was grandiose in a strangely cosy kind of way. Although, you thought distantly, the patter of rain upon thick windows always inspired a cosy feeling.

The corridors were rapidly emptying as you wandered against the flow of quickly exiting students. Wistfully, you remembered these days; rushing from the building on a Friday night to ignore your impending assignments in favour of some disappointing party that ended in you throwing up in your dorm room. And now, here you were all these years later, on a Friday night rushing to meet your husband.

Time really is a funny thing.

Your existential musings paused as you reached his door. The sight of his name on the door made you smile as you tapped your knuckles against the door. Spencer answered quickly. An affection softened his gaze as he recognised you and quickly ushered you inside. Behind the privacy of a closed door you smoothed your hands over his chest and raised precariously onto your tiptoes to peck his lips.

“Hi,” he gave when you dropped down to your heels, his hands lightly placed over the curve of your hips.

“I missed you,” you responded with a smile.

It was true; you had missed him terribly. Now that his presence on a case was not an inevitability that you could count on, you struggled through each day away from him with nothing but his voice on the phone to keep you company. You honestly could not understand how JJ had managed all these years.

Spencer ducked his head to kiss you, confirmation enough that he had missed you too. “How was it?” He asked quietly.

You shrugged with a sigh. He knew as well as you that your cases were never able to be summarised in a selection of light-hearted footnotes. “It was…heavy.”

He nodded his understanding, lips pursing in concern as he sent a sweeping gaze over your figure. “But you’re okay?”

“Yeah,” you told him, because you were; despite the purple-green bruise flowering over your ribs that he could not see beneath your shirt.

The air felt heavy, your reunion weighed down by the still unshared details of this last case. You tried to lighten the mood, change the topic; the case and all it’s paperwork were not going anywhere and would still be awaiting you Monday morning. “Are you not gonna give me a tour, Professor?” You asked, a teasing smile leaving you, as you sent a brief gaze over your surroundings.

Spencer laughed with a nod, stepping back from you as he looked over the space. “Sure,” he prefaced, moving to gesture at his desk. “This is my desk,” he told you, obviously.

Hiding your giggle behind the back of your hand, you moved to the chair tucked behind the desk. With the most puzzled expression you could muster, you pointed to it and asked; “What isthis?”

Lips twisting, he played along. “That is a chair.”

Tutting, you gave the chair a light push and absently watched it spin. “Aren’t you supposed to stand up more at work or something? Sitting is the new smoking, right?”

“Actually,” you smiled to yourself as you looked up to watch the lengthy explanation you were sure to receive. “Despite numerous studies into that claim, no link between sitting at work and poor overall health have ever been made.” You nodded, watching and waiting for more as you dropped into his chair. “It’s actually widely considered to be socioeconomic factors linked to when, why and how often individuals-“

An almost timid knock upon his door interrupted his spiel of impressive, if not obscure, knowledge. A little disgruntled at this interruption, you peered at the door. “Sorry,” he told you, as though the interruption were somehow his fault, moving to open the door.

Just before the door clicked open, you gave a reassuring, “it’s okay.”

From your position seated at the desk you could not see who was standing on the other side of the threshold. You ignored their conservation, attention roving instead over the finer details of his office. Books were piled on almost every available flat surface, their spines pointed towards you with names you couldn’t hope to decipher. On his desk there was a picture of the pair of you; it was almost funny, in a sweet kind of way, that he even thought to include that. Could Spencer not merely close his eyes and conjure the perfect image of you?

You were in the middle of making a mental note to ask him about that when your ears caught upon the conversation still happening in the doorway.

Spencer, strangely, sounded confused. “From what I understand, your grades are perfectly fine.”

“But,” came an oddly lowered voice, “extra-credit couldn’t hurt, right?”

Your eyes widened and mouth dropped open as you wondered if this were really happening right now. Surely, you were placing intentions on the girl’s words that were not actually there. Surely.

If Spencer had come to the same conclusion as you, he very kindly pretended that he hadn’t and offered her a way out. “I don’t think you’re actually in my class.” The way he phrased it was strangely thoughtful. He most certainly would remember if she was in his class but his act of uncertainty may save her from embarrassment. Well, you thought wryly, more embarrassment.

She did not take the offered escape route. Voice dropping even lower, sounding now as though she had a substantial cough rather than the seduction she had likely hoped for, she pushed further. “Oh, but surely there’s something I can do for you?”

Something in the way she said it made it impossible to stifle your laughter. A cough escaped you as you struggled against your fit of giggles. Realising that the conversation at the door had entirely stalled in response to your laughter, you slapped a hand over your mouth - still quietly giggling.

The girl’s voice sounded again, significantly higher in pitch. “Who’s that?” You could almost imagine the deer in headlights expression overtaking her at the prospect of being discovered in her misguided attempts to seduce a professor.

“Oh,” Spencer gave, a lightness in the tone as his head turned to look at you. “It’s just my wife.” You had risen from the chair at this point, darting around the desk to catch sight of the poor girl and sending her an awkward wave as you did so.

She looked very nice, you had to admit; she had chosen a skirt, of course, but had paired it with such a nice shirt that you almost wanted to ask where she had bought it. “Nice to meet you,” you told her instead.

“You…I-“ she stuttered out, mortification overtaking her youthful visage. Quickly, she shot out, “thanks for the help,” before almost running away down the corridor.

Spencer lingered at the doorway briefly, expression indicating that his mind was busy trying to decipher a reasonable explanation for the interaction. When he closed the door you allowed yourself laugh more fully, secure in the knowledge that the poor girl would not hear you now.

Raising your eyebrows at his lack of response, you asked; “has that happened before?”

Looking back at the door, eyes crinkled in confusion, he shook his head. “I’m not even sure whathappened.”

You rolled your eyes at him. Stepping closer, you smoothed a hand over his arm in an attempt to reassure that you were not about to get mad about a student trying so hard to seduce him. “Oh, come on, sweetheart.” You pushed.

His confusion did not abate even with your prompting.

“Really?” You asked, disbelieving. “You, an experienced FBI profiler, cannot work out what just happened?”

Your insistence seemed only to confuse him more as he looked back at the closed door once more as though it held the answer. When, somehow, his brain remained without a solution you huffed another laugh.

“God,” you began, feeling a little awkward with no understanding as to why. “I don’t know how to explain this nicely. She was…” you pinched the bridge or your nose, “flirting with you.”

At your words, he looked utterly taken aback. “Why?”

Hands smoothing over his chest, dipping beneath his blazer, you cocked your head with a smirk. “Oh, I don’t know,” you murmured wryly, “why would anyone want to flirt with their handsome, smart, sweet Professor who explains things with his large hands as much as he does with his mouth?”

Eyebrows raised, he swallowed thickly at the seduction you sprinkled into the words. “I-uh-I don’t think that’s what she was doing?”

You knew him well enough to recognise that he really was being sincere. You felt a little stab of guilt as you looked at him. He had been definitively stuck in to minds over this partial reassignment, part of him almost excitable at the prospect of academia but another part anxious to be away from cases, the team, and - of course - you. You didn’t want to ruin this positivity by informing him that at least one student was more interested in sleeping with him than his syllabus. “Well,” you started diplomatically, “maybe your wife is a little biased.”

He seemed unconvinced by this change in your words. You weren’t entirely surprised, you had been so adamant earlier and were now trying to change your tune. You really didn’t feel like spelling it out for him but he was leaving you with little choice. You decided to play it coy; you could at least have some fun with this uncomfortable discussion.

Batting your eyelashes, you ducked your head to look up at him through fluttering lashes. “Oh Professor,” you gushed, leaning into him, “there must be something I can do.” Reaching up, you loosened his tie - fingertips lightly tapping against the thrumming pulse in his neck. “There’s really nothing I can do for you to get an A?”

Arching a brow at him, hoping you managed to get your point across, you smirked as he let out an almost laughing breath. “I-uh-think I get it.”

Pressing your lips to his cheek, skin tickled by his dusting of stubble, you giggled. “I always forget you went to college at like… four.”

He laughed properly at that, “I wasn’t four,” he all but scoffed.

“Close enough,” you muttered with a shrug, redoing his tie where you had loosened it. “I do like this professor look on you though.”

His warm hands squeezed your waist as he smiled at that. Brow suddenly furrowing in what you recognised as contemplation, he quickly asked; “wait, so did you… proposition your professors?”

You giggled freely at the question. “No,” you let out between laughter, just managing to tuck his tie back beneath his blazer. “I did ask for extra credit though.”

“You did?” He asked, watching you with great interest as you smoothed his collar and pushed back his hair.

You hummed your affirmative, before adding with a wry smirk; “I didn’t come to the tail end of their office hours in a mini-skirt and with hot red lips though.” After a quick, affectionate, swipe of your thumb over his cheek, you stepped away to collect his satchel from behind his desk. “I turned up in floods of tears, mascara tracking down my cheeks, basically on my knees begging them not to fail me.”

His lips quirked up. “That’s quite an image.”

“What, me crying and hyperventilating over my shitty grades?” You asked, winking at him. “Or me on my knees and begging?”

Head falling back slightly, hands lazily slung into his pockets, he looked over your figure with a delicious gaze. His smirk was answer enough. Lithely, you slunk back to stand before him. “I like the way you think, Professor.”

You reached him, fingers walking up his chest and doe eyes blinking up at him. “Your bag,” you offered, hanging the item from his shoulder.

Greedy hands pulled you closer, arms winding around your waist as his large palms pressed against your shoulder blades, keeping you flush against him. After all this time you would have thought that you would be used to kissing Spencer - but you weren’t. Butterflies still fluttered through your stomach, your heart still swooped, and your head still swam with an excited dizziness. Hands in his hair, forgetting where you were and where you were supposed to be, you opened your lips beneath his.

A sudden, unexpected vibration buzzed in the space between you and you pulled back with a breathy laugh. “And what is that, Professor?”

Reaching into his pocket, revealing his buzzing phone, he muttered an almost strained reply. “Please, stop calling me that.”

“I kinda think you like it,” you whispered as he answered the phone, “Professor,” you murmured into his other ear.

The way his eyes burned so passionately into yours told you that you would end up reaping the benefits of this game at some point in the near future. You pressed your lips softly against the hollow of his neck as he spoke into the phone.

“Uh- yeah,” he stuttered into the receiver, struggling against your ministrations. “We - uh- we’re on our way.”

He hung up quickly after that, the tinny voice on the phone getting cut off mid-sentence. “Sounds like we gotta go.”

“Unfortunately,” he eked out, sending a last set of kisses against your jaw.

“Stop distracting me, Professor,” you purred. “And let’s go.”

Crossed Wires

Summary: Reader is an IT tech and Spencer is a technophobe. Their paths are fated to cross.

A/N: This is a prequel to Bridge the Gap, linked below, but can be read as a stand alone! Please let me know what you think!

Bridge the Gap

MasterlistIRequests

The shrill and sudden ringing of the phone made you jump, so much so that you bashed your head on the desk you were currently crouched beneath. Abandoning the plug you had been attempting to find a spare outlet for, you clambered back to your feet and grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”

A tinny, nasal voice that you recognised but couldn’t quite place answered you brusquely; “one of the professors needs your help.”

“Really?” You asked, eyebrows raised as though she could see them. “It’s the first day of the semester.”

The woman sighed, “I know,” her voice dropped in volume as she spoke next and you had the distinct impression that she leaned closer to the phone as she spoke, “it’s a wonder they manage to get their pants on in the morning without help.”

You didn’t bother stifling the chortle of laughter that escaped you at that. Your closet of an office had space only for you, No would-be eavesdropper would bother to squeeze into the space just to hear you laughing at the alumni. Recovering yourself, you asked; “so-uh - what’s the problem?”

“Oh, I don’t know something about his printer I think.” There was a pause, and then; “it’s a new guy, Professor Reid? In…” you could hear fingers flying over a keyboard, “he’s in office 12C… the Criminal Science building.”

Eyebrows furrowing, attempting to mentally conjure a map of the campus, you nodded pointlessly. “Okay, I’ll head over now.”

“I’ll let him know to expect you,” she told you, before leaving you with a sarcastic “have fun.”

———————————————————————

Your internal map of the campus was a little less accurate than you would have hoped. In an embarrassing turn of events you were forced to awkwardly stop a student and ask for directions.

Ten minutes later than you would have liked, you found the office that you were looking for. For the sake of politeness, and because some of the older professors could be particularly pedantic about it, you lightly rapped your knuckles against the door before entering. “Um - hello?” You asked, awkwardly poking your head into the room.

A man, much younger than you had expected, turned sharply to face you. “Hi?” You blinked at him for a moment too long. In all honesty your brain had completely stalled. He was just… not what you were expecting at all; attractive, young, attractive, tall, attractive. You almost recovered yourself enough to talk but he soon shot a warm smile at you and your brain turned back to mush. “Can I help you?” He eventually prompted.

“Oh erm,” pulling yourself together, finally, you smoothed a hand over your clothes and answered with as much charm as you could muster; “I think I’m here to help you, actually.” The words came out a little more suggestive than you had intended but you enjoyed the immediate effect they seemed to produce.

His eyebrows raised, mouth fallen open as a nervous squeak escaped him, and you caught his eyes sweeping over your figure. “Oh?” Was all he managed to eke out before swallowing thickly.

“Your printer?” You offered.

“Oh! Oh, yes.” He straightened out his jacket as he nodded a little over-eagerly at you. “you- you’re here to help with the printer?”

Stepping a little further into the room, the door clicking softly shut behind you, you nodded. Normally, you would be a little more reserved with the professors. Waiting instead for them to invite you in, but Professor Reid’s awkward stuttering somehow put you at ease. “Yeah, that’s kinda my job.” You smiled plainly at him, and he returned the gesture in kind.

Pointing at you, he confirmed, “you’re the IT tech?”

“That’s me,” you affirmed, holding a hand out to him as you told him your name.

Placing his palms out before himself, he leaned back and away from your offered palm. “Oh, I don’t really shake hands.” His lips twisted almost apologetically, as he clasped his hands in front of himself. “It’s actually more hygienic to kiss.” Immediately his face flushed as he caught the innuendo too late and he rushed out a babbling explanation, “not that I- I didn’t mean-“

Feeling generous, you saved him with a wave of your hand. “It’s okay, I know what you meant.”

Sheepish, he nodded. From the twist of his lips you gathered that he was still internally chastising himself, but he eventually managed to introduce himself more appropriately. “I’m Dr Spencer Reid.”

For his sake, you breezed past this deliciously awkward introduction with a tone filled with professionalism. “Well, it’s nice to meet you.” Raising a brow, you looked to the computer tucked away, almost forgotten, in the corner. “What’s the problem?”

Eyes following yours and landing on the offending laptop, he gestured for you to move over to it. Following behind you, he explained. “I was trying to print out the handbook but… it’s not working.”

Leaning over his computer, you nodded with a crumpled brow. “That’s like a hundred pages, Dr Reid.” You looked back to him but he didn’t seem to get your point. “You know you don’t actually have to read all that, right? It’d take the whole day.”

Eyes averted to the floor he gave you a strange, almost cocky, little smirk, “I think I can manage it.”

The side of your lips twitched upwards as you gleaned some strange amusement from his words. He spoke them as though they were some inside joke with himself. It was oddly charming. From anyone else you likely would’ve condemned his tone to arrogance, but his demeanour was so open and strangely sweet that it was hard to tar him with such a brush. “Well,” you sighed, narrowing your eyes at the screen, “is there a reason you can’t just read it from here?”

You looked to him for a response and he visibly grimaced at the suggestion. “I prefer a more traditional medium.”

Raising an eyebrow, dissecting his words to find the truth, you smirked. “You and technology don’t get along, huh?”

Nodding confirmation with a laugh, he wryly replied; “we’re colleagues of necessity.”

You breathed a laugh, surprised by his quick wit but eager to experience more. “Okay,” you let out, leaning closer to the screen and immediately detecting the problem.

You wanted to laugh, you really did, but you had the decency to provide him his explanation first. Biting your lip, in an almost fruitless attempt to hide the amused smile pulling at your features, you turned back to face him.

His eyes widened at the sight of you. His gaze unsure whether to settle heavily on your bitten lip or respectfully on your eyes. In the end his gaze settled somewhere in the middle. A cough fell from him before he managed to ask; “what’s the problem?”

“How many times have you tried to print this?”

The corner of his eyes crinkling, he cryptically answered, “a few.”

You giggled helplessly, spurring an answering laughter from him that was interspersed with his continued questioning, “what did I do?”

Recovering yourself, you conspiratorially leaned in closer, whispering the answer to him. “You’ve sent them to print in Professor Friedman’s office. He’s a couple doors down.” A giggle interrupted your explanation, “so he’s probably got a hundred copies of that handbook printing out and no idea why.”

“Oh,” he gave, turning quickly to look at the door, as though Friedman himself were about to burst through demanding an explanation. “That’s not… ideal.”

“No,” you agreed. When you held his attention once more, you asked; “do you want me to show you how to do it right or… shall I just do it for you?”

His lips twisted and a husky laugh escaped him. That was answer enough.

“I’ll just do it for you.”

A few clicks later and his own printer had hummed into action, spitting out paper rather slowly. The pair of you watched the whirring machine for longer than was likely necessary. Every now and then it seemed Dr Reid was about to speak, face turned to you and lips parting, but each time his attempt stalled.

After the silence had stretched just a little too long, none of his attempts coming to fruition, you sighed and turned to him. Your tone was less than enthused. “Well, I guess I better get going.”

His eyebrows rose as though surprised at this turn of events where you were not able to loiter with him in his office all day. “Oh- of course…” he gestured to the door and kindly opened it for you, “I - uh-“ you were quite thrilled, really, at how flustered he was getting. This excitement dulled just slightly when he seemingly gave up on what he had been trying to say and settled instead on; “thank you.”

Stepping across the threshold of the door, you turned back to him. “Anytime, Dr Reid.”

“Spencer, call me Spencer.”

Grinning, sure a telling blush was painted over your cheeks, you affirmed. “Spencer it is.”

“There you are!” Came a booming voice from down the hall. Turning to look, your eyes widened at the sight of Professor Friedman barrelling down the hall towards you. “I’ve been calling your line for half an hour! My printer has been hijacked! It’s printing dozens of copies of some kind of handbook and it’s still going!“

Taking a deep breath, you nodded with a polite yet tight smile. “Of course, Friedman, I-“

Sternly, he interjected with an arrogant correction; “Professor Friedman, thank you.”

Spencer cut in, surprising both you and Friedman, before you could even think to apologise. “You know, I read an interesting article recently about individuals who obsess over the use of their proper titles. Especially within inappropriate social contexts,” the glint within his eye as he snuck his gaze over to meet yours was almost playful. “Apparently,” he prefaced dramatically, “the obsession with the formality is deeply rooted in a collection of physical, mental, and sexual inadequacies.”

You choked on your laugh, desperately trying to conceal your peals of laughter with unconvincing coughs. Professor Friedman said nothing, seemingly entirely blindsided and unsure how to even respond without seeming as though he were protesting a little too much against the subtle accusation.

Still fighting back your laughter, words coming out markedly more uneven than usual, you said; “That’s very interesting, Dr Reid.”

Smiling down at you, gaze filled with this secret victory the pair of you were sharing, he answered quickly. “Oh, please call me Spencer.” After a sly glance at Friedman beside him, who still looked as though he were picking through Spencer’s quick words in search of a viable response, he continued, “I’m not worried about formality.”

God, he was going to kill you.

Your face was burning hot with the effort of containing your laughter and you couldn’t even look Spencer in the eye anymore; the amused sparkle in his chocolate eyes surely enough to send you tipping over the edge into joyful hysteria.

“Well,” Friedman eventually let out, grimly, “I will wait for you in my office.” He nodded to you before sending a disdainful look of annoyance towards Spencer who, to his credit, did not seem affected in the slightest. “It was… interesting to meet you, Dr Reid.”

Spencer nodded in response, already turning to look at you as Friedman hurried away.

You couldn’t contain yourself anymore. Hurried hands pushed Spencer backwards and into his office, the door swinging shut behind you, and you entirely broke down into a fit of giggles.

You vaguely hoped the office door was enough to keep your raucous laughter from reaching Friedman’s ears but you weren’t especially concerned enough to stop. At one point you had successfully recovered yourself but, one shared glance with Spencer, and the both of you were sent spiralling once more into laughter.

Eventually, you managed to huff out; “is that- is that even true?”

Almost cheekily, he grinned with a shrug. “Not exactly.”

Straightening, having hunched over in the depths of your laughter, you wiped the tears from your eyes. “Oh god,” Spencer was still looking at you. Now that your laughter had subsided to a more reasonable level, you realised how strangely intense his attention upon you was; he was looking at you as though you were some fascinating specimen whose every move deserved his rapt attention. “That was so funny.” You eked out.

Eyes now focused on your shoes, feeling shy under his attention, you mused. “I’ve gotta go help him now, how am I supposed to look at him without laughing?”

He laughed breezily, “sorry.” Looking back up, you found his head ducked and his right hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, don’t be,” you assured lightly, a wave of your hand dismissing the apology, “that was amazing.”

He nodded, lips twisting as he shoved nervous hands into his pocket. “Good,” he told you, resolute. “I- uh- I hope to see you around?“

Hand settled on the silver door handle, ready to face Friedman with an extra spring in your step, you agreed. “Yeah, you too.”

As you walked away and down the hallway, following the sound of Friedman’s poor overworked printer and the aggrieved grumblings of the man himself, you found yourself hoping Spencer’s technology would fail him again soon.

As though the gods themselves were listening, or perhaps just because technology really did hate Spencer, the very next day you were called to fix his email.