Prided on intellect and pedantry, daunting and intimidating IQ, inhuman reading speed, and an eidetic memory alongside his overly scrupulous way of reading even the most cryptic and enigmatic killers; Spencer was undeniably a genius. Brighter than traditionally deemed fathomable and miraculously humble regarding it — though the apathetic voice in which he explained it often delivered false impressions that he was underwhelmed with such achievements.

However, profiling veiled and reserved UnSubs was easier than navigating the rough terrain of love.

His mind was analytical, set to track tics and cues in the most minute twitches of expressions, scrutinizing the flow of speech and patterned behaviour until the suspect list honed on one lone — with the occasional pair or group — UnSub.

Understanding emotional signals was a vital aspect of his job, relating to stressors and possible triggers into sprees or harmful behaviour. He comprehended them logistically, straight from textbooks onto the field. But understanding his own partner’s emotions? He’d find it far easier to profile a brick wall.

You weren’t complex by any means; no mixed signals, no games, no toying with his mind though he remained feeling as useless as a puppet on a string, wishing for you to tug on the ropes binding him, guiding his romantically clueless mind.

He often required hints to be plainly laid out for him, which you acquiesced, offering blunt requests and suggestions — leaving him with flushed cheeks and a stuttered response but he was grateful for the simplicity. He slowly picked up on a few tells; your different sighs that either proved contentment or sparked a panicked sense inside him, recognizing the noise to be a sign of aggravation or exhaustion. He learned simple things, in which he considered to be basic manners, were greatly appreciated. Holding doors open, flowers, ~sheepishly given~ compliments.

Though, inexperience correlates to obliviousness.

The most jarring clue Spencer always inconveniently missed were looks. Subtle glances that could convey a thousand words often flew over his head, inadvertently dodging every hint flung at him.

———

Due to a limited amount of vacant hotel rooms, you sat in a shared one on a case. He occupied the seat across from you, fingers gliding along the page of his book as he read, tracking the words he read at an improbable speed, the page turning every few seconds. He failed to notice the way your eyes locked onto his hands, disregarding the case file before you as his fingers tantalizing moved over the pages.

He glanced up, regarding your lack of movement. His brows furrowed, following your gaze to his hands. He lowered the book to the table, confusedly examining his hands. Delicately placing the book down, he stared at the pale expanse of his palm before flipping his hands over. Head tilted like a puppy, doe eyes flickered over his knuckles and fingers before following faint lines of veins to the back of his hand.

“Is there something wrong with my hands?” Spencer asked curiously, his eyes raising to yours, wondering why your attention had been so vigilantly occupied on his hands. His brows remained knitted together, head cocked to the side with a puzzled frown adorning his lips.