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Penelope Garcia twirls, the gold embroidery of her dress spinning with her. The delicate swirls catch the light perfectly.
"Well?" She questions, pausing to place her hands on her hips. The extricate designed fabric whooshes around her before coming to a stop.
"You sure know how to dress, Penny," JJ offers, raising her styrofoam cup in a silent toast to the analyst's new outfit.
Smiling broadly, Penelope waves the compliment away. "Of course I do, mon ami. I'm tre magnifique. "
"It's gorgeous." Elle is leaning against Reid's desk, arms crossed in front of her. She admires the dress appreciatively. "Where did you find it?"
The bullpen is relatively empty, with Gideon and Hotch both in their respective offices. Morgan's out on a custodial, interviewing an incarcerated psychopath.
"Local shop." Penelope's smile cannot be dimmed. " La Madame Mothima ."
JJ chuckles at the name, shaking her head. "That's, uh, quite the name."
"Reid?" Garcia swirls around to him, her eyes asking him for answers. "Well?"
Confused, he casts a glance to both JJ and Greenway. There's been a question asked, and he's missed it. Immediately, his cheeks flame red.
"What?" He questions softly, bringing a hand to tap nervously against the side of his face.
Garcia let's out an audible sigh, but Spencer can't bring himself to cringe away from it. He knows that Garcia doesn't mean any harm by the sound. "The dress, Boy Wonder. Do you like the dress?"
He takes a moment to let his eyes travel the stitchery and design. As far as dresses go it seems very adequate and well put together. "Yes." He breaths a little easier at the way Garcia's face lights up. "It's, uh, very pretty."
JJ sends him a reassuring smile, and he can't help but mirror it back.
"How much?" Elle wonders. She's still leaning against the ledge of Reid's desk, and she raises a dark brow.
"That is not important!" Garcia quickly sputters. She smooths the folds of the skirt, pointedly avoiding eye contact. "You can't measure the quality of a dress on mere price."
JJ whistles. "That much, huh?"
"Half a week's paycheck," Garcia finally allows.
"You paid $662 for that? " Reid questions, eyebrows furrowing together in that way they do when he's confused by something. The idea of spending that much money on clothes is absolutely foreign to him.
The girls send him blank stares. "You know how much we make a week?" JJ questions.
"Of course he does." Elle shakes her head, and Reid can't help but feel he's committed a social faux pas.
"I simply used the base pay average for agents in the bureau, countering it against my own salary," he explains quickly.
Garcia sends him a kind smile. "Of course. But you have to understand, chickens. Your fashion sense is everything!"
"Hey, I love fashion." JJ shrugs. "But not enough to spend $600 on a dress."
"It's vintage!" Garcia counters, her fingers clutching the edges of her dress.
Elle throws her hands up. "Way too rich for my blood."
Garcia harrumphs. "Reid. Surely you understand the importance of expressing yourself through clothing and accessories."
"Physical appearance is a kind of language," Reid relents. "It's a subtle kind of communication. You're definitely putting forth a profile of information out with what you choose to expose publicly to those around you. Plus, it's a good indicator of cultural, racial identity."
"Aha!" Peneloppe sends both agents a self-satisfied smirk. "Reid agrees with me. I win."
Elle scoffs. "Yeah, right."
"But-" Reid quickly interjects, gaze darting between Greenaway and Garcia. "I'm not really qualified to speak on the subject."
"Why?" JJ cocks her head in his direction, her blonde locks dropping across her shoulder.
"I've never shopped for clothes in a fashion seeking sense." He shrugs, and Garcia let's out a horrified gasp.
"You've...never….been….shopping?" Her eyes are wide, and he suddenly feels as though he's committed another unexplained social disaster.
"Well, not for clothes."
"What about what you're wearing?" Elle's eyes travel across the mustard dress shirt he's wearing. It's one he's had for years, one he plucked from the lost and found in a local Las Vegas library. It's not very comfortable, the material of it scratching his arms and torso in a way that feels like fire sometimes, but he's grown accustomed to the feeling of discomfort. He feels lucky that he's been able to wear the same clothes for so long.
"I've had it forever," he finally answers, vaguely.
"You've never been clothes shopping?!" Garcia demands, the computer of her brain refusing to compute the words.
"Well. We didn't have a lot of money growing up." It makes Spencer's cheeks redden again, this tidbit of information about his childhood.
"But you make good money now!" Penelope throws her hands up in exasperation. "And you still haven't gone shopping?"
Spencer bites his lip. "I have clothes."
"Do you like your clothes?" JJ hedges, shooting him a knowing look.
"They're fine ," Reid insists, not quite a lie. Every single shirt in his closet was perfectly, averagely fine. Some of them were made from rough, scratchy material, some of them were frayed at the edges, some of them were a tad bit small. Each one was fine.
"No." Garcia shakes her head with a finality that sends Spencer's mind spinning for answers. "This will not do, 187. We need to go shopping."
"What?" He sends a pleading look to JJ. She merely smiles, lips quirking in a humorous way.
"That sounds great, Spence."
"I really don't need new clothes," he insists, turning back to Garcia. He can already see the ideas spinning beneath her eyes.
"Awe. Come on, Reid." Elle sends him a playful look. "It will be fun."
"I- I don't know anything about fashion," he grumbles. "It's not an area of study I have any interest in-"
"That's why you have me." Garcia claps her hands together enthusiastically. "I am an undisputed genius of all things fashion. Oh, and tech, of course."
"I-" He gulps, unsure how to talk himself out of this without hurting her feelings. He absolutely doesn't want to hurt Garcia's feelings, especially when she's so overwhelmingly nice to him all the time. "This isn't necessary, really-"
"Give it up." JJ claps a casual hand against his shoulder.
Elle nods sagely. "It's never smart to pick a fight with the lovely Penelope Garcia."
"It's settled, then." Penelope drops her elbows to his desk, face a mere breath length away. "Friday. We're going shopping."
"Okay," he relents, a tight coil of fear forming in his gut. "Okay."
Garcia squeals. "Let's deck you out, handsome."
------
"Garcia, are you sure this is the place?"
Reid eyes the store front suspiciously. The border is a sleek, sharp black, and the font declares the name Ralph's in a sweeping silver cursive. It looks expensive.
"Absolutamundo." Garcia links her arm through his, and he has to fight his immediate reaction to cringe away.
"This, uh, doesn't look like my kind of place." He lets himself relax into her casual touch, his arm uncoiling.
"Nonsense, my dove. You can't judge a store front by its cover. I did my research, and this is definitely your kind of place." She leaves no room for argument, hoisting him towards the darkened glass door.
Reid's stomach rolls uneasily as he makes his way across the threshold. The building is much darker than the outside world, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the new surroundings.
"Well?" Garcia prompts, her arm still threaded through his. She bounces excitedly on the balls of her feet, the large floofs off her hair quivering in anticipation.
Reid takes a solid minute to drink in the ambiance of the store, and he finds himself surprisingly at ease.
"It's- it's nice."
In a complimentary shade of grey, with soft baby blue carpet, the shop itself is calming. Rows and rows of men's attire stare back at him, though not enough to make him feel crowded. Even the scent is mild; a pleasant soapy scent.
"Told you." She shoots him a cocky grin, her sunny smile cracking through the last of his apprehension. "Now let's find you some new shirts, Boy Genius."
She drags him forward again, like a leashed puppy, depositing him in front of a row of gingham style button downs.
He brings his free hand hesitantly up to the first in the row, letting his fingers trail the cufflink softly. The material makes him inwardly cringe, itchy and stiff and irritating.
"Well?" Garcia's eyes jumps from him to the shirt he's still reluctantly fingering.
"It's great," he assures her.
Her smile falters. "You hate it."
His heart rate kicks up. "No, no, no. It's great. Uh, really." The material and pattern is not so different from what he's currently wearing, and he mentally assures himself that he can force himself to wear the same style again, especially to appease Garcia.
She outright frowns, placing her hands on her hips. "Don't lie. What don't you like about it?"
He gulps, finally releasing the uncomfortable sleeve. "Really, Garcia, it's fine-"
She holds up a single finger, silencing him in one simple motion. "Come on, genius. What's wrong with it?"
He swallows again, loathe to ruin her ever chipper mood. She stares him down, and finally, he relents. "It's itchy."
"Itchy?" She arches a blond brow, before understanding dawns on her face. "Itchy, as in uncomfortable?"
His eyes jump away from hers, traveling down the adjacent clothing rack. "Yeah."
He can practically feel her gaze rake across the button down on his body, and he fights the desire to shrink.
"I thought that's the style you liked ," she explains softly. "It's what you wear."
"It's what I have," he responds, just as quietly. His fingers twiddle restlessly in front of him; a nervous tick.
"Okay." She claps her hands, reverberating loud through the quiet store. His gaze flickers back to her, and he's relieved to find her familiar sunny smile back in place. "Let's find something softer. "
And then she's threading her arm back through his, dragging him through the store. They pass several rows of shirts and pants, past the front desk where a cashier greets them warmly. They bypass everything until Garcia stops suddenly in front of a particular rack.
"How about this?" She wonders, releasing her hold.
The shirt is another button up, though different. It's another soft white, but when he reaches out a finger to dance across the fabric, he finds his nerves to be entirely at peace.
There's no immediate cringe from the scratchy fabric, no desire to drop the sleeve like a burning ember. The fabric is as calming as Ralph's itself is.
Garcia releases a breath. "You like it."
"Yeah." He lets his hand travel up the shirt, feeling the collar. "Yeah. This is actually really nice."
Beaming, she maneuvers around him to thumb through the rack. "Great. We need to grab two- scratch that, five of these in your size."
"Five?" He spins to her, eyes wide. "Each of these shirts is 29.99, that's going to be $149.95, without counting sales tax-"
"And when's the last time you spoiled yourself, hmm?" Garcia pauses, shooting him a look. "It's alright to splurge a little, Spencer."
He bites his lip. "I don't know."
"Genius to genius," she sends a wink his way, "Take my advice. Take care of yourself."
He clears his throat. "I'm not used to this."
Garcia's demonear softens. "Well, get used to it. You're going to have me nagging you once a year to buy yourself clothes you actually like. No more itchy shirts, you hear me?"
He nods once, afraid to speak. The prospect of spending money on something as trivial as clothes fills him with trepidation, but he feels marginally better with Garcia's caring insistence cheering him on.
"Great." She pulls five of the soft shirts off the rack, drapping them easily over her arm. "Now, pants?"
It's not until an hour later that they finally leave the store, plastic bags hanging from both of their arms. Spencer is now the proud owner of incredibly exquisite shirts, comfortable pants, and a couple neutral sweater vests that he irrevocably fell in metaphorical love with.
He feels, surprisingly, happy.
"Thanks, Garcia," he offers softly, shoes tapping quietly across the cobbled sidewalk as they make their way down to a local coffee shop. "I had a really, really good time."
She sends a dazzling smile his way, and Spencer finds himself hoping that he never does anything to lose the favor of Penelope Garcia. She's one of the first, and best, friends he's ever had the privilege of claiming.
"Anything for you, brainiac." The bags swing with the power of her gait. "Now, have you ever thought about your hair?"
"My hair?" He runs his fingers worriedly through his greasy locks. What else could there be besides brushing and shampooing?
"You have a lot to learn, my grasshopper."