Chapter Text
All things considered, Spencer Reid didn’t like eating breakfast. Coffee? Yes. The occasional donut or pastry? Sure, if someone left a box in the break room. But never once had he pulled himself out of bed, salivating over the promise of blueberry pancakes or a breakfast sandwich from some fast-food joint.
He just… rarely found himself hungry in the morning. His brain was firing too fast, focused on finishing whatever book he’d started the night before, or, usually, getting back to the case the team was in the middle of.
But his teammates were nothing like him. After years of working together, Spencer couldn’t help but chronicle just how religiously each of his colleagues stuck to their breakfast routines. In some ways, it made perfect sense—these were people who lacked control in their personal lives, thanks to unpredictable jobs that kept them on the move.
Lunch and dinner were usually ordered from local joints, eaten at precinct tables. Shitty burgers from old diners, uninspired salads from overpriced cafés, and if they were lucky, half-decent Chinese food to break up the monotony.
But breakfast? Breakfast was easy. Breakfast was safe. Breakfast was sacred. And Spencer watched how each of his teammates never strayed from their meal of choice, whether they were in Seattle, Saratoga, or San Antonio.
Hotch? Steel cut oatmeal. Orange juice. Coffee.
Prentiss? Banana, toast, peanut butter. Coffee.
JJ? Avocado, toast. Black tea, milk, sugar.
Morgan? Protein smoothie with—
Well, it was no use running through the menus in his head. The point was, he knew what to expect in the office kitchen, or at the local precinct, or in the lobby of their hotels when it was time to eat. Which was why when he found an unfamiliar woman pouring a ghastly orange drink into a mug he knew belonged to Garcia, he’d been surprised. Confused.
But mostly, unable to hold his tongue.
“That’s Penelope’s,” he said, pointing to the black mug. Hello Kitty in a witch costume decorated the ceramic. “And considering it’s Halloween themed and it’s October, she’s going to be upset to find it missing from the kitchen.”
The mystery woman halted her pour, plastic bottle thudding on the counter. She met his gaze, and… Spencer swallowed, his heart beating just a fraction faster.
He needed caffeine.
He didn’t care if this mystery woman was pretty.
“Oh crap. I should’ve realized these weren’t communal. I’m sorry. I guess I’ll just… find another cup for my orange juice.” As she began opening and closing cabinets, she added, “It’s Dr. Reid, right? I’m—”
“SunnyD is only two percent or less of orange juice, meaning it legally can’t be classified as such. It’s sold as an orange drink. Those labels aren’t interchangeable, at least as far as the FDA is concerned.” Spencer cleared his throat, grabbing Penelope’s mug and proceeding to dump out the liquid. “Also, the main ingredient you’re drinking aside from water is high fructose corn syrup so… I’m not sure why this is your morning beverage choice.”
She watched, mouth agape, as he began washing the mug. “I’m not here to judge anyone’s eating or drinking habits,” he continued, “especially since Morgan says I put a disgusting amount of sugar in my coffee. But I just can’t understand why someone would prefer to drink SunnyD over a cup of 100% orange juice, which, by the way, we have in the refrigerator.”
No sooner than the words left his mouth did Morgan enter the kitchen, spot the bottle, and cry out, “SunnyD? Someone brought SunnyD? Damn, my sisters and I used to guzzle that down, even though it was like it never—”
“—got cold,” JJ finished for him as she entered the kitchen, laughing. “It was the same in my house. But god did I love those little bottles after soccer practice. I used to chew on the blue plastic.”
Morgan grabbed the SunnyD and threw a friendly arm around the mystery woman. “Reid, tell me you were nice to our new team member, especially if she’s bringing the good stuff!” He nudged her. “Shit, with that smile, I might just start calling you Sunny.”
JJ laughed. “Wait, that’s so perfect! During her interview, she was wearing a sun necklace.”
Orange Drink girl laughed. “Should I be flattered? My first official day and the legendary Agent Morgan and Jareau want to give me a nickname?”
“You should be, Sunny,” Morgan teased with a wink. He grabbed three mugs out of the cabinet and began to pour the SunnyD. When Spencer stepped away from the sink, Penelope’s mug finally cleaned, Morgan grabbed it and said, “Thanks pretty boy. Garcia will want some, too.”
Spencer blinked, gaze darting between JJ, who grabbed two of the filled mugs, Morgan, who was screwing the cap back on, and the newly named Sunny, who merely watched him with a…
Well, he’d heard Emily describe her cat Sergio as having a “shit-eating grin”. With how her eyes crinkled, and her lips curled, Spencer finally understood the label.
Sunny was giving him a shit-eating grin.
He was beginning to feel anything but sunny. Especially since nobody offered him any of the disgusting, orange drink.
Morgan and JJ left, mugs in hand, laughing about something Rossi said in the elevator. The newbie remained, sipping from a plain white mug. When Spencer met her gaze, she raised an eyebrow, as if… challenging him.
“Well, Dr. Reid,” she said, nails tapping into the ceramic, “it would seem that like most things in this world, sometimes what’s bad for you is actually oh so good.” She took a sip and let out an obnoxious aah, as if she was having her first drink of water after stumbling through a desert. “Sometimes I want a salad, but sometimes I want a big, greasy burger. Sometimes I want to go for a run, but sometimes I want to lay on the couch watching reality TV. And sometimes, I want freshly squeezed juice, but sometimes I want my 2% orange juice, high fructose corn syrup nightmare that is SunnyD.”
As she sauntered to the door, the bottle and mug in hand, she added, “And by the way, the bottle says it’s 5% fruit juice. So… I guess that eidetic memory of yours isn’t always right.”
Spencer straightened his shoulders. “Wrong. On both accounts. My memory is always right. As for your point about 5% fruit juice, you’re correct. But my previous statement is also correct. The drink is only 2% or less of orange juice. If you read the nutrition label instead of inhaling the syrup water, you’d see that said 5% of fruit juice is comprised of orange juice, tangerine juice, apple juice—”
“Oranges and tangerines are basically the same thing,” she snapped.
“Wrong. Again. Despite the obvious size and color difference, tangerines are a subgroup of mandarins, whereas oranges are—”
“Seriously? Are you lecturing me about fruit?”
“—and I don’t think I need to dive into the differences between apples and oranges, given comparing them is a well-known idiom dating back to—”
“Ok.” She laughed, walking backwards through the door. “Thanks for the… intro, Dr. Reid. I’ve gotta go.”
In a blink, she was gone.
And while Spencer wasn’t the best at picking up social cues, he was pretty sure he’d started on the wrong foot with the newest agent in the BAU.
-o-o-
Twenty-four hours into the tenure of the newly initiated Sunny, Spencer seemed to be somehow… worsening their already doomed relationship.
Day 2 on the job, the pen she was filling out paperwork with died. From his desk, he watched her frustrated scribbles and heard her muttered curses. And since he very much was a nice guy, he offered her a brand-new pen, this one always kept handy beside his computer in case he ever needed it.
Except, he’d quickly realized that the heat emitting from his overworked monitor had leeched into the pen, causing the ink to expand and essentially… explode.
She’d managed to write a single word before the blue ink was covering her hands, neck, and white blouse.
Her glare was lethal. Because despite his sputtering apologies, she clearly thought he did it on purpose.
He didn’t.
Not that anyone would believe him.
-o-o-
Day 3, he was determined to get things on track with her. Everyone loved their newest member, the nickname Sunny traveling faster than a cough at a daycare. Spencer had even heard Hotch—stone-cold, no-nonsense Hotch—call her Sunny.
He was beginning to think he’d entered an episode of The Twilight Zone with how everyone was so enchanted with her and undoubtedly… bothered by him. Clearly his juice rant and pen fiasco had left an impression, and the rule of thumb at the BAU was always to treat new members with respect.
So, he decided to take a page out of Penelope’s book. If there was anyone good at charming people, it was her. And her go-to method for winning someone’s heart? Food. Which was precisely why he stopped at his favorite bakery on the way to work and ordered a single almond croissant. It was their top-seller, and it came in a beautifully wrapped white and gold box, sealed with a bow. He’d considered getting enough for everyone, but he thought the singular gift might emphasize his true goal—an olive branch to the newest member of the team.
And when he approached her desk, offering her the treat and some info on the bakery when she asked, he let himself relax. Her eyes lightened as she untied the bow. Finally. They were getting somewhere. All was going to be okay—
“Oh my god!” she cried.
Perfect. Now they’d be the best of friends and—
“Is this an almond croissant?” she gasped, quickly closing the package and shoving it away. “Is this some kind of sick joke?!”
Penelope rushed over, eyes wide. “Reid! Did you seriously buy her an almond croissant? She’s allergic to almonds!”
Spencer grabbed the box, looking between the two. “What? How would I have known that?”
“I sent an email!” Miss Not-So-Sunny seethed, scratching at her arms. “I very politely requested everyone avoid eating almonds in the office and let everyone know I have EpiPens in my purse and drawer in case something was to happen!”
“Are you ok?” Penelope asked, frantically. “You look red!”
“You don’t go into anaphylactic shock from smelling a food you’re allergic to,” Spencer explained, hoping it would calm them down, “so there’s nothing to be—”
“It may not kill me,” Sunny snapped, “but my brain associates the smell with an allergic reaction, so I start to feel—”
“—but you won’t need your EpiPen!” Spencer interrupted. He knew his cheeks must’ve been horrifically red, both from embarrassment over the failed peace offering, and how she was so quick to villainize his innocent mistake. “And why did you send me an email when everyone knows I don’t use email?”
Penelope wrapped an arm around Sunny, glaring at Spencer in that kicked puppy way of hers. “You better not be blaming her for your bad behavior.” With another death glare, she led her away from the desk and the cursed croissant.
So much for an olive branch.
If nobody believed the exploding pen was an accident, nobody would think the almond croissant was in good faith, either.
-o-o-
Day 4, Spencer was blissfully free from any awkward interactions with everyone’s favorite Sunny since her transfer called for a full day of HR orientation and field testing. Fitness, shooting, the usual.
He savored the break and took the time to figure out his next move.
Or he would’ve, if Morgan wasn’t talking his ear off.
“Man, she hates you,” he laughed, sipping his coffee. “I’ve seen you put your foot in your mouth with a lot of women, but in thirty-six hours you managed to insult her comfort food, ruin her favorite shirt, and nearly killed her with an almond croissant. That’s a record!”
Spencer fiddled with his pen, desperate to ignore Morgan. Except he was a teensy bit curious about something he said. “SunnyD is her… comfort food?”
“Mhm. She was telling us this morning. Something to do with her grandma—” When Hotch called for them, Morgan gave him a shoulder squeeze. “It’s week one. Just don’t make things worse, okay?”
But despite Morgan’s pleading, he did.
-o-o-
Day 5 was promising, until it wasn’t.
Spencer kept quiet. He nodded. He smiled. He let himself fade into the background. Because if he wasn’t talking, he wouldn’t somehow mess this up further.
But then Hotch called a meeting and…
She sat in Spencer’s seat. The same seat he’d been sitting in for years.
His. Fucking. Seat.
It was their second official meeting with Hotch since she started so… she must’ve known, right? She watched Spencer sit there on her second day. She was the first person in there now, and when greeted with ten chairs, she picked his?
It wasn’t the best angle of the board, or Hotch, or the window. It wasn’t the most comfortable.
Yet she was sitting there. Spencer stilled in the doorway, watching as she settled in the chair, playing with her necklace. A sun.
He fisted his khakis.
“Um.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry but… that’s my seat.”
She relaxed, head lulling to the side as she met his gaze. “Oh! Are the seats assigned? I didn’t notice name tags.”
Her tone was sickly sweet. Saccharine. Like her stupid fucking SunnyD.
He took a deep breath. “That’s because there are none. But we have almost daily meetings, and we stick to the same seating arrangement. I’m closest to the door, then to my immediate right is Morgan, and to his right is—”
“Well, when someone new comes, your arrangement must shift, right?” she asked, that shit-eating grin back. “Emily was telling me she only joined a few years ago, and I know Rossi came out of retirement. They replaced agents who left. Was this seat the one you started in?”
He swallowed. “Well, my first year I was closest to the board, but then—”
“Then maybe it’s time for another change.” She wiggled in the chair, like an animal marking its scent. “I’m comfortable so… I won’t be moving.”
He dug his nails into his palm. “You’re not listening to me. That’s my seat.”
She straightened in the chair, eyebrow raised in challenge. “Not anymore. Unless you plan to physically remove me, it’s mine. You snooze, you lose Dr. Reid.”
As he prepared to respond, to scream and yell and bemoan how it was HIS HIS HIS, the rest of the team funneled in. Given how tense things already were, he couldn’t exactly throw a hissy fit about a seat, especially not when Hotch was already starting his toneless update.
With a shaky breath, Spencer took the usually abandoned seat on Rossi’s left and gripped the cool, metal arms.
From across the table, she met his gaze and smirked.
Spencer exhaled.
He had a feeling things had just gone from bad to worse.
-o-o-
After the freedom of the weekend came Day 6. Once back in the office, he went out of his way to avoid her. He’d been successful too, until he made the mistake of taking a brief walk during his lunch hour. As he finished the last of his sandwich, he noticed her sitting on a bench below a crowd of trees, chatting with an agent he recognized from counter-terrorism—her previous unit.
As discretely as he could, he slipped behind the trees. Spying, eavesdropping…
It should’ve been below him. And yet…
He needed to know more about everyone’s favorite Sunny. About the chair stealing, almond allergic, shit-eating grinning Little Miss Perfect.
“You’re on week two. How do you feel?” the other agent asked. “The BAU is legendary. Personally, Agent Hotchner scares the shit out of me but Agent Morgan? Phew. I’d like a slice.”
Little Miss Perfect laughed. “It’s been great. I’ve been so lucky that we haven’t been called away yet. I’ve enjoyed the soft transition. I was so worried when they told me to show up with a go bag on day one.” She stilled then, bag of pretzels settling on her lap. “Everyone—well, mostly everyone—has been so welcoming.”
“Mostly everyone? Girl, share! What’s the hot gossip?”
“It’s—Dr. Reid. He’s so fucking frustrating. I know that’s his like, thing. Everyone always talked about how smart he was and how that was intimidating, but Penelope—that’s our tech analyst—kept insisting he was this perfect golden retriever when you really got to know him. Instead, he’s been a major dick. Like, raging.”
Spencer tensed, shutting his eyes. Well, fuck him. He’d put his foot in his mouth a few times and he’d already been relegated to major dick territory?
“I’m sorry. But I always thought he was kinda cute, in a nerd way,” the other agent teased.
But Sunny merely laughed. “I mean, I guess if you like guys in sweaters.”
He’d heard enough. As covertly as he could, he returned to the office, his hands clenched at his sides.
The last thing he wanted was to have an issue with a coworker. There’d been some tension before—he and Emily hadn’t been sunshine and rainbows for their first couple weeks. But there was a mutual respect.
This was different. He could feel it. From the warmth in his cheeks to the cramps in his stomach, he knew nothing was going to be the same.
-o-o-
Maybe it was a self-fulfilling prophecy, for Spencer to continue to predict the worst and then act surprised when said predictions played out. Because on Day 7, they were finally called away on a case. This time, to Cincinnati, to investigate a string of murdered teachers.
Once in the small space of the jet, Spencer saw firsthand how she transformed. Bubbly, spunky, downright Sunny.
She had special snacks—lemon sugar cookies she baked for the team.
She had a book for Emily—some transformative self-help manual about organization and cleansing the soul.
She had a link to a Spotify playlist for Morgan—one that had him grinning like a kid in a candy shop.
He half expected her to whip out a box of Cuban cigars for Rossi, because the goodwill just did. Not. Stop.
It made him sick. Not the turbulence, not a fear of flying, no it was her stupid fucking smile and laugh and twinkling eyes that drove him to consume two cans of ginger ale as they approached Ohio.
He burrowed away in his usual corner, flipping through the case files, desperate to distract himself from the laughing conversation she was having with JJ. Thankfully, their chatter eventually stopped, but when JJ disappeared to the bathroom, Sunny decided to drop to the seat across from him.
She primly crossed her legs, grin sickly sweet. “Dr. Reid, did you try my cookies? They made Hotch smile.”
Spencer cleared his throat, doing his best to focus on the pages, not her. “Agent Hotchner is your superior and given you’re not even seven full days into this role, I think you’d be better off referring to him by his full title, not Hotch.” He flipped a page. “Also, I don’t like lemon flavored desserts. Drinks? Yes. Desserts? No.”
When a hand reached over the file, five pink nails pressing into the white pages, he finally met her gaze. She narrowed her eyes. “I see. Let me test that. SSA Hotchner, can I use the bathroom? SSA Hotchner, do I need to raise my hand to speak in class or—”
“You’re being purposely obtuse,” he muttered, closing the file and dropping it to the empty chair beside him. “Then again, while we’ve only worked together for seven business days, I’ve noticed that appears to be a pattern for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“After browsing a cabinet full of generic, white mugs, you selected one with a cartoon on it and had the nerve to claim you didn’t know it belonged to someone else. You called a sugary, ultra-processed drink orange juice, as if it had any of the nutritional benefits of the freshly squeezed, 100% juice variety. You accused me of trying to provoke an allergic reaction, as if I’d risk my entire career to kill a brand-new agent. You watched me sit in a specific chair in the conference room on your second day, and then acted surprised when I said it was my seat on your fifth day. You—”
“Wow. You really are a major—”
“—dick,” he finished, leaning forward, his voice hushed. “Right? That’s what you were going to say? That I’m a major dick—raging, actually.”
She blinked a few times, processing his words. “Sorry. Did you—”
“Overhear your conversation at lunch yesterday? Yes, I did. And this might be a lesson to not loudly gossip about your co-workers within earshot of your shared workspace.”
She glared, but her eyes sparkled, like the light of the plane only enhanced her anger. “God, the warnings about you were right. You really do think you know everything.”
“That would be an ignorant claim to make. I don’t know everything. But I do have an IQ of 187 and know many things—assuredly more than you—so fine, you’re welcome to make that generalization if you’d like.”
Her nostrils flared, and her hands moved to the armrests, tens digits digging into the leather. “You know, when I showed up last week, I actually thought we’d all be best of friends. And so far, everyone has been so wonderful. Except for you. I can’t help but wonder why that is.”
“You don’t need to wonder,” he replied, glancing out the window. “We’re colleagues, teammates, co-workers. Not friends. I make connections with people I respect and admire. Unfortunately, you don’t fall into that category.”
She leaned forward, nose wrinkling in rage. “You’ve spent less than fifty-six hours with me. How could you possibly know—”
“We’ve had approximately sixty-three hours of overlapping work hours since you began last Monday. That’s plenty of time to find your smile fake, your laugh saccharine, and your gift-giving performative.” He offered his own fake smile. “How is that for you, Sunny?”
She nodded slowly, lips curling until they disappeared into her face. After a moment of quiet reflection, the smile returned, alarmingly small, still.
Controlled.
“Spence,” she taunted, “if you want to play this game, fine. I’ll play and I will win.”
“Fascinating.” He tilted his head, rubbing his chin. “How someone can be so confident and yet so wrong.” He picked up the glass container, eying the stack of frosting covered cookies inside. “You’re new here, so I feel the need to share that our team policy is to avoid profiling each other. It’s about respect. But I don’t respect you. So I’m going to anyway.”
“You are—”
“—a major dick,” he interrupted. “Noted, redundant, overstated. Anyways, as I was saying—I’ll be quick. Your handbag? Designer. Your car? Luxury. Your wardrobe? Tailored. You come from money. But I also know you went to an average state school, meaning your grades in high school couldn’t have been all that great. It’s given you a chip on your shoulder, coming from clearly successful parents and yet underperforming in high school and college. Now you're here, so congrats. You've proven yourself. And yet you are still so very desperate to be liked.”
He leaned closer, keeping his gaze locked on hers. “Which is why you sent Morgan a playlist of your so-called favorite songs—except while he loves the genre, you’ve never listened. Which is why you gave voracious self-help reader Emily a book that supposedly changed your life—except you’ve never read that book, nor any self-help book for that matter. Which is why you brought your famous lemon cookies for a team who loves to snack—except these cookies were purchased from the very bakery I gifted you an almond croissant from and dumped into a casserole dish, since you’ve never baked a day in your life.”
Relaxing in his seat, he finished with, “You’re at best a chameleon, desperate to change your spots to be accepted. At worst, a pathetic liar.”
Her gaze darted to the carpeted floor of the plane, and her hands went to her thighs, where she dug her nails into her slacks. “Fuck you, Dr. Reid.”
When she stood, pushing past him, he replied, “Checkmate. Come back when you’re actually ready to play.”
And as the plane touched down in Cincinnati about an hour later, Sunny refusing to even look at him, he wondered if something was wrong with him.
Because he was already craving that furious look in her eyes again.