Chapter 1: Prologue
Chapter Text
LOG START
LOGIN USERNAME: NomenTuum
LOGIN PASSWORD: ***************
FILE NAME: PROJECT *******/******* ****
PUBLISH FILE: [YES] / [NO]
September 2006. 2 years, 5 months, [?] days before [REDACTED] joined the Behavioural Analysis Unit. <commencement rescue mission: UNKNOWN>
The sun is scorching hot, burning your exposed skin while the wind whips sand against your limbs, leaving minuscule cuts in its wake. The pain is palpable even in your very bones, every nerve ending begging for release, if even for just a moment. Between your teeth, there’s sand, along with your nose and throat—as far as you know, it might even be in your lungs. Despite the endless expanse of sand, in it not a person to be found, the silence seemingly everlasting, you feel as if you’re going deaf. Perhaps it’s the blood roaring through your veins, imitating the sound of a vengeful sea crashing against your eardrums, or perhaps it’s the echoes of the pain that inhabits the past. Pain you delivered for so many years, unquestionably, now coming to take its claim on your hearing, forcing you to relive all of it, over and over again.
You continuously slip in and out of consciousness, unable to find relief in either state. The pain persists, both physically and mentally. It makes pinpointing what is real and what is not nearly impossible, hallucinations fusing with reality as effortlessly as dye fuses to cloth. You’re in an endless state, somewhere between the heavens and the earth, in a cocoon of suffering, cosmic karma for all the pain you’ve left in the world. After everything, always convincing yourself you were leaving the world a better place, all you’re left with is the faces of those you destroyed. Opening your eyes is a futile effort, even if all you want is to see the sun one last time. Perhaps your eyes are already open, and they have simply lost their function.
The worst of it all might be that this is what you’ve been trained for. To die, that is. Anticipate everything, even death. Mortem Occumbere Pro Patria, they had said. And here it was. Even if you think you’re ready, there’s a deep yearning to keep going, to take just one more step towards survival. It's an instinct, one that not even years of training could have destroyed, one leftover from millennia of evolution. It’s powerful, all deciding. Animalistic. Today, it’s no longer enough to save you.
Strangely, you’re at peace with it all. You shouldn’t be: you’re still so young, too young to die. The pain is just too much; it has finally convinced you to let go. At least then, it’ll all be over. All you could ask for now is that it hadn’t all been in vain: you had saved lives, travelled the world, and trained to become the perfect weapon. Please, God, anyone, let it not be in vain. Would you be remembered for it? They had never come to save you, to get you out of this endless wasteland, but perhaps they would remember you. Perhaps they would recognise all you’ve done, and posthumously give their admiration.
Perhaps they wouldn’t. Chances were, your body would stay here forever, reclaimed by nature, never to be found again. A grave would be erected somewhere back home, maybe untitled, maybe not. You had no family to come visit anyway, so what did it matter? You had seen your family die in front of you, gruesomely, unforgivingly. All for a country that would not remember them. And now, like a cruel joke, it was your turn last. Perhaps it was an ending worthy of your life.
And so you let go, and awaited what would be ready for you in the next life.
Chapter 2: Genesis
Chapter Text
January 17th, 2009. 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
There’s a file on his desk when Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner walks into his office at seven in the morning. His nights here are late and his mornings early, mostly because there is little reason for him to spend a lot of time in his empty apartment, so whoever left that file there for him must’ve kept to even more ridiculous hours than he did. The file is unmarked, which isn’t entirely unusual—it just means that whoever printed it out did so in a hurry and couldn’t care less about actually labelling it—but it’s the bright pink post-it stuck to the front that gets his attention.
You said you were good at your job. What does this profile tell you?
It’s not signed, but he still knows who it’s from. A long time ago, close to two years now, he had profiled the section chief of the BAU in a fit of anger at her questioning his abilities. When Erin Strauss had asked how he knew that her son was her favourite child, he’d given her a very simple answer: because he was good at his job. Clearly, she hadn’t forgotten. Not that he cared, much. She wasn’t somebody you’d make easy friends with, and he wasn’t here to make friends in the first place.
He’s not happy about this extra job, mostly because he’s busy enough already and building a profile on nothing but a file is rarely accurate, but he still sits down at his desk and opens the file, albeit with a sigh. What makes it even worse, is that the file appears to be practically empty. There’s a name, the person’s gender and age—a woman, twenty-seven years old—and the fact that they’re currently at Counterterrorism within the FBI. Her test scores are good—really good, actually, he’d be impressed if he actually knew what this was all about. There isn’t even a picture, which only adds to the impression he already had: this file had been put together and printed out in blind haste. It’s not just that which gives the hurry away: the file was incomplete. Apart from Counterterrorism and academy test scores, their CV was empty. Not even their training at the FBI was mentioned, let alone anything they had ever done before joining the FBI. Maybe it was another Spencer Reid situation, some genius straight out of college with zero work experience, but at least he had presented a full resume and file, instead of this sad waste of paper.
His still-building frustration finally prompts him to pick up his phone and dial the number to Strauss’ office. She picks up on the third ring because of course, she’d also be in the office at seven in the morning. “I take it you’ve found the file I’ve left for you?” She says, her voice crackly on the other side of the line.
“How do you expect me to profile based on what is clearly an incomplete file?”
“Incomplete?” Strauss says, feigning innocence. It irks him.
“Apart from their age and name, there is very little discernible information in this file,” Hotch says, trailing over the literal half a page of text. Why it was even put in a folder is beyond him. It might as well have been folded into a paper aeroplane, at least then he could’ve argued for its usefulness.
“Am I wrong that when profiling an unsub, you usually don’t even have the name and age?” Strauss says, sounding a little too smug for his liking.
“Yes, but instead of those there’s usually a victimology and murder scene to base our theories on—all I have here are test scores.”
“Is there really nothing you can infer from their age? Surely there is quite the difference between the behaviour of a twenty-year-old and a, say, fifty-year-old?”
“This is still nothing more than educational guesswork.”
There was a short bit of silence on the other end of the line. “Would calling it a preliminary profile help, Agent Hotchner?”
Although he had no trouble going against the things she said and starting downright arguments with her, Hotch knew when it was time to give in to her demands. Calling him Agent Hotchner instead of just Hotch like everyone else did was one of those times. With a sigh, he began his preliminary profile, trying his hardest to give actual deductions instead of just plain guesswork.
“She’s a woman in her mid-twenties, which doesn’t tell me much except that she’s probably in good physical and mental condition. This is supported by the fact that her PFT scores are exceptional, the best ones I’ve seen in a very long time, which suggests that she either put a lot of effort into her training or that she was already in extremely good physical shape, maybe through a recruitment programme. Regardless of either of those, it tells me that she’s a disciplined individual, probably in more ways than one. I could give you more if you had also included her other test results, ma’am. If you’d also given me the Personality Assessment—”
“Unfortunately, that information cannot be shared at this time,” Strauss says, which was just a very long-winded way of saying that the information was classified. He was curious as to why, but he knew it was no use asking. “What about her work at Counterterrorism? Does that tell you anything?”
Hotch scanned over the little information he was given, his eyebrows raising as he read the short sentences summarising her work there. “It’s… impressive. She’s clearly a hard worker—great results, a high degree of closed cases. It doesn’t mention a lot of fieldwork, however, which could suggest an aversion to the physical aspect of the job, or perhaps a lack of trust from her superiors. Although, that would be surprising, given her rate of closed cases.” He trails off slowly, his mind racing as it starts making connections. Strauss had clearly gone through a lot of trouble at keeping as much information from him as she could, but as she herself had said, he was good at his job.
It was why he felt more than a little satisfied as he continued to speak, revealing the connections he had made based on the information he had—and more specifically, the information he didn’t have. “Her lack of fieldwork despite her good results and stellar physical assessment, combined with the fact that you refuse to give me any information on her mental assessment tells me that she’s mentally troubled, maybe even struggles with a mental disorder, one that is extreme enough that the Bureau doesn’t trust her. It also tells me that she’s unreliable, she’s probably gone against and blatantly ignored orders given to her by her superiors—”
“That’s quite enough, Agent—”
“This could be because of a moral superiority, or a belief that orders don’t apply to her, but her PFT scores suggest a disciplined personality, which tells me that she believes she knows better, enough to ignore orders blatantly—”
“Agent Hotchner—”
“—And that leads me to believe that she already has a lot of experience in the field, acquired before she joined the Bureau, enough to determine for herself that she’s in a position to ignore orders—”
“Agent Hotchner! That is quite enough!” Strauss said, her voice shrill. She sighed deeply when the other agent finally stopped talking, and Hotch envisioned her rubbing her forehead in frustration. She mumbled something about knowing another agent who liked to ignore orders too, and that did nothing to lessen the satisfaction he felt at his assessment: he was right, her response told him as much. “I asked you to give this profile because I want to know if you think she’s a good fit for the Bureau. If there are any… reservations, you may have.”
There was a part of him that just wanted to say yes for yes’ sake, get this all over with, but a part of him was also flattered that she wanted his specific expertise for this. “I think, based on the very limited information you’ve given me, that I would keep her on a trial basis. I’d suggest an extensive interview first and holding off on any field work for the first month, keeping a close eye on her the entire time, but I think I would suggest keeping her hired. Her scores suggest her to be a good agent, you don’t receive these scores by not having a genuine knack for this job.”
“I see,” Strauss says, and her tone of voice makes Hotch realise that he has completely underestimated her. He thought this had just been a simple game of back-and-forth, but he understands now that she had been playing chess the entire time, and was about to take his king with inevitable finality.
“Then I’m sure you’ll be glad to know she’ll be arriving at your office within the hour.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
With a leather messenger bag strapped across his chest, slightly too long, windswept hair tucked behind his ears and a silver watch clasped on top of the sleeves of both his button-up and thin, purple cardigan, Special Agent Spencer Reid arrives at his desk in the bullpen of the Behavioural Analysis Unit. The rest of his team had already arrived, either sitting at their own desks or chatting by the small kitchenette over a cup of coffee.
It's still early, yet the office dedicated to the Behavioural Analysis Unit is already bustling with life, the occasional ringing of the telephones, rustling of paper and near-constant clicking of keyboards creating a symphony of sounds ever-reminiscent of an office that rarely experienced true tranquillity. And every single morning, Spencer takes a moment to appreciate the well-oiled machine that he’s a part of. Despite being twenty-eight years old, a relatively average age for when people join the FBI, he’s still the youngest of the team. It had earned him the nickname ‘kid’, unfortunately. Still, it was a definite step up from ‘freak’, the one he had earned during his high school years, due to his high intelligence and near-perfect eidetic memory. Said intelligence was the reason he’d ended up within the BAU at only twenty-four years old, and now, four years on, he was more than happy to report that it had definitely been the correct choice for him. There’s really nowhere else he’d rather be.
He’d only been sitting at his desk for less than ten minutes, reading over his notes from yesterday regarding a report on a case he’d worked on, when a voice spoke up from somewhere behind him, slightly shy and very polite.
“Uhm, excuse me? Could I ask you something?”
When he turns around, he’s instantly taken aback by the person in front of him, and can only hope that his instant enrapture isn’t as painfully obvious as it feels.
As if struck by lightning, for a moment he can only stare at you, taking in the polite smile, bright eyes and neatly styled hair—so much so that he nearly neglects to acknowledge that you had spoken to him in a distinctly British accent. He blinks a few times, willing himself to speak, and all that comes out is a weak, “Uh, yes?”
You glance down at a file in one of your hands, frowning a little as you read something off the front. “I’m looking for Agent… Hotchner’s office?” You ask, meeting Spencer’s eyes and putting on a polite smile once more. “Could you point me in the right direction?”
Somewhere in his mind, somehow, he finds the intelligence to remind himself that it is much more polite to walk you to Hotch’s office, instead of just pointing you. “Oh, uh, yeah, I’ll show you,” he says, getting up from his chair to lead you over the very impressive twenty feet of office space to the right door.
A look of relief passes over your face, and it’s only then that he notices how rigid your posture is. Whatever your reason for being here, you clearly didn’t feel too comfortable about the whole thing. “Oh, that’s great! Thank you, uhm…”
“Spencer,” He says, too quickly and frowns a little when he corrects himself. “Reid. I mean, Spencer Reid. Doctor Spencer Reid, actually, technically.”
By the time he’s jumbled his way through what really shouldn’t have been a difficult sentence, you’ve arrived at Hotch’s door. You just smile at him, and it doesn’t seem like the phoney politeness he’s come to expect from his rambles, but seems genuine, and filled with curiosity. “Well, then, thank you very much, Doctor Spencer Reid.”
He wants to ask your name but forgets to do so in time, and then you’ve already knocked on Hotch’s door, a gruff voice on the other side calling you in. When he turns around, he’s met with the sight of Emily Prentiss and Derek Morgan watching him with looks of various degrees of amusement. He sighs, yet starts making his way towards the two because he knows that there is no escaping this one.
“Who was that?” Morgan asks with an exaggerated tone of voice, as if he’d just caught Spencer asking a girl out on the playground. It’s ridiculous, but nothing new, really. Not from him.
“I honestly have no idea,” he says, shoving his hands in his pocket as he unconsciously glances at the door you just disappeared through. “She just asked me where she could find Hotch.”
“Looks like you were more than happy to show her,” Morgan says, wiggling his eyebrows. It takes everything in Spencer not to roll his eyes.
“I was just being polite.”
“Don’t take the bait, dummy,” Emily says, shaking her head with an amused smile. “Why’s she here, you think?”
“No idea. A job interview, maybe?”
“No way,” Morgan says, shaking his head as he crosses his arms in front of his chest. “The Bureau was on Hotch’s ass for months trying to come up with reasons to cut our budget, they wouldn’t just hire someone new after all of that. She’s probably just here to help on a case, she was holding a file.”
“Who’s here to help on a case?” A voice speaks up behind them. When they glance back, they see JJ approaching them, file in hand and a crease between her eyebrows.
“A woman is meeting with Hotch,” Emily says with a small shrug. “We’re trying to figure out why.”
“Well, if she was here on a case, it’s not this one,” JJ says, shaking the file she’s holding as she takes a spot beside Spencer, glancing up at the office. There’s little to see except for the closed door and drawn blinds. “I chose this one, like, five minutes ago.”
“Could be a different case?” Morgan suggests. “Maybe Hotch got called in personally and he’s working with her.”
“Wouldn’t he have met her by the elevators, then, if he knew she was coming? Instead of having her find her own way around here?” Spencer says, to which he gets a few nods of agreement from everyone. Hotch was a hard-ass, but he at least had basic manners, especially when working with other agents or different forms of law enforcement.
“Did you get a read on her?” Morgan asks him then. He sounds serious about it, he’s not trying to tease him. “What did she seem like?”
“She was nice. Polite,” Spencer says with a shrug. “Seemed a bit nervous. Or stressed. Maybe both. She had a British accent.”
“British?” JJ said, her eyebrows raising. “MI6, then? Or Interpol?”
“What did she say, Reid? Exactly?” Morgan asks.
“Uhm, excuse me? Could I ask you something? I’m looking for Agent Hotchner’s office. Could you point me in the right direction? Oh, that’s great, thank you. Well, then, thank you very much, Doctor Spencer Reid.”
He recites your words perfectly, needing little effort to recall his short-lived conversation with you. His voice is close to robotic, neutral in tone—he’s good at recalling words, but the emotion within them is usually quickly forgotten. Even if he did remember that, it wouldn’t matter, at least not right now.
“Well, that tells us nothing,” Emily says, to which the others hum or nod in agreement. “You know, Hotch didn’t know I was coming either, on my first day.”
Nobody has a response to that, realising that she’s right. She was also transferred without Hotch’s knowledge and had just showed up at the BAU one day, much to everyone’s surprise. That had all worked out though, in the end, and she had turned into a valued member of the team over time. Could this be another one of those times?
The door to Hotch’s office opens suddenly then, and they all watch as he stalks out with large steps and a face like thunder, making his way to the office beside his own: David Rossi’s. You follow behind him with flushed cheeks, furrowed brows and a tense jaw. Whatever had been said behind that door had clearly been anything but a positive interaction. Neither of you even glimpse at the group very obviously staring at them. Even when he calls out to them, Hotch doesn’t spare them a glance. “Don’t you all have work to do?”
His voice is stern and curt, even more so than normally, which prompts everyone to slink back to their own desks, deciding that today was not the day to push his buttons. It’s obvious that nobody has any focus, however, as they all periodically peek up at David Rossi’s office, as if that other closed door and those other drawn blinds would somehow give them more information than their counterparts had done.
Thirty minutes later, you’re still inside with Hotch and Rossi, and everyone else has given up on actually trying to do their work. JJ has taken up residence with Spencer, leaning against his desk with now a stack of files, instead of just a single one.
“Normally I would just walk in there, let Hotch know we got a case,” she says, arms crossed in front of her chest. “Doesn’t seem like a good idea right now, though.”
“I definitely wouldn’t,” Spencer says, as he plays with the handle of his mug. “Although you’ve always been braver than me when it comes to Hotch.”
JJ chuckles at that, shaking her head a bit. “So, besides polite, anything else you noticed about her?”
“Not really. Just that she seemed really out of place, I don’t think she expected to come here today.”
“I feel bad for her if that’s true. She gets sent to the BAU out of nowhere and then gets a dressing-down from Hotch. I just hope she has thick skin.”
Right at that moment, the door to Rossi’s office opens once more, and the three people behind the doorstep outside, still talking amongst each other in hushed tones. JJ immediately grabs her stack of files and makes her way over, and Spencer can only marvel at her bravery. He’d have probably given it another few minutes, just in case, but then again, they never allowed him into the field because of his bravery.
You look a lot more collected than you did earlier: it’s obvious that you’ve run your hand through your hair a few times, the waves slightly messier than before, but you don’t seem as flushed, and your jaw isn’t as tense. Whatever the problem was initially, it seems mostly resolved now.
Not much later, everyone is sat in the conference room, waiting for JJ to start the briefing of their next case—well, everyone except you and Hotch, that is. All of the secrecy was starting to get to the team, and, as he often did, Morgan was more than happy to voice his discontent. “I thought we had a case to discuss?” he says, leaning back in his chair in a manner that doesn’t exactly scream ‘active participation’.
“Give them a moment,” Rossi replies easily, his voice calm and collected like it always was. His posture gives him away, however, because his slightly tense shoulders don’t fit his tone of voice.
The use of ‘them’ tells Spencer that you’re involved in this case, in one way or another: you’re here to assist them, and apparently, neither Hotch nor Rossi were aware of this. It’s intriguing, at best, and downright concerning at worst.
Finally, you and Hotch make your way into the conference room, immediately earning everyone’s attention, ranging from not-so-innocent curiosity to mild contempt for all the mystery. Your hands are behind your back, your feet slightly apart, and you have a face like you’ve just been called to battle. Spencer can’t help but think that this is probably what it feels like for you, with the welcoming you’ve just had and the way everyone’s staring at you now. It didn’t seem like you were letting it get to you, however, which was impressive.
“Everyone, I’d like you to meet Agent Angie Tomlinson from Counterterrorism,” Hotch says matter-of-factly as if they hadn’t just all witnessed the most chaotic meeting in weeks, maybe ever, in the BAU. He clears his throat. “She’s transferring here and will be our newest team member starting today.”
It’s quiet for a moment, but nobody seems too surprised. Everyone’s been speculating all morning, which meant that they had been anticipating anything. Spencer expects you to start looking around nervously, to try and gauge everyone’s reactions—something he would’ve done—but you don’t. You look everyone in the eye, one by one, and give a strong nod. “I look forward to working together.”
Neither you nor Hotch addresses the chaotic meeting that had preceded all of this, which is probably why Morgan speaks up, his tone of voice blunt. “That’s it?” he says, earning a raised eyebrow from you. “Budget cuts left and right and we just get a new transfer, out of nowhere?”
“Didn’t realise I had to run it by you first,” you say, which was the last thing Spencer, and everyone else, evidently, expected to hear from you. The expectation was that you’d keep quiet, so as to not make it more awkward, but clearly, you didn’t shy away from a confrontation. Quite instantly, the tension in the room increased drastically as you and Morgan now appeared to be in a stare-off.
“We’ll leave the introductions for later,” Hotch eventually says, also clearly taken aback by the way you had reacted. “Take a seat, Agent. JJ, you have a case for us?”
“Uh, right, yes,” JJ says, grabbing the remote off the table to turn on the screen, where all the broad strokes of the case would be presented to them. She hands everyone a file, including you, as you make your way over to the only empty chair at the end of the table, which just happened to be beside Morgan.
“With your permission,” you say, your voice sarcastic as you follow up on your comment from earlier.
“Clearly you don’t need it,” Morgan replies, and in a flash, something akin to respect appears in your eyes. You hold out your hand and introduce yourself once more. Morgan shakes your hand and gives his name, and just like that, a feeling of mutual respect has been established. JJ starts speaking then, diverting everyone’s attention to the screen, which is now displaying a graduation picture of a young woman, and beside it, her crime scene pictures.
“This is Evelyn Harper, twenty-eight years old, she was strangled to death. Her body was discovered three days ago in a remote wooded area near Riverside, Ohio. No signs of sexual assault, with clear ligature marks on her throat and wrists,” she said, clicking a button and showing two more pictures—one from a passport and another crime scene. They were nearly identical to the first set of photos above them. “And this is Sarah Lawson, thirty years old, also strangled to death, found in a public park yesterday. She also has ligature marks around her neck and throat, and her wrists bear the same binding marks.”
“Pretty obvious victimology,” Spencer says, to which everyone nods. Nobody notices the way you frown at his words, trying to figure out what he means.
“The lead detective on the case, Debra Shields, asked us for assistance, she believes a serial killer is at work here,” JJ says. “And I agree with her, the signs are there.”
“Seems like the unsub’s in a rush too, killing two women in three days,” Morgan says as he reads over the information in his file. “Not much of a cooling-off period.”
“He’s not devolving, though, his signature is pretty obvious on both victims, clean and sleek,” Emily adds, also looking in her file.
“The detective wants us there as soon as possible, to prevent any more deaths in case the unsub starts accelerating even quicker,” Hotch says, closing his file and getting up from his seat. “Get your go-bag, wheels up in thirty.”
“Wheels up?” You say, looking around in confusion as everyone starts getting up from their seats.
“Means the jet will leave in thirty minutes,” Emily says with a smile, and your eyes widen.
“Jet? As in, private?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You’re joking,” you say, quickly following Emily out of the room, the two of you falling into a conversation about the luxuries of the BAU’s very own personal jet. Spencer chastises himself for a moment, wishing he’d been quicker to respond to you—it could’ve been him you’re now talking to. From the way Derek pats his shoulder with a wide, teasing grin, it must’ve been obvious.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
As promised, thirty minutes later, the jet takes off from the tarmac, the team all inside, files in hand. You’re standing in the aisle of the plane, hips leaning against the chair Emily is sitting in, your elbow on top of the backrest. You look collected, not all intimidated by the new surroundings. Clearly, you adapt to new environments quickly. Spencer is sitting across from Emily, making it easy for him to sneak glances at you, something he hopes you don’t notice. He’ll get used to you soon enough, and then he’ll stop staring eventually, it just takes a little longer when you’re as beautiful as that.
“Agent Tomlinson,” Hotch says, making eye contact from where he’s sat next to the window with Rossi beside him. “Could you take us through the victimology, please?”
“The victim—” you start, cutting yourself off as you nod, glancing down at your file with furrowed brows. “Yes, of course, uh...”
You trail off, and it becomes quiet in the jet, apart from the humming of the engines and the rush of the wind outside. It takes a while for you to continue, but right as everyone thinks you have no idea what to say and Emily opens her mouth to help you out, you speak up again, as if nothing had happened.
“Both victims are female, brunette, in their late twenties, medium to slim build, both relatively short at 5’6” and 5’5” respectively,” you say, and Spencer can’t help but silently cheer you on, hoping that you’ll pick up on the subtleties along the way. “They both have brown eyes. Apart from the fact that our suspect—”
“Unsub,” Morgan interrupts, and even though it should’ve been rude, there’s a friendly smile on his face. “We say unsub, Unknown Subject, I know that’s different from Counterterrorism.”
“Ah, yeah, thanks,” you say, returning the smile. You need a moment to recollect your thoughts, and Spencer can’t help but feel annoyed at Morgan for interrupting you. “Apart from the fact that our unsub clearly has a type, I think that the eye colour combined with the method of killing suggests that the unsub likes to look the victims in the eyes as they pass away.”
‘Pass away’. It’s a curious way to put it, expressly empathetic, especially when everyone is so used to just saying ‘dying’ or ‘being killed’. It shows that close investigation, like they do in the BAU, is something you’re not used to, that you aren’t yet as numb to all of this as the rest of the team already is.
“The clothes are also arranged neatly, which could suggest remorse,” you say, looking up and accidentally meeting Spencer’s eyes. You don’t look away though, and instead use it as an opportunity to ask his opinion. “Do you concur, Doctor?”
“It could also suggest a need for control,” he says without thinking, but you smile, and so he’s relieved to know that you didn’t take it as a slight. “But you’re right, remorse is also possible.”
“No, I think control’s more accurate,” you say as you look back down at the file. “Especially because they were all taken from public, high-traffic areas— Evelyn Harper was taken outside of a yoga class in downtown Riverside and Sarah Lawson was an employee at a bookshop. It suggests planning and control, along with the binding of the wrists and the lack of sexual assault.”
Spencer doesn’t show it, but he’s impressed: it’s some pretty solid reasoning and deduction for your first time working on a case like this. Well, assuming it is your first time. It seems to be, but he’ll just have to ask you about that later today. It’s probably not a good idea to just put you on the spot and ask you here, in a closed-off jet, with little privacy for a conversation.
“Binding of the wrists, Agent?” Rossi asks, urging you to explain your conclusion in a way only a good supervisor could do it: by sounding inquisitive, without sounding patronising.
“The ligature marks on the wrists,” you say, pointing to a picture and showing everyone your file so they can find the pictures in their own. “It looks like they were bound with a rope of some sort. Cable ties would’ve left cuts and much more sharp-edged bruises, but these are round and don’t have any sharp cuts, but rather burn marks. That’s why it also couldn’t have been done by someone just squeezing too hard, if that was the case there wouldn’t have been any burn marks.”
“Good deductive reasoning, Agent,” Hotch says, and you seem surprised at his words. Clearly, the negative interaction from that morning was still fresh on your mind. Before you can reply, Hotch continues. “Reid, what do the locations where the bodies were found tell you?”
The geographical aspects of cases were often assigned to Spencer, as it was one of his strong suits: he was good at recognising patterns, and more often than not, there was a pattern to the places where serial killers left their victims. Or, as they often less eloquently put it, the dump sites.
“The fact that both of the victims were abducted from public places but left in isolated locations suggests a familiarity with the area, so it’s most likely our unsub is from the area, maybe even grew up here,” he says, going over his file. “He was also able to transport them without being seen, so he most likely drives a pickup truck or a van.”
Emily speaks up with a scoff. “So we’re looking for someone in Ohio that drives a pickup truck, that definitely narrows it down.”
“There’s something else that isn’t in the files,” JJ says then, earning everyone’s attention from where she’s sat across from Rossi. “The media’s already picked up on this, they’ve taken to calling him the Riverside Ripper.”
“Ripper? That doesn’t even make any sense, there’s no ripping involved,” Spencer says with a frown, to which JJ shrugs.
“Doesn’t matter, it’s the name they’re rolling with, and it’s apparently caught on.”
“Alright, Morgan, Prentiss, I want the two of you to go to the first crime scene, and see what you can find there. Rossi and I will go the second one, Detective Shields will meet us there,” Hotch says as he looks around the team one by one. “JJ, I want you to call for a press conference the moment you get to the precinct, see if you can’t do a bit of damage control. Agent Tomlinson, you’ll be shadowing Doctor Reid during this case, helping him build a geographical profile.”
There’s hesitation in your voice as you say, “Yes, sir,”, but you don’t say anything else. It makes Spencer wonder what exactly made you hesitate—it wasn’t him, right? He’s used to strangers feeling weird about working with him, but he hadn’t made himself look that weird in front of you yet, right?
Those thoughts dissipate the moment his eyes meet yours and you send him an encouraging smile. Whether it’s because you’re just that type of person who smiles at people like that, or if it’s because you somehow noticed his inner turmoil, he can’t figure out. Not that it matters, because with a smile like that, he feels more than ready to get to work with you.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Although technically a city, Riverside in Ohio has turned into a suburb of the bigger city of Dayton. The Riverside Police Department is on the north side of Mad River, surrounded by interstate and unnecessarily large roads, that seem to consist of more patchwork than actual road. You’re the one driving the rental car, with Spencer beside you in the passenger seat and JJ in the back, typing away on her laptop as she works on the statement she’ll be giving to the press later.
“Not a particularly eventful part of the USA, is it?” You eventually say, breaking the slightly awkward air hanging in the car, only broken up by the sound of JJ’s keyboard. There weren’t a lot of things Spencer Reid wasn’t good at, but small talk was definitely one of those. He’s glad you’re the one to break the silence.
“You’ve never been to Ohio?” He asks, to which you shake your head.
“Never,” you say. “But it doesn’t seem like I’ve been missing out on a lot, apart from empty fields and some pretty dreadful roads.”
As if to drive your point home, the car hits a pothole, causing you to hiss in frustration, only to then scoff in some sort of bemusement. “Bloody hell, couldn’t write a better joke if I tried.”
After a moment, Spencer gives his own attempt at small talk, which, in his case, always starts with the same three words. “Did you know that the state of Ohio got its name from the Ohio River? And that the word Ohio is derived from the same native term meaning ‘the great river’?”
You smile at him, and he’s more than happy to see that it’s genuine, and not just a polite smile of mild disinterest. “I certainly did not, Doctor,” you say. “How come you know this sort of thing? Did your research on the jet?”
“I read it once,” he says with a decisive nod, pressing his lips into his signature awkward smile as he stares ahead at the road.
After a moment, you chuckle, earning his attention. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh, I just—well, I was expecting a bit more, I suppose. Didn’t think you’d just stop like that.”
“Oh,” he says, slightly taken aback. He’s so used to cutting himself off before anyone on the team has to do so, that he’s forgotten that with you, he’s still in that green part of the summer, where you don’t yet know how many tangents he actually goes on. “Well, I have an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187, and I can read 20.000 words per minute. So, I read quickly, and once I’ve read it, I can recall it.”
“How extraordinary,” you say, sending him a smile. “You must make for a very interesting conversationalist."
It was safe to say that he had definitely never received a response like that after revealing the way his mind worked. Usually, people didn’t seem to believe him, or took it as some sort of boast, or even worse, made some stupid joke about him being the Einstein of his generation, which didn’t even make any sense because Einstein only had an IQ of 160—anyhow. He liked your response, is what he’s saying.
“I think most people just think I’m annoying,” he says, and you laugh. He can’t help but smile.
“Well, then they’re clearly not worth your time, are they?” You say, and he really has nothing to bring into that. No, people like that really weren’t worth his time. He had a feeling that the same couldn’t be said about you.
The Riverside police station didn’t look any different from all the others they had ever visited: slightly outdated, a little cluttered, and smelling vaguely of coffee and cheap cleaning products. It’s exactly like all the other ones. You, Spencer and JJ were met by a somewhat overweight Police Chief who squeezed way too hard when he shook their hands and had led them to a small room where they were able to set up their things for the investigation.
It didn’t take long to attach a map of the area to the whiteboard, alongside which another board filled with the pictures of the victims. JJ had gone off to talk to the Police Chief once more to agree on the story they would give the press, and to somehow put a stop to whoever the leak within their department was. The last thing they needed was even more information being handed out to the press.
With a blue marker, you and Spencer had identified on the map where the victims had been taken, and with a red one, where their bodies had been found. All four of those locations were downtown, which had led Spencer to believe that that was also where the unsub lived.
“The places where the women were taken, it’s so public,” you say as you both studied the map. “It must’ve required a lot of planning, they don’t seem very opportunistic.”
“That, along with the clear positioning of the dump sites and the binding of the wrists, suggests an organised offender,” Spencer says, and you frown.
“Organised?”
“It’s when an unsub commits an obviously premeditated crime, often leaving no clues and choosing victims with precise specifications,” Reid explains and watches as you nod along, clearly trying to remember what he’s saying. “A disorganised offender is the exact opposite, they’re, like you said, opportunistic. They leave clues and sometimes just use whatever weapons they find at the crime scene. Although I have to admit, we rarely have an unsub who is just one of these—usually there’s a bit of overlap.”
You breathe in deeply as you nod, your eyes returning to the map. “Right, that’s… a bit confusing, but I suppose profiling is rarely as straightforward as it seems.”
“You get used to it,” Spencer says with his awkward smile, and you return it briefly.
“So, he’s organised, very much so, has a need for control and a clear type when it comes to victimology. He always dumps the bodies in quiet areas to not get caught, but he still takes the time to straighten out their clothes and remove the restraints he put on their wrists,” you say, summing up the facts they had so far. “It’s definitely a man, women don’t usually kill like this, and he’s controlling to the point of being obsessive, at least when it comes to his victims. He’s probably in his early thirties or forties and he lives downtown.”
It's a good summary of the things they know so far, but before he can respond, Spencer’s phone rings and he quickly puts it on speakerphone when he sees Emily’s name on the screen. “Hey, Tomlinson’s here too,” he says, putting the phone on the table.
“We just visited the first crime scene, this guy’s good—not a shred of evidence, he made sure there was nothing we could find,” Emily says. “We just spoke to Hotch, apparently they did find something there, we’re all heading back to the precinct. You guys manage to find anything?”
“He’s definitely local,” you say, glancing back at the map. “An organised offender, too, especially now that we know he doesn’t leave evidence. Obsessed with control, it seems.”
“Yeah, we were thinking the same thing. Good work, we’ll be there soon.”
Once everyone had made it back to the precinct and JJ had finished giving her statement to the press—which, she had admitted, had been one hell of a task, Hotch tossed a picture onto the table: on it was a small, silver charm, something that looked like an aeroplane.
“It could be nothing,” he says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “It’s getting rushed to the lab right now, we’ll know soon enough if it has something to do with our unsub.”
The picture is passed around as the team starts swapping out their information, which mostly comes down to the same things: apart from the charms, both crime scenes had been completely devoid of evidence, and according to the coroner’s reports, both bodies had been cleaned thoroughly to get rid of any DNA. The marks on the victim’s wrists were most definitely from a thick rope, a good enough quality to where they didn’t fray even with all the friction from trying to escape them.
You stare at the picture for a moment, before glancing back at the board. Then back at the picture, and once more back at the board. Spencer is about to ask what you’re thinking, but you speak up before he can. “Look at her bag,” you say, causing everyone to go quiet and redirect their attention to you as you point to a picture depicting the belongings of the first victim, found at the scene of abduction. “You see that, by the zipper? Isn’t that the same charm as this one?”
Hotch immediately walks over, taking the picture off the board and the one from your hands and holding them side-by-side. “It is,” he then agrees, throwing them on the table for the others to see. “He put them on the victims before he abducted them, he marked them without them ever realising it.”
“If we know where they were made, maybe we can trace them back to shops selling them here, in the area,” Rossi says. “That could give us a solid lead on our unsub.”
Hotch nods in agreement. “Good work, Agent,” he tells you, and you seem completely taken aback by his compliment. Before you can reply, he continues. “So, he’s organised, physically fit—enough to overtake these women and dump their bodies in public without being seen—has a need for control, and leaves them aeroplane charms before he kills them.”
“Looks like we have our preliminary profile,” Rossi says, and with that, everyone gets ready to share their findings with the precinct, and more specifically, the lead detective on the case. They’re just in time too, as the workday is slowly dwindling to an end with the night shift already getting ready to take over. You don’t say much during the presentation of the profile, but that’s not exactly surprising. You’ll fall into the right steps soon enough.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
That following morning, after the team has allowed themselves a good night’s rest, you all convene in the small room still set up with all of the evidence. You’re nursing a cup of tea as you talk with JJ, and even though Spencer can’t hear what the two of you are saying, it seems to be a pleasant conversation. There’s a moment when JJ laughs and lightly hits your shoulder with the back of her hand, which makes you laugh too. It takes everything in Spencer not to stare.
“Charm came back clean,” Hotch suddenly says as he walks into the room, tossing a small plastic bag onto the table labelled ‘EVIDENCE’. Inside of it is the small aeroplane found on the second victim. “The only DNA evidence found was that of the victim.”
“Want me to see if Garcia can trace it?” Morgan says, to which Hotch nods. He takes out his phone, before turning to you with a devilish grin and handing you the phone. Everybody gets an amused expression as you look on warily.
“What exactly is going on here?” You say, putting your cup down on the table. “Who is Garcia?”
“Looks like you’re about to find out,” Morgan teasingly says, to which you raise an eyebrow.
“She’s our tech specialist,” JJ explains, biting her lip as she tries to keep her own smile at bay. “She’s… a force to be reckoned with, so to speak.”
“My kind of woman,” you say jokingly, before clicking a button on Morgan’s flip phone and waiting for the other person to pick up. She does within two rings.
“Tell me what you’re wearing and I’ll tell you what to take off first, my chocolate Hercules.”
It’s exactly as vulgar and ridiculous as everyone had expected her to be, and they all look at you to see your face go from rather neutral to horrified, to then pure glee. “No Hercules here I’m afraid, darling, but I can be your Venus if you keep talking to me like that.”
A gasp rings out on the other end, one that’s both surprised and far too excited. “Now that is not the voice nor the accent I expected to hear today,” Garcia says, making you chuckle. “You must be the new agent Morgan not so subtly hinted at yesterday.”
“And now you get to help this new agent find something on the internet,” you say, picking up the small plastic bag and snapping a photo of the charm inside. You click around the phone a few times before speaking up again. “Did you get the photo I sent you?”
Garcia gasps again, mumbling something about the way you pronounce the word ‘photo’, before she starts talking in a normal volume. “Yep, got it. Tell me what you need, Venus.”
You explain the situation to her quickly, occasionally glancing at Hotch for his agreement and input—not that you need any, it’s all fairly straightforward: you explain that the charm was found with both the victims and that there was a good chance the unsub bought it somewhere in the area. “So, d’you think you can find it based on that?”
“Try looking for shops selling it near Riverside, Ohio, specifically,” Spencer quickly adds, to which you nod.
“Alright, let me work my magic. Speak to you in a jiffy, friends!”
After the line goes dead, you hand the phone back to Morgan with a chuckle, shaking your head. “A force indeed, what an introduction.”
“You handled it like a champ,” Morgan says, nudging your shoulder with a grin. “I’ll be honest, I kinda expected you to fold.”
“Then you don’t know me very well at all, mate,” you say with a similar grin to Morgan’, your interactions already friendly and familiar. It was obvious that you two clicked, which made Spencer a bit envious of Morgan.
It’s then that Hotch’s phone rings, and when he asks “Where?” after a short moment of silence on his part, they all know that another body has been found.
Twenty minutes later, you, Spencer, Hotch and Rossi are all standing on a small embankment by the river, staring at the newest crime scene a few feet away. It’s taped off with bright, ugly yellow tape that’s a stark contrast to the otherwise perfectly natural green environment around them. The calming sloshing of the water against the sand creates a strange atmosphere when contrasted with the corpse of the third victim.
Spencer crouches down by the body after forensics are done examining it. His blue gloves snap against his skin as he pulls them on and he moves his sunglasses away from his face to take a better look. “Same ligature marks on the neck as the other victims,” he says, using his pinkie finger to point to the purple marks on the woman’s neck without touching the skin. “On the wrist too, look. This was definitely our unsub.”
“Do we know her name?” Hotch asks, to which you nod.
“They found her purse a couple feet away, her driver’s license reads Amber Reynolds,” you say. “Twenty-nine, 5’7”, brown eyes, just like the other ones.”
“He’s still not devolving,” Rossi says, to which Spencer makes a small noise of disagreement, now turning the woman’s left wrist to face upwards.
“Actually, I wouldn’t be so sure, I think he made a mistake,” he says. He asks a woman working nearby for a tweezer, before using it on the wrist he’s holding. “I think it’s a piece of the rope he used.”
You walk over and crouch down beside him, closely studying the frayed red and blue hairs that seemingly belonged to the rope used to bind the victims. “If you’re right, that would mean he’s getting sloppy,” you say, standing up straight again, watching as Spencer hands the tweezer back to the same woman from earlier, who drops it into a small, plastic bag. “Maybe he was interrupted? Only had the time to straighten out her clothes before he had to leave?”
“Maybe,” Hotch said, nodding. “Either way, he’s not as organised as he was before. Did we find another charm?"
“Not yet, they’re still looking through her belongings,” you say. After ordering you and Spencer to continue examining the body, Hotch and Rossi walk away to talk to the lead detective, and you take that moment to crouch down once more. “Is this what you meant when you said that organised and disorganised usually overlap each other?”
“A little,” Spencer says as he continues studying the victim's visible skin, trying to find any defensive wounds. “But this could just be a mistake. Maybe he’s devolving, or he was interrupted, like you said.”
You hum. “What does that mean, devolving? Is that when they start losing control?”
“Yeah, exactly,” Spencer says, taking a moment to meet your eyes and send you an encouraging smile. “It’s also when they go from organised to disorganised.”
You look at the body again, nodding to yourself as you seem to mull over Spencer’s words. He takes a moment to study the side of your face, admiring what he’s seeing whilst simultaneously trying to figure out what it is you’re thinking. You don’t seem too fazed by the body in front of you, which makes him wonder how many dead bodies you’ve actually seen up close. It couldn’t have been that many, considering you came from Counterterrorism.
Before he can ask you, Rossi calls out to the two of you, phone in hand. “Garcia has something!”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
The first time you get to actually see Garcia is from the other side of a computer screen, her colourful figure a stark contrast to the otherwise dark room she seemed to work in. Once everyone was huddled around the screen, she took a moment to comment on your appearance—“How unfair! A sexy accent with a face like that!”—before she dives into her process of finding the unsub.
“So, I managed to find the exact charm with a manufacturer here, in the US of A and used their database to find shops who bought them in bulk. There’s none in Riverside specifically, but—! I did find a shop in Dayton, and, get this, it’s a fifteen-minute drive from the first crime scene.”
“Did you manage to link it to our unsub?” Morgan asks, to which Garcia scoffs as if it was a ridiculous question to ask her.
“What is this, amateur hour?” She says, making Morgan chuckle and shake his head as everyone else smiles. “I hacked into the shop’s database—awful security, by the way—and found a receipt of a customer who bought ten of those charms.”
“Ten?” Emily says, her eyebrows raising high. “How ambitious.”
“I know! So gross!” Garcia says with a dramatized shudder. “Anyway, I used the timestamp on the receipt and compared it to the security tapes. There was only one camera angle and it’s pretty grainy, but I think it’s our unsub.”
Black and white security footage pops up on the screen, and the team watches as a man walks into the small crafts shop, a cap on his head and a jacket pulled tightly across his shoulders. It takes him barely a minute to pick out his charms and a large bit of rope, before he walks to the counter to pay, finally making his way outside again. His cap obscures his face the entire time.
“We’re definitely not getting any facial recognition out of this one,” Morgan mumbles as he straightens up.
“We were right about the profile though,” Spencer says as he points to the screen when the footage replays. “A male, late thirties, physically fit…”
“What’s that, on his jacket?” Rossi asks, pointing to the screen as the man makes his way out of the shop once more. Everyone leans in closer, trying to identify the small object, which appears to be a pin or badge of some sort. Garcia takes a moment to zoom in, which doesn’t do much except make the footage even grainier, but the shape becomes just the tiniest bit more obvious, enough to vaguely identify.
“It looks like… wings?” JJ says, frowning as she looks amongst her team members. “What does that mean, he’s a pilot?”
“No, not a pilot… He’s military,” you say, a deep crease as you study the footage replaying for the third time. Everyone turns to look at you with questioning faces, and you clear your throat as you point to the screen. “You see how it’s round in the middle? Means it’s an Aircrew Badge—he served on board a military aircraft. Doesn’t mean he was a pilot though, could be that he was any of the five branches. I’d say army, though.”
“Served?” Hotch asks you, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “How do you know he’s not serving anymore?”
“‘Cos he’s wearing the pin out of uniform,” you say, your nose crinkling in what appears to be disgust. You clearly disagreed with his choice. “He was probably dishonourably discharged and is now trying to compensate for it, unconsciously or not. It’s… it’s gross, like he’s trying to get praise for it.”
After a moment of silence, Morgan is finally the one to ask you the question that is on everyone’s mind. “How do you know all this?”
“I have a mate in the navy,” you say with a small shrug. “I got one of his badges wrong one time, so we made a drinking game out of who could remember the most. That one is the easiest of the wings, it’s the only one that’s round in the middle.”
It’s a good enough explanation that everyone seems satisfied with, but Spencer doesn’t buy it, not fully, at least. You’re too casual about it, but you don’t make any eye contact with anyone either. It hits him then that the friend you’re talking about may no longer be alive and that instantly makes him feel guilty for questioning your story.
“So, if he’s in the army, why wear only the Aircrew badge?” Rossi asks as he turns to look at you specifically.
“Probably couldn’t make it into the air force,” you say. “Maybe his scores were too low. It would explain why he’s so proud of that pin—to anybody unfamiliar with them it looks as if he was in the Air Force. Could also explain why he bought aeroplane charms.”
You then turn to Spencer with a frown, seeming to realise something as your eyes widen. “Isn’t there an Air Force base nearby here?”
He turns to the map behind him, before nodding frantically. “Yeah, there is. Can’t imagine that’s a coincidence.”
“Garcia,” Hotch then says, continuing to talk after a quick, “Yes, sir?”, that sounded slightly nervous. “Try and see if you can find any soldiers that were dishonourably discharged in the last year or so, who also tried to join the Air Force but were denied.”
“On it,” she says, and barely ten seconds later, spoke up again. “I have eleven names here, we’re going to need to slim it down.”
“Any that moved to or currently live in Riverside?” Emily asks, her face tense as she leans in a bit closer.
“Bingo. Douglas Parker, thirty-eight years old, joined the military at eighteen but was denied from the air force due to low test scores. He was dishonourably discharged for assaulting an officer on duty, injuring him so severely that he couldn’t serve for three months.”
“You got an address for me, baby girl?” Morgan asks with a deeply focused look on his face.
“I most certainly do, sweet cheeks. Mangrove Way, 5314.”
“That’s directly below the base,” Spencer says from where he’s studying the map, his eyes widening at his own discovery. “He probably has a direct view.”
“Let’s go get the bastard,” you say, gritting your jaw as your eyes flicker over the pictures of the victims still up on the board. You don’t need to say it twice as everyone immediately goes to get ready to, hopefully, catch the unsub at his home.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Mangrove Way turned out to be part of a large, sprawling suburb of which the outer ring had, as Spencer had predicted, a perfect view of the Air Force Museum, beside which was an actual airbase. The house Douglas Parker resided in was on a corner, giving him more ways to escape and a much bigger chance of spotting anyone coming close to his house—especially an entire SWAT team.
It was for this reason that everyone had convened on one end of the street the unsub resided on, just beyond the bend to stay hidden from view. After talking with the head of the SWAT team, Hotch had made his way back to his own agents, whom he was now instructing on the plan for breaching the house.
“Morgan and I will take the front of the house, Prentiss, Dave and JJ will take the back. Reid, Tomlinson, you’ll circle around the side of the house, make sure to keep an eye on the windows in case he escapes that way,” Hotch says, his instructions short and precise. “We go in after the SWAT team, understood? This unsub is ex-military, we don’t know what to expect in there. Any questions?”
“Sir,” you say, speaking up unexpectedly, continuing after Hotch nodded at you. “I really think I would be of more use inside of the house, instead of outside.”
“I understand you feel that way, Agent, but considering I don’t know how you operate in the field, I think this is the correct course of action,” Hotch says, his tone of voice direct, but not yet curt. There’s something like irritation hidden deep in the words, as if he somehow personally blames you for him not knowing how you ‘operate in the field’. “Anything else, Agent?”
Something interesting happens then. A look only meant for you to understand is sent your way, so specific that nobody seems to notice—well, apart from Spencer, because he looks at you immediately afterwards, and sees the way you respond to that. Your shoulders tense a little, your cheeks a faint tinge of pink and one of your hands fidget with the strap of your Kevlar Vest. Had he not seen that he probably would have thought nothing of Hotch’s undecipherable expression.
“I understand, Sir,” you say, your voice surprisingly docile. Somehow you’re able to understand what Hotch was trying to tell you, something that you clearly didn’t seem to be proud of. “Anything I need to look out for out there?”
“Don’t get shot,” Rossi says with a humorous tone of voice, making you chuckle nervously.
“Yes, Sir, will do.”
As everyone goes to make the final preparations, Spencer can’t help but notice you once more: specifically, the way you slip out the magazine of your gun, counting the bullets for a third time since arriving on scene, and pushing it back in with a click.
“Are you nervous?” He asks, slightly surprised. You didn’t seem like the type of person who would get nervous about this sort of thing.
“A bit,” you say with a grimace. “Afraid I’ll bodge it. Especially when my own boss doesn’t even trust me.”
The last part comes out a little bitter, even though it seems like you’re trying to hide how you actually feel. “It’s not about trust,” Spencer says, well aware that he sounds anything but convincing. “It’s like he said—he just needs to get to know who you are.”
“Right,” you say, sounding sceptical. “If you say so.”
You didn’t appreciate his comment, that much was clear. Before he can rectify the situation, Hotch calls out to the two of you to get ready to leave. Next thing he knows, he’s crouching around the back corner of Douglas Parker’s house, following closely behind you with his gun raised. The sound of the doors being broken down on both sides of the house makes him tense up, a stark reminder of the possible danger they could now be in. You seem equally tense as you approach the only window on ground level, the only way for Parker to escape via the side of the house, should he try to do so.
The sound of gunfire and yelling inside the house makes the two of you freeze up in anticipation, waiting for what could happen next. Amongst the muffled voices, it’s Morgan’s that’s the loudest, yet still too inaudible to make out any words.
“What’s happening, d’you think?” You ask without glancing back.
“I don’t know, it doesn’t sound good,” Spencer replies, to which you shake your head.
“It certainly doesn’t.”
“Maybe he’s fighting back?”
“Yeah, maybe.”
A loud crash interrupts your conversation, the sound of a gunshot combining with the sound of shattering glass. You yell something but it gets lost in the chaos. Not that it matters, because Spencer already sees what you mean—the unsub, Douglas Parker, jumping out of the window you had been tasked with keeping an eye on.
Without a moment of hesitation, you break out into a sprint after him, surprisingly agile and quick with your movements. A lot more so than Spencer, who can only helplessly call out after you as he stumbles into a far less effective sprint. Not that it matters, because you catch up with Parker in only a few seconds, tackling him from behind. His gun ends up in the grass, a few feet from where you and Parker land. The man is quick, however, and roughly shoves you off, kicking after you as he scrambles to get back up. Spencer raises his gun, yelling at the unsub to stop moving, but he doesn’t listen and goes to grab the gun he dropped, ready to take as many people down as he can.
Before he can, however, you suddenly wrap one of your legs around one of his knees, and you twist your body in such a way that you force Parker to bend his knee. It caused you to have your back turned to him, which should’ve given him an easy way to wrap his arms around you, but you’re much quicker and slam your elbow into his face. The despicable crunching of bone reaches Spencer’s ears as he watches the unsub drop onto his back, too dazed to defend himself as you jump on top of him again. You force him onto his chest, grabbing both of his hands and holding them behind his back.
“Handcuffs!” You say, but Spencer is too shocked by what he just witnessed, only able to stare at you as he tries to register what you just did so effortlessly. “Reid! Handcuffs!”
Your voice is louder and a lot more insistent that time, which finally forces him to grab the handcuffs from his belt and quickly hand them to you. As you start putting them on Parker’s wrists, you begin reading him his Miranda Rights. “Douglas Parker, you’re under arrest for the murders of Evelyn Harper, Sarah Lawson and Amber Reynolds. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to speak to an attorney…”
Fifteen minutes later, Douglas Parker is being stuffed into a police vehicle, blood on his face with an already bruising nose stuck at an odd angle. You’re talking to one of the officers, supposedly giving a preliminary statement, just in case he cried police brutality—not that he’d have a case, it was pretty obviously self-defence, and there were enough witnesses. Spencer and Morgan were amongst said witnesses, both now staring at you, still in disbelief.
“I mean, that was insane,” Morgan says, his arms crossed in front of his chest as he shakes his head. There’s a cut on his forehead: apparently, the unsub had thrown a chair at him, which had explained all the yelling and subsequent gunshots. “Where do you even learn something like that?”
“Maybe she’s a superhero,” Spencer says, not entirely serious, but not entirely joking either. Morgan scoffs.
“Wouldn’t surprise me,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m going to ask her to teach me that.”
Spencer doesn’t reply to that, vaguely aware that Morgan continues gushing over your ridiculous takedown of the unsub whilst he himself is unable to tear his eyes away from you while you speak to the officer, newfound respect settling deeply into his chest. You look so calm, so collected, like that whole takedown had been nothing to you. It had looked like pure instinct, not a moment of hesitation, so maybe it had been nothing to you. Regardless, whatever impression Spencer thought he had of you had now shifted drastically—suddenly, you’re no longer that new member of the team who still needed to find their right fit, inexperienced and reliant on the more practised people around you. No, now you’re someone who clearly has a lot more experience than you’re letting on, with a past career that somehow makes you untrustworthy to Hotch, at least when it comes to taking down suspects, even though you’re clearly very physically capable of doing so.
You’re a complicated puzzle now, instead of just a book he can read through quickly. It’s a good thing he loves solving puzzles.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
After handing Douglas Parker over to the local police authorities and giving the necessary statements, the BAU had been relieved of their duties in Ohio and could finally go home again. It was always a little strange to leave so abruptly after catching an unsub, but it was something you got used to eventually. Very rarely, one of the team members would be called to testify when a case went to court, but that only happened when there wasn’t enough evidence to fully convince a jury. It wasn’t as if that was going to be a problem, however: even if Douglas Parker refused to admit to the things he had done, there was the bloodied rope found in his home along with a small pouch containing seven identical aeroplane charms that would be more than enough to get him convicted.
It was for that reason that Spencer felt confident that this had been a case well resolved as he made his way out of the hotel the team had been staying in. He spotted you already outside, a sports bag on the ground beside you. You were talking with Hotch, and unlike all the other interactions the two of you had, this one seemed a lot more pleasant. You weren’t as tense as you had been those other times, which was a welcome difference. Whatever the two of you were talking about, it seemed that you had reached a mutual understanding, especially when you suddenly smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
“There she is!” A voice suddenly called out from behind Spencer, and there came Derek Morgan, brushing past him with a wide grin directed towards you. “Our very own Wonder Woman, with a takedown of the century!”
You smiled bashfully as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder and pulled you into him. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” you say, trying to wave him off but failing miserably as the rest of the team joined you outside, all with varying grins and smiles. “Just take a few self-defence courses, you’ll learn in no time.”
“Aw, she’s shy,” Emily says with an exaggerated tone of voice, as if you were some adorable baby animal for them to coo over, instead of an actual Special Agent.
“A bit of healthy modesty never hurt anybody,” Rossi says as he walks past them to one of the cars, giving Morgan a very pointed look.
“What does that mean?” He says, looking both confused and offended at the same time, the former only increasing as everyone starts chuckling, making their way over to the rental cars. “Why are you acting like I brag all the time? That’s not true! Come on, Tommy, help me out here.”
You just chuckle and shake your head. “Sorry, darling, you’re on your own here.”
Still loudly complaining about his personal offence, Morgan makes his way over to the car Rossi had disappeared in, leaving you and Spencer to put your bags into the closest vehicle. He helps you with your bag, even though he knows he doesn’t need to, but chivalry didn’t have to be dead yet, not on his watch.
“Tommy, huh?” He says to you as he closes the trunk, and you smile with a shrug.
“He came up with that on his own,” you say, but you clearly didn’t mind, with the way you brush your hair behind your ear, your smile once again turning bashful. “I kind of like it, I think—a lot more than Wonder Woman, at least.”
“Or pretty boy,” Spencer says with a frown, to which you laugh.
“That’s not that bad, it’s a compliment,” you say, nudging his shoulder with your own, before you make your way around the car to take a seat, calling out to him before getting inside. “One with which I agree, you know!”
The blush he’s wearing as he goes to get into the car is absurdly obvious, especially when it was such a simple compliment, one which was said rather as a teasing joke than anything with real weight to it.
The car ride itself is pleasant as you and JJ chat about various things, most often returning to your shared love for soccer—which you adamantly refuse to call as such and stubbornly continue to refer to as football—a sport you both apparently played in school. Spencer listens to most of it, despite having little to add to the conversation. He just enjoys your voice and the accent that accompanies it, and he especially enjoys picking up on those subtle differences in vocabulary, even though all three of you technically speak the same language. ‘Footy’ is one he likes in particular, although he's not sure why: perhaps it’s because it sounds so animated.
A half-hour into your flight back to Virginia, you had apparently figured out that there was no milk for you to put into your tea, to which Morgan had pulled a disgusted face and asked you if, “You really drink tea with milk?”, after which an extensive—but humorous—argument had ensued about the right way to drink tea. It had only come to an end when Spencer had pointed out that Morgan didn’t even drink tea, so what could he possibly know about it, to which Morgan had conceded.
You were now sat across from Spencer, sipping the tea you were not entirely satisfied with, staring out of the window and watching the landscape pass by. Spencer kept sneaking glances, unable to focus on his book as he kept going over the events from the last few days. Obviously, the way you had taken down the unsub had raised a myriad of questions he definitely couldn’t just outright ask you, not unless he wanted you to feel like you were being interrogated. It wasn’t just that though, it was the knowledge you had as well—the way you had identified those binding marks so definitively, the way you hadn’t seemed even slightly fazed by the dead body you had seen up close, and then there was that moment when you had so easily recognised the emblem the unsub had been wearing. It had barely taken you a minute to recognise it as a military pin, and to, from there on out, deduce that he had been kicked out of the military and was thus wearing it as some sort of strange way of keeping his honour.
His conclusion hits him suddenly and slips out of his mouth before he realises it. “You were in the army.”
You turn your head to him with a frown. “‘S’cuse me?”
“You were in the army,” Spencer says again, realising there was no going back now. “That’s why you could identify the pin on his jacket, and why you were so good at taking him down—no self-defence courses teach that.”
“I could take him down because the courses I take are extremely advanced,” you say, interrupting any further deducing on his part, your eyes narrowing as your shoulders straighten. “And I could recognise the pin because of a friend I knew who was in the military. Which I said before, which you clearly have no trouble dismissing.”
Quite instantly, even with his stunted social skills, Spencer realises that he really messed up here and that it probably would’ve just been better if he’d kept quiet, instead of barrelling ahead with an accusation he couldn’t back with any actual evidence. He knows he’s messed up, because the more you talk, the angrier you sound.
“Honestly, I can understand a little scepticism, considering we’ve only just started working together, but to suggest that I was lying?” You say, your voice sharp. “I’m not in the army and I really don’t understand why you would suggest that.” You lean forward, keeping steady eye contact. “Tell me, Doctor, am I lying here? I am not in the army, I have never been in the army, and I will never be in the army.”
To your credit, it’s pretty obvious that you’re not lying. There’s not a single bit of body language that suggests you’re being untruthful, nor is there a hitch in your voice or a wavering of your words—the unrelenting eye contact is pretty convincing too. Spencer wants to apologise, wants to take back what he said and tell you that he regrets ever saying anything, but the words get stuck in his throat, afraid of once again stating something stupid and unsubstantiated.
You lean back in your seat again, clenching your jaw and scoffing. “And here I was, thinking we had a click back there. Turns out you were just trying to profile me the entire time,” you say, before gathering your things and standing up from your seat. “Have fun turning that into things you can throw back in my face, Doctor Reid.”
Spencer watches, speechless, as you walk over to Emily and sink into the chair beside her. She gives you a surprised look, but you don’t allude to anything and instead ask her something about the case file she’s holding.
You don’t acknowledge him at all after that. Not when the jet lands, not when you pointedly get into a car he isn’t in, and not when you arrive back at the BAU. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth the entire time, which he knows is a mixture of guilt and shame, but a pair of emotions you clearly have no interest in hearing out. And as he watches you leave the bullpen through the glass doors, making your way towards the elevators, he can’t help but think that, even if you seemed so set on suggesting otherwise, there was a lot more to you than simple defence classes and drinking games involving military pins.
You weren’t just a puzzle, you were turning out to be a whole enigma. One which, due to his own self-sabotage, he wasn’t on track to solving anytime soon. If ever.
Chapter 3: The Spark
Notes:
Welcome back!! So happy to see you here :)
Can't wait to hear what you think!!
And many thanks for the kudos, much appreciated <3
Chapter Text
January 23rd, 2009. 6 days since [REDACTED] joined the Behavioural Analysis Unit.
As the days passed, it became more and more evident that you were a good fit for the team. You were quick-witted and easy-going, friendly with everyone on the team and willing to learn and listen, regardless of what someone’s role was. On the other hand, you weren’t hesitant to disagree with someone, to give counterarguments and suggest different things. You never outright dismissed anyone, you listened to every little thing that was said, but you were a good person to bounce theories off because you never just blindly agreed.
Outside of cases, you were just a fun person to be around. You could manage to get a smile out of anyone, and get them to laugh even when they didn’t want to—you had to yet make Hotch laugh out loud, but you seemed set on doing so eventually. It was with Morgan that you especially clicked, riffing off each other like two comedians on a stage: you always had a joke to reply with, and Morgan always had something to stack on top of that. Your conversations with Garcia were almost worse than they were between her and Morgan, downright vulgar sometimes, to the point that Hotch had threatened to have you drug-tested. Your reply had been simple: a love like this couldn’t possibly be faked, not even with drugs. Garcia had vigorously agreed (“Nothing can come between me and my puddin’ pie, sir,”), to which Hotch had promptly walked out of the room, mumbling something about ‘HR’ and ‘field day’.
Being around you was easy because you made it so for everyone, making everyone feel comfortable without needing to go out of your way. Well, not everyone. Spencer seemed to be the odd man out those entire six working days following your conversation on the jet.
Now, he should mention that you were never outright rude to him, or especially cold. You were just professional with him, impartial at worst. You didn’t ask him anything, nor did you give any personal details—it was about work and work only. That was his fault, he knew that. He had practically made you out to be a liar when he had called those things you had said into question. The worst part is that it hadn’t even been important things: just these little anecdotes you had willingly given, small things about your life that he had made out to be lies. He felt awful about it, wishing he had never said a thing, but you hadn’t been willing to hear him out.
His quick apology by the kitchenette had been received coldly. You hadn’t thrown it back in his face, but you hadn’t exactly entertained it either.
“I’m sorry for what I said on the plane, I shouldn’t have said it.”
“I know.”
And you had walked off without another word, your tight-lipped smile dropping as soon as you had brushed past him. Nothing had changed after that.
Luckily for the both of you, you hadn’t worked together a lot these last few days. Hotch seemed to have some new-found confidence in you after your first arrest in the field, now taking you with him to interview families of victims or to talk to the coroner, and inspect crime scenes in a larger capacity. If he had noticed any awkwardness, he hadn’t mentioned it, nor had he ordered either one of you to figure it out for the sake of the team. Probably because you were just that professional: you didn’t let any personal details come between you and a solved case. Spencer would’ve found it admirable, would it not have been for the fact that he was on the wrong end of this whole thing.
The thing was, that he knew this would have to end eventually. This, being keeping your distance as much as possible. And end it did, when Hotch had ordered you and Spencer to interview some CEO of the company where two people had been murdered. It wasn’t that complicated of a case: two people were stabbed to death after working hours in different offices, both of which belonged to the same company. It was pretty obviously a revenge killing, so it was now left to determine who felt wronged by these people specifically and who was next on the list.
“How do you want to play it in there?” Spencer asks you from where he’s sitting in the passenger seat. You’re driving the two of you to the office where you’d be conducting the interview—unannounced, of course. Those were most often the most effective.
“Don’t know,” you say, stopping in front of a red light. “If he’s one of those classic narcissist type CEOs, I suppose we’ll have to play into it a little.”
“What if he’s not?” Spencer says, thoughtfully, going over possible scenarios.
“Then I suppose you’ll just have to trust me to say the right things,” you say. Even though your voice doesn’t really betray anything, it’s obvious that your words have a double meaning. Before Spencer can reply, you continue with something else entirely. “I don’t think a good-cop-bad-cop routine’ll work. Probably best if we go in there acting like a united front.”
“Right. Acting like one,” Spencer says without thinking. You glance over at him, your eyebrows lightly furrowed but your expression otherwise unreadable.
“Anything you want to say, Doctor Reid?”
He hates that you call him that now. It’s the most effective way to put distance between the two of you, by using that title, and it just reinforces the detached relationship you two seem to currently have. If he could even call it a relationship.
“No, nothing. Just thinking.”
You hum in reply and the conversation ends there, the rest of the car ride silent and tense.
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are sat in armchairs that look a lot better than they feel—there’s zero back support and Spencer’s knees are practically past his ears with how low to the ground he is—waiting for CEO George Morris to oh-so-graciously allow them to enter his office. You had a rather hostile encounter with his secretary when she hadn’t allowed the two of you in even after insisting that it was a matter of life and death. Apparently, George Morris did not allow himself to be interrupted.
“Wish I knew some judge or summat,” you suddenly say, surprising Spencer. The last three minutes had been spent in very tense silence, a sort of sequel to the one in the car, so the last thing he’d been expecting was for you to start a conversation. “Just to whip up a quick search warrant, you know? Give me a legal reason to break down that door.”
“I’d back you up if you broke down the door right now,” Spencer says, frowning as he tries to come up with something at least a little funny. “We’ll just say we thought he was choking, that he needed our help. Don’t need a warrant for that.”
You snort, which he takes as a win. “Somehow, I don’t think we’ll get away with that. Hotch definitely won’t be laughing.”
“I don’t think Hotch has ever laughed a day in his life.”
This time you chuckle, genuinely, and Spencer knows that if he ever wants to make you laugh again, this is the time to try and make it up to you. “Hey, uh…” he hesitates on what to call you. Your full surname sounds too formal, and everyone had taken to calling you Tommy, but he wasn’t sure if he was allowed such familiarity. Definitely not your first name. He settles on probably the dumbest decision, which is to not call you anything at all, and simply push ahead with whatever he is going to say.
“About what I said, on the plane. I really—I’m sorry, I really am. I regret ever saying those things to you, I shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and he hesitates for a moment, but you don’t interrupt him and you don’t look away either, which he takes a sign to continue. “It’s not an excuse, but my brain just moves really quickly, and sometimes I get swept up in these things, and I start rambling or I say stupid things, and—”
“Reid,” you interrupt, but your voice isn’t irritated or exasperated as he’d expect, but rather amused. Friendly. “I understand why you said those things.”
“…You do?” Spencer says, unable to hide his surprise.
“Yeah, I do. You got swept up in it all—I’m not an idiot, I know I arrived rather chaotically,” you say, the small smile on your face wavering as you continue. “But, having said that, it did feel like you were questioning my integrity. And you made it seem like that was a normal thing to do, like you had a reason to call my character into question like that. As if I so obviously could’ve only been a liar and nothing else.”
The more you speak, the worse Spencer starts to feel, but he doesn’t dare to interrupt you. This is the most he’s managed to get out of you in days, he’s not going to mess that up now.
“I think, what I’m trying to say, is… well, I didn’t leave Counterterrorism on the best of terms, and joining the BAU felt like a fresh start. So when you started saying those things, making me feel like I was trying to deceive everyone, I—it just irritated me a lot more than it should’ve done, I think.”
It was quiet for a moment, as Spencer went over everything you said, his mind nearly going into overdrive as he tried to analyse every little thing. “That just makes me feel even more apologetic.”
You smile and it’s a lot more genuine than the previous ones you’ve given him. “Good,” you say. “I’m sorry, too. For overreacting, a bit.”
“You don’t have to apologise,” Spencer says, shaking his head, but he smiles as relief settles over him. “I’m just glad you’re talking to me again.”
“Someone missed me, then, did they?” You say with a playful wink, and Spencer doesn’t hide the way his cheeks flush. You settle back in the chair (as well as you can, these chairs were truly abysmal) and seem a lot more relaxed than you have been around him in days. After a moment of silence, you speak up again. “Hey, Reid?”
“Yes?”
“Just call me Tommy, yeah? You don’t have to ask my permission for that.”
Before he can reply, the secretary from earlier returns, telling you that Mister Morris would be willing to see you now. You don’t thank her as you get up from your seat and make your way through the hall to the CEO’s office. Spencer sees you unbutton one of the buttons of your blouse, running your hands through your hair a few times to mess it up a little and pulling your blouse down to reveal more cleavage.
“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice clearly a pitch higher than it had been before.
“You see the way his secretary was dressed?” You ask, checking your makeup in the reflection of a photo frame, displaying some boring photo of a field of tulips. “He has a type. Reckon we could use that to our advantage, no?”
And with that, you knock on the door, putting on an overtly polite smile as the two of you step inside. Spencer doesn’t miss the way George Morris shakes your hand a good few seconds longer than necessary or the way his eyes drop to your cleavage multiple times.
He already despises the man.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“What an absolute bastard,” you proclaim as you and Spencer step into the elevator.
It was safe to say that the interview had been a complete waste of time. Not only did George Morris not know a single thing that would help them in their investigation, he was also insisting on flirting with you the entire time, ogling you as if you were a prize to win instead of a Special Agent trying to ask him questions about his murdered employees. Spencer had become more and more annoyed the longer the interview had gone on, and it didn’t take long for your polite smile to falter and for your tone of voice to become a lot sharper with every comment thrown your way.
“Tries to look down my shirt the entire bloody time and then doesn’t even have the decency to walk us to the lifts,” you continue, tugging your blouse back into a far more professional fitting, closing the button you had unbuttoned earlier. “And we didn’t even get anything out of it. Proper waste of time that was.”
“Good thing we never have to see him again,” Spencer says, a deep crease on his forehead. “Did you hear him call me Steven?”
“Like I said, total bastard,” you say as the two of you step out of the elevator and make your way out of the building, to the car. “Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the next victim on our unsub’s list. I don’t think I’d blame them.”
You call Rossi on the way back to the precinct where the team is currently stationed, giving your findings—or rather, your lack thereof. Thankfully, the rest were a lot more successful, figuring out that the two victims had been part of some project that should’ve served as a way to expand the company, but had instead resulted in a wave of layoffs, affecting at least twenty people. It had happened about a year ago, and only two people part of those layoffs had yet to find a new job. You would pick up Emily on your way to one of those two to question them, as they were the most likely for revenge motives.
“What do we know about this Clifton bloke, then?” You ask after Emily situated herself in the back of the car, and you get back on the road, the address to Andrew Clifton’s house in your navigation system.
“Well, let’s see, he was laid off a year ago, has yet to find a new job, he divorced one month ago,” Emily says, reading through the file she’s holding, which consisted of the information Garcia had found on the potential unsubs and had sent over to them.
“Could be the stressor,” Spencer says, referring to the divorce.
“I wouldn’t be so sure. It says here his daughter died four months ago,” Emily says, sounding thoughtful. “Harper Clifton. She was eleven years old. Died of something called SUDEP, Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” You ask, glancing at Spencer specifically, trusting him to know the answer. That makes him feel a little pleased if he was being honest.
“What most likely happened is that she had an epileptic attack in her sleep and she stopped breathing due to apnea, which causes gaps in your breathing,” he says, to which you nod along, letting him know you’re listening as you keep your eyes on the road. “It’s actually relatively rare amongst children, with only one in 4500 dying from SUDEP each year. Did you know that one of the most common triggers in seizures is lack of sleep and stress? Not taking your medicine can also increase your chances of getting a seizure, there was actually this study that—”
“Stress and lack of sleep, sounds pretty likely in a household that’s suddenly lost half their income, if not all,” Emily interrupts, leaning forward between the two seats in the front of the car. “I think this might be our unsub.”
“Yeah, I think so too,” you say, taking one of your hands off the wheel as you count out all the possible reasons. “He gets laid off, can’t find a new job and thus probably couldn’t afford his daughter’s medication, which caused a bunch of stress for everyone. That probably triggered his daughter’s epilepsy and then a few months after her death, his wife leaves him.”
“Wonder which stressor did him in,” Emily says, folding up the file and putting it beside her on the seat. “He had enough to choose from.”
“Did he have any other connections to the victims, besides being part of the same company?” Spencer asks, to which Emily shakes her head.
“Not sure. Rossi, JJ and Garcia are still looking, and Hotch and Morgan are going to talk to our other lead, so we’ll have to wait and see.”
“You’re my babysitter, then? Hotch didn’t peg Spencer as the right person for that job?” You say, trying to make it sound like you were joking, but it was obvious that you meant it. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so… bitter.”
“I would be,” Emily says with a shrug. “It’s pretty obvious you know what you’re doing, kind of strange he keeps such a short leash on you. I definitely don’t see why.”
“Thanks, darling,” you say, sending Emily a quick smile before you make the final turn into the street where Andrew Clifton lived. You park the car in front of the house, all three of you taking a moment to study it from the outside.
“He’s home,” Spencer says. “There’s a car in the driveway.”
“Best be careful when we go in there,” you say. “If he is the unsub, he’s not going to appreciate three FBI agents knocking on his door.”
Apart from the car in the driveway, there’s little else signifying that Andrew Clifton was at home. The curtains were drawn shut, not a hint of light on inside the house. If he was home, he’d made an effort to make it seem like he wasn’t.
“I’ll go around back, just in case he tries to run,” Emily said, putting a hand on her gun, clearly expecting the worst, and making her way down the side of the house.
You and Spencer take the three steps up to the porch, stopping at the front door. You ring the doorbell two times in quick succession, but when there’s still no movement inside, you call out to the owner of the house. “Mister Clifton? We’re with the FBI, we’d just like to ask you some questions about the company you used to work for,” you shout, but no answer comes. “Mister Clifton?”
It’s then that your phone rings. You give Spencer a look that seems to convey your dismay at the door not opening before you grab your phone and put it on speaker. “Morgan, talk to me. Reid’s here too.”
“Hey, Garcia found something else. It looks like Clifton’s our guy,” Morgan says, to which you and Spencer share a concerned look. “Apparently, he was part of some unofficial committee overlooking a project with three other people. When the project fell through, everyone on that committee got shuffled around to new positions, some even got a pay raise. Except for our guy Clifton.”
“Who got fired,” Spencer says, thoughtfully. You nod.
“And lost his entire family because of it.”
“Yeah, and it gets worse. Not only did he kill two of the three people he was on that committee with, but Garcia also found some weird chatroom our unsub’s in. He’s been talking about going out with a bang. And I don’t mean that figuratively, he’s been asking for tips on building IEDs, and these other assholes were more than happy to help him with it. Pipe bombs, packages, even a vest. Seems like this guy isn’t planning on going down quietly.”
“So where is he?” Spencer asks, his brows furrowing as he goes over the possible locations the man would want to blow up. After a few seconds of silence, Morgan speaks up again.
“Garcia’s looking, we’ll inform bomb disposal as soon as we got something,” he says. “Hold on… his phone’s location says he’s still at the house.”
“Shit,” you say, your eyes widening as you meet Spencer’s eyes, who is wearing a similar look of horror as the two of you come to the same realisation. “Prentiss.”
You yell something into the phone, telling Morgan to send as many available units to Clifton’s house as possible before shoving your phone into your back pocket, you and Spencer taking out your guns as you make your way off the porch and down the side of the property. Within seconds you get to the backyard, immediately confronted with Andrew Clifton tying Emily’s wrists together with cable ties whilst she’s on the ground, blood trickling down her forehead.
“Andrew Clifton!” You shout at the man, to which he instantly jumps to his feet, wrapping his arm around Emily’s neck and holding her close. His puffy face is red, but it doesn’t seem to be anger: he looks terrified, like an animal that’s been pushed into a corner. It’s only then that you and Spencer notice the device in his hand, which was exactly one of the IEDs Morgan had described: a pipe bomb. In his other hand is a small remote, clearly designed to start the timer on the bomb. Spencer makes the educated guess that it could also probably be activated instantly with one of the buttons on the remote.
“Drop it!” He yells, pointing his gun at the man, whose eyes are wide and wild. It was obvious that had fallen off the edge a while ago, barely a semblance of the family man he had most likely been only a year ago. “Drop the device!”
“Don’t do this, Andrew,” you say, keeping your voice as steady as the gun in your hands, not remotely giving away the fear you must be feeling at the thought of getting blown up. “We just want to talk to you, that’s all. No need for all of this, yeah?”
Your words don’t seem to reach him, his eyes flashing around madly as he seems to go through his options. He was caught, that much seemed to be obvious to him, and the choice was now simple: end it here and now and potentially take down three agents with him, or go willingly to spend the rest of his life in prison. The choice is apparently made when he suddenly screws his eyes shut and seems to brace himself for something.
His thumb moves to a button on the remote, ready to end it all right then and there, and take all of you with him.
“I know what happened to your daughter!”
Your voice is loud and sudden, and combined with your words, seems to do the trick in stopping Clifton, if only momentarily. His eyes shoot open and he looks at you with surprise, his body stiffening at the mention of his family. His grip on Emily tightens and she groans in pain whilst simultaneously doing her best not to further agitate the situation. Clifton only whispers, barely audible, “My daughter?”
“Harper, right?” You say, trying a wary and very obviously nervous smile. “Little Harper Clifton? She was eleven, right? When she—when she died?”
It’s a risky strategy in terms of hostage negotiation, which doesn’t help Spencer’s nerves, but there’s no choice anymore. The most important thing was that you’ve got him talking, which was always the first and most vital step. Keep them talking for as long as you can, until something—anything—can be done to end the situation.
“It wasn’t your fault, you know,” you continue, carefully. “What happened to Harper, that wasn’t your fault.”
“It was their fault!” Clifton suddenly yells. It takes everything in Spencer not to visibly flinch at the rapid increase in volume: any sudden movement could tick Clifton off and end this whole hostage situation in a matter of seconds. “They didn’t—they wouldn’t pay for her medication!”
You take a cautious step forward as he speaks, ready to halt in your tracks if needed, but Clifton doesn’t seem to notice yet, so you continue as he talks.
“They took everything from me! My life, my daughter!”
“Who did?” You ask, momentarily pausing. Spencer tries to time his moves to yours, hoping to give himself the best possible angle to shoot Andrew Clifton in the head if necessary, but it’s proving to be more and more difficult with every passing second: not only is his own aim far too fickle to confidently take the shot without somehow also hurting Emily, there was still a good chance that the fall would cause the pipe bomb to go off.
“Isaac Bowman! Rebecca Torres! Michael Phillips! All of them!” Clifton yells. The first two names are the victims of the case, only more proof that this was indeed, as they had profiled, a revenge killing. “I told them—I don’t care! I don’t care about the money, about the job, I just wanted them to pay for her medication!”
“But they wouldn’t, would they?” You say, now having crossed half the distance needed to get to Clifton. “Instead they fired you, and a few months later she died.”
“Don’t come closer!” Clifton suddenly yells, causing you to halt in your step. Spencer can’t stop his hand from twitching, simultaneously trying to ignore the fatigue creeping into his arms.
“Okay, it’s okay,” you say, holding up your hands as if surrendering yourself. You then start lowering the hand that’s holding your gun. “I’m just putting my gun away, okay? Look, that’s all I’m doing.”
You put your gun on the grass and kick it away. It’s close enough to where you could still quickly grab it if you wanted to, but Clifton either doesn’t seem to notice or knows that even if you did, he’d be much quicker pressing the button.
“All we want to do is talk, okay?” You say, taking another step forward and pausing again. “That’s all we want to do. Just put the bomb down, and we can do just that, okay? We can talk.”
Spencer’s eyes flicker nervously between you and the unsub, his heart pounding in his chest. The longer the situation drags on, the more he finds himself wishing he was the one in your shoes. He hates that it’s you, that you’re the one having to negotiate like this. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you—he does, you probably have more experience with this than he does, considering you’re from Counterterrorism. It still does nothing to quell the guilt or calm his nerves.
“I know what you did, Andrew,” you say, your voice a lot softer as you walk closer and closer, your movements agonisingly slow. “I know what you did to Isaac and Rebecca, and what you were planning on doing to Michael.”
“They deserved it,” Clifton says, but his voice falters. You’re creating doubt, that’s good: it means that he isn’t so sure if killing himself is the right way out of this. “They deserved it for what they did to my family.”
“What about my colleague, the one you’re holding hostage right now, does she deserve this?” You ask, raising your eyebrows. “Do I deserve this?”
There’s no answer, but Spencer can see the seed of doubt slowly sprout into something bigger. He doesn’t relax though, not yet, because people like Andrew Clifton were as unreliable as they come, quick to jump from one emotion to the next.
“What about Harper, eh?” You say, to which Clifton’s eyes flash with emotion: pain. Pain, regret, grief, and a whole bunch of emotions nobody could ever wish to feel. “How would she feel about all this? Knowing that her father killed people?”
“I… I…” Clifton stammers, trying to find something to say, but you’ve already won. There’s nothing left for him to say, the seed of doubt now a tree, casting shadows on every plan he’d made.
“Let go of the device, Andrew,” you say, your voice calm and soft. You’re now in front of him, your hand slowly moving to the remote he’s holding. “Give me the device and we can talk, okay? That’s all you have to do.”
Clifton doesn’t move, his wide eyes staring at you as tears start to leak out of them. You carefully put your hand on the remote, waiting a moment before slowly pulling it out of his grasp. As soon as you do, his arms drop, suddenly limp. It seems that in an instant, all the fight has left his body. Emily doesn’t waste a moment as she quickly steps away, sinking to her knees in relief.
When you’ve finally taken the pipe bomb out of Clifton’s hands, Spencer holsters his gun, quickly grabbing his handcuffs and moving over to put them on the unsub. As he does, the faint sound of sirens enters the yard. Clifton doesn’t fight back against the cuffs at all, nothing left of the serial killer they had been hunting, now just a sobbing mess of a man. He’s mumbling apologies, but they’re not to his victims: they’re to his daughter, directed at the sky and barely audible.
Spencer glances over you, watching you help Emily to her feet whilst quietly talking to her. The bomb is on the steps to the back porch, ready to be disassembled by a bomb disposal team. Your hand carefully brushes over Emily’s forehead, trying to locate the wound. The sound of sirens arrives at the front of the house, and it doesn’t take long for everyone to hear Morgan’s voice calling out their names.
“In the back!” Spencer yells. Within seconds, Morgan comes running into the yard, JJ hot on his heels. She immediately rushes over to you and Emily to help get Emily out of the yard and to the front of the house, where hopefully, an ambulance is waiting. Morgan doesn’t waste a second in taking Clifton over from Spencer.
“You guys okay?” He asks, to which Spencer nods.
“Yeah, we’re fine. Emily took a hit, though.”
“Good job in talking him down,” Morgan says, roughly shoving Clifton to get him to start moving.
“I didn’t.”
“Then who—” Morgan starts to ask, but cuts himself off with a scoff, shaking his head in disbelief. “Tommy. Of course. You think she’s ever going to stop surprising us?”
“Probably not,” Spencer says with a similar smile to Morgan’s, but something uneasy brews in his chest as he sees you help Emily sit down on the steps to the front of the house. It’s guilt. Not just for feeling like he put you into a situation where you had to talk down a serial killer from killing your colleagues barely a week into the job, but for ever suggesting any sort of mistrust in the first place. Regardless of why you knew the things you did and why you could do the things you did, you only used them for one thing: saving lives.
Despite barely knowing the team, you were more than willing to put yourself into dangerous situations if it gave you the chance to protect and save the others. Whether it was talking down a hostage taker at the risk of getting blown up, or tackling an unsub twice your size, exposing yourself to the danger of getting shot, you did without a moment of hesitation. Spencer didn’t need to know the why behind that—that wasn’t important, not anymore.
You did these things because that was who you are, because you would rather see yourself hurt than anybody else, and that was all he needed to know. It was all he needed to trust you.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“To the newest member of the BAU!” Morgan says jubilantly, raising his beer bottle while the rest of the team follows his example. “And probably one of the strangest people I’ve ever met, and knowing Reid, that’s saying something.”
“To Tommy,” Rossi says, quickly cutting in when he seemingly doesn’t like where Morgan’s very lacking speech is going. Spencer definitely didn’t like the direction that it was taking, but he knew how to take a joke. He’d get Morgan back, eventually. He’s most surprised at the fact that Rossi used your nickname, but it doesn’t sound out of place at all: the only person left to give in to your new name is Hotch, who wasn’t one for that type of nicknaming in the first place.
Everyone cheers as they all tip their various drinks at you. Garcia wraps an arm around you and squeezes your bicep, and on the other side of you, JJ whoops loudly.
“Yeah, yeah, alright,” you say, trying to wave them off with a bashful grin. Your cheeks are a little pink from all the attention, but you don’t seem uncomfortable, not from where Spencer is standing. Which is, quite unfortunately for him, on the exact other side of the high table they’ve all gathered around. He’d had it in his mind to stand as close to you as possible tonight, purely for the thrill of knowing you’re that close and perhaps for the chance to have a conversation, but from the moment you had walked into the bar, all the women on the team had swarmed you, and he’d lost his chance.
That was okay: he could find contentment in just staring at you from across the table, trying to convince himself that the feeling in his stomach at the sight of your grin was very platonic and nothing else indeed.
“I gotta say, I didn’t take you as a whiskey-type gal,” Emily says from beside JJ, to which you laugh, surprised by her comment.
“Accent suggests a preference for a pint, doesn’t it?” You say, earning a round of chuckles. In the nearly two weeks that you’ve been with the team, there was one thing that everyone had learned quickly: there was absolutely no mentioning your accent in any sort of comical way. This had become very obvious very swiftly, when Morgan had playfully, in the worst imitation of your accent ever, started the morning with, “Top of the mornin’, guv’ner!”. You had put a stop to that with an impressively accurately placed elbow in Morgan’s stomach and a considerably intimidating look sent around the bullpen. Nobody had tried it again after that.
“I do prefer whiskey, though,” you continue with a small shrug. “I mean, I won’t say no to a Sex on the Beach either, but an Irish? I think that might top it.”
“Well, if you ever need sex on the beach, you’ll know who to call,” Morgan says with a playful, suggestive look. You sent him a wink, playing along with him, the both of you ignoring Hotch’s deep sigh, to which Garcia gasps dramatically.
“I’m not the only one?” She cries out to Morgan, who shakes his head with a laugh.
“Like you haven’t been cheating on me with Tommy?”
“It’s not cheating if it’s fate,” Garcia says, pointedly kissing your cheek. She was already a few drinks in, having arrived much earlier than you had, now having let go of all of her inhibitions. This also meant that she missed the way you and JJ discreetly switched places, the two of you sharing a look of amusement at getting away with it unnoticed.
Your eyes meet Spencer’s suddenly, and without a hitch in your posture, you send him a wink, as if he was in on the whole thing. He can’t help but beam, knowing full well he’s a lost cause when a simple wink like that gets him smiling like this. From the way Morgan nudges his side, he knows he hasn’t got away with it.
“Looks like someone’s enjoying themselves, pretty boy,” he says, to which Spencer crinkles his nose.
“I’m not the one talking about having sex on a beach.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet you’re the one thinking about it right now.”
He most certainly was not. The very thought of doing such an activity in a place like the beach already made him itch all over—shaking a hand he didn’t want to was one thing, but that? Sand getting everywhere? He’d rather lick a stranger’s hand—actually, no, never mind. He’d rather do neither.
He watches as you sip on your glass, the ice cubes clinking around in the amber liquid. It’s such an interesting choice, to drink whiskey at your age, and to specifically prefer Irish, but at the same time, it doesn’t surprise him at all. It suits you, for some reason: maybe it just adds to the air of mystery you’re already carrying. Kind of like Batman, or something. Maybe you were Batman, it definitely wouldn’t surprise him.
Your eyes meet his again, pulling him out of his head, and you send him another smile, a soft one that was clearly only meant for him. He feels a little embarrassed to have been caught staring a second time and ducks his head with a shy smile, focusing on his one glass, filled with a simple Sprite and nothing else. No ice cubes, God knows the state of the buckets and scoop used for the ice. He shudders just thinking about it. Regardless, it’s not nearly as impressive as your whiskey on the rocks.
“Something in your drink?”
He looks up in surprise to find you standing next to him, and when he glances up a bit further, he sees that Morgan has made room for you. He sends Spencer a wink as if they had a mutual understanding as to the reason he had made room for you before he turns back to Rossi. When Spencer meets your eyes again, he sees the twinkle of humour in them. Clearly, you’re enjoying seeing him so caught off-guard. He looks down at his glass again, unable to hold your eye contact. God knows why you came over here, but it was obvious you weren’t looking for good conversation. “Uh, no. Just thinking about… ice.”
“Ice?” You say, sounding amused, and he doesn’t dare look up, the tips of his ears burning. After a few seconds, he suddenly feels your hand under his chin, forcing him to look up at you, and he lets you, his eyes widening at the sudden contact. You smile when your eyes meet, and you speak in a soft voice. “There you are.”
“Here I am,” he says awkwardly, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. You laugh, which makes him feel very satisfied. The soft look of intrigue you’re giving him is quickly becoming too much, so he does what he does best in the hopes of trying to ignore it: he rambles off the first fact that comes to mind. “Did you know that Scotch is distilled twice whereas Irish whiskey is distilled three times? It gives Irish whiskey a smoother finish and that’s also why it’s considered the better one of the two.”
You tilt your head to the side, nodding. “Well, don’t let the Scottish hear you say that,” you say with a joking tone, making him chuckle. “I didn’t know all of that, though. I just know I prefer the sweetness of Irish.”
“Sweetness?”
“Yeah, there’s a hint of vanilla. You want to try?”
You hold out your glass to him and with a weary glance, he takes it from you and brings it to his lips. Weary, not because of the possible transfer of germs, but rather because he can’t imagine whiskey to be sweet. He’s proven correctly when the overly strong sensations of the whiskey wash over his tongue, causing him to pull a face of disgust as he quickly hands you back your glass. You burst out laughing at his expression, pressing a hand to your mouth as you put your drink on the table for fear of accidentally spilling it.
“I’m so sorry, Reid,” you wheeze out through your laughter, but it doesn’t sound like you mean it. He doesn’t mind it, though, even as he quickly drinks from his Sprite to get rid of the bitter taste in his mouth. He enjoys the sound of your laughter far too much.
“God, that’s awful, how do you drink that?” He says after he’s satisfied with the actual sweetness of his own drink—no, he did not taste a single ‘hint of vanilla’, as you’d put it.
“It requires a bit of practice, I’ll admit,” you say with a wide smile. “I just figured that a scholar such as yourself enjoyed the finer things in life from time to time.”
“Apparently whiskey is not one of those for me.”
“Apparently not,” you say with a giggle, which is something he finds very adoring to hear. You clear your throat then, suddenly straightening up a little, and he immediately feels the shift in the air, going from comedic to sincere. “Hey, so, I just wanted to say that I really enjoyed working with you these past two weeks.”
“You did?” Spencer asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. This was the last thing he’d ever expected to hear.
You give him a sympathetic look, looking down at your glass as you slosh the ice cubes around to get them to dilute the whiskey faster. “Yeah, I did. I know that for a couple of days, I was a bit of a… dick, I guess, but I really did enjoy working with you. You’re obviously very intelligent, I don’t need to tell you that, that already makes it easy to work with you, but I also just think that you and I connect very well, don’t you?”
He couldn’t possibly agree quick enough. “Yeah, yeah, I think so too.”
You seem pleased with his response, giving him a wide smile. “I’ll ask Hotch to pair us up more often, then, yeah?” You ask, to which he nods enthusiastically. Maybe a bit too much, because you giggle again. He doesn’t even know if they’re allowed to do that, to just pair up all the time, but he likes the idea of working with you too much to pass up on the opportunity. “Alright then. I’m glad we’ve got that settled.”
It's then that Hotch announces his departure for the night, followed by Rossi, which is met with a loud chorus of boos. It gives Spencer a much-needed reprieve from your intense eye contact, something which he both enjoys immensely and also doesn’t know how to handle at all. You have this wonderful thing where you look at someone as if they’re the only person in the room, nodding along to everything they say and giving them every ounce of your attention. It’s fantastic, and he doesn’t know how to handle it at all.
When he looks back at you, he catches you finishing the last of your drink, putting the empty glass on the table with a content sigh.
“Do you want me to get you another one?” He asks. You look up in surprise, but then shake your head with a smile.
“Probably not a good idea,” you say. “You know how it goes, first you take a drink, then the drink takes a drink—”
“Then the drink takes you,” Spencer finishes for you, surprised by what he’s hearing. “The Great Gatsby.”
You tilt your head again, the same way you had done earlier, and there it is again: that look. That look that makes him feel like the only person in the room. “Yeah,” you say in a soft voice, making everything feel all the more intimate. “Suppose I should’ve guessed you’d recognise that, eh?”
It feels like a compliment, but then again, any attention he gets from you feels like a compliment, he really is just that pathetic. But this is all strictly platonic and nothing else, of course. He’s just platonically… interested. Yeah.
“I suppose I was right all along, then,” you say, and he frowns at you, not understanding what you’re trying to get at. You laugh, and then say, “You’re a very interesting conversationalist.”
For a few seconds, he’s transported back to the car on that very first case you worked on when you and Spencer had your first conversation. He still knows it by heart, of course: he can’t forget these things, even if he wants to. Lucky for him, he never wants to forget a single conversation he’d ever had with you, even the bad ones.
“You think so?” He asks at the risk of sounding insecure.
“Of course I do, darling,” you say. It’s the first time you’ve called him that, and even if the others had all already had their turn with that term of endearment, he practically preens. “Anything else interesting you can tell me about whiskey or literature, then, Doctor?”
Two hours later, after everyone had long gone home, you and Spencer are sat across from each other in a booth, deeply engrossed in a conversation about how best to profile the great Jay Gatsby, especially when considering that all the information they had is from an unreliable narrator, with you nursing another whiskey—the temptation had been too much after all—and he another sprite. You listen to every little thing he says, even if he sometimes goes on a long tangent about something that is only vaguely related to the subject at hand, and every time you ask a question, he nearly trips over himself in his excitement to answer it.
And he knows, sitting in that booth in that grimy bar on a Friday night across from you, listening to your opinion on Nick Carraway’s narration as your fingers play with the edge of your glass, that this is the best evening he’s ever had, and will ever have. And he also knows that it isn’t platonic.
It never had been.
Chapter 4: After the Spark
Notes:
You're back!! Look at you!! And you look great!!
Ready for some fluff and a little angst?
Also, so many thanks to inkblotsandpapertrails for commenting :). Your super-detailed comments were immensely encouraging and pushed me to keep writing and give an update (even amid endless college deadlines). This is your fanfic now, I don't make the rules (joking, of course ;)).
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 13th, 2009. 31 days since [REDACTED] joined the Behavioural Analysis Unit.
“Still not talking?”
When an unsub was caught, there were usually two ways it could go in terms of a confession: some were more than happy to immediately confess to every heinous crime they had committed, both for the fame and notoriety and also for the recognition it gave them. They were proud of their crimes and needed everyone to know about them, their narcissism needed to be fed. Sometimes, they just admitted to it for a lowered sentence, without all the added narcissism. The other way it could go was when an unsub absolutely refused to admit to anything. Whether this was because of shame or some strange cognitive dissonance where they saw themselves separate from the crime, or to just make life as difficult and as traumatising as possible for everyone involved, depended fully on the person.
When one finds oneself in category two, subcategory three, it is always frustratingly difficult to get even a single word out of them. That it also happened to be one of the more common types wasn’t really that surprising, but did serve for some very interesting movie scenes from time to time.
Unfortunately for the BAU, they found themselves in such a scene, except there was no script to follow and no writer’s room to help them out. The worst part? Everything hinged on the unsub’s confession. He had strangled four women to death, with gloves, and had left no evidence behind. The only thing they really had was the profile, which couldn’t hold up in court when it was circumstantial at best, and purely anecdotal at worst. One other thing they had was a lack of an alibi for the times of all four murders, but that wasn’t enough to get a white man convicted of four murders without any other evidence. The gloves had yet to be found, most likely long gone by now, and no witnesses had ever turned up. Everything hinged on the confession that didn’t seem to be showing up anytime soon.
And worst of all? A fifth woman had gone missing, yet to be found. And only Crawford knew where she was.
“No, refuses to,” Spencer says thoughtfully, answering Morgan’s question from behind the one-sided mirror, giving them a perfect view of the interrogation room in which Francis D. Crawford was seated, handcuffed to the table. Behind that one-sided mirror, in that tiny room, Spencer, Morgan, Hotch and you watched him, all wearing various expressions, ranging from mild irritation to clear hatred. You were part of the latter type.
“I could get him to talk, just have to squeeze right here,” you say, pointing to a spot behind your ear. “Parotid lymph node, wouldn't take long at all.”
“I think that’s called police brutality, Agent,” Hotch said with a raised eyebrow, but the thoughtful look in his eyes didn’t seem nearly as disapproving of the idea as his words had been. Spencer just wonders how you even know about something like that.
You shrug. “Only if there's a witness. My word against his.”
Had it not been for the dire situation, being that a serial killer was about to walk out of a police precinct because there wasn’t any proof to hold him, Spencer probably would’ve laughed at your comment. Be as it may, he was far too focused on the man sitting in the interrogation room.
“What about his childhood?” He asks thoughtfully, hoping to find at least something to throw at their unsub.
“No mommy or daddy issues, if that’s what you mean,” Morgan says with a sigh as he folds his arms in front of his chest. “Just another good old, women-hating, incel serial killer. His social media’s full of anti-women rhetoric.”
“Maybe we can work with that,” you say, but you don’t sound convinced. “What was the victimology, again?”
“Women under twenty-five, no specific physical traits apart from that he’s taller than all of them, probably an unconscious choice,” Spencer rattles off, seeing you nod along. “The family members we spoke to all described the victims as polite, soft-spoken, even shy—so probably not used to a lot of male attention, which was most likely why he was able to lure all of them away to remote locations.”
After a moment of silence in which Spencer can practically see the gears in your head turning, you speak up again. “What if we play into it?”
“Play into what?” Morgan asks you, to which you gesture vaguely to their unsub.
“You know, his type. Shy, easy to manipulate. We use it against him.”
“How?” Hotch says with a frown. You turn around to face him, putting your hair up in one hand and pinching your collar closed with the other.
“I’ll just tap into my shy side,” you say. The twinkle in your eyes makes it obvious that you’re enjoying this. “And if we can get a man to interrupt poor-little-shy-intern-me, boss me around a little, be a proper bully, Crawford will think he’s got me all figured out. All I need to do then is catch him by surprise."
“And I presume that by a ‘proper bully’, you mean me?” Hotch says, looking thoroughly unimpressed with your choice of words, but it’s clear that he’s considering your plan. You grin, letting go of your blouse and hair again.
“If you feel that drawn to the role, sir, I won’t stop you,” you say. Much to Spencer’s surprise, he sees the corners of Hotch’s mouth twitch up, their supervisory agent clearly struggling to keep to his normally stoic expression.
“Very well. It’s not as if we currently have any other options.”
With that, you and Hotch exit the room, leaving Morgan and Spencer behind. They share a look, scoffing at the same time and shaking their heads. “She’s got guts, I’ll give her that,” Morgan says, leaning against the edge of the small table behind him. “Let’s see if she can actually pull it off.”
“She will,” Spencer easily says, not doubting it for a second. He’s got all the trust in the world when it comes to you even when it’s something he’s never seen you do before. He knows you’ll just continue to surprise him anyway.
After a few minutes, the door to the interrogation room opens, and Spencer and Morgan laugh at the sight of you. Your hair is done up in a bun that’s already sagging—probably for dramatic effect, Spencer assumes—and your blouse is buttoned all the way up, making you look a lot more conservative than usual. There’s even a pair of glasses on top of your head, God knows where you got those. All of this, along with the massive stack of files you’re holding, makes you look exactly like the overworked intern archetype you had been going for.
“Hi, afternoon,” you say, as put the files on the table with a thud, giving Crawford a small smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting, it’s a busy day.”
Crawford doesn’t reply, instead watching you with a faint look of dismay.
“Okay, then,” you say, him a tense smile, playing your part well. You reach for the first file on the stack, opening it up and pretending to read it. From where he’s standing, Spencer can see that it’s a financial report that has absolutely nothing to do with this case. It’s not even an FBI file. “So, mister Andrews, I have a few—”
“Crawford,” the man barks out at you. You flinch, looking up with wide eyes. “My name is Crawford.”
“Oh, my God, I am so sorry,” you say, scrambling to ‘find’ the right file. “It’s just such a mess out there today, I can barely keep track of all—ah, here it is, I think.”
You send Crawford another tense smile, before opening up the file. “So, uhm, mister Crawford. I just have a few questions for you today. Let’s see, uh… right, yeah. Does the name Melissa Randall mean anything to you?”
“Why should it?” Crawford says, clearly not picking up on the fact that you’re just putting on an act. He also doesn’t seem to notice the fact that the question is a particularly useless one to ask, considering the circumstances—everyone already knew he did it, all he had to do was admit it.
“She was reported missing two months ago,” you say, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “And was found a week later, murdered. Maybe you’ve seen the news reports?”
Crawford shifts in his seat, jutting out his chin, clearly feeling very good about himself as he says, “I don’t watch the news, Agent.”
“Just awful, isn’t it? What happened to that poor girl?” You say.
Something flashes in Crawford’s eyes, something that Spencer immediately recognises as rage. He knows that if he noticed it from behind the mirror, you definitely did too. However, before you can say anything to push him further, the door suddenly swings open, and Hotch appears in the doorway.
“Agent, where’s the report I asked you to write?” He says with a curt voice.
You jolt in your seat. “Sir?”
Hotch closes his eyes as if he’s annoyed by your response before he speaks up again. “The report, Agent.”
“I—I thought you wanted me to interview mister—”
“What did I ask you to do first?”
“…The report.”
“So why isn’t it finished?” Hotch says. He’s playing his part well too. Spencer can see the way Crawford perks up at the interaction, clearly enjoying the way you’re being talked to. It’s disgusting and Spencer makes no effort in trying to hide his repulsion at the unsub. “I don’t pay you to do nothing. I pay you to do what I tell you to do when I want you to.”
With that, he turns around and closes the door behind him a little too loudly, to which you pretend to flinch again. It becomes silent, and after a moment, you mumble, “You don’t even pay me regardless.”
Morgan snorts at your comment, shaking his head a little. “She’s doing good so far.”
Spencer can’t help but agree with him: you are doing good so far, but if you don’t get a confession out of all of this, it would’ve all been for nothing. It wasn’t like they could keep trying things like this anyway, because time was running out before Crawford would ask for an attorney, or just get up and walk out. It was honestly surprising he hadn’t walked out already: technically, they hadn’t made an arrest yet. It was probably that bit of narcissism, that need to control the narrative, to insert themselves into the investigation and get as much of the details as possible to feed their own ego.
“You’re just going to let him talk to you like that?” Crawford suddenly says, refocusing everyone’s attention back on him. You shrug a little, fidgeting with the corner of your file.
“Well, he’s my boss, so. Besides, this is one of the best internships out there, I can’t jeopardise it. Best to just smile and nod.”
“I bet those girls that were killed thought the same thing before they trusted the wrong person.”
Hotch enters the room behind the mirror then, just in time to watch you lift your gaze slowly, your expression unreadable as you look at Crawford for a moment, studying him closely. “I never mentioned multiple girls.”
It became instantly obvious that Crawford hadn’t expected you to say that, and everyone watches as he shuffles in his seat, trying to regain his composure—it’s a physical reaction to what was really only an emotional response. That was one of the most difficult things to hide, your physical reaction to your feelings. Body language always gave people away.
“I saw it somewhere,” he eventually says, a beat too late.
“I thought you didn’t watch the news.”
“I heard it on the radio.”
“You just said you saw it somewhere, that’s different from hearing.”
Clearly, Crawford doesn’t know how to handle your sudden shift in attitude. He thought he’d figured you out, the predator in him sizing up his next prey, only to be met with entirely different behaviour than he had originally anticipated. You suddenly chuckle, nervously, shaking your head as you lean back into your seat.
“So sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” you say. Spencer can’t help but smile at it: you’re really toying with him now, going from nervous to confrontational to nervous again. It’s good, it’ll confuse him. “Honestly, you’re probably right. Those poor girls trusted the wrong person and it cost them their life. Just one wolf in sheep’s clothing is all it takes, apparently.”
“They weren’t poor,” Crawford says, his tone suddenly fierce. “They were stupid if that’s really what happened.”
“You think they were stupid?” You quietly ask, your eyes wide, acting as if you feel intimidated by him. “They’re victims.”
“Of their own making,” Crawford says through gritted teeth. “If they hadn’t been so stupid, so naïve, they’d still be alive. If they hadn’t trusted a stranger, they’d still be alive, not strangled to death in a forest somewhere.”
A ripple of excited gasps runs through the tiny observation room, and Spencer can’t help but grin, discreetly balling his fist into a silent cheer for you. You got him to slip up. It’s obvious that you know it too, because in an instant, your nervous façade melts like snow in the sunlight, and you toss the file onto the table carelessly. “I never said they were strangled.”
A tense silence falls over the interrogation room as Crawford visibly stills, his cheek between his teeth as he seems to mull over his own slip-up. “I must’ve heard it on the radio.”
You hum, pursing your lips as you nod slowly as if you’re seriously considering what he’s saying. You cross your legs, leaning back in your chair with a ridiculous amount of self-confidence. It’s practically seeping out of you, and it’s obvious that their unsub has no idea how to handle it, not after your act of the insecure intern. “Don’t think so,” you say, looking him straight into his eyes. “We never revealed the method of killing to the public. We’ve been trying that sort of thing lately, you see, trying to keep the victims’ traumas out of the local gossip. Attracts real sickos sometimes.”
Crawford doesn’t reply, to which you click your tongue, shaking your head a little. “So, Mister Crawford, you want to tell me how you know all of that, then?”
You lean forward, crossing your hands on the table as you refuse to break eye contact, even with the look of hatred sent your way. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?” You say, your voice low, barely above a whisper. “Go on, tell me. You liked watching the life leave their eyes, right? Liked watching the fear in their eyes, the whimpers.”
Still no reply, but you don’t surrender and continue your verbal assault.
“What was it, specifically, that got you off? Was it the control?” You say, leaning in even further. It makes Spencer a little nervous because Crawford could hurt you now if he wanted to. He knows you could probably handle him but he doesn’t want to take the risk. “Come on, tell me, mate. Was it the control? Knowing that you lured these innocent women into your trap? It’s that what gets you off?”
You lean even closer, your hands flat on the table, your face only a few inches from his. “Or do you do it because you can’t get it up anymore?”
Crawford suddenly launches forward, clearly trying to intimidate you, and where everyone flinches behind the mirror, ready for a brawl, you don’t move a hair. You’re perfectly still, staring him straight down from where you’re leaning over him, your face a mixture of ice-cold hatred and repulsion.
“Doesn’t work with me,” you hiss out, still not moving. “Did it work on them?”
“They deserved it,” Crawford then says, his voice a low tone. As soon as he does, Hotch flies out of the room to call the local DA and get approval to make an arrest. “They went with me, they didn’t run, they didn’t scream. I gave them every single chance to escape, but they didn’t. They asked for it.”
After a moment of tense silence, you straighten up, grabbing the file again as you open it up. “There’s a fifth girl we haven’t found yet,” you say thoughtfully. “She deserve it too?”
“I know nothing about that,” Crawford snaps, clearly lying. There it was again: that need for control if even just a single part. He was a textbook case.
You nod, tossing the file back on the table. “Alabama’s got the death penalty, you know,” you say coolly, your mouth twitching at the flash of terror in his eyes. It’s obvious what you’re getting at: if he helps, he could strike a deal, and get out of the death penalty. “You think about that, huh?”
You tap a single finger on the file, holding the graduation picture of Julia Grier, before you gather the stack of files and walk out of the room, leaving the picture on the table. Spencer doesn’t waste a moment in following you out, finding you just as you take your hair out of the half-hearted bun it was in. He sees you release a long sigh of relief, running a hand through your hair.
“You did great,” he says, taking you by surprise when you look up quickly. You smile when you see him, to which his stomach warms. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers, hoping that it’ll keep him from fidgeting.
“Thanks,” you say, your hands reaching up to undo the first few buttons of your blouse. His eyes drop down to it, unable to look away as you reveal just the slightest hint of your chest. “I’ll be honest, I wasn’t sure if it was going to work.”
“Hm? No, yeah, you did great,” Spencer says helplessly, forcing his eyes away from your fingers when he hears himself give the most useless reply he could’ve given and back to your face. If you notice, you don’t say anything, thankfully. “He never stood a chance with you in that interrogation room, honestly.”
You surprise him when you suddenly reach out and put your hand on his elbow, your smile sweet. “Thank you, Spencer,” you say. His heart practically jumps out of his chest when he hears you use his name for the very first time—he’s about ready to drop to his knees then and there, begging you never to use his surname ever again. “Come one, let’s go help tidy up the conference room, yeah? Best not to let JJ deal with that on her own.”
As the two of you make your way over to the conference room where the team had been set up for the last couple of days, he takes the biggest risk of his life and puts his hand on your lower back, overcome with a sudden need to feel your body heat again. The smile you sent him over your shoulder makes him practically buckle.
One thing was obvious: he was in deep, deep trouble.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
On the flight back you sit beside Spencer, a cup of Earl Grey in your hands, your gaze on the window as you watch the sunset settling over the world. An orange sky with lilac clouds, whisps of pink like candy floss marrying the colours together in a tranquillity only the sky could create. But Spencer can only look at you.
He’s reading, technically. And he is, he’s just… pausing every three sentences to glance at you, the golden sunlight highlighting your features in an unfairly angelic way. How was he supposed to look away from that? How was he supposed to do anything, when you were sat beside him, looking like that? It makes him wish that his eidetic memory could really commit to this one, to really burn this specific image into his memory forever. He would willingly forget half of his fun facts just to keep this picture intact.
Once you’ve finished your tea, you put the mug on the table and shuffle in your seat until your shoulder is pressed up against his. He keeps his gaze on his book, pretending like this isn’t some earth-shattering moment for him. “What’re you reading?” You quietly ask.
He has to clear his throat first to make sure his voice doesn’t crack. He’s pathetic. “The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath.”
“Want to read a bit to me?”
Your question takes him by surprise. He’s unable to hide it as he meets your gaze, to which you smile, but don’t say anything. “Really? It’s a little depressing.”
“Yeah, why not?” You say, nudging his arm a little, the same one you’re still pressed up against. “I like hearing your voice.”
After that, his voice just ends up cracking anyway, multiple times throughout multiple sentences. You don’t mention a word of it, which is probably for the best. It doesn’t stop his cheeks from glowing red, feeling as if they are on fire.
Once the team arrives back at the BAU, it’s already dark outside, putting just a bit more of a rush on everyone to grab their things and go home. Spencer waits by your desk as you collect your stuff, the two of you talking about the book he had read to you—he had managed to get you interested, and had insisted on giving it to you so you could read it on your own time. It was now on the corner of your desk, ready to be put in your bag. Your desk was directly across from his, the two of you sat opposite each other every day. It always gave him an easy opportunity to run something by you, or for you to ask for his help on something; mostly, it made it very easy for him to sneak a few glances throughout the day without you, or anyone else, noticing.
“You guys ready to go?” JJ suddenly says as she joins the two of you at your desk. All three of you had taken the subway to get to work before being swept away on the most recent case and had now decided to walk back to the subway together.
“Yeah, let’s go,” you say, shrugging on your long, navy coat that reached halfway down your shins. It was an elegant thing, suiting you effortlessly. It honestly amazed Spencer, how every little thing you did and said and wore just fit so perfectly with who you were. You always looked as if you had everything figured out as if you knew exactly who you were and what you liked. It made him wonder if that was actually the case, or if he had just built up some impossible vision of you in his mind.
Just as the three of you started making your way toward the glass doors, a familiar person entered through them—familiar in every negative sense of the word. Erin Strauss, the BAU Section Chief, who was just generally disliked in the unit.
“Ma’am,” JJ said as a sort of brief greeting. She only got a nod before Strauss turned to you.
“A word, Agent,” she said, not waiting for a response as she brushed past you and towards Hotch’s office.
You sighed, running a hand through your hair. “Looks like the day isn’t over for me yet,” you say with a half-hearted smile, clearly putting on a brave face in front of your team members, unwilling to admit to your disappointment at having to stay longer. “You go ahead, yeah? I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Are you sure?” Spencer says quickly, taking a step towards you, his hand twitching in his pocket, wanting to grab your arm. “We can wait.”
“No, that’s fine. I’ve got no idea how long that’ll take, probably not a good idea to have you wait around the entire time,” you say. You’re brave enough to actually reach out and squeeze his forearm. “I’ll be fine, Spence. Promise. I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”
Your tone was soft, your words were only meant for him to hear. He can only smile weakly, feeling uneasy at the idea of leaving while you have to keep working, but you don’t give him a chance to say anything else as you walk away. You send him and JJ a wave as you take off your coat again, throwing it over the back of your chair before you make your way to the office Strauss had disappeared in.
“Wonder what it’s about,” JJ says as she and Spencer wait by the elevators. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Yeah,” Spencer vaguely says, glancing over his shoulder through the glass doors at Hotch’s office, but there’s nothing to see. Just a closed door and drawn blinds. He can’t shake the troubled feeling he has, a strange vibe that he’s unable to put into words. Something is wrong, but he can’t put his finger on what, exactly. All he knows is that the answer is behind that closed door.
“She’ll be fine, Spence,” JJ suddenly says. Her eyebrows are creased, the look in her eyes unreadable as she seems to analyse his body language. She’s trying to figure him out. He has an uneasy feeling that she’s probably succeeding. “You don’t have to worry about her.”
Doesn’t he?
“I know,” he says, aware that he still sounds unconvinced. “I know.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
When he enters the bullpen that following morning, a half hour earlier than necessary with the plan of being able to meet you first thing when you walk in, just to get you alone for a few minutes, he finds you already sat at your desk, hunched over a ton of paperwork. He grits his teeth when he realises that all that paperwork is probably what Strauss needed you for—it’s always easy, passing the grunt work to the newest members.
When he gets closer, however, it becomes glaringly obvious to him that you’re not here already, but rather that you’re still here. You’re wearing the same clothes as you were wearing yesterday, your hair a lot less neat than it normally was, your go-bag abandoned beside your desk. The book he had given you was still in its exact same spot, long forgotten.
You don’t seem to notice him as he puts his leather messenger bag on his desk, unwinds his scarf and takes off his coat. Wordlessly, he makes his way over to you, catching a glimpse of your face. Your expression is tense, not a hint of humour or pleasure to be found: whatever you’re working on, it’s not something enjoyable.
“Hey,” he quietly says. You jolt, looking up with wide eyes. Your face turns into an expression of surprise.
“Spencer, what’re you doing here so early?” You ask, brushing your hair behind your ear. Immediately, he notices that your makeup is slightly patchy, and your mascara smudged. Those tiny, black wings you always have drawn on—eyeliner, he thinks, but he doesn’t really know enough about makeup—are completely gone. All that’s left is a faint, black line above your lashes. The longer he looks, the more he sees, and the more obvious it becomes to him that you’ve been here all night.
He wordlessly points to the time on your monitor, watching as you follow his hand before sighing deeply, hiding your face behind one of your hands. “Shit,” you whisper.
“Did you sleep here?” He asks with a frown, sitting down on the edge of your desk.
You scoff, shaking your head as you lean back into your seat. “No, I didn’t sleep here.”
He immediately catches on to your double meaning, the bags under your eyes proof enough. You didn’t sleep here, because you didn’t sleep at all. “Were you here all night?” He asks gently, hoping not to sound judgemental or condemning.
“Yeah, Strauss asked me to, uh…” you say, vaguely motioning to the files on your desk. You’re too tired to come up with a proper sentence, but you don’t need to, Spencer knows what you mean. “Anyway, the time got away from me. Didn’t realise how long I’d been here.”
“You should go home,” he says, quickly continuing when you scoff again. “I’m serious. You need to sleep. Just take the day, I don’t think Hotch would mind.”
“I’m not going to do that, Spence,” you say. Normally, that nickname would’ve warmed his heart, but your tone of voice is so exhausted, that it just hurts his heart to hear you like this. “If I take the day then people are going to ask questions. Besides, I’ve barely been here a month, I can’t just start taking days off, not with an American company.”
He doesn’t get the chance to ask what you mean by that when you suddenly get up from your seat, grabbing the files you’ve been working on. “I need to get this to Hotch,” you mumble, more to yourself than to him. He quickly grabs your elbow to stop you from walking away.
“I’ll do it,” he says. You frown at his words. “Please, let me help you. You can go and put on some clean clothes.”
A blush appears on your cheeks as you glance down at your wrinkled blouse. “Shit, yeah, you’re right,” you say, handing him the files as you bend down to go through your go-bag.
After watching you disappear to the bathrooms with a change of clothes in your hands, Spencer makes his way to Hotch’s office. When he glances at the files in his hands, he’s met with a small label. Project J. It doesn’t say any more than that—he’s curious to find out what it exactly means, but he knows that you probably wouldn’t take too kindly with him reading the files. Besides, he’d probably lose his job if Strauss ever found out. It wasn’t worth the risk.
He finds his boss already behind his desk, working on something. “Tommy asked me to give this to you,” Spencer says as he hands the files over.
“She finally went home?” Hotch asks, sounding slightly hopeful, only to sigh deeply when Spencer shakes his head. “I already ordered her to go home last night. She refused, saying she had orders from Strauss. Apparently, those weigh more than mine.”
He doesn’t sound happy with you, which Spencer agrees with. He can practically hear you say those things, even though you’ve never appeared all that hierarchical. “I’ll keep an eye on her today.”
“Good. Thank you, Reid.”
When he returns to your desk, he sees that you’re still not back, but that your makeup bag is on the floor. You probably intended to take it with you but forgot to do so in your sleepless state. With a pang in his chest, he grabs the bag, trying not to dwell on how unhealthy this was for you, and follows after you.
Slowly but surely, more people are trickling into the office, meaning that soon enough, the rest of the team will arrive and will notice you missing from your desk. He knows that you probably want to avoid that, that you’d hate to be questioned about that, so he increases his pace. After knocking on the door and waiting for your voice, he walks into the women’s bathroom, finding you drying your face by the sinks, and using a hand towel you must’ve grabbed from your bag earlier.
“Aren’t you a doll,” you say with a thankful smile as you take the makeup bag from him.
He’s always enjoyed the way you do your makeup: it’s professional and subtle, but still with a lot of character. Enough blush to give you a healthy glow, mascara to enhance your long lashes, and a small black wing, giving your eyes a cat-like quality. You probably use concealer or foundation or whatever it’s called, but he couldn’t point that out if he wanted to—he’d put his money on yes, but maybe you just have really smooth, fair skin. It wouldn’t surprise him. Your lips are always a faint red, nothing overtly noticeable but still a nice, elegant colour. It all made you look ridiculously good, to an unfair degree.
Now, however, is the first time he’s seen you without any of that. And he still thinks you look good, but his heart aches at the sight of the dark bags under your eyes, your pale cheeks and chapped lips. You look like you haven’t slept in over twenty-four hours, which is only made worse when he knows it to be true.
“Anything else I can do?” He asks, hoping that his expression didn’t give him away.
“No, that’s okay. Just, if anybody asks where I am, just tell them I had to powder my nose,” you say, giving him a small smile. “And maybe don’t mention the reason as to why.”
Along with promising to do that, he also cleans up your desk as well as he can, trying not to mess up any potential systems you may have whilst also trying to give you a more tidy desk. He shoves your go-bag under the desk so that nobody sees it, turns off your monitor so that it doesn’t look like you’ve logged in yet, and then makes his way to the kitchenette to make you tea.
If there was one thing he could say about you with absolute certainty, it’s that you start every single working day with a cup of chamomile tea. No sugar, no milk, just the tea. You had actually let him ramble on for a good few minutes about all the medicinal qualities and health benefits of chamomile the first time he saw you drink it, eventually replying with, “Good thing I drink it every morning, then.”
Once he’s finished your tea and his own coffee, he makes his way back into the bullpen, finding you sat at your desk again. You’re putting your makeup away, kicking the bag under your desk, right back to where he put it.
“You didn’t have to tidy up for me, you know,” you say with a smile when you notice him. He can see you’re thankful for it.
“I know,” he simply says before putting your mug on the desk. You look at it for a moment, shock in your face, before finding his eyes. Suddenly, he’s met with the most tender look you’ve ever given him. It’s so intense that he nearly forgets to breathe, especially when you reach out and put your hand over his for a moment.
“Thank you, Spencer,” you softly say, your voice gentle and filled with gratitude. It makes him blush. He watches as you sip your tea with closed eyes, a content sigh leaving your lips. He’s still impressed that you’re that good at drinking nearly boiling water, but then again, you’ve probably had years of practice. “God, you’re a treasure.”
That nearly makes him choke on his own spit, so he quickly takes a sip of his coffee to wash it away.
Thankfully, he doesn’t have to come up with a reply when a cheery voice calls out from behind him. “Morning,” Emily says, arriving at her desk with JJ behind her. You mumble a small greeting back, and Emily smiles at you, only to do a double take when she notices your face. “Wow, someone had a long night.”
You scoff before sipping from your mug. “That bad, then?” You say, but you don’t sound offended at Emily’s rather tactless comment. If there was anything you could appreciate, it was honesty.
JJ walks over to you, coming to stand behind you and putting a hand on your shoulder. “What did Strauss want? Seems like she put you through the wringer.”
“Just wanted me to look over a case, back from when I was still with counterterrorism,” you say before reaching up and squeezing her hand. It sounds like the truth, Spencer thinks—did you have a reason to lie about ‘Project J’? “I’m fine, though, don’t worry. Just didn’t get as many hours as I’m used to.”
Spencer forces himself to drink from his coffee, just so that he doesn’t scoff at your comment. As many hours? You didn’t sleep at all. If he wasn’t such a wimp, he’d march into Hotch’s office and demand he send you home for the day, but he knows that that wouldn’t be appreciated by either you or Hotch.
“Strauss?” Emily says, a hint of disapproval in her voice as she sits down at her desk. “Next time she does that just ask us for help, okay? You don’t have to do all of that on your own, especially not if it makes your pretty face look so drained.”
“You flirting with my girl?” A voice suddenly calls out. Unsurprisingly, it’s Morgan who walks into the bullpen, sending you a wink as he passes you. “You cheating on me?”
“I’d never, darling,” you say with a grin. And then, entirely unexpectedly on his part, you give Spencer a wink.
Did you mean by that what he thought you did? No, there was no way. You were just including him in the banter, that was probably all. Still, a man could dream, no?
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Two hours later, he decides to abandon his paperwork in favour of finding you. You’d taken your work into the conference room, saying something about being unable to focus in such a loud space, and he hadn’t seen you since. Nobody had said anything in reply, easily picking up on your undertone of irritation. It didn’t surprise Spencer: he knows how cranky he gets on too little sleep, he can only expect the same from you.
Before he makes his way over to you, he prepares another cup of tea: ginger this time, which was supposed to help with low energy and motivation. He has no idea how you drink it, if you even like ginger, but he decides that for the sake of your health, you’ll just have to endure it.
He finds you, as promised, in the conference room. What he hadn’t expected, was to find you asleep, leaned over the table, your forehead on your arms. He quietly closes the door behind himself to make sure nobody accidentally walks in without at least knocking first. He puts the mug on the table and takes a seat beside you.
“Tommy,” he quietly says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”
You suddenly shoot up, looking around bleary-eyed. When you finally seem to recognise your surroundings and company, you groan dramatically, leaning back in your chair with your eyes closed again. “Shit, I’m sorry. I just wanted to close my eyes, I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He wants to tell you to just please go home, but he knows that it’s no use and that he’ll probably just end up starting an argument with you, so he does the next best thing instead. He pushes the mug of tea over to you. “It’s ginger,” he says with his signature flat smile. “Should help with low energy.”
“You’re a treasure, Spence,” you say, smiling at him, and his own turns into something a lot brighter. It’s the second time you’ve said that today, and it warms his heart to hear. The first one had taken him off-guard a bit, but now that he’s heard it again, he can confidently say that there was little he wouldn’t do just to hear you keep calling him that.
The two you of sit in silence for a bit as you drink from your tea. You don’t stop him as he starts reading over the report you were filling out, nor do you stop him when he grabs your pen and starts filling in the empty spaces. Maybe you knew that arguing was no use, or maybe you were just too tired to fight him on this one. It was probably both.
“Does being tired make you cold?” You eventually ask, putting your near-empty mug back down on the table.
Spencer looks up to meet your eyes. “Are you cold?”
“A little, have been all morning. I keep shivering randomly,” you say with a small shrug. “So, does it?”
“Sleep deprivation can disrupt the body's ability to regulate body temperature, yes,” he says easily. You nod thoughtfully, crossing your arms in front of your chest, trying to hide a well-timed shiver that runs through your body. It immediately prompts him to start taking off his burgundy cardigan, to which your eyes widen as you shake your head. “Oh, no, Spence, you don’t have to. Honestly, I wasn’t trying to get at that.”
“I know,” he says, still taking off his cardigan and draping it over your shoulders, leaving him in his blue chequered button-up and black tie.
You give him a look, but he refuses to back down, and after a few seconds of a silent battle of eye contact, you sigh and give in. He becomes acutely aware that he’s perhaps made an error in his judgement, because the moment he sees you wrapped up in his cardigan, which is far too big on you, he instantly loses all train of thought.
“You look good,” he blurts out without realising, his cheeks tinting pink the moment he finishes his sentence.
“Yeah?” You say with a smile, sitting up a bit straighter to give him a better look. “Look like a proper genius now, do I?”
He laughs at your joke, glad to see that even with your exhaustion, you didn’t lose your sense of humour. “Yeah, sure. You’ll be solving the Da Vinci Code in no time.”
“Who says I haven’t already?” You say with a wink and a grin, which just makes him smile even wider. It's nice, being able to joke around with you like this. It feels incredibly familiar as if it’s something the two of you have always done. It’s how it always should be, he thinks.
You then do something that isn’t familiar between the two of you at all, taking him entirely by surprise when you put your hand on his cheek, a gentle smile replacing the playful grin you’d been sporting. “You’re good to me, Spencer Reid,” you say, your thumb rubbing over his cheekbone. “I think you might’ve spoiled me, now.”
“I try,” he says without thinking, his voice matching yours in tone and quiet volume. “I think you deserve spoiling.”
You giggle as you shake your head, a look of disbelief in your eyes. “You’re sweet.”
“Sweet?”
“Yeah. And too bloody good for me by half.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Despite the cold, the two of you spent your lunch hour outside, joined by Garcia and Morgan. With it being only February, temperatures were barely reaching ten degrees Celsius, but you had insisted on getting fresh air. When Spencer had pointed out that you were already cold and that it didn’t make sense to willingly seek out even lower temperatures, you had countered by asking him if he really wanted to prevent you from getting your vitamin D. He couldn’t come up with a response to that, and so you had won.
You were sat on a low wall, your feet dangling just above the ground, and Spencer was standing beside you, leaning against that same wall. He kept a close eye on you as he sipped on his coffee, just in case you’d try and hide your shivering again, but rather paradoxically, you hadn’t shivered once, and there was now even a bit of colour back in your cheeks.
“You’re sure you’re not getting sick?” Garcia asks you for the third time in a half hour, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “Don’t tell me they’re overworking you already.”
“I’m fine, Garica, darling, really,” you say gently but firmly, giving her a look. “Don’t got to be so worried about me all the time, yeah?”
Garcia turned to Morgan with a hopeless look. “You’re really not going to help me out here?”
Morgan held up his hands in mock defence, shaking his head with a small grin. “Hey, if pretty girl says she’s fine, who am I to tell her otherwise?”
“Thanks, pet,” you say with a smile, and Spencer can’t help but copy your smile at the nickname. It was a very endearing one to hear.
“Well, if you insist on refusing my loving hands, I’m going back inside,” Garcia says with a dramatic shiver. She wraps her hand around Morgan’s bicep, batting her eyelashes at him in a way only she could. “Walk a girl back to her office?”
With an eye-roll, Morgan scoffs and grabs his empty coffee cup from the half wall. “Yeah, yeah, alright. You’re lucky you’re cute, you know.”
After they’ve gone back inside, Spencer glances at you and finds you with your eyes closed, face turned toward the sun. The rays are surprisingly warm, enough to keep him standing there with you without feeling like he’s freezing. He takes a moment to study your features, finding that like this, you didn’t look as tired. He can see a hint of his red cardigan under your coat and scarf, which makes his stomach warm in a very pleased sort of way. Everyone had seen you wearing it already, but nobody had said a word about it—apart from some very suggestive looks sent his way, everyone was being relatively chill about it all.
He then sees you trying to suppress a yawn and it’s enough for him to let go of his inhibitions, reaching out and putting an arm around you, pulling your head to him until it’s on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything as he lets go of you again, giving you the chance to either accept this or sit back up.
When you shuffle a little closer and nuzzle your head around until it’s perfectly in the junction between his neck and shoulder, his heart practically leaps out of his chest.
“Five minutes,” you whisper to him. “Not a second more. Promise?”
“I promise,” he says whilst simultaneously trying to stop his pounding heart: he’s afraid you might accidentally overhear it.
He wakes you up twenty minutes later. You don’t mention it, not as you jump off the wall with a yawn and not when he takes a moment to rub away the smudged mascara from under your eyes. It’s an intimate moment, especially when you nudge his cheek with your finger, mumbling the word ‘treasure’ just as he finishes up. He doesn’t try and hide his blush from you, knowing that it’s no use anyway.
And if he puts his hand on your lower back again as the two of you walk back inside, like he had done so shyly on that case yesterday, then that is really nobody’s business but his own.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Despite your best efforts, nobody allows you to stay even a minute past five p.m., with even Rossi coming out of his office to help push you out the door. Figuratively, of course. It’s how Spencer finds himself walking outside with you because you had utterly refused to be the first one to leave, prompting him to meet you halfway by also going home.
“Thanks for taking care of me today,” you say as the two of you step outside into the setting sun, turning to him with a smile. “I don’t know if Hotch put you up to it or not, but thank you, regardless.”
“Hotch had nothing to do with it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I just figured that you could use a bit of help today, after such a long night.”
“You’re sweet,” you say, tilting your head to the sight as your eyes turn thoughtful. It’s as if you’re trying to figure out something, but he doesn’t know what. “Any plans for tonight, then?”
It’s a surprising question, especially compared to the expression you’re wearing: he’d expected something deeper. It’s a stupid thought to have, he realises, because you’re tired and you’re just trying to make conversation.
“Not really, no,” he says with his flat smile. “Got this documentary I’ve been waiting to watch, so maybe that.”
You nod, a small smile growing on your face. You seem nervous, suddenly. “Well, if you’re not too set on that idea, I was thinking,” you say, vaguely motioning with your hand. With a laugh and a shake of your head, seemingly at yourself, you glance away for a moment. Then you meet his eyes, a determined look in your eyes. “I was thinking, maybe you’d want to get a drink with me?”
It was the very last thing he’d expected you to ask, especially combined with your sudden nervousness. He’s so taken aback, in fact, that he can only really stare at you, but not for lack of an answer. Instinctively, he wants to say yes, he wants to go to a bar with you and hopefully do a wonderful repeat of that night the two of you had spent sitting in a booth together, talking for hours. But he knows that doing so would be the most selfish thing to do right now: even if you’ve seemingly forgotten, you’re exhausted. He couldn’t just go out with you, not when what you really needed was sleep.
Which brings him to his next point: if you were this tired, how was he supposed to be sure that this was actually what you wanted, that you weren’t just delirious? He’d been so overtly affectionate with you today and you with him, but what if that was only because you’d been too tired to reject him? You always had your walls up, what made the sudden change? No, he couldn’t say yes. He couldn’t take advantage of you like that. How could he possibly claim to care about you if he kept you from sleeping when you needed it the most?
It's also nearly impossible for him to believe that you’re really asking him out—like, actually asking him out. In what world was someone like you interested in him someone like him? He had allowed some cautious optimism to leak into every interaction he had with you today, but for you to just ask him like this was almost inconceivable.
It's then that you visibly take a step back and he’s instantly transported out of his mind and back into the present, where he realises that he’s been quiet for a while now, only staring at you with an unreadable expression. It has resulted in your smile faltering, a look of rejection flashing over your features. The step you take back is a reflection of that feeling of rejection, as if you’re physically recoiling from his lack of response.
He feels his heart sink into his stomach at the sight. “Tommy, I—,”
“It’s fine,” you interrupt, giving him a tight-lipped smile that doesn’t even try to come across as sincere. “I get it, you have that documentary. I know you’re just trying to let me down easy.”
What? What documentary? Shit, did he say that earlier? He couldn’t remember. “No, that’s not what I—”
“I get it. We’re colleagues, it’s probably not a good idea,” you say, wrapping your arms around yourself while you shrug. It’s like you’re physically comforting yourself. “Just—pretend I never asked, alright? I’ll see you tomorrow, Reid. Have a good night.”
And then you’re walking away, leaving him flabbergasted. He can barely comprehend what has just happened, feeling as if he had been holding you one moment only for you to feel like smoke slipping through his fingers the next. The fact that you called him ‘Reid’ barely registers with him, his eyes glued on your back as you walk away in quick, short paces, on the brink of running.
Just as he gets it in his mind to follow you and try and explain his absolutely worthless response, a voice calls out from somewhere behind him.
“Reid! What the hell was that?”
When he turns around he isn’t surprised to find that it’s Morgan, but he is frustrated at the sight of his colleague. Mostly because he knows that he probably saw and heard the whole thing.
“Pretty girl asks you out and you say no?” Morgan says as he makes his way over to Spencer, his voice filled with disbelief.
“Technically, I didn’t say anything,” Spencer says, knowing it’s a weak defence. His tone isn’t exactly convincing either.
“Pretty sure that’s worse, leaving her hanging like that,” Morgan says with a frown. “What happened back there, man? All you had to say was yes.”
Spencer opens his mouth intending to reply, but finds that he has nothing to say. Morgan was right: all he had to say was yes, so what the hell did he do? One moment you’d been having a normal conversation and the next your face had been filled with rejection and embarrassment as you walked away from him.
“Look, Reid, let me just give you a word of advice, okay?” Morgan says, suddenly putting a hand on Spencer’s shoulder and using his other hand to point in the direction you had disappeared in. “Take it from me, a girl like that only comes by once in a lifetime, alright? And they know what they’re worth, they’re not going to wait around for idiots like you and me to figure out what we want. So, before it’s too late, figure it out, before she moves on to something better.”
Spencer had to admit: in terms of advice, this was probably in Morgan’s top three speeches that he’d ever received. The worst part of that was that Morgan was right: you wouldn’t wait. Besides, even if you did, people were probably lining up left and right to be with you, to push Spencer out of the position he had found himself in only minutes ago and say exactly the right things to convince you they were worth your time. And you definitely weren’t going to wait around for someone who had rejected you so carelessly as he had.
What had he done?
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
He’d tried calling you that night but you hadn’t picked up. In all fairness, he did only try calling exactly once in a very fleeting moment of bravery, but as he had listened to your voicemail, all sense of said bravery had vanished in an instant. He hadn’t managed to find it again that night. By the time the morning rolled around, he’d had it in his mind to catch you before work and explain away the whole debacle from last night.
This plan went up in smoke when the call for a case came in just as he was walking out of his apartment, with Hotch telling him to just go straight to the jet so they could leave at once. He was one of the last ones to arrive there, being completely dependent on the subway system, spotting you in the back of the plane, making your morning tea. He barely acknowledges the others as he makes a beeline towards you, dropping his go-bag on one of the seats without much care for it.
You look up when you notice him coming closer, and instead of giving a look of discomfort like he had expected, you just smile politely. “Morning,” you say, taking the tea bag out of your cup and dropping it in a small paper cup for it to cool down before you throw it away. Your tone betrayed absolutely nothing about last night.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a lot more high-pitched than he had intended. “Sleep well?”
“A little,” you say with a small shrug. “What about you?”
Yeah, this was going great. Good job, Spencer, you’re really sticking to the plan here. “Uh, yeah, fine. Watched that, uh, that documentary I mentioned.” He closes his eyes, internally cringing at his absolutely abysmal attempt at small talk.
“Yeah?” You say, not sounding too interested. That, on its own, was already enough for him to realise that last night was definitely still bothering you, because if it hadn’t, you would have asked an actual question about it, instead of just a polite noise of faux interest.
“Sounds thrilling, Reid,” a voice behind him says then, where he finds Emily with a playful smile on her face. She brushes past him to pour herself a cup of coffee, glancing at you with a smile. “Please tell me you had a more interesting night than that? Before we’re all subjected to whatever niche topic Reid’s into now.”
He’d take offence, but. Well, he supposed that not everyone would be interested in a documentary about the journeys made by birds during their migrations, filmed over the course of four years. He was mostly just annoyed about the fact that he had just wasted the opportunity to apologise to you by making awkward small talk.
“Suppose interesting is one word for it,” you say, a hidden meaning in your tone as you sip from your tea, eyeing Emily over the edge of the cup with a suggestive look. You wanted her to ask, not even looking at him anymore.
“Oh, yeah?” Emily says with an equally suggestive look. She puts down the coffee pot as she turns to you. “What’s their name?”
“I don’t kiss and tell, darling,” you say with a wink, before slinking out of the small kitchen area and back into the main part of the plane. Emily immediately follows you, saying something along the lines of “Oh, no you don’t!” as you laugh, leaving Spencer behind with a sinking feeling in his stomach.
Morgan’s words immediately start ghosting through his mind—about how girls like you don’t wait around for idiots like him to figure out what they want. Only one night was already enough time for that to happen.
As he makes his way back to the main part of the jet, unfortunately finding that the only seat left is directly in front of you, he can’t help but wonder if you wanted him to know about this. If you had allured to it so overtly in front of him so that he was forced to hear how you had already moved on to someone new. It would be a petty thing to do, but Spencer knew after a month of working with you, that you weren’t always above being petty.
“Go on, don’t keep us in suspense,” JJ said to you from beside him, apparently having also been filled in on whatever had happened last night. “At least give us a name.”
After a moment in which Spencer was practically praying for you to not give this mystery person a name, you sighed and said, “James.” Almost immediately, JJ and Emily opened their mouths to respond, but you quickly held up a finger. “And that is all you’re getting! Don’t think I don’t know you’re just going to get Garcia to look him up.”
“Look who up?” Morgan asks, now also mixing himself into the conversation.
“James, which is apparently all we’re getting,” JJ says with a look sent your way, to which you grin.
“Garcia won’t need any more than that,” Rossi says, also inserting himself without looking up from his case file.
Spencer is eternally grateful when Hotch walks in and tells everyone to grab a file so that they can go over the details of the case. After a few minutes of staring at the case file so intensely that he feels his eyes burning, he eventually finds the courage to look up again, trusting that nobody can read his discomfort off his face. He’s taken aback when he finds you staring at him, even more so when you give him a small, sympathetic smile as if you’re testing the waters.
The sympathy feels awful to him because he knows that the only reason you’re looking at him like that is because of last night. He’s unable to figure out the details of it, why you’re suddenly feeling sympathetic now and why to him specifically—maybe you’d somehow picked up on his mood? On how he was beating himself up?
He doesn’t know, but he still gives you a smile back, one that he hopes comes across as reassuring. It seems to work because your own smile widens and you nudge your foot against his before you return to your file. It leaves him breathless.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
By the time the evening rolls around, he’s run enough circles in his own mind to leave him feeling exhausted and numb, unable to muster up any energy for you or the case anymore. Apparently, dealing with what happened between you and him and also having to catch a serial killer on top of that was enough for even his mind to eventually falter.
Half of the team had gone out to get dinner, bringing back enough for everyone so they could all eat at the tiny police station they were currently working out of. Who doesn’t love eating on the job, right?
Spencer was set on the edge of the sheriff’s desk, staring at the evidence board and the single letter sent to the press by the unsub, going over the words in every way possible to try and reveal as much as he could. He had no idea where the sheriff had gone, but he really couldn’t care less. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation anyway, it was probably best that he was left alone.
As if being part of some cruel joke, you chose that moment to walk into the small office, taking your place on the desk beside him. The two of you had been paired up again—which was his own fault, he’d told you specifically that he enjoyed working with you and you had seemingly kept to your promise of asking Hotch to pair the two of you together. Just as always, you had been perfectly professional and friendly with him, helping with the geological profile. The two of you always worked well together. The biggest difference between this case and the ones from before then since that night in the bar, was that the of you hadn’t shared any physical contact the entire day.
It made him realise that he was having some serious withdrawals from that. He knew why, scientifically: you’d been responsible for giving him all those boosts of dopamine and serotonin, and now you had suddenly pulled away, and that made his brain long for it even more. If anything, it was almost ridiculous how close this all got to his actual addiction. But science wasn’t enough to explain this one away: no matter how pragmatic he was trying to be, he somehow still felt like a total mess, mentally and emotionally.
“You get anything off that letter?” You eventually ask, pulling him out of his head. After a moment of trying to recalibrate his thoughts, he nods slowly.
“You see the way his handwriting’s sloppy, how it slants to the right?” He asks, waiting for you to nod. “He was angry when he was writing it. The pen marks are deep, practically tearing through the paper.”
“He wasn’t just in a rush?” You offer, to which he shakes his head.
“The pen indentations wouldn’t be as deep then,” he says. “Besides, his choice of words is aggressive, and almost half of the sentences are imperative. He was pissed off.”
You nod as you consider his words, staring at the evidence board alongside him. It’s quiet for a few minutes, something which he’d normally appreciate from you but now just makes him nervous. It makes him wish he could read your mind.
“Hey, Spencer?” You eventually said in a careful tone. He practically melts at the sound of you using his first name, something you hadn’t done since yesterday. He was afraid you’d never use it again. “I’m sorry about last night.”
Almost comically, he whips his head towards you in surprise. The last thing he had expected was for you to apologise: what had you possibly done wrong? “You’re… sorry?”
“Yeah, I… I never should’ve asked you out,” you say, carefully meeting his eyes. There’s uncertainty in yours, nervousness. Your words make his heart ache because it’s the exact thing he’d hoped you’d never say. He didn’t want you to regret that. “I’m sorry for doing that. I was just really tired, and I think I got swept up in all of it, so… yeah. I think I just read the whole thing wrong, it wasn’t my intention to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” he says, not missing the relief that appears in your expression. “I’m just sorry that I rejected you like that.”
“No, no, don’t be,” you say, shaking your head as you cross your arms in front of your chest. You don’t seem to pick up on the double meaning he accidentally put into his words. “Honestly, you’re fine. If anything, you were just letting me down easy. I know that you didn’t want to hurt me.”
You give him a smile, one that is reminiscent of the one on the jet that morning. He gets it now. It’s not sympathy, you’re just apologetic, and he had accidentally given you the impression that he had forgiven you during the night when there was nothing to be forgiven for.
“I also wanted to say that I’m glad you still wanted to work with me,” you say, ducking your head as you seem a little embarrassed to admit to it. A strand of hair falls in front of your face and it takes everything in him not to reach out and brush it behind your ear. “I mean, I would’ve understood if you didn’t, so I’m glad that—that you could maintain professionalism, I suppose.”
“Of course,” he says, a little appalled that you’d expected him to act so crudely. “I like working with you.”
You look up with a bright smile, and for a few seconds, you just kind of stare at him, your eyes flickering over his face as if you’re looking for something. You seem to find it because something deepens in your eyes. Your smile softens and suddenly your hand is on his elbow.
“Thank you, Spencer,” you say. “For being so nice about all of this. And for being… well, you, I suppose.”
“Yeah, no problem,” Spencer murmurs, not attempting to hide the way his eyes now flicker over your face. If you’re allowed to study him like that, then he’s allowed to do the same with you.
The moment is interrupted by Morgan’s voice, calling out to get the food that they just brought back with them. With a final, relieved smile, you squeeze his elbow before the two of you make your way over to all the bags of takeout. In terms of nutrients, it’s not the best food, simple burgers and fries, but it scratches a particular itch you can only really ever have after a day of profiling, interviewing and staring at crime scenes.
You pull a face as you meticulously remove the two slices of tomato from your burger, turning to Spencer who is already waiting. He lets you drop them on his burger, already used to this dance between the two of you: you hate raw tomatoes, and he has no issues with eating them for you.
When you get a call halfway through the meal and pick up with a smile and a “Missing me already, are you?”, Spencer is reminded of the whole reason he’s felt so conflicted all day. He watches as you walk away to take the call in private, something forlorn in his chest as his eyes find those tomatoes you’d given him. He’s clearly not hiding it very well, because Morgan is then patting his shoulder with a sympathetic look on his face, which Spencer hates, because it just confirms what he already knew. He lost.
And yet, he still can’t find it within himself to give up. Not yet.
Notes:
Hmm, what could Project J be? And why has it got you working all night? And what does Strauss have to do with it? Many, many questions indeed...
Also, if you like tomatoes no you don't!!! I don't want to hear it babes!! <3
Chapter 5: Kindling the Fire
Notes:
Heads up, little early Christmas gift for ya ;)
Love you so much, you look great, fetch a drink and enjoy! <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 27th, 2009. 1 month and 14 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
The bar was too loud, the table was too sticky, and his drink tasted sour. Like the spineless imbecile that he was, Spencer had let his colleagues convince him to go out with them. It had started with you and Garcia getting the idea to go out, which had developed into JJ and Emily joining you, to which all four of you had somehow convinced Morgan to come too, and he in turn had told Spencer to join as well. Something about how he couldn’t possibly be the only man to go out with a group of women.
That had turned out to be complete nonsense, because Morgan had left twenty minutes ago to take a thoroughly wasted Garcia home, leaving Spencer with the three other women of the BAU. He wouldn’t have minded, normally, but he had a headache and felt completely overstimulated and really didn’t enjoy being around you when JJ and Emily kept asking you questions about your new mystery man. He was an attorney, apparently, which everyone had found very impressive, but Spencer didn’t because did this James asshole have three PhDs and an IQ of 187? No? Then he honestly could not care less about this guy.
He knew there was no reason for him to sit around so bitterly, licking his wounds with his lukewarm sprite that still tasted sour—maybe that was just his jealousy mixing in with the drink, though.
The sound of your laugh soothed his aches only just a little, and he found himself watching you from where he was sitting on the other side of the round booth they had all claimed earlier. Technically, you were sitting next to him, but there was at least a foot of space between the two of you because that was where Garcia had been sitting before she had oh-so-gracefully clambered over Spencer’s lap when it was time for her to go home. He hadn’t found the courage to move closer to you, because even if the two of you talked it all out he was still nervous about how he’d acted that night you’d asked him out.
And so there he was sat, lonesome on his own side of the round booth, watching you nurse a whiskey on the rocks, huddled closely to JJ and Emily, the three of you deeply engrossed in a conversation. He knows that he’s allowed to leave, that he can just get up and bid everyone goodbye, but there’s a small voice in the back of his mind that keeps telling him that if he waits just a few minutes longer, eventually, you’ll come to talk to him. Whether he is just optimistic or utterly delusional he doesn’t know, but regardless of that, he’s unwilling to let go of even the smallest opportunity to have you talk to him.
It made him wonder if there was a difference between perseverance and just simple stubbornness.
There did have to come a moment where he’d have to ask himself if sitting there, allowing his headache to grow and his bad mood to fester, if he really should want to talk to you in this state. He wasn’t exactly a fun person to be around right now. Maybe that was why he was sitting on his own, despite being with a whole group of people: maybe his face was like thunder and everyone would rather avoid that. It's enough to finally convince him to abandon his sprite and start reaching for his coat at the end of the booth. Just as he manages to find it in the pile of jackets and scarves, he hears your voice: it’s a lot closer than it was when you were talking to Emily and JJ. “Looking for something?”
He sits up immediately, shaking his head as he meets your eyes. You’ve crossed that foot of space, now sitting close enough for him to feel your body heat, your leg only an inch away from touching his. “No, no, I thought I’d lost my… phone, but I found it. So.”
You smile and nod. He can’t tell if you believe him or not. “Good, I was afraid you were already leaving so soon,” you say, leaning your elbow on the table and putting your chin in your palm. “Having a good night, then?”
“Yeah, I am.”
“Really?” You say, quirking an eyebrow, your voice unimpressed. “‘Cos you look utterly miserable, if I’m honest.”
He deflates at your comment and shrugs, playing with the straw in his glass. “I’m just tired. Probably should’ve just gone home.”
“Well, for the record, I’m very glad you’re here,” you say, giving his wrist a quick squeeze. The hot flash he gets immediately afterwards is pathetic.
“You are?”
“Yeah, of course. I can always count on you for good conversation,” you say. He can’t help but smile at your words, feeling glad that if nothing else, he could at least be a good conversationalist for you. You glance just beyond his face and chuckle. “I think someone’s interested in you, darling.”
He’d rather hear you call him ‘darling’ over and over than look away, but he does so he knows what you’re talking about, finding a group of girls over by the bar. One of them is staring at him, looking away with a giggle when she sees him watching, nudging her friends. Even if he sucked at social cues, he knew what that meant.
“Yeah, guess so,” he weakly says, turning back to you.
“Want me to go over to talk to her?” You ask. “I’m a very good wingman, I’ve been told.”
“No, that’s okay,” Spencer says, shaking his head. The very last thing he’d want was for you to talk to a girl for him: not only did he not want to talk to any girl, he definitely didn’t want the one person he desired to set that up.
“You sure? I wouldn’t mind, she’s a proper stunner.”
“I’m sure. I’d rather talk to you.”
The massive smile on your face and the faint suggestion of a blush made the whole wait and sour drink worth it. “What is it about you, eh?” You say, more to yourself than to him, and he has no idea what to reply to that. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to. “What did you want to talk about, then?”
God, did you have to put him on the spot like that? He nearly wrecks his brain trying to find something to say, and the first thing he finds slips out of his mouth, followed by an instant regret enough to give him whiplash. “How are things with you and James?”
“Oh!” You say, your eyes widening in surprise at his question. Clearly, you weren’t expecting this either. Was it too late for him to take it back? “Uh, fine, I suppose.”
Fine? That didn’t sound like the passion he’d expect from a new romantic attachment. Something about the honeymoon phase? In all honesty, he’s kind of glad to hear it, because it means things might not work out: that thought in turn also makes him feel bad, because he genuinely wants you to be happy, even if he’s not the one giving you that.
“Just fine?” He asks, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. You shrug.
“Yeah, I mean, he’s not all that interesting. And not nearly as clever as you,” you say, which makes him feel far too satisfied for his liking. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s good at the, uh…” you trail off and wave your hand around, snorting. “The physical stuff, let’s say, but in terms of conversation, he’s not the door to come knockin’ on. But he’s fun to keep around for a bit, s’pose.”
A bit. That didn’t suggest any long-term plans. Again, he felt far too satisfied. The comment about your sex life with this guy was enough to quell that, though. He was probably lucky that you’d gone through all of that with Emily and JJ earlier—at least, he can only assume. Can only hope.
“Anyway, let’s not talk about him, eh?” You say with an easy smile. Either you picked up on his reluctance, or maybe you just didn’t want to talk about your new flame, which also didn’t suggest a deep affection. “Any plans for the weekend?”
Spencer shakes his head, folding his hands in his lap. “No, not really. Maybe try and work on my studies.”
“Oh, yeah, psychology, right?”
“Yeah, exactly. But I’ll probably just end up rewatching all the Star Wars movies.”
You chuckle and nod, taking a sip from your whiskey. “I’ve never seen Star Wars,” you say thoughtfully, and finally, there’s something for him to talk about properly.
“What? Never? Why?”
“Never made the time for it, I suppose,” you say with a small shrug, a hint of mischief in your eyes. “Besides, seems so awfully boring.”
“Boring!” Spencer exclaims, reeling with disbelief at what he is hearing. It seems to be what you were aiming for as you giggle and settle back into the cushions of the booth, your face filling with a type of anticipation at the rant you seem to know is coming. “It’s one of the best-known science fiction sagas of all time! The first movie won seven Oscars! It’s not boring!”
“It’s bloody old though,” you say with a teasing grin, purposefully egging him on. “Pretty sure the first movie was released, like, thirty years ago.”
“Just because it’s old does not mean it’s boring,” Spencer says, pointing his finger at you, to which you mock his overt stern face and point the exact same finger, pressing it against his.
“So you admit? It’s boring regardless of its age?” You say with a far too satisfied grin, unable to keep the expression you were trying to copy off him.
“What? No!” he says, frantically shaking his head and pulling his hand away, as if he can somehow physically take back his words. “No, it’s not boring at all! It’s a masterpiece, a perfect Hero’s Journey. The fight between Good and Evil! And its subtle commentary on the dangers of fascism when met with complacency is—”
He cuts himself off when he sees you shaking with barely contained laughter, finally breaking when you see him noticing your struggle to keep silent. “Whatever,” he mumbles weakly, his cheeks tinting pink as he realises that you’d just been teasing him the entire time.
“No, I’m sorry, Spence,” you say with a wide smile, clearly not meaning a word of it. “You’re just so easy to rile up, lovely, I can’t help it.”
Lovely. Now that was one he could get used to.
Your eyes suddenly flicker behind him again, and when he glances over he finds that girl watching him again. This time, one of her friends is whispering in her ear, something that makes her giggle and blush before she waves at him. He awkwardly waves back, not sure if he should’ve just ignored her. He’s about to ask you for your opinion when he suddenly feels your hand brushing against his chin and towards the side of his face not angled toward you. He looks over in surprise, practically flinching at the feeling, and instantly loses his breath when he finds you close. So close, in fact, that he barely registers you brushing his hair behind his ear.
“There,” you whisper, only for him. “Seeing this should scare her right off, no?”
“I, uh,” he stammers out, unable to come up with a single word. It’s as if, in an instant, the entire dictionary was deleted from his mind, simply because you’re so close now, with your fingers trailing over his jaw and your breath hitting his lips. It’s spicy from the whiskey, something that should’ve probably disgusted him under normal circumstances, but you weren’t normal, nor were the circumstances. Maybe that’s why he takes the massive risk by momentarily letting his eyes drop down to your cleavage, deciding that this black, wrap top is his favourite on you so far, especially combined with the flared jeans—you never wear jeans. Not to work, at least—you don’t think they’re professional enough, he once gathered from you.
When his eyes shoot back up to your face, hoping that you didn’t notice, he’s quite instantly enveloped by the detail he gets to see up close now. You glance over at the girl again, but this time he keeps his gaze on you, having entirely forgotten about that group over by the bar. It’s just you, now. He’s not even sure if Emily and JJ are still here. As he studies your face, shamelessly, something akin to satisfaction flickers in your expression, which instantly makes him wonder. Were you… jealous? There was no way, right? There was no way you were jealous of the attention he was getting from some random woman. You must’ve just seen his discomfort and decided to step in, that was all. Fat chance that you were jealous, not with James the Attorney just a phone call away.
“Have you got Star Wars at home?” You suddenly ask, your eyes flickering back to his as you lean back again. He leans in after you ever so slightly before he catches himself, and he can only hope that you didn’t notice. “Like, on DVD? Or do you stream it?”
“Blu-ray, actually,” he dumbly says, practically drooling now that he’s surrounded by your perfume and the hint of whiskey. It’s maddening, to be so enveloped by you, all of you. It makes him want to pull his hair out.
“How would you feel about introducing me, then?”
He sobers up a little at your question, blinking in surprise. “Right now?”
“Yeah. Why not, eh?” You say, suddenly pouring the rest of your whiskey down your throat in one quick motion, setting the glass down with a decisive thud. “What else are Fridays for, if not watching Star Wars with Spencer Reid?”
Barely five minutes later, you and Spencer are walking out of the bar after bidding JJ and Emily a very extensive goodbye. Apparently, saying goodbye to them was one hell of a task, as the three of you just kept coming up with last-minute topics to discuss. Eventually, though, you managed to drag yourself away from them, laughing when Emily called out, “Use protection, kids!”, leaving Spencer with a red neck and wide eyes.
Before he could start to lead you to the subway, you stop him in the middle of the sidewalk, coming to stand in front of him with a grave look on your face. “I have a question for you,” you say, and he can only nod, feeling like his heart is about to fall out of his chest. “On a scale from one to ten, one being a Planet Earth documentary and ten being a Comic Con convention—how nerdy is Star Wars?”
“Uh,” he dumbly says, your question is exactly what he hadn’t expected you to ask. He also feels relieved, because for a moment, he thought you were about to ask him that question, and he really wasn’t ready to confess everything to you. “Like, a five if you watch it on your own.”
“And watching it with you?”
“A solid eight.”
“Wonderful,” you say, clapping your hands together as you grin. It seemed like that last shot of whiskey was hitting you, turning you a bit tipsy: more than he’d ever seen, to be fair. You seemed to be able to hold your liquor, which wasn’t surprising, considering you drank whiskey for fun. “What a fantastic excuse to get wine drunk, then.”
Which is how, at ten-thirty on a Friday night, he finds himself in a liquor store with you. “Do you drink wine?” You ask as you study a bottle of red.
“Maybe one glass every six months,” he says, not really seeing a positive in lying to you here and pretending like he loved wine. He didn’t. He also just didn’t drink in general—something about switching one addiction for another.
“Looks like you’re having your semi-annual glass of wine tonight, then.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
The walk to the subway and the consequent subway ride to the stop closest to Spencer’s apartment was filled with conversation about red wine, the history of the creation of the subway system in Virgina, and what you knew about Star Wars—which, as it turned out, wasn’t all that much. You knew who Yoda was—“Oh, yeah, that’s the green one, innit?”—and the name Luke Skywalker, but that was really it.
When he opened the door to his apartment, you whistled lowly. “Aren’t you the scholar,” you say, rather nonsensically in his mind, as you take in the avocado green walls, large windows, dark wooden floor and brown leather couch and armchairs. Your eyes linger on the giant bookcase filled to the brim with books, and the stacks of books all around, to which the corners of your lips twitch.
“I think you might be the only person in the world to have actually read all the books they own,” you say as you toe off your heeled black boots, now suddenly a good inch shorter.
“You think so?” Spencer asks, taking your coat from you before hanging it on the coatrack behind him. “People don’t read the books they buy?”
“Yeah, are you kidding? Most people are just glorified hoarders when it comes to literature,” you say. You make your way over to the kitchen as you wave towards the tv. “I’ve definitely got a textbook or two I’ve never read before. Fetch those expensive Blu-rays of yours, I’ll get us some glasses.”
As he sifts through his not-all-that impressive collection of Star Wars DVDs, Spencer can’t help but glance over to you as you go through his cabinets to find what you need. Somehow, it’s a very delightful thing to witness, to see you rifle through his kitchen so unabashedly. Despite it being the first time that you’re in his apartment, you don’t seem to have any of the shy apprehensions that most people would have when visiting someone for the first time. He loves it, loves that you’re already so comfortable with him. It also feels vaguely domestic, which he knows is a dangerous feeling that could get him into some downright delusional territory if he wasn’t careful.
“You know, I’d never expect you to have Blu-rays,” you call out as you go through one of the drawers, presumably looking for a corkscrew. “What, with you being so anti-modern about everything.”
“Only for these movies,” Spencer says, now holding Episode IV and Episode I. “They deserve the best quality. Which one do you want to watch first?”
“There’s a choice?” You ask as you walk back into the living room with your bottle of red wine, two wineglasses and a corkscrew.
Spencer nods, watching you screw the coil into the cork. “We can watch it in release order, the way George Lukas intended to tell the story, or we can watch it chronologically.”
You seem to think for a moment. “Let’s watch it the way our old boy Georgie intended it, eh?” You say, pulling the cork out with a small pop and a triumphant smile. You smell the cork and nod approvingly. “Think you’ll like this one. It’s on the sweeter side, especially for a red.”
Spencer doubts it. He’s quite sure there’s never been a single wine he’s actually enjoyed. He tells you as much, to which you laugh as you pour the deep, rich red liquid into the wine glasses. “I’ll make you a deal, then, yeah? You teach me about Star Wars and I teach you about wine. We’re bound to find something you like amongst those fifty movies.”
“It’s only eight,” Spencer says with a frown, to which you laugh again. “But, fine. Deal.”
You sit down on the couch with a wineglass in your hand, folding your legs under you and leaning an elbow on the back cushions, resting your head in your hand. You smile at him after he’s put the Blu-ray for Episode IV into the TV and sits down next to you, and all he can muster up back is that typical, flat smile he always gives everyone.
“You ready?” He asks lamely, making you chuckle.
“As I’ll ever be. Beam me up, Scotty,” you say, raising your glass.
Your comment makes him frown deeply. It demonstrates just how much educating he’s going to have to do here. “That’s Star Trek.”
“What’s the Star Wars catchphrase, then?”
“May the force be with you!” Spencer says in disbelief, barely able to believe what he’s hearing.
You snort as you go to sip from your wine. “Whoops,” you say, clearly not meaning a word of it. “So are we going to watch this, or not?”
By the time the movie heads into its third act, you’ve finished your second glass and Spencer is still barely halfway through his first, the glasses now forgotten on the table. Your cheeks are red from the alcohol and your accent is a good bit thicker than it usually was, but you’re not drunk, not quite. You’re definitely the least sober he’s ever seen you, though. It’s probably for that reason that you don’t seem to be at all apprehensive about being completely pressed against him, your head on the side of his shoulder and your feet on the coffee table.
It's absurdly difficult to focus on the movie with your thigh pressed against his and the feeling of the back of your fingers periodically brushing over his arm, which you’re able to do with the way you’ve crossed your arms in front of your chest. His heart hasn’t stopped pounding since you’ve nestled against him, the heat of your body making him feel impossibly warm. This, combined with that feeling in his stomach that only a crush like this can create, makes being around you feel like the most cruellest form of torture he could imagine for himself.
You’re so close, you’re all around him, your perfume and touch an ambrosia powerful enough to command an army, yet he’s nowhere near being where he wants to be with you. Because every time he wants to do something, be it as simple as resting his head on yours or something bigger like putting an arm around you, a voice reminds him of James the Attorney and the fact that you’re drunk and thus unable to consent, and it’s enough to hold him frozen in place during those ninety minutes of film.
“I like ‘im,” you say, nudging Spencer’s arm. “The hairy bloke.”
“Chewbacca,” Spencer gently says.
“Yeah, that one. He’s funny, I like ‘im.”
During the scene where Obi-Wan Kenobi gets slashed by Darth Vader to protect Luke, you sit up with a gasp, loudly voicing your disdain for his death—“What?! He dies?”—and turn to Spencer with wide eyes. He can only shrug and smile sympathetically, deciding not to spoil the fact that technically, Obi-Wan Kenobi became one with the Force and would still be in future films.
You laugh drunkenly when the Death Star explodes, a laugh at the absurdity he can’t help but share in—he could admit that the movie was a bit over the top, that was the whole fun of it. At the end of the movie, you clap along with the rebels as Han Solo and Luke Skywalker get medals from Princess Leia, playfully nudging Spencer’s side until he too starts clapping, making you snort in amusement.
“That was fun,” you say once the credits start to roll, sitting up and turning to him with a smile.
“You really think so?” Spencer asks with a bit of apprehension—he’s still not all that in tune with your sarcasm. Your smile makes him hopeful, though.
“Yeah, I did,” you say. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s still really old and some of the green screen was godawful, but it was really enjoyable. I get why you like it.”
Spencer watches, with a wide grin, as you gather the glasses and push the cork back into the wine bottle. You make your way to the kitchen and put the glasses in the sink before you glance at the clock on one of the walls, sighing deeply.
“Should probably call myself a cab,” you say, turning around and leaning against the counter. “I took the tube to the pub, left my car at home. Not that I’m in any state to drive, I should say.”
Those words make him sit up rather abruptly, and your eyebrows shoot up comically as he stumbles over his next sentence. “You can take the couch.”
“Are you sure? Don’t want to be a bother.”
“Yeah, it’s fine. I’ll just get you a pillow, and a blanket. The couch is really comfortable, I promise.”
You make your way back over to him with a soft smile. The deep blush that covers his cheek after you nudge his cheek with your knuckles is only slightly embarrassing. “If you insist,” you say, with a wink. “Reckon there’s a t-shirt I can borrow from you? Don’t think I can sleep in this.”
You motion to the black wrap top you’re wearing, accidentally pulling his attention to your bosom, which definitely does not short-circuit his brain at all, nope. Perhaps a little? He was only a mortal man, after all.
When he hands you a shirt and sweatpants and watches you disappear to the bathroom, he tries very, very hard not to picture you naked in there, and instead focuses on making up the couch for you. The sight of you in one of his old Caltech shirts is enough to leave him breathless, especially combined with the sweatpants that hang low on your hips and your bare face. He loves the makeup, he really does, but there is just something so special about your bare face, cheeks rosy from the wine and eyes crinkled from your smile.
Once he’s in bed, all he can do is stare at the ceiling, knowing you’re just a few feet away, asleep on his couch. You’re in his apartment, on his couch, in his clothes. It’s a lot to ponder about. And it’s nearly everything he’s ever wanted.
Nearly.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
When he wakes up the following morning, the very first thought on his mind is you. More specifically, the fact that you’re in his living room, where you’ve just spent the night. His alarm clock reads just a little after eight in the morning, his biorhythm having awoken him early once again: once you’ve been with the BAU long enough, sleeping in eventually becomes impossible, your body too used to waking up early. He feels lucky on the days he wakes up after nine.
He's surprised, and also not at all at the same time, to find you already awake, sitting in one of his armchairs, a book in hand, one you must’ve pulled from his collection. The pillow and blanket are folded neatly on one end of the couch, his sweatpants folded on top of them. You’re wearing the jeans you had on last night, still in his Caltech shirt. His heart practically soars at the sight.
“Morning,” he says, hearing his own voice crack on that simple word. When was that ever going to end?
You look up and give him a bright smile, which quickly dulls the annoyance he feels at his awkwardness. "Hi, love,” you say, which nearly makes him sink through his knees.
“I’m sorry for keeping you waiting,” he says, sitting down on the couch where he’s closest to you. You shake your head.
“It’s fine, I wasn’t awake that long,” you say, but from the simple fact that you’re already a good bit into the book you’re reading, it’s not that hard for him to deduce that you’ve been awake for well over an hour, at least. “Your couch is quite comfortable, you know.”
“Oh, yeah, good, I’m glad to hear it,” Spencer says, stumbling over his words as he tries his very best to sear the sight in front of him into his brain: you, curled up on his chair, knees against your chest, in his t-shirt, with one of his books, with your naked face and easy smile completing the peaceful portrait.
“There is one problem, though,” you say, and he raises his brows expectantly, not at all worried when he sees the playful look in your eyes, confirming that you’re not all that serious. You nod at this record player. “We have to get you some new records, stat. All I could find was the Three B’s and Chopin, it’s dreadful.”
“Bach isn’t dreadful,” Spencer says with a deep frown, to which you chuckle.
“I’m not saying the composers are dreadful, I’m saying your collection is,” you say, closing your book. “I’ve still got a couple of old records lying around, I think. You know The Smiths?”
“Faintly,” Spencer says, not all too excited at the thought of you forcing him to listen to popular music. There’s a good reason why he avoids it altogether—he despises most of it, if not all.
“Well, it’s either that or T-Rex, so take your pick,” you say with a shrug, tossing the book on the coffee table.
“T-Rex?”
“English rock. Vaguely punk, actually.”
“Sounds… interesting.”
You snort, shaking your head at the sight of his poorly hidden distaste. “Yeah, I’ve clearly got you convinced,” you say, before suddenly sitting up and clapping your hands together with a grin, abruptly pivoting the conversation in a new direction. “Right. Breakfast, then?”
It's after he realised he doesn’t have any teabags for you—which made him want to punch a wall, in all honesty—that the two of you decided to find a café or diner for breakfast. The sight of you leaving his apartment while still wearing his shirt is one he hopes never to forget.
The realisation that he’s slowly falling in love with you comes pretty easily after that. It settles in his chest in the same way the coffee he’s ordered warms his stomach—pleasant, comforting. Distantly hot. He’s not sure what’s finally convinced him: maybe it’s the way you sip from your cup as you hum along to the music faintly playing over the speakers in the corners of the café, or the smile you send him when you catch him staring, or the way you give him all your attention as he rambles on about the movie from last night. Maybe it’s all of that, or none of that, but it’s a very easy conclusion.
Perhaps too easy, considering he’s only known you for a month-and-a-half, but he doesn’t make any effort to deny it to himself. Well, he’s not in love yet, but he’s not exactly trying to convince himself it’s not happening already. There’s not a disagreement between the two of you or a James figure that could convince him otherwise. He’s falling for you, and there is nothing he, or you (or James, for that matter) could do about it. The next conclusion is a lot less happy, and a lot more pragmatic, but it’s one he forces himself to make nonetheless: he'll never be able to tell you. Not after he missed his chance, not after you asked him out and he accidentally rejected you, and not now that James exists. He can’t tell you, he can’t be selfish like that. To love someone was to let them go, no?
That was the name of the game, after all.
Notes:
Think you've got a little drool like right there... no yeah almost... you got it, yeah.
Kiddingggggg
Happy holidays if you celebrate!! If you don't, happy New Years!! And if you don't celebrate either then I hope you have a great week ahead!!! I finally finished my deadlines so time to relax, a cup of glühwein and a little tapas for me :)
Chapter 6: Feeding the Flames
Notes:
So, babe, we have to talk. This chapter comes with a bit of a warning.
There are some detailed descriptions of violence against children at the very beginning of this chapter. Should you want to skip this, start reading the sentence starting with 'Hotch' and stop when you reach 'alive'. After the chapter break, you can continue. Still, do so with caution. This is a heavy chapter.
To recap: canon-typical violence pertaining to children, a lot of blood, a bit of alcoholism and PTSD.
Remember, you're responsible for the content you consume.Having said all that, there is still a bit of fluff scattered through, just couldn't help myself! It's not all sad, I promise. Thanks to those who commented, you have my whole heart and push me to keep updating and writing. You're a support I am wholly undeserving of and thus salivate over. Something like that, yeah. Love ya loads. :)
Chapter Text
April 19th, 2009. 3 months and 2 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
This case had been a bad one. A really, really bad one. Ones involving children usually were, but even then, this one felt exceptionally awful. It was your first encounter with a child-related case, which was probably why you’d responded in the way that you had. It was heartbreaking, and not just to Spencer.
The BAU had received the call to assist on a Tuesday night, shortly after nine. Two weeks prior, a child had been discovered, brutally murdered. The body was so disfigured that identification was nearly impossible, and the child had been sexually assaulted—initially thought to be an isolated incident. The victim had been missing for two days before being found. Then, another child was taken, and based on the grim pattern of the first case, local authorities realized they had a mere two days to locate the second victim. The BAU was finally summoned after twenty-eight hours when the sheriff’s pride could no longer resist the need for help.
By the time the jet had landed in Spokane, Washington, the second child's body had already been discovered, thirty-five hours later, indicating that the unsub was escalating. You, Spencer and Hotch had gone to the crime scene, a decision that, in retrospect, probably should have been made with a little more consideration. Spencer still believed that you shouldn’t have seen a child like that, that if anything, he could’ve protected you from at least that. But it hadn’t been his call to make, and Hotch clearly thought you could handle it, so the decision had been a swift one. It wasn’t as if anyone had been itching to take your place—the crime scene photos from the first murder had set the tone thoroughly.
Despite the brutality and gruesomeness of the case, the preliminary profile was surprisingly easy and straightforward. The unsub was undoubtedly male, likely in his forties to fifties, and in no way a first-time offender. You don’t go from hidden paedophilia to mutilating children overnight: there was a build-up to a crime this severe. Spokane County was home to just under a thousand sex offenders, with the city itself accounting for around 450 of that number. Half of those hadn’t committed crimes involving a child, and of that other half, thirty were non-compliant—they hadn’t registered themselves correctly, if at all, in terms of court orders. The focus was on those people, those who had attempted to slip through the cracks —the ones whose addresses hadn’t matched up.
And then a third child had gone missing—going from a cooling-off period of two weeks between the first body being found and the second child going missing to barely two days for the next abduction. Spencer remembers, vividly, the sight of the two distraught parents that had been brought into the sheriff’s office. You and Emily had been there, trying to get as much information out of them as you could while you interviewed them behind closed doors, simultaneously trying to shield them from even more anguish. More than that, he remembers the look in your eyes as you’d left that office—the one filled with a fiery determination and a clear hate for the man they were all trying to catch.
Things had been hectic in those next few hours. You and Spencer barely saw each other as you were rushing around Spokane with Morgan and Emily, checking addresses and interviewing with known offenders, while he was building a geographical profile based on the information they had so far. The massive crowd of journalists and photographers outside the police station kept JJ almost continuously busy, as she tried to satiate the public’s hunger for the disturbing crimes while also shielding the parents from becoming tabloid fodder.
Hotch had looked particularly dishevelled, with the knowledge that all the children abducted had been boys around the ages of five and six—horrifically reminiscent of his own son. The situation was further complicated by the sheriff, who was convinced he knew better than the BAU, and The involvement of VCAC—Violent Crimes Against Children—only added layers of difficulty, something later termed by Hotch as ‘bureaucratic bullshit’. It was like navigating a minefield, with a constant stream of people entering and leaving the police station, suits of all kinds wanting explanations and justifications for every little thing, every little expense, and the added pressure of the fact that the case had become a national sensation, with every news station providing near constant coverage for the public. Thankfully, Rossi knew a thing or two about being in the public eye when it came to serial killer cases, so he helped JJ with the statements and Hotch with working with VCAC, becoming a sort of all-seeing eye as he kept tabs on everyone in the team.
There had been one tiny, fleeting moment shared between you and Spencer. Amid all that commotion, all that running around and giving and receiving orders left and right, you had found him in the small conference room he was working out of. Without exchanging a single word, you’d stood beside him, your back to the evidence board he was staring at so that you were technically facing him, even if your eyes were focused on the chaotic precinct, the front of your shoulder pressed against the front of his.
You’d surprised him when you’d suddenly dropped your forehead on his shoulder, releasing a shaky breath. He’d turned his head, resting his forehead against the side of your head, breathing in the scent of your hair and perfume, relishing in the relief it brought. For a brief moment, you both surrendered to the exhaustion, allowing the hours and hours of sleep deprivation to bubble up to the surface behind closed eyes, the frustration, fear and stubborn hope enveloping you both like a thick blanket. In that shared silence, amidst the chaos, distantly, like a faint light in the fog, the two of you found a speck of comfort in each other. Your fingers had grazed the back of his hand, his fingers instinctively following yours. For a moment, your pinkie had hooked itself around his, but then your phone had started ringing, and someone called his name to assist in something. The spell had been broken. The walls had come back up, the professionalism reasserting itself, and with small smiles and unspoken gratitude, the two of you had parted ways again.
The next time he saw you again was when you’d arrived at the farm the unsub owned, Kevlar vest already on and your hair pulled back into a ponytail. There hadn’t been any time for instructions—all that mattered was that there was a little boy who needed their help and a serial killer who had to be stopped. You’d been directly behind Morgan who had forcefully kicked down the front door, followed closely by Spencer. The three of you took the stairs immediately upon entering, letting the others take the ground floor, hoping to encounter the unsub and the little boy, still alive.
It was the sound of your anguished scream of the word ‘no’ that had everyone sprinting to the room you had entered. There, over Morgan’s shoulder, Spencer finds you on your knees, your hands helplessly pressing on the pale, bloodied body of Luca Carranco— the child they had fought so hard to save in time.
“Medic! I need a medic!” You yell over your shoulder, your voice strained as blood from the lifeless boy soaks your arms and hands. He was dead: they were too late. You clearly don’t allow that thought to occur while doing everything you can to stop the bleeding of the dark blood, now ebbing out slowly, staining your skin and clothes. The grimy, vaguely yellow mattress beneath you was a grotesque canvas of red, brown, and black. The child’s hands were still bound with cable ties, bruising his wrists and cutting into the skin.
Morgan kneels behind you, carefully grabbing your shoulders. “It’s done, Tommy,” he gently says, to which you frantically shake your head.
“No, no, we’re on time, I promised,” you say with a strained voice, tears hidden in the thick emotion. “We just need—Medic! Please! I need help!”
It’s then that two ambulance workers burst into the room, abruptly pausing at the sight in front of them. This wasn’t an easy one, for anybody. One of them casts a questioning look at Spencer, to which he responds with a slow shake of his head. There was nothing that could be done, not anymore. With grim faces, they kneel beside the body, beside you as you desperately press your hands against the boy’s stomach, pleading for a miracle that would not come.
“Please, help him, please!”
“You have to let go of him, Tommy,” Morgan says, gently pulling on your shoulders.
“No, no, I can’t,” you say, shaking your head vigorously. “We have to help him—”
“Let the medics do their job, sweet girl,” Morgan says, playing into your delusions. That was usually the only way to move someone in your state. “They can’t help if you’re in the way. Just let them do their job, okay?”
It seems to work. You finally allow Morgan to pull you to your feet, his grip steady on your shoulders as he carefully yet firmly pushes you out of the room. Spencer follows, not daring to glance back at the scene or the body as he steps through the threshold. In his mind, he closes that door behind him, locking away the horrors encountered there. Years of practice have made it almost easy for him to file away the pain, the anger, the guilt, and everything else that washed over him at the sight of the body. He methodically tucks it away, piece by piece, until he can close the drawers and forget he’s ever been in that room in the first place.
By the time he steps through the front door, he’s succeeded.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
You’d been sitting on the house's front steps ever since Morgan convinced you to leave the room. No one had managed to coax you into moving since then, nor had anyone pried a single word from your lips. You were just sat there, bloodied, a vacant look in your eyes as you stared at the ground. For a little while, Spencer was fine with leaving you there: you were in his line of sight and safely distanced from the horrors inside the house. That hadn’t lasted very long, however—after Morgan, Rossi and Emily had dashed off in pursuit of the unsub, who had been spotted driving toward Highway 90, the chaos that had once been inside the police precinct had now arrived at the farm. People were constantly walking in and out of the house, preserving the crime scene, gathering evidence and taking as many samples and photographs as possible.
Once Spencer felt satisfied with his efforts in securing the crime scene and helping theorise where the unsub could be escaping to, he realised that you couldn’t keep sitting there, constantly having people brush by you. With a wet rag in hand, he crouches down in front of you, his heart clenching at the emptiness in your eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs, cautiously reaching out and putting his hand on one of your forearms, causing you to look up in surprise. Had you really not noticed him? “Let’s get you out of here, okay?”
You only give a dull nod, allowing Spencer to pull you up and guide you away from the house. He chooses a spot just beyond one of the SUVs, ensuring you both remain visible in case you're needed, while still providing a sliver of privacy.
“I’m going to clean you up, okay?” He says, his voice soft so as not to scare you. You nod slightly, your voice barely escaping your lips as you allow him to take one of your hands. There’s blood up to your elbows, dried and crusted. He gently rubs the rag over your arm, not wanting to be too rough on your skin while simultaneously doing his best to wipe away the dry, faintly brown blood.
As he tends to you, he can feel your gaze on his face, watching him. He feigns ignorance, knowing why you’re doing it and wanting to give you the space: there’s comfort in the familiar. In this moment, he’s familiar to you. It was for that same reason that the two of you had shared that small moment earlier today. If nothing else, he could provide comfort for you and you for him. He knows the depth of his feelings for you, and it’s clear to him why you bring him peace. There was a part of him that would forever theorise if you perhaps felt the same way. That your actions earlier in the day had been for that reason, and if it’s why you allow him to care for you like this. There was still a chance, right? You had been the one to ask him out, after all.
But this wasn’t the time to fantasise. You are visibly shaken, traumatized by the events you’ve witnessed, your body marked by the blood of the child you fought so hard to save. Not exactly the ideal situation for him to wonder about your romantic sentiments. It quickly becomes apparent that the single rag he has isn’t going to be nearly enough to get you cleaned up. It’s already stained a deep, rosy pink, and it wouldn’t be long before it would only smear the blood around rather than absorb it. He’s already trying to figure out a way to get a new, clean rag without leaving you on your own, when your voice cuts through the chaos, catching him off guard.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.
“Of course,” Spencer says softly, pausing to meet your gaze. The emptiness that was once there is now replaced with a heavy mix of guilt and sorrow, fresh from today. Somehow, it seems reminiscent on you. Spencer almost feels like he’s experiencing déjà vu, as if he’s seen this look before, even though he knows he hasn’t. It’s like your eyes are accustomed to looking like that, as if they’re used to displaying pain and guilt. It’s a horrible thought to have, one that sends a wave of anxiety through him, prompting him to shove the thought aside, yet it stubbornly lingers in the back of his mind.
“It’s not your fault,” he says without thinking, but he knows you need to hear it. “Don’t blame yourself.”
“I was too late,” you say, your voice hollow. “If I’d figured it out sooner, Luca would still be alive and Davis wouldn’t have got away.”
“Are you saying I’m to blame for all of this too? Or Morgan, or JJ?” Spencer asks, a bit fiercely, making you scrunch your brows together. You don’t reply, allowing him to continue. “When you say that, you’re blaming us too. If we’d all figured it out sooner, we’d all have been on time. So, are you placing the blame on us too?”
You still don’t say anything and he notices the unshed tears glistening in your eyes and the tension in your jaw.
“Are you blaming me?” He asks again, stepping just a tiny bit closer. You look away, swallowing hard, and he knows he’s got the victory, this time. For a little while, his words would linger and those thoughts you had would be silenced. But he knows that eventually, that voice would get too loud and he’d have to help you again, but he’d be there when that happened. He was ready for that.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your eyes fixed on his hand gripping your elbow. “I’m being so… so fucking…”
You don’t finish your sentence but you don’t have to. He knows what you’re trying to say because he recognises the sentiment: selfish, pitiful… everything in between. “No, you’re not,” he says, giving you a gentle squeeze where he’s holding you. “You’re just… sad. And that’s okay.”
Before you can reply, a heart-wrenching cry pierces through the commotion on the farm’s grounds, closer to a screech than anything else. Spencer recognises the noise instantly: it’s the sound only a mother who’s just been told that her child was murdered could make. The very embodiment of pain, a raw, visceral expression of grief, compressed into a single, soul-shattering, ear-piercing scream you can’t ever forget. He turns to find the parents he’d seen you interview earlier that day, the mother collapsed on the ground, her cries echoing as she calls out for her son. Hotch and JJ stand before them, tasked with delivering the unbearable news to parents who now face the unimaginable loss of their child. The father’s eyes are vacant, and hollow, an emptiness that Spencer has witnessed countless times before on so many parents, regardless of the age of the deceased. It’s a look of stubborn disbelief and desperate hope—it wasn’t his child, this was all just a mistake. It was someone else in that house, and if it was his child, then there was still a chance to save them. They weren’t dead, not really. Not yet.
You suddenly break free from Spencer’s grasp. He looks over in surprise to find you attempting to make your way over to the parents. Before you can take a third step he grabs your elbow again, halting you. “What are you—”
“I have to talk to her,” you say, your eyes locked on the mother. “I was the one who interviewed her—I need to—”
“No, you don’t,” Spencer says, his grip firm on your elbow as you try to pull away. “You—Tommy—look at yourself.”
You freeze mid-motion, glancing down, and he watches as your eyes visibly widen. For a moment, you’d forgotten. You’d forgotten that you were covered in the blood of the child those parents had just lost.
“You can’t go to her, not looking like this,” Spencer says, stepping in front of you and blocking your line of sight. He quickly continues trying to clean you up, even though the towel is soaked through, its white fibres stained crimson.
“I promised her,” you whisper hoarsely, and when he looks up, he sees tears spilling down your cheeks. You don’t look away. Instead, you hold his gaze, looking him straight into his eyes, raw and unguarded, as if willing him to bear witness. It’s a sign of trust, he hopes. “I promised her I’d find her son. That I’d bring him back. That everything would be okay.”
“You didn’t know,” Spencer says softly, shaking his head, expression pained. “You couldn’t have known. You told her what she needed to hear. That doesn’t make it wrong.”
You bite your lip, shaking your head as if trying to clear the weight of your thoughts. “How could I do that, Spencer?” You say, voice trembling. It’s clear you’re not letting his words sink in. “Doctors aren’t allowed to promise their patients that, so why can I?”
Spencer hesitates, caught off-guard. It’s a damned good question. Maybe it’s because bringing hope, even false hope, was part of your job, even if you couldn’t always deliver on it? Maybe because you never have to stick around for the aftermath after breaking those kinds of promises? It was something for him to mull over later, but right now, he doesn’t have an answer for you.
Not that he’d get a chance to say it even if he did. JJ appears beside you, holding two clean, damp towels. “Here,” she says quietly, passing one to Spencer who takes it with a small, thankful smile. JJ then turns to you. Gently, she brushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You okay?”
“Sooner or later,” is all you say. JJ nods in understanding before she helps you remove your Kevlar vest. Her movements are deliberate, more assertive than Spencer’s tentative attempts. You let her—let her peel away the layers of your protective covering and help clean the blood from your skin.
Before she can say more, Hotch joins you, his phone in hand. “They got him. Pit-manoeuvred him into a guardrail. They’re arresting him now.”
“He’s alive?” Your voice is flat, devoid of inflexion, but everyone can hear what’s beneath the surface: the bitter, unspoken frustration that the unsub survived when his victims hadn’t.
Hotch only nods curtly, his jaw tense in that same unspoken frustration. He gives you a once-over, then places his hand on your shoulder—a rare gesture of comfort. “Are you okay?”
You offer him the same answer you gave JJ, a nod and a faint, strained smile. Even if Hotch doesn’t believe you, he still accepts your answer for what it is. There was no point in arguing, not about this—not with you, and certainly not now. For now, you’re okay.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
The flight back is silent. Over the years, everyone had found their own way of coping with cases like this: Morgan put on his headphones, staring out the window as music dulled the edges of bad memories. Hotch buried his head in paperwork, letting the logic and practical side of things help tame the horrors of the days past. Rossi scribbled disconnected thoughts into his notepad, never to be read again. And Spencer? Spencer read.
Normally, at least.
Tonight, his book lay untouched. With all the knowledge of everyone’s coping mechanisms came the awareness that you didn’t have one. At least, not yet. So maybe, with a bit of luck, he could help you create a new one. That’s why he found himself in the jet’s tiny kitchen, trying his hardest to replicate how you made your tea, relying on his eidetic memory for every detail. With a slight tinge of uncertainty, he eventually makes his way over to where you’re sitting in one of the single chairs, head resting back and eyes closed. Your hair is still damp from the quick shower you managed earlier, your hands finally free of the blood. The others had decided to give you space, but Spencer couldn’t ignore the knot in his chest, urging him to try.
Carefully, he places the tea on the small table in front of you and crouches down, resting a hand on your knee. You jolt, eyes snapping open. “It’s okay, it’s just me,” Spencer says with a tentative smile.
To his surprise, you return it— a small, fleeting curve of your lips. “You say that like you’re nobody important,” you murmur, placing your hand over the one he still has on your knee.
Your words catch him off guard, rendering him speechless. Instead of fumbling for a response, he gestures to the cup. “I, uh, made you some tea. I hope it’s okay, I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
“Thank you, Spencer,” you whisper, your expression so tender that it makes his heart stutter. Your gaze flickers over his shoulder. “Where are you sitting?”
“Oh, uh, on the couch,” he says, getting back to his feet. He’s taking it as a hint for him to leave. Instead, though, you quickly catch his wrist.
“Can I sit with you?”
He nearly pulls a muscle with how quickly he nods. “Yeah, of course.”
You gather your tea and follow him to the couch. It’s there you ask him to read to you, like you had done a while ago. Without hesitation, he obliges, though he inwardly regrets choosing The Fisher King—it’s hardly uplifting material. Still, you don’t comment on it. You sip your tea, your temple against his shoulder, silently listening to his voice. Neither of you move again in what’s left of the duration of the flight.
Back at Quantico, Hotch stops him from walking to his desk. From over Hotch’s shoulder, Spencer catches a glimpse of you gathering your things before redirecting his focus. “In terms of professionalism, I might be stepping over the line, but,” Hotch starts, sighing a little before continuing. “I think it’s obvious to everyone here that the two of you are close, and I don’t think it’s a good idea for Tommy to be alone, so…”
He gestures vaguely, to which Spencer raises his brows. “You want me to keep an eye on her tonight?”
“Like I said, this isn’t exactly professional—”
“It’s okay, you’re just looking out for your agents,” Spencer says, giving a tight-lipped smile, the one that in his case, is a very positive one to receive. “Besides, I wasn’t planning on leaving her on her own tonight anyway, so.”
Hotch nods, his expression thoughtful. “That’s good. Thank you. Have a good night, Reid.”
He turns to leave, but Spencer stops him. “Hotch?” He asks, waiting for his supervisor to pause. “What did you mean by that? That it’s obvious to everyone that we’re… close?”
Hotch’s eyes narrow with a hint of amusement. “If you can’t figure that one out, Reid, you’re not the profiler I thought you were.”
Spencer stands frozen as he watches Hotch walk away, feeling slightly offended at what he’s just heard. He knows what Hotch meant, technically, but he just wants to know what it means with your name attached to that statement. Hotch didn’t say that Spencer was close to you, he specifically noted that the two of you were close together—and everyone knew about it. Spencer knew what that meant for himself, he just wanted to know what it meant for you. He supposes that if he really wants to know, he should just ask you instead of Hotch. But that is way too daunting of a task, so he’ll just leave it for now and pretend like he has it all figured out.
“Are you going home?” He asks you when he gets to your desk, causing you to look up in surprise. You clearly hadn’t been expecting his question.
“I was planning on it, yes,” you say. “Why?”
“Maybe we can get dinner and watch Star Wars,” Spencer says, a little too quickly and perhaps a little overbearingly. He sees your eyebrows quirk up and can already hear the rejection coming. “Not like a date! I meant… you know. Just hanging out. Spending time together.”
Watching you consider his words is nerve-wracking, you're quite clearly on the brink of saying no. Your lips part as if you’re about to say something, but then you pause, and something like recognition flashes in your eyes. They dart over to where Hotch and Rossi are standing, discussing something away from everyone else, and then back to Spencer. He immediately realises that you’ve figured out his ploy, and he knows that a rejection is now inevitable.
“I’m not in the mood for Star Wars,” you say, tilting your head. Spencer’s heart sinks. Then you add, “But I wouldn’t mind takeout and bad television. You like Indian food?”
Fifteen minutes later, the two of you are in your car—a 2015 Dodge Charger, which is both exactly what Spencer would expect from you, and also the complete opposite—to his apartment, his address in the navigation system. On the radio is a song he doesn’t know, one you occasionally hum along with. He only catches fragments of the lyrics, but it’s enough to make him bite the inside of his cheek as he wonders about coincidences and unspoken emotions: I'm choosing my confessions, trying to keep an eye on you like a hurt, lost and blinded fool.
After getting the takeout you wanted (and a bottle of wine on your insistence) and getting comfortable on the couch, you and Spencer click through the channels on the television for a while, trying to find something to watch as you eat. By the time the two of you decide to settle on a random documentary, you’re already halfway through your dinner, your wineglass empty. David Attenborough’s voice is a nice distraction from the silence, and admittedly, Spencer found himself very interested in the documentary that was playing.
He's not sure if you are, but he supposes that it doesn’t really matter: this was just a distraction, an easy night for you to work through the events preceding tonight. You’re sitting beside him, your knees against his thigh where you’ve pulled them on the couch, sitting sideways with your feet under you. Your plate is balanced on your thigh, your still empty wineglass in your hand. Your gaze is on the tv, an unreadable expression covering your features as you watch how a lizard sprints across water, earning it the name ‘Jesus Christ Lizard’. The name makes you snort, a dry sound with not a lot of humour, but Spencer takes it as an opportunity to say something—anything to break the silence.
“Did you know that the more common name is the Basilisk Lizard?” He says, to which you hum. Your eyes flicker to him for a moment, letting him know that you’re listening, and so he continues speaking. “And did you know that it can reach speeds up to fifteen miles per hour when it runs across water?”
You nod thoughtfully. “I reckon I could win in a race against that lizard.”
Surprised, Spencer laughs at your response. The last thing he expected was for you to make a joke. It’s a very welcome thing to hear, though. “Not if it was across water.”
“Suppose it would come down to who the better cyclist is, then, if we’d be competing in a triathlon.”
Taking your plate off your thigh, you sit up to put it down on the coffee table, reaching for the wine bottle next and pouring yourself a generous glass. Spencer’s eyes meet yours as you get back in your previous position, but he quickly looks away, not wanting to be judgemental about your alcohol intake. With what you say next, however, it becomes obvious that you saw him watching.
“What, you’re not giving me a fact on how alcohol can significantly increase my chances of a heart attack?” You say, leaning your head against the fist you have propped up on the back of the couch. “Or how I shouldn’t drink after all the shit that happened today?”
Spencer shrugs weakly. “I’m not here to judge you.”
You scoff before taking a sip from your wine. After a few seconds, you speak up again. “I’m not coping with alcohol, just so you know.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
“Liar,” you simply say, making him bite the inside of his cheek. “I know I drink a lot, especially for Americans, but I’m not some alcoholic. If you’re going to judge me for this I’d rather you just come out and say it so I can go home and drink in private instead of having you send looks my way all night.”
A tense silence falls over the two of you, only interrupted by the background noise of the television—all of a sudden, Spencer couldn’t care less about that stupid lizard. “I’m sorry,” he eventually says once he’s gathered enough courage. He cautiously meets your eyes, afraid to find something like anger, but he’s taken aback by the sight he gets instead: you look sad. Genuinely sad, filled with remorse and something else—something a lot deeper than he can’t identify, not yet at least. He’ll have to get to know you better to understand what it is, he theorises. One day, maybe.
“No, don’t—don’t apologise. You’re just trying to look out for me,” you say, reaching over and putting your wine glass down on the floor. You surprise him when you put your hand over the back of his, where his arms are crossed in front of his chest. “You’re good to me, Spencer. I don’t know how to deal with it. And I know—I know you’re worried about me after today, but I…”
You trail off, but he doesn’t say a word, doesn’t move a muscle. All because he can tell that you’re about to say something, something of note, something that is actually important and that might give him some genuine insight into who you were. He’s deathly afraid that you’ll back off, that you’ll swallow whatever you were going to say and that he’ll never know this tiny thing you were about to reveal about yourself, so he stays quiet and perfectly still in fear of scaring you off if he does otherwise. His heart practically thunders out of his chest when you finally start talking again.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a child die, you know,” you say quietly, your eyes trained on where your hand is on top of his. “I’ve seen it before, and I’ve also… failed to save them, like today.”
“When you were in counterterrorism?” He asks nervously, afraid it’ll scare you off.
You shake your head. “No, I haven’t… I didn’t do a lot of fieldwork, there. All of that was from before.”
Before. Whatever you’re thinking of, has somehow divided your life into two halves—one that you labelled ‘before’ and one that you’re in now, the after. Somewhere in your past, something so significant happened that it caused you to, unconsciously, split your life into two parts. The before and the after. And God, he wants to know. He wants to know so, so badly what that event was, what caused that compartmentalisation of your own life, but he knows that if he asks now, you’ll never give him the answer. Not now, but not in the future either. In the worst of comparisons, Spencer had figured out a while ago that you were like a stray dog—you had to come to him. The harder he tried to get you to talk, get close to you or convince you that he could be trusted, the more you’d pull away. He just needed to be patient, and he could do that, he thinks. For you, he was willing to try.
Tonight, however, he wants to take that risk. He wants to know what happens when he asks. “You’ve seen children… die,” he says softly, carefully, and watches as you nod. “When?”
Your eyes flicker up to meet his eyes and in a split-second, he sees the walls come back up. You remove your hand from his and give him a small, lame shrug. “I can’t, Spencer. I’m sorry.”
Spencer nods, trying to hide his disappointment. He had a new puzzle piece, but he was just hoping for a little more. Just a little. This was okay, though, for now. “I can always ask, right?”
A small, insincere smile flashes over your expression. “Yeah, you can. I just don’t think I’ll ever answer.”
“Ever?”
“Yeah.”
And so he decides, then and there, that what you just said was going to be the new rule. He wouldn’t ask, so that maybe one day, you’d tell. Not when it came to things about your past, what shaped you into who you are today, or why you knew the things you did. He would have to be patient for that. He was more than up for that challenge.
“Did you know that more than twelve million Americans suffer from a kind of PTSD?” He says, as a way to break the ice. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re not American, right?”
And his heart soars when you laugh, shaking your head at his words. “Thank God for that, eh?” You say, making him chuckle too, and just like that, the two of you were back to where you were—each other’s comfort and familiarity, and maybe even each other’s safety.
Funny, how that works.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
By the time the documentary has ended, you’ve already finished your third glass of wine, your cheeks now rosy and eyes half-lidded with sleep. You’re curled up against Spencer, your head on his bicep, around which you’ve wrapped your hand. Every once in a while, your fingers brush over his skin, causing for his brain to lose track of the documentary over and over again. Part of him is grateful that it’s over, that the two of you have just been watching commercials for the last few minutes. Another part of him wishes that there’s something a lot more distracting to watch, instead of some stupid laundry detergent infomercial.
He had expected for you to get up and start clearing the coffee table as soon as the commercials started—the thing you usually did during Star Wars movie nights. Instead, however, you hadn’t moved a muscle, except for a small yawn, and had simply stayed glued to his side. He kept telling himself that it was because of the wine, that it had lowered your inhibitions and that that was why you were touching him like this. With that also came the knowledge that the only time he’d actually see you close to drunk was when you’d also drank two whiskeys along with the wine, and that when it came to handling alcohol, you were probably one of the more capable people in his life.
All that to say: he wasn’t sure if you were tipsy, but there was no way he was going to try anything until he could say you weren’t with absolute certainty.
You yawn again just as the commercials end and a new programme starts—something about the French fry industry—and go to sit up. You leave your hand on his knee and all Spencer can do is stare at it, his head tipped back against the couch cushions, probably giving himself a very lovely double chin. “Reckon I can stay over again?” You ask as you turn to look at him. “Quite miss your couch. And I’m in no state to drive.”
“Sure,” Spencer says with his voice a touch too high, trying to tell off his brain, which is reminding him that it’s been exactly 53 days since the last time you’ve stayed over. You’ve been over at his place four other times in that stretch, watching Star Wars with him for two of those times—next time would be the prequels. Shit, he’s getting off-track. “I’ll get the pillow and blanket.”
“Thanks, love,” you say as you start gathering the plates. By the time he returns with the things you need, you’ve already put everything in his dishwasher, currently separating the plastic from the rest of the trash as you diligently put it in the correct bins.
He doesn’t know why he asks, but the question falls from his lips before he can stop himself. “Is James okay with this?”
You look up in surprise as you close his trashcan. “James?”
“Yeah, you know. With you staying over at another guy’s place?”
You snort, making your way back over to the couch, and grabbing the go-bag you had dumped on one of the armchairs. “Doesn’t matter what he’s okay with,” you say. “I haven’t talked to him in ages.”
“You… haven’t?” Spencer asks, flabbergasted at what he’s hearing. How did he miss this? “You two broke up?”
“Not much to break up,” you say with a shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he was nice but it was never going to be a long-term thing. I really didn’t tell you about this?”
Spencer shakes his head, suddenly feeling like a complete idiot. How long had it been since the two of you had parted ways? How much time had he wasted thinking you were taken? To hell with keeping his distance, now—well, when you were sober again, that is.
“Well, he was nice, fun enough in bed, but his conversational skills were lacking,” you say, zipping open your go-bag and clearly unaware of the way Spencer blushes at the comment about your sex life. “Bloke wouldn’t know an interesting conversation topic if it hit him in the face—whole time I was talkin’ to ‘im I kept wishing it was you.”
“Me?” Spencer croaks out, very aware of the way his voice cracks.
“Yeah, at least you got somethin’ to add. You know things—he didn’t. Besides, he was only here for a couple weeks for some class-action lawsuit, he’s now back in California and I don’t do long-distance, you get me?”
“Uh, yeah, I… get you,” Spencer says awkwardly, vaguely aware that it was probably rhetorical—or maybe slang—he’s reeling a little too much to make good sense of it.
You chuckle at his words, shaking your head to yourself as you take out your makeup remover and a change of clothes. Even though it’s only the second time he’s ever got to see this, it’s already his favourite part—you, without makeup, dressed in your sleepwear. Yeah, that’s probably his favourite look on you.
An hour later, long after you had bid each other goodnight, Spencer is still awake in bed. Not because he’s unable to sleep, but rather because you’re unable to sleep. He can hear you moving around, constantly leaving and returning to the couch, getting water or trying to find something small to eat. He knows what being unable to sleep is like: after Tobias Hankel, he himself went through a bout of insomnia, combined with the other, No Good, Very Bad Thing.
Sitting up in his bed, he pushes away those thoughts as quickly as he can, shaking his head as if he can physically shake the thoughts out. With a sigh, he gets out of bed to join you in the living room, remembering the worst part of his own insomnia: the loneliness. Knowing everybody is asleep but you, for some reason, are not, and you’re unable to do anything about it. He knows that frustration, recognises it all too well, and after the case you just finished, he thinks he has a pretty solid idea as to why you can’t sleep.
You’ve only left one small light on in the living room, the one beside the couch. You’re huddled under it with a book, a cup of water beside you, the blanket over your legs. You look up when he walks into the room, your eyes immediately widening as they fill with guilt. “Shit, did I wake you?” You say, closing the book as you sit up straighter.
“No, no, I couldn’t sleep either,” Spencer says, shaking his head as he makes his way over to the kitchen. It’s not a lie, not really—he could fall asleep if he wanted to. He just didn’t want to. “Are you okay?”
You don’t answer him, your eyes on him as he fills the kettle with water, your teeth gnawing on your lower lip as you seem to try and come up with an answer that would satisfy both parties. Neither of you speaks as the water boils, which feels deafening in the middle of the night. With his arms crossed in front of his chest, Spencer leans against the counter, his eyes focused on the kettle. He pretends not to notice you coming over, dressed in an oversized shirt and black sweatpants. You lift yourself up on the counter so that you’re sitting beside him, your legs dangling off the edge of the countertop. It’s something you started doing whenever you were over at this place, and it’s something he expected he’d hate, but probably because it’s you, he actually kind of likes it.
As he diligently pours two cups of tea—lavender, because he’s read that it helps with sleeping and stress and anxiety—he’s acutely aware of the way your eyes follow him, tracking every single one of his movements. He’s not sure if it makes him feel more like he’s the prey and you’re the predator or if it’s the other way around, like you’re sizing him up to protect yourself. He hates both options. Regardless, you take the cup he hands you without any hesitation, wrapping both hands around to fully capture the heat.
After a few minutes of silence, it’s you who eventually breaks it. “Thanks for taking care of me,” you whisper into the barely lit apartment, your voice somehow loud. Why did the night always do that? Always intensify things?
“Of course,” Spencer whispers back, realising that he probably means that a little too much. Of course he takes care of you, of course he takes on that role. Of course.
“You make it sound like a given,” you say, staring at your half-empty cup. “As if it’s… habitual.”
Spencer doesn’t have a response for that. He’s not sure whether he can reply with anything that wouldn’t immediately reveal every little bit of his feelings. Instead of saying anything at all, he just sips from his mug, scalding his tongue on the hot tea. It’s a welcome distraction.
“What were you reading?” He eventually asks. You shrug.
“First thing I found. I didn’t get very far though, before you woke up. A Farewell to Arms, I think it’s called.”
Spencer lets go of a surprised breath. “Hemingway? Not exactly light reading, especially in the middle of the night.”
“Maybe it’ll put me to sleep, then,” you say, making him smile. “I probably won’t finish it anyway. Don’t really like war books.”
“No? Why not?”
You’re quiet for a moment, clearly mulling over the answer you’re going to give. “I suppose I just don’t understand why anyone would want to imagine about that sort of thing. War, fighting. I don’t see the appeal.”
Spencer nods. “There’s this quote, in the book. Life isn't hard to manage when you've nothing to lose. That really stuck with me.”
“Well, shit,” you mumble as you bring your mug to your lips. Clearly, the quote has left an impact on you too. “Fitting for a book about war, I suppose.”
“I’d say it’s more a book about grief and love than war,” Spencer says, glancing over at you and finding your eyes in the dim light. “The First World War’s just the backdrop.”
You hum, appearing unmoved. “Right, yeah. There ain’t nothing more romantic than war.”
“You don’t sound impressed.”
“Cos I’m not. What’s romantic about war?”
“The heroism of it, I guess,” Spencer says, watching as you slip off the counter, barely making a noise as your feet hit the floor.
“There aren’t heroes in war,” you say, putting your mug on the counter. “Only victims.”
He stares at you, surprised by the statement and the gravity of it. It’s such a sad way of looking at it, such a hopeless point of view. The worst part is that it suits you. What else would you have possibly said if not this?
As you return to the couch, his eyes fall on what you’re wearing—specifically, your shirt. It’s his. It’s the one he gave to you the first time you crashed on his couch, he’d completely forgotten he’d ever lent it to you. The faded letters on the front spell out his alma mater, a dead giveaway that the shirt wasn’t yours. Without thinking, he follows after you, his fingers running along the bottom of the shirt as he smiles.
“Nice shirt.”
You glance over your shoulder in surprise. He then watches as your cheeks turn pink, visible in the yellow light of the lamp beside the couch. You seem caught out, as if you’d been hoping he wouldn’t have noticed. “I can give it back if you want?”
“No, it’s fine. It looks better on you, anyway,” Spencer says, letting go of the shirt again. “I kind of forgot I ever leant it to you, to be honest.”
“I meant to give it back,” you say softly, sitting down on the armrest of the couch. “But then I had this nightmare, and I needed comfort. I didn’t want to call you in the middle of the night, so—“ you motion to your chest—“your shirt it was.”
His heart melts at your confession, which feels so much heavier in the dead of night. “You can always call me—no matter the hour,” he says, before he scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “I just… you needed comforting and I was the first person you thought of?”
“Is that bad?”
“No, no, not at all. It just surprises me, is all.”
“Admitting you give me comfort is surprising, even when you think taking care of me is a given?”
Your eyes are shockingly open and vulnerable as you stare up at him, an expression that is unfamiliar to him when it comes to you. He’s glad to see it though, it feels like the next step, however small it may be. “I think I’m just surprised you’d so willingly admit to it.”
You smile and reach up to nudge his cheek. “Well, I am risking my reputation here.”
Spencer can’t help but laugh, shaking his head at your comment. “Can’t have anybody seeing your soft side?”
“Exactly,” you say, a playful grin on your face that softens as you give him a small shrug, your expression turning into something awfully close to bashful. “Well, except for you.”
That following morning, everybody sees you and Spencer walk into the bullpen together. Nobody says a word though, not even Morgan. Spencer knows for a fact that if yesterday had been any other type of day, he’d have been bombarded with sly comments, but because everyone had seen the state of you after that case, they all knew better. It’s as Hotch had said: everyone knew that the two of you were close, and there was a time and place to tease about that. Directly after the most traumatising case of your career so far, was not one.
It's why Spencer’s glad to hear you and Morgan discussing sports as he brings you your morning tea, which is something he doesn’t say often, if ever. “No way, Lakers are bringing it home this year, no doubt about it.”
“Just because they got Bryant doesn’t mean they’re taking home the season,” Morgan says, pointing his pen at you from where’s leaning against the side of Emily’s desk, which is directly behind yours. She’s watching the exchange with a curious look, as if she was at a zoo, observing two animals interact. “They’re not making it to the end of the playoffs. I bet they’re out next game.”
“Against the Nuggets? Forget it,” you say, taking your cup blindly from Spencer, who frowns at what you’re saying as he sits down on the edge of your desk, directly beside where you’re sitting in your chair.
“What sport is this, exactly?”
“NBA,” you and Morgan answer simultaneously, not breaking eye contact.
Spencer perks up, his brain already working faster than his mouth can keep up with. “Did you know that the earliest record of basketball is from 1591? It was in a German book that was published in Frankfurt am Main.”
Morgan sighs dramatically. “And there goes my interest in this conversation,” he says, chuckling at the ugly look Spencer sends him.
“At least I’m not the one suggesting that the Denver Nuggets can win from the LA Lakers when the Lakers have won over 1500 games more than the Nuggets.”
You bark out a laugh at Morgan’s flabbergasted expression, reaching over to pat Spencer’s knee. “You tell ‘em, babe,” you say, sending Morgan a wink as you tap the side of your head. “My boy’s got wicked statistics up there.”
Spencer can’t help but grin proudly, raising his brows at Morgan as if to challenge him further, which makes Emily laugh. “He’s got you there, big shot,” she says, getting up from her seat, high-fiving the hand you’re holding up as she walks past you to get a cup of coffee.
You’re still chuckling, and just as Morgan opens his mouth to retaliate, a voice speaks up from the other side of the bullpen. “Conference room, everybody. We have a case.”
Nobody needs to look up to know it’s Hotch, and with a deep sigh, you get up from your chair. “Hustle never ends, eh?” You say to no one in particular as you start looking through your things.
“Welcome to the FBI,” Morgan says, jokingly poking your side as he walks past you to the conference room. You shoot him a playful glare, grabbing your tea from your desk along with a pen.
Still perched on the edge of your desk, Spencer catches your elbow before you can walk away, giving you a concerned look as his eyes roam over your face—particularly the bags under your eyes, which are far more pronounced than normal. “Are you sure you’re up for this?” He asks softly, making sure no one can overhear him. “After yesterday, no one would blame you for taking a couple of days off.”
“I know,” you say, smiling at him. “But I’m alright, really. I like the distraction.”
“Okay,” Spencer murmurs, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just—let me know if you need me, okay? If you need me to… you know, comfort you.”
Your smile widens, your hand falling on top of his thigh. The heat it sends through him is absolutely ridiculous. “Thank you, Spencer. For letting me admit that to you. And for thinking that taking care of me is a given.”
“Like you said,” Spencer says, awfully distracted by the soft look in your eyes. “It’s habitual.”
And it is. It really is. What a lovely thing to be able to admit to, even if it was at eight in the morning in the middle of his place of employment.
Chapter 7: Through the Heat
Notes:
Has it been a while? Yes. Has uni been kicking my ass? Also yes. Does that mean we give up? Absolutely not, we ain't weak out here.
It's why I'm updating two chapters at the same time, to make up for lost time, ya know?
Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Don't hesitate to leave a comment, it means the world. Like, seriously. Love ya babes :)
Chapter Text
May 20th, 2009. 4 months and 1 day since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
Spencer had never wondered what it was like to get shot in the knee. Had anybody ever asked, he’d have probably guessed that it would’ve hurt a lot. And who would’ve thought—he was right. It does hurt. A lot. Like, a lot. And then, on top of all of that, he’s pointing a gun at an unsub and protecting a whole other person at the same time.
This wasn’t how it should’ve gone. The case was already given to them too soon, especially after yesterday. Everybody had barely slept four hours after getting back from that case in Canada—you and Spencer had barely made it to his apartment. The two of you had fallen asleep on Spencer’s couch after getting takeout, only to be so rudely awoken by the phone call, bringing them in on a new case—a doctor’s son was getting threatened. For every day the man would hide his son, the unsub would kill another person instead, and so far, two people had already been shot. So not only did they have to find an unsub, but they also had to protect a man.
And then Hotch hadn’t shown up. Hadn’t answered any phone calls, any texts, nothing. So you and Emily had gone to his apartment to check up on him, only to call Spencer an hour later to tell him that all you had found was an empty apartment with blood on the floor and Hotch’s car still out front. With Garcia’s help, Hotch had eventually been found in a hospital, stabbed eight times by George Foyet, the serial killer who had gone off the grid months ago.
And then things had happened very quickly, barely recallable, ending with Spencer jumping in front of a bullet to save Doctor Barton’s life. And here he is, gun pointed at the unsub by the name of Patrick Meyers, actively bleeding out of his leg as he tries shielding Barton using his own body.
“Drop the gun!”
“He killed my son!”
“He did not kill your son, your son was killed by a car accident—”
“Stand up!”
In all honesty, Spencer is starting to feel a bit hopeless. Part of him knows that Emily heard the gunshot over the phone and that she had probably, hopefully, called in backup to his address, but that meant that he had to keep a clearly grieving and not-thinking-straight father from shooting him and Doctor Barton in the head.
“I’m going to ask you again,” he says, voice loud and steady even as his leg screams for help. “I do not want to shoot you. Please, drop the gun.”
“Stand up, you coward!” Patrick Meyers yells at the man Spencer is currently trying to protect, tears streaming down his red face as his hand holding the gun trembles dangerously.
And all Spencer knows he can do is talk, to keep the man occupied for as long as he can, because he wasn’t lying: he really, really did not want to shoot anybody today. “Mister Meyers, listen to me. Alright, it’s over. Doctor Barton did not kill your son. Your son was killed by a car. And this is not what he would want, okay? So drop the gun, please.”
Slowly but surely, Meyers lowers his arm until the gun hangs limply by his side, and Spencer feels relief wash over him at the sight, only added to when the sound of sirens enters his ears. But then Meyers' hands start shaking far more violently than before, his expression filling with despair and hopelessness as he hears the same sirens coming closer and closer.
In an instant, Spencer knows. “Don’t do it,” he says, even though he knows what’s coming.
“I’m sorry,” Meyers says, suddenly raising the gun to shoot.
On pure instinct, Spencer’s finger squeezes the trigger of his gun, firing off a single shot that hits the unsub—where, Spencer doesn’t know, because he closes his eyes as soon as his own finger moves. He can’t watch this part, even when his aim is bad enough to where it might not even hit the unsub—he just can’t.
Meyers drops into the grass with a dull thud and despite it all, Spencer lets go of a short sigh that might be relief but he can’t tell with all the adrenaline racing through his body. He sends Barton over to Meyers, waving off the concern the doctor tries showing his leg with a half-hearted ‘I’m fine’.
“The medics are almost here. Can you keep him stabilised?” he asks Barton, hoping that he doesn’t end up killing somebody today, on top of everything else that’s happened. The doctor presses his jacket to Meyers' stomach to try and stop the bleeding, even as Meyer begs him to let him die.
“Yes, I think so.”
Barton’s words send a wave of relief through Spencer, who nods, leaning back on his elbow. His relief turns into what he can only assume is pure ecstasy, set off by adrenaline-induced delirium, when a familiar government vehicle suddenly comes rushing around the corner, its brakes screeching as it comes to an abrupt halt in front of the lawn, because he knows. He knows it’s you.
“Spencer!” You all but scream as you jump out of the car, sprinting over to where he’s lying in the grass. “Jesus Christ—your leg!”
“I’m fine,” he says, but you frantically shake your head as you rip off your blazer and start wrapping it around his thigh.
“You’re not fucking fine,” you say, your voice panicked and shaky. It’s odd, he’s never heard that before, not on you. “You’re shot, you’re fucking shot.”
You use the sleeves of the blazer to make a tight knot around his leg, which sends a bout of pain through his whole body that has him jolting. Right at that moment, two police cars and an ambulance arrive, and Spencer wonders how fast you must’ve driven to get here so much quicker than actual emergency response vehicles. “What gun was it?” You suddenly ask, your eyes meeting his. “Was it yours? Your 65?”
“No, he used his own—”
“Which one?”
“I don’t know, it looked similar to mine.”
You nod but before you can say anything else, Barton suddenly appears beside you, coming to inspect Spencer’s leg. “I think it went clean through,” you say to him and he nods, seemingly agreeing with you. “I don’t know what gun it was, but it looks like a straight wound.”
“Does it really matter?” Spencer asks, hissing as Barton grabs his leg to keep him steady and take a closer look.
“Yes, it fucking matters,” you say, nostrils flaring. “You’ve got a .38, and you said Meyer’s gun looked similar to yours which means it could be a .357, which has got twice the maximum pressure of a .38, so yes, it fucking matters.”
He has no idea how you know this. This isn’t exactly standard knowledge for an FBI agent, although it’s not all that unknown either—if anything, it’s just yet another piece of your puzzle that he can’t place, can’t find the right fit for. If he was not actively sporting a gunshot wound, he’d have found it frustrating, but the adrenaline was starting to fade and the pain was definitely getting worse now.
Before he can even make the mental note to ask you about it later, he’s suddenly being lifted onto a stretcher and wheeled into another ambulance, simultaneously trying to convince you to just drive along with JJ, Morgan and Rossi who had all just arrived at the scene instead of trying to come with him into the ambulance. It’s only as the doors to the ambulance close that he sees that look in your eyes, that sadness that looked far too aged for the situation at hand, far too deep-rooted and distant for what was a non-threatening leg wound. It was pain from your past, dredged up by today, and something he didn’t understand.
He could only hope you’d tell him about it one day. Asking was no use anyway.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
The lights are far too bright. Spencer blinks furiously at them, trying to get his eyes used to the brightness as he simultaneously tries to fight off the grogginess still clouding his mind. There’s a faint throbbing in his leg and an annoying beeping from a machine somewhere to his left. As his gaze wanders around the white room, memories start flooding back in and he’s reminded that he’s in the hospital. He must’ve just woken up from surgery, that was why he was feeling so tired; the anaesthesia was still wearing off.
His eyes eventually land on a figure in a chair to the right of him, reading a book: A Farewell to Arms, by Hemingway. It’s you. You’re in a cream blouse that’s vaguely red on the sleeves, blood-stained—his blood. You haven’t gone home yet. How long have you been here? You must be exhausted. Still, it’s a relief to see you. Even if you have bags under your eyes and blood on your clothes. He tries opening his mouth to say your name, which proves to be a mistake when he immediately gets into a coughing fit, now realising that his mouth and throat feel drier than a desert.
At least it signals to you that he’s awake, right?
“Jesus, Spence,” he hears you say, voice breathless in surprise. Next thing he knows, you’re holding a plastic cup of water to his lips from which he drinks gratefully, glad to rid himself of his dry throat and cough.
“Thanks,” he eventually manages to rasp out, attempting to sit up a bit straighter.
“Careful, before you end up in another fit,” you say, helping rearrange his pillow as you give him a small, sympathetic smile. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired,” he says, brushing his hair back so that it wasn’t hanging in his eyes. It was getting too long, he should probably start thinking about a haircut. “My leg hurts too.”
“The doctors haven’t given you any painkillers yet,” you say, pulling the chair as close to the bed as possible so you can sit beside him. “Something about checking for nerve damage and judging your pain response.”
“I don’t want any painkillers,” Spencer says, shaking his head. He sees the confusion and curiosity in your eyes and quickly continues talking, not wanting to share that part of his life, not now. Not yet. “How’s Hotch? Is he…?”
“He’s awake. In a lot of pain, probably traumatised, but he’s pulled through,” you say, giving him a reassuring smile. “Haley and Jack have been put into protective custody, to hide them from Foyet. Hotch probably won’t be seeing them for a while. Everything is just so… it’s all fucked, right now.”
For a short moment, your mask slips off and Spencer is met with a look of utter exhaustion. There’s more to it, something deeper and far more complicated, but before he can try to identify it, you’ve slipped your mask back on, that of a comforting smile and soft eyes.
“Are you okay?” he asks, which makes you scoff.
“You’re the one who’s shot, and you’re asking if I’m okay?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” he says. Your surprise is obvious. “You’re tired. Overwhelmed. You can tell me.”
“I know,” you whisper, absentmindedly running your fingers over the back of his hand. “My comfort, eh?”
Spencer smiles in a way he hopes feels encouraging. “Exactly. Now talk to me.”
Letting go of a small, shaky breath, you nod to yourself, as if you’re convincing yourself. “I was terrified, Spence. When Emily called you when we were in Hotch’s hospital room… you were on speakerphone. I heard the gunshot, and then you didn’t respond anymore and I—” You cut yourself off abruptly, turning your head away when tears start filling your eyes. You suddenly grab hold of Spencer’s hand, squeezing it as you slowly breathe out. Then you meet his gaze and his heart practically breaks at the sight of your glassy eyes. “God, I’ve never driven so fast in my life. I thought you were… I mean, I was praying, of all things.”
Spencer decides to stay silent, to let you get your feelings out in one go. He’s afraid that if he interrupts, you’ll shut down again.
“Seeing you lying in the grass like that, knowing you might be hurt… for a moment I thought that I was too late,” you say, squeezing his hand as if it was the only thing keeping you grounded. “And I know it’s ridiculous because you’re fine now, but—I’ve been too late before and I swore to myself that would never happen again. And then it happened to you, out of everyone, and it… I started spiralling for a minute. It can’t be you, you know? It just can’t, not you. Not… not you.”
You're rambling now, going in circles and not making proper sentences, so Spencer lifts your hand and kisses the back of it without thinking about it too much, in the hopes that it might get you to stop falling. It seems to work because you stop talking and take a deep breath, watching as he lowers your intertwined hands again.
He’s surprised when you suddenly scoff, shaking your head. “Sorry,” you say when you notice his confused expression. “I just feel a bit dramatic, is all. I mean, you’re fine. I’m being pathetic.”
“I’m in a lot of pain, actually,” Spencer quickly says, refusing to let you talk yourself down like this.
“Oh, yeah? Are you?” You say, playing along with a playful smile.
“Oh, definitely. I’m in total agony. Actually, I don’t think I’ll ever walk again.”
“That bad?” You say, lowering your voice as you lean in a little. “Need me to kiss it better?”
It’s completely unfair, that comment. He’s hooked up to a heart monitor, which is absolutely unforgiving in revealing the way his heartbeat increases at your comment, the beeping speeding up annoyingly loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You’re unforgiving too when you start laughing, your head falling back in pure delight.
“Shut up,” mumbles Spencer, his face feeling hotter and hotter with every passing second. It just makes you laugh louder.
When you finally manage to calm down again, you at least let him off the hook when he quickly comes up with random facts about the invention of heart monitors, even though the humorous glint in your eyes never leaves. He doesn’t mind that, though: it looks good on you, much better than the exhaustion and depression he’s so used to seeing these last couple of cases.
Fifteen minutes later, his doctor finally comes into the room to see how he’s doing. The information he gets is about what he expected: minimal damage from the bullet, but he’ll need crutches for a little while along with a bit of physical therapy. The worst part of that was that he was grounded for the next few weeks: no strenuous activity, which was a bit of a problem when you’re an FBI agent. You’re sat beside him throughout all of it, listening diligently and asking all kinds of questions—it’s sweet, really, you’re looking out for him. It also means that he won’t be able to get away with just doing whatever he wants anyway because you’ll know exactly what he’s not allowed to do.
And then comes the topic of the painkillers. “I don’t need those.”
“Are you sure?” His doctor—Torres—says, seeming surprised. “You suffered from quite an extensive wound, Doctor Reid. You could be in a lot of pain these next couple of days without painkillers.”
“I’m aware,” Spencer says. “But I won’t need any.”
He’s aware of your eyes lingering on him, clearly trying to figure out why he’s being so cagey about this. The fact that you’re a profiler means that you’ve probably figured it out already, and he really hates that thought. He’d rather have kept that to himself, to never have to admit to it out loud, especially not to you. His doctor, however, seems to be less aware of that.
“Doctor Reid, I strongly encourage you to—”
“What about ibuprofen?” You suddenly interrupt, plastering on a polite smile. Somehow, you must’ve noticed the frustration building, interrupting before Spencer could be rude about it. The feeling of your hand slipping back into his is exactly enough distraction to calm him down again. “Or any other kinds of acetaminophen? Those aren’t opioids, right?”
Finally, Doctor Torres seems to catch on as he starts nodding. “Those aren’t opioids, yes, but I’ll have to be upfront here. Acetaminophen, or paracetamol, might not be strong enough to stop the pain, and I’m afraid ibuprofen only works as an anti-inflammatory, which won’t help with the pain either.”
“But there’s a chance?” You ask, voice insistent. “Paracetamol, it could help a little bit?”
“Technically, yes,” Doctor Torres says. You squeeze Spencer’s hand at that, encouraging him as best you can. “But we’ll have to manage our expectations. It might not be strong enough.”
“I don’t think I have any other choice,” Spencer says, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. You squeeze his hand again.
“Thank you, doctor,” you say politely, signalling the end of the conversation you seemingly sense is really starting to get to Spencer, before getting up from your seat and letting go of his hand. “I have some other questions, could we…?”
You motion to the hallway and with that, the two of you disappear out of the room, leaving Spencer behind. He feels bitter and regretful all at the same time, and worst of all, ashamed. Not for his behaviour, but for the conversation that just occurred. The reason for it. You clearly figured it out and he hates it, hates that this is how it happened. He’s ashamed of that part of his past, of the way he behaved back then, of the things he did and said. It’s for that very reason that he would’ve preferred to have told you on his own time.
All he can do now is hope that you won’t be put off by it, that it won’t scare you away.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“Are you sure you don’t want my help? It’s really no bother.”
“No, I can do this. The doctor said it himself, I need to get used to these things.”
“Exactly, he never said anything about rejecting help!”
“I don’t need help, I’m fine!”
Arguing on the first flight of stairs up to his apartment wasn’t how Spencer had imagined this. This, being you dropping him off at home. After being discharged with a pair of crutches and a generous amount of the strongest paracetamol the hospital had to offer, Spencer was finally allowed to go home. You’d insisted on driving him home, which had turned into the current situation. You stand a few steps above him, your go-bag and his slung over your shoulders as you watch him struggle to climb the stairs. You wanted to help and he didn’t want any help—something to laugh about in a couple of months, surely.
“Christ, you look like a baby deer trying to walk on ice for the first time,” you say, throwing up your arms in frustration. “Just let me give you an arm, you numpty!”
“Numpty?” Spencer exclaims in outrage, looking up at you with an expression as if you’ve just personally kicked him down the stairs. “Now I definitely don’t want your help anymore.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—!”
It takes another twenty minutes for Spencer to finally make it up the two flights of stairs to get to his apartment, giving you a triumphant smile as he stumbles past you on his crutches. You kick one of them out from under him as you walk past him, but you do it on the side of his good leg, so he knows you don’t mean it. Not fully, at least.
Once inside, he sinks down on the couch with a deep sigh, watching as you drop both bags in one of the armchairs before moving into the kitchen. You put on the kettle silently, taking down two mugs from his cupboard and two teabags—one chamomile, one rooibos—and a bit of milk from the fridge. It’s a lovely sight, an addictive sight. And that word, that horrible ‘A-word’, is what brings his mood down in an instant. He’ll have to talk about it at some point, now that you know.
After you’ve prepared the tea, you set it down in front of him and take a seat on the couch beside him, folding your legs under you as you silently sip from your cup. He knows what’s coming, in the same way that you do, but it seems that neither one of you feels brave enough to start that conversation. It’s funny really, how the both of you utterly suck at these kinds of talks. Well, it would’ve been funny, would it not be for the horrible subjects these kinds of conversations are usually about.
Eventually, you’re the one to break the silence. He’s glad about it. “What was it?” You ask softly. “Only if you want to tell me, though. You don’t have to.”
“You figured it out, then?” Spencer asks, dodging the question just a bit longer. You nod carefully.
“Didn’t take much. Not after that conversation in the hospital,” you say. “I suppose it makes sense, though. Why you don’t drink and why you’re so careful with me drinking too much. You’re afraid I might… you know, like you. I probably should’ve figured it out sooner, considering my job.”
“I’m glad you didn’t,” Spencer says and all you do is nod again. A new silence falls over the room, one that’s only slightly better to handle than the one before it. A single glance tells Spencer that you’re clearly at a loss for words, your eyes trained on the window, your hands clasped tightly around your mug. You’re sat perfectly still, like a statue, a tell-tale sign of anxiety and apprehension. Kind of like an animal trying to disappear into its surroundings. His heart clenches, and before he can stop himself, he breathes out, barely audible: “Dilaudid.”
You turn your head to him slowly, carefully meeting his eyes. When you see the vulnerability he’s undoubtedly displaying, your body visibly relaxes. “That’s… specific. It’s an opioid, right?”
Spencer only nods.
After a few seconds, you place your mug on the coffee table and shuffle closer with your legs still folded under you until your knees are pressed up against his thigh, taking one of his hands into your own and holding it in your lap. “How did you get on it?” You ask, your voice gentle. “Did you… was it for your mind? To quiet it? Or did you get hurt?”
They’re all pretty solid guesses. The one about his mind especially—he wouldn’t be the first person who turned to drugs to get his fast-paced mind to quiet and slow down for a bit of peace. He finds it telling, that you’d guess that first. It proves how well you know him, and it’s that which pushes him to tell you about all of it.
“It was an unsub. Tobias Hankel. We were chasing him and he got the jump on me, and abducted me,” he says, keeping his eyes trained on his lap. It’s easier that way. “He had multiple personalities. One was his dead, abusive father, another was his own self. When his dad was alive, he used Dilaudid to endure his abuse, so after that alter ego of his father was done hurting me, his own personality would give it to me. He thought he was helping me.”
“He was torturing you,” you say, your voice breathless, your grip on his hand like iron. “Jesus, Spencer, that’s—I don’t even know what to say. He tortured you.”
“He actually killed me,” Spencer says, immediately regretting his choice of words when he feels you freeze beside him. It pushes him to meet your wide eyes, which seem like the very embodiment of shock. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Tell me,” you whisper, squeezing his hand even tighter. “Please, just tell me.”
Swallowing thickly, he nods slowly. “He strangled me. Or, his father did, I guess. His own personality gave me CPR and brought me back. But technically, medically, I died.”
Your eyes fill with tears as you listen to him, your teeth biting your lower lip hard enough for it to turn white. “How did you get out of it?”
“I shot him.”
With those words, you suddenly fling yourself around him, your arms wrapping around his neck. It happens so abruptly that for a moment, he’s completely out of breath, startled by what just occurred. Then his brain catches up and he’s wrapping his arms around your waist, holding you tightly. And tighter. And tighter—until he’s squeezing you so hard he’s surprised you aren’t in pain yet. It’s only because you’re now hugging him that he realises how much he’s needed this, from you especially.
“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you whisper into his neck, the feel of your breath sending shivers down his spine. “I’m so sorry that happened to you.”
“I’m okay now,” he says, realising that it’s true. He is okay. He’s probably been for a while now, but this is the first time he’s been able to admit that out loud.
“How long have you been clean?”
“Little over a year, actually,” he mumbles into your shoulder. “One year, one month, six days.”
You pull back with a wonderful smile, putting a hand on his cheek while the other stays on his shoulder. “Look at you, eh? Over a year,” you say, your eyes still a bit glassy from the unspilt tears. “I’m so proud of you, Spence.”
“Thank you,” Spencer says, feeling like he’s floating. To hear those words, coming from you? Bliss doesn’t come close.
Your eyes suddenly widen, your hand that was on his cheek now landing in front of your mouth as you gasp. “Wait, that means that we passed your anniversary without celebrating,” you say. “That’s awful!”
“It’s fine,” Spencer says, shaking his head. “It’s not a big deal—”
“Yes, it is!” You interrupt. “It’s a huge deal! We have to celebrate—I’ll order in!”
It becomes obvious to him rather quickly that he doesn’t have a say in it when you take out your phone to order food. He decides to just let it wash over him, to let you do this for him because it clearly means a lot to you, and if it’s important to you, then it’s important to him. An hour later, the two of you are eating Indian food, drinking non-alcoholic beer and watching a movie you picked out. The atmosphere feels relaxed and easy, exactly the opposite of what Spencer had expected. He’d have thought that things would’ve been tense now, that you would’ve left early or maybe kept your distance. Instead, your feet are under his thigh with your head leaned back against the armrest of the couch as you make little comments here and there about the movie to make him laugh, your empty plate on your stomach.
Things are exactly as how they should be and Spencer is thankful for that. Maybe one day he’ll find the courage to actually take things a step further but for now, this is wonderful.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“What have we got?”
Hotch’s voice prompts JJ to get up from her seat and turn to the giant screen displaying the current case the BAU would soon be working on. Everyone else is already holding a case file, reading over the details as their boss and Rossi sit down at the conference table, having just come from a private conversation.
“Ben Vanderwaal was killed in Commack, Long Island last night,” JJ says, clicking through the pictures. "Shot at close range, once in the heart, once in the head. .22 calibre shell.”
“That doesn’t exactly narrow it down,” you say from beside Spencer, who nods enthusiastically.
“It’s by far the most common ammunition that is manufactured and sold in the world.”
Morgan hums. “They found hair and blood traces From Ben Vanderwaal's wife Heather.”
“But not Heather?” Rossi asks with a deep frown.
“No, she’s still missing. Presumed dead,” JJ says. “The calibre and placement of the bullets match that of two previous victims. The first, Rita Haslat. Eight months ago she went missing from her home in New Jersey, four weeks later, she was found in a trash bin.”
The picture on the screen shows the body of an extremely thin woman, a stark contrast to the otherwise healthy picture JJ showed before that. “She went from that to this in under three weeks?” Emily asks in disbelief. “She’s totally emaciated.”
“Ligature marks on her wrists and ankles indicate she was constrained,” Spencer says.
“One in the heart, one in the head, just like Vanderwaal,” you add, twirling a pen between your fingers. “Sounds more like an execution.”
“Then why cut off Vanderwaal’s hands postmortem?” Spencer asks, to which no one has a response. You shrug, now moving to put the pen between your lips to chew on it. Without even looking at you, Spencer reaches over and pushes your hand away from your mouth, pretending not to see the tongue you stick out at him.
“What about the third victim?” Rossi asks, sending the two of you a sharp look with a clear message: stay focused.
“Ben Levington? His appearance was certainly altered,” JJ says with an awkward tone, showing a picture of a man in bed with a very specific bloodstain on the sheets between his legs.
“His genitals were missing,” Emily says with a hint of morbid humour in her voice, looking over to specifically meet your eyes, knowing you'd probably find it a little funny too. Just like she had anticipated, you send her a subtle yet wicked grin.
“Though the method of mutilation is different in each crime, clearly there’s a signature. The question is, what?” Hotch says, suddenly getting up from his seat with the type of decisiveness only a supervisor could have. “Wheels up in twenty.”
He then tosses a file to Spencer, who frowns as he picks it up. “What’s this?”
“You told me you were cleared to travel—you lied,” Hotch says with a pointed look, something that seemed vaguely similar to that of a father disappointed in their child for lying.
You start chuckling as Emily says, “Naughty boy.”
“No, I didn’t,” Spencer stammers out to Hotch, even though the latter is already walking out of the room, clearly not interested in any excuses. “I am a doctor, so technically it wasn’t a lie.”
“What was it then?” Another voice adds from the doorway, where Garcia is watching with a small grin.
“Um… a second opinion?”
With a grin that turned more and more sly with every second, Garcia turns to walk out the door, but not before saying, “You’re my bitch now.”
You and Morgan laugh at her words, clearly enjoying Spencer’s futile attempts at getting himself out of the hole he dug for himself. Out of the two, you at least have the decency to wait for Spencer to get up from his chair, handing him his other crutch with an amused smile. He tries not to grimace at the pain, refusing to admit that he’s actually feeling it, and quickly puts his weight on his crutches before you can notice. You tilt your head to the side as you watch him. “You’re getting better with them.”
Spencer sends you an unimpressed look. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re the one who ratted me out.”
You just smile. “What did you think? I’d let you get away with it?”
“I thought you’d at least let me enjoy my life to the fullest.”
Clearly, his tragic bid for your sympathy doesn’t work when you pout childishly, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “Aw, poor baby, has to stay behind and lounge around all day.”
“Easy for you to say, you get to go where all the action is,” Spencer says, shrugging you off as he starts walking out of the room, knowing you’ll follow.
“And what action it’ll be, staring at dead bodies and evidence boards all day,” you say, still not impressed with his words. “This is for your own good, Spence. The more you rest now, the quicker you’ll be able to get back to work properly.”
With a sigh, Spencer comes to a halt, turning to you with a look of defeat. “Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
This time your smile does turn sympathetic and you reach up to nudge his cheek with your finger. “It’s not like you’re completely out of the game, yeah? You get to work with Garcia.”
“I’m not sure how much use I’ll be in that department,” Spencer says with a frown. “I’m not exactly a tech wizard.”
You snort. “Understatement,” you say, before glancing over your shoulder to see Morgan, Emily and JJ waiting for you by the exit of the bullpen. “Looks like it’s time to go. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”
“Yeah, sure,” Spencer says, giving you a flat smile he doesn’t even try to make look sincere.
You tilt your head and give him an apologetic smile. “I’ll call you,” you say softly, placing your hand over one of his. “And you better pick up, heartbreaker.”
“Heartbreaker?”
“Don’t act all innocent, I know you’re trying to break my heart because I won’t let you come with us.”
This time, Spencer grins, deciding to give up on his grumpy act. “Did it work?”
You roll your eyes before letting go of his hand, making your way down the steps and through the bullpen. “Bye, Spencer!” You pointedly say, shooting him a wink over your shoulder to let him know you’re not actually annoyed with him.
He knows he looks utterly ridiculous, standing there, watching you leave with what can only be described as a lovesick look on his face, but he can’t help it. Sometimes, it was best to just let these sorts of things wash over him and run their course—besides, it wasn’t as if there was anyone around to comment on it now. With that, he makes his way over to Garcia’s office, where he knows he’ll have a couple of headache-inducing days awaiting him. Long live the digital age.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
When you finally do call him—a full day later, regrettably—Spencer is so excited that it’s absurd. He’s just so used to seeing you every day, to talking to you every day, that he can really only describe it as withdrawal symptoms. Especially after already being sick of sitting in Garcia's tiny office all day, away from sunlight and fresh air, forced to stare at computer screens for all hours of the day. So, when his phone rings and it's your name flashing at him, he nearly falls out of his chair in his haste to pick up.
“Are you serious?” He says into the phone, sitting in Garcia’s empty office. He’s glad she happened to choose that moment to get coffee. “Rossi has ties to the Irish Mafia?”
“I know, I was as surprised as you are,” you say, your voice crackly on the other side of the line. “Although, I suppose if anyone would have ties to the mafia, it’d be him, wouldn’t it?”
“Yeah, fair enough. He does have that air about him.”
You chuckle and something rustles in the background—Spencer easily pictures you running your hand through your hair. “So, how are things with you and Pen? What’s it like, working together?”
“It’s an adjustment,” Spencer says, his mind going back to all the moments they kept talking over each other. Or those times when he got his hand smacked only because he tried touching something. Yeah, an adjustment. “We’re friends, but we’re clearly not used to working together in this capacity.”
You snort. “Well, I suppose that’s what happens when you put two absurdly smart show-offs in a room together.”
Spencer can’t help but smile, feeling safe enough to do it knowing that you can’t see it right now—had you been standing right in front of him, he’d have never given you the satisfaction of smiling at that comment. “What about you? How are things over there?”
“Fine, yeah. I’ve been working with Emily a lot, that’s been fun. I miss you, though.”
“You do?”
“Why so surprised, eh? I work best with you by my side, we’re a bit of a dream team,” you say, causing Spencer’s smile to become twice as wide. “Besides, no one around here knows how to make a proper cuppa, so I’ve been having to do it all myself. I’ve got used to you doing it for me.”
“You still know how to do it?”
“Like riding a bike, love. Could do it with my eyes closed.”
“That’s a weight lifted off my chest,” Spencer says with a teasing tone, causing you to chuckle.
“In all seriousness, though, I really do miss you,” you say, which makes Spencer feel as though he’s on cloud nine. He’s tragic. “We’re watching another one of your nerd movies when I’m back, yeah? Spend a bit of time together.”
“I’ll make sure to have a bottle of wine ready for you.”
“No, no wine,” you say, which surprises him. “I’ve been thinking, about what you told me, and I think I’m going to cut back a bit. Only drink alcohol for special occasions, you know?”
“You don’t have to do that for me,” Spencer quickly says, shaking his head even though he knows you can’t see it. “Just because I’m sober doesn’t mean you have to be. It’s not like you’re an alcoholic.”
“I know, but it’s good for my health, right? Besides, I’d be lying if I said I don’t pour myself a glass every time I decide I don’t want to deal with bad memories. And it’s not like I’m quitting entirely, just cutting back.”
“That’s… that’s good. Really good.”
“What can I say? You’ve inspired me.”
Before he can reply, there’s a muffled voice on your side of the phone. Your reply is inaudible but the sigh you give as you presumably put the phone back to your ear tells him exactly what he was already suspecting. “Duty calls?” he asks, to which you hum.
“Afraid so. We’re about to head out to survey a meeting with that mobster Rossi knows. You and Penelope’ll be on comms too,” you say, the sound of your heels clicking on the floor faint in the background. “And guess what? I get to carpool with mum and dad.”
Spencer laughs at your description of Rossi and Hotch. “Lucky you.”
“Aren’t I?” You say with a laugh. “I’ll talk to you soon, yeah? Keep you posted on this whole thing.”
“Be careful,” Spencer says, looking up when Garcia suddenly walks into her office again, raising a suggestive brow at him as she sits down in her chair.
“Always am, love. Say hi to Pen for me.”
After hanging up the phone, Spencer is met with Garcia’s amused smile. He clears his throat awkwardly, reaching for a file and pretending like there’s something in there that urgently needs his attention. “She says hi.”
“Does she?” Garcia says with an extremely suggestive tone, wiggling her eyebrows at him. Spencer only sighs. This was going to be a long, long night. He can’t wait until you’re back.
Chapter 8: The Blaze Within
Notes:
Mentions of weed! And being high as a kite! Can't spell healthcare without THC, you know what I mean?
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
September 8th, 2009. 7 months and 22 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
For the first time in a very long time, the entire BAU team has a whole weekend off, with the guarantee of no incoming cases. Whatever would come up during this weekend would be delegated to other departments. Had it been any other situation, everyone would’ve been over the moon by this. This time, however, it felt like a sort of Band-Aid on a bullet wound, after everything that happened. In the simplest of terms, Haley, Hotch’s ex-wife, was dead. Murdered by Foyet, who, in turn, had been killed by Hotch. After what felt like a whirlwind of a case, all the BAU’s efforts had ended in tragedy, with multiple people dead and enough mental scars to last multiple lifetimes over. The only silver lining was that Jack had survived, practically unscathed, although that wasn’t taking his mental well-being into account. Who knows what kind of traumas the little boy would be left with.
Spencer can remember that day in excruciating detail. He doesn’t like to recall it, but by now knows that the quickest way for the brain to process trauma is to face it. It’s easier when he tries remembering things by using you as an anchor, only recalling the day in increments that you’re in. That way, there’s a safety in the memories, something to cling onto without having to completely lose himself in the horror and grief.
He remembers sitting in the car on the way to that house, with you behind the wheel, listening to the phone call that would eventually become the recording of Haley’s death. He remembers the sound of the gunshot, the way everyone in the car had flinched and the way a tear had slipped down your cheek as your hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly, that your knuckles had turned white. He remembers running into the house and coming across Foyet’s body, with a face so horrifically beaten that it was barely recognisable. You had been behind him but had barely been inside for more than a few seconds, running after JJ when the latter had run back outside to throw up. He’d followed the two of you outside, not wanting to be in that house for any longer than he had to, and certainly having no interest in seeing Haley’s body upstairs.
Eventually, you made your way back inside, leaving Spencer with JJ, and a few minutes later, had come out with Jack in your arms. The little boy had his face buried in your neck, and only when you told him that he could look up again, did he finally move. You had sat with Jack for a long time after that, keeping him busy and distracted.
In fact, Jack had stayed glued by your side pretty much the entire time after that. As soon as you came back from your interview with Straus, now sending in Spencer after you, you had returned to the boy in the conference room. It’s there that the whole team waited, watching as they all, one by one, got called in for an interview about the situation, until eventually, the waiting had been for Hotch. Jack had practically jumped into his father’s arms when he came back. And when a few tears had escaped your eyes, nobody said a word about it—not even Morgan, who had simply slung an arm around your shoulders and given you a good squeeze.
It had gone without saying that you and Spencer went home together: his place, of course. He’d never been to yours, for some reason, but you had never even given it as an option, so he hadn’t asked. The two of you hadn’t spoken much about the whole thing that night. He had put on a movie and you had ordered food, joining him after making yourself the strongest cup of tea he’d ever seen you drink. Just like the coffee you had made him, save for the sugar, it had been nearly black, identical in colour.
That was two days ago. Everyone, apart from Hotch, had come to the office during those days after, but except for copious amounts of paperwork and some half-hearted assistance over phone calls, there hadn’t really been a lot of interesting work. Now it was a Sunday. Well, technically, it was a Sunday. Eleven minutes past midnight meant that it was a new day and usually, Spencer would be asleep by now. He’s unable to, however. Maybe it’s the fact that he hadn’t really talked to you all day and that he was passively worried about you, not in the way where it was definitely the thing keeping him up, but also not in the way where you weren’t on his mind.
Regardless of the reason for his melatonin-impaired body, Spencer is sitting on his couch, half-heartedly working on a sudoku with one of his Beethoven vinyls playing in the background. He’d checked his phone a couple of times during the day for any messages, but apart from the response you’d given him to his morning text—'Morning, love’—you hadn’t sent him anything else. In all fairness, he hadn’t texted anything else either, but it wasn’t like he was the one who enjoyed texting in the first place.
With a deep sigh, he scratches out one of the wrong numbers he wrote down, rubbing his eyes in the hopes of finding his focus. There was no reason to be worried about you: you were an adult, one who was very capable of taking care of themselves. You didn’t need him to check up on you during all hours of the day, and you certainly didn’t have a responsibility to constantly reassure his concerns. Then again, you had shown, on multiple occasions, that you weren’t the greatest at handling bad cases and the emotions that came with those. That one case that had ended with finding the body of a kidnapped child, for example—he can still recall your shell-shocked state perfectly. And a few months ago, when you had admitted you preferred turning to alcohol instead of dealing with, in your own words, ‘the bad emotions’.
It’s that thought that has him abandoning his sudoku and reaching for his phone again, finding your contact before hesitating, again. He’s done this dance about fifty times today, gathering the courage to call you, only to lose said courage the moment his thumb was hovering over the button that would dial your number. Right now, however, is different, because it’s the middle of the night and he knows about your dependency on alcohol—even though you haven’t had a drop these past three months—and he doesn’t want you to return to that habit.
Before he can dial you, his doorbell rings. It startles him enough to send his phone flying, the object landing on the carpet with a dull thud. He doesn’t care, though. He knows that it’s you at his door. Who else would be ringing his doorbell at midnight?
Despite knowing this, he’s still a bit surprised to actually see you there, standing in the hallway behind his door. You’re looking off to the side, where the stairs are as if you’re debating on just leaving. The moment the door opens, though, your head snaps back to it, your eyes meeting his.
“Hi,” he says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. You have your arms wrapped around your body, one of your hands fidgeting with the handbag you have hanging off your shoulder. Due to the windswept hair and rosy cheeks you’re sporting, it doesn’t take him long to realise that you’ve been walking outside—you didn’t take your car.
“Hi,” you say, biting your lip as your eyes dart around. “Sorry for showing up unannounced. And late. God, it’s really late, I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine,” Spencer quickly says, because it really is. You, showing up at his doorstep, unannounced? There were worse ways to spend a Saturday night. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, no, I’m fine, I was just…” you trail off, jutting your thumb over your shoulder as you seem to search for the right words. Spencer saves you from having to come up with an excuse and steps aside to make room for you.
“Do you want to come in? I was just about to make tea.”
Whilst you’re taking off your shoes, he goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, focusing on grabbing mugs and teabags to give you a moment to collect yourself. When he finally does turn around, you’re leaned against the counter opposite of him, your arms still folded in front of your chest.
“I walked here,” you say, rather suddenly. Spencer only nods. “I actually live relatively close. I think. Can’t really remember, to be honest, I walked for a while.”
“I don’t know a lot of people that willingly go for a stroll in the middle of the night,” Spencer says, testing the waters with a light-hearted comment. He’s relieved to see you smile.
“Yeah, neither do I,” you say, giving a small shrug. “But I was dealing with some bad thoughts. Usually, I’d have poured myself a glass and then gone to bed, but I promised you I was done with all of that, so I needed a new distraction.”
“So you took a walk,” Spencer says with a thoughtful voice, something akin to pride swelling in his chest at your confession. There were a lot of layers to that, from willingly admitting to dealing with ‘bad thoughts’ to not choosing to drink because you wanted to keep a promise. There was a lot to unpack, but mostly just a lot for him to be proud of you for.
“So I took a walk,” you confirm, giving him a careful, reserved smile. “And then suddenly I found myself ringing your doorbell, so I suppose you and I really were right all along.”
“About what?”
“About you being my comfort.”
Spencer smiles at your words. “My shirt wasn’t enough for you this time?”
He could’ve sworn you were blushing as you ducked your head, hiding your face from him. “You’re the one who said ‘no matter the hour’.”
“That was about phone calls, if I remember correctly. Which I do.”
“You’d rather I had called, then? Instead of showing up here?”
“God, no. I much prefer talking to you like this instead of over the phone,” Spencer says simply, the words leaving his mouth as easy as breathing. “At least this way I get to see you.”
For a moment, you just stare at him, something changing in your expression that he finds utterly unreadable. It was somewhere between melancholy and gratitude, but he wasn’t given enough time to properly identify it when you suddenly shoot forward, flinging your arms around his neck and hugging him tightly. It happens so unexpectedly that you knock the air out of him, not to speak of the surprise in his bones at your sudden surge of affection. Nevertheless, he doesn’t waste a second in hugging you back, matching the tightness of your hold so he can give you exactly what you need. He buries his nose in your hair and it is then that a strong smell enters his nose, one that he isn’t familiar with on you at all. It’s mixed in with the perfume you’re wearing and the scent of shampoo in your hair, but it’s as clear as day: weed.
He tells you as much. “You smell like weed,” he mumbles.
For a moment, you freeze. Then you start laughing, pulling back to meet his eyes. “Shit, I’m sorry. I was hoping you wouldn’t notice. Figured the wind would take care of it.”
“I didn’t know you used,” Spencer says with a frown, and at his words, your eyes widen.
“Oh, my God, Spence, I’m so sorry,” you say, quickly taking a step back. Instantly, his body mourns the loss of the feel of yours pressed against it. “I wasn’t thinking about your past, shit!”
“No, no, you’re fine,” Spencer quickly says, reaching to grab one of your hands and feeling thankful when you let him. “It’s not about that, not at all. I just—I’m surprised, that’s all. I didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s complicated,” you say, waving your hand around as if physically waving off the conversation. “So, I think recall you offering me a cuppa?”
That’s how he finds himself on the couch with you. You’ve got your feet in his lap and your mug in your hands, a simple smile on your face as you listen to Spencer describing his day. It’s your eyes that are a whole other story, however. They’re distant, as if you’re not quite here, your mind stuck in another place. He knows better than to assume it’s because you’re high—even though you did use tonight, you’re clearly not all that under the influence currently.
“I hate sudokus, could never figure ‘em out,” you say, sipping from your now nearly empty mug. “Let alone try one at midnight, psh.”
Spencer chuckles, shrugging. “I wasn’t doing all that well, to be honest.”
You huff out a small laugh, one that disappears from your lips very quickly, confirming to Spencer what he already knew. Your mind is somewhere else. “You okay?” he asks softly.
Now it’s your time to shrug. “Sort of. Could be worse, could definitely be better. Hoped the weed would help with it, but.”
“I’m sorry it didn’t,” Spencer says, rubbing his hand up and down your shin a few times, giving you what he hopes comes across as a bit of comfort. You give him an easy smile. “You’re lucky the FBI doesn’t drug test us that often. No way the THC will be out of your system come Monday.”
“Even if they did, I’d be fine,” you say. “I’ve got a card.”
This surprises Spencer, which he doesn’t try to hide. “Like… a real one?”
“Are you seriously asking me if I faked an MMIC?” You ask with a cocked eyebrow, amusement in your eyes. At least they’re no longer distant. “I am a fed, Spence, I’ll remind you.”
“How did you even get one?”
“It’s fuckin’ easy in Virginia. Barely took me two weeks to get one.”
“That’s not what I meant, you know that.”
“Yeah, I know,” you say, breathing in deeply and exhaling just as intensely. Your fingers fidget with the edge of your mug, which you’re staring at to escape any eye contact you may find yourself in if you’d look up. You clear your threat before finally answering. “PTSD.”
Despite it all, he’s not surprised. You’re clearly carrying a lot of things with you, some of which he hasn’t seen even a sliver of, so the confession to having PTSD really isn’t that staggering. With that said, however, he is insurmountably proud of you for sharing that with him so easily. Perhaps his confession to having been addicted to Dilaudid had paved some sort of new road for you to take, one on which you dare to talk about yourself—the negative things, specifically. In his eyes, this is a massive step.
“Did it get triggered, after what happened with Hotch?” He tentatively asks.
When you look up, your eyes are shockingly vulnerable. It’s incredible to witness. “Yes and no. I mean, it didn’t help, but there’s more to it,” you say, letting go of a quiet breath. “It’s this sort of… anniversary, today. I don’t really know how to handle it and it always gives me a ton of symptoms. I thought I’d get ahead of it, but the spliff is more to handle the symptoms than anything else. My mind’s still got to do a lot of the legwork, you know?”
Allowing your words to settle, Spencer nods slowly, absentmindedly running his thumb over your ankle. “What are your symptoms?” he asks in a soft voice, hoping that his question doesn’t scare you away. “Just in case they happen when I’m around. Maybe I could help, in the moment.”
“The ones I have most often aren’t that bad. My hands shake a lot and I space out, kind of like shell shock, and sometimes my ears go all fuzzy-like, but that’s really about it,” you say, swallowing thickly as you seem to carefully consider your next words. He recognises your description: it happened during that case he was thinking about earlier, the one with the kidnapped, and murdered, children. “That doesn’t happen all that often anymore. And I used to get these really bad flashbacks, years ago.”
“…Flashbacks?” Spencer says, itching to grab one of your hands. They’re wrapped tightly around your mug, however, leaving him to touch your legs to satisfy his needs.
“Yeah, it would be like… like I was back there,” you mumble, staring at your lap again. “There was this time—I was about to take a shower, and I didn’t realise the water was still cold. The moment it hit my face I was back in that place and I freaked the fuck out. I don’t remember any of it, just that I was suddenly being held down by these two ambulance workers. Apparently, I’d been screaming bloody murder and my neighbours called the coppers cos they couldn’t get my door open. They thought somebody was trying to kill me.”
At a loss for words, Spencer is only able to squeeze your shin. He’s utterly confused, unable to understand what cold water had to do with your PTSD, but he doesn’t ask. He knows the rules: he doesn’t ask so maybe you’ll tell him. He’s got a feeling that he won’t get the answers he wants tonight, though. You’re already telling him so, so much, far more than you’ve ever done, and he knows that it’ll have to end at some point. This had to be that point, where you’ve given him descriptions of your PTSD symptoms but can’t tell him about the reason for your PTSD—yet.
So, he tries to lighten the mood, because he knows you’re looking for an escape right now, and that’s what he can give you. “I guess you’re American after all.”
It’s a call-back to a conversation the two of you had months ago—April, he was pretty sure. You seem to remember when you smile at him. “You know, technically I am.”
“Really?” Spencer asks, his eyebrows shooting up. He would’ve never guessed that.
“Yeah, I was born here,” you say, nodding to yourself. “Barely lived here for a year and I don’t remember any of it, but technically I’m American.”
“Why did you move?”
“Something about a work opportunity for my dad, I think,” you say, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Ironic, cos I moved back for the same reason. Fell through almost immediately, of course, those kinds of things rarely go to plan, but being a citizen definitely made things easier. It definitely helped with joining up.”
Your body stills a little at that and Spencer doesn’t miss the micro-expression of panic flickering over your face. You’ve said something you shouldn’t have, something you didn’t want him to know yet. He’s about to open his mouth to pivot the conversation and give you another out, but you beat him to it. “Joining the FBI, I mean. They were already being pissy about the whole weed thing—if I hadn’t had proper citizenship they’d never have allowed me to join, you know?”
It sounds like the truth. You’re not lying, Spencer’s been trained to see that sort of thing and he knows you well enough to know that you haven’t lied to him about this. It’s true, it’s just not all of it. Clever, really. Giving him a bit of truth, enough to satisfy him, without having to paint the whole picture you’re clearly desperately wanting to hide. It’s why he lets it go, trying to tell himself that he’s just looking out for your best interests and that he’s not just being a coward for both your sakes.
“Well, for the record, I’m glad they hired you,” he says. The smile you give him is utterly dazzling.
“So, am I,” you say, reaching to put your empty mug on the coffee table only to then grab his hand. “Shame it took me two years to get to the right department, though.”
“Counterterrorism, right?” Spencer asks, to which you nod. “Why’d you leave?”
“My superior and I didn’t get along,” you say. “Ignored her orders a couple times ‘cos I thought I knew better. They put that in my file, actually: contumacious, I think they called it.”
Spencer snorts at the description. “You follow Hotch’s orders, though.”
“Yeah, well, after he put the fear of God in me, I figured I had no choice,” you say, laughing. “The file they gave Hotch didn’t say anything about my insubordination, but he somehow figured it out and made it pretty fuckin’ clear that wasn’t going to fly under his authority.”
“I remember that day,” Spencer says, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. “We were all so confused about what you were doing in the BAU. And I remember when you and Hotch walked over to Rossi’s office, Hotch’s face was like thunder, yours was all red. JJ and I actually felt kind of sorry for you, getting reamed out by Hotch like that.”
You chuckle at his words. “Yeah, it wasn’t exactly the welcome I’d been expecting. We said some shit to each other, but by the end of it, we at least knew where we stood with one another. And, I mean, we apologised after that first case, so it’s all good now,” you say, smiling a bit as you brush a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t follow his orders because I’m afraid of him, though. I follow them because I respect him. He knows what he’s doing, knows his people well enough to always put them in the right positions, and he listens. I trust him. My old supervisor wasn’t like that and I just couldn’t trust her judgement or respect her. I always told myself—I’d never just blindly follow orders again.”
Somehow, your words remind Spencer of his old mentor, Gideon. He had that same sentiment for the ex-profiler, even after he up and left without ever saying goodbye properly. Spencer, too, believed that Gideon always knew what he was doing. It wasn’t the easiest, having to reconsider that image after the man left, but it still rang partly true today. “Did I ever tell you about my old mentor?” He asks you, his eyes going from where his hand is intertwined with yours to your face, where you’re wearing an easy smile.
“Don’t think so,” you say gently, squeezing his hand. “You want to tell me about him, love?”
Spencer never goes to his bed. He talks with you for a long time, about Jason Gideon and how he came to meet him, and then about his youth, about going to college when he’d barely even hit puberty. About always being smarter than his peers, about being bullied for it relentlessly, about becoming afraid of his own mind. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep. All he knows is that he wakes up that Sunday morning, his neck stiff and one of his feet tingling, yet most noted of all, with your head in his lap. He can’t even recall getting into this position, but there you are, still dozed off, your face towards the room, one of your hands curled around his knee.
And he knows that this is what love is, plain and simple. It’s a stiff neck and tingling foot so that you can sleep comfortably. It’s staying awake past midnight to make sure that you’re okay, it’s drinking tea at one in the morning and talking about life. It’s brushing your hair from your face as you sleep. It’s spending time with you.
It’s you.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
During Haley’s funeral, Morgan and Rossi help carry the casket as the rest of the BAU follow to the grave among the rest of the invitees. You’re standing beside Spencer as Hotch gives his speech, followed by the priest. You clutch onto Spencer’s hand, your eyes red with unspilt tears, focused on the black casket. At some point you let go of him, taking a step towards Garcia to wrap an arm around her, as she’s in a far worse state than Spencer. She, in turn, lets go of a sob before grabbing your hand tightly—it was Garcia’s greatest strength, her endless empathy, but in moments like these, made her the most sensitive.
“What do we do?” Asks Emily from where she’s sat around the table the BAU have taken a seat at, JJ and Garcia with their partners beside them. It was the reception afterwards, where everyone could eat and drink as they joined in remembering Haley. The team watches as Rossi takes Hotch outside for a drink and a bit of fresh air.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Morgan says in response, his eyes focused on his glass. “We just got to wait him out.”
“Think he’ll ever come back?” Spencer asks, looking around the table. You, of course, are sitting beside him, meticulously tearing off tiny pieces of your napkin.
“Would you?” JJ asks, looking particularly hopeless at the idea. Beside her is her boyfriend Will, who doesn’t look all that hopeful either.
“He’ll come back,” says Morgan decisively. “I just don’t know what he’s going to look like when he does.”
“We just need to be there for him when he’s ready,” you say, nodding to yourself. “Help with Jack, that sort of thing.”
“Be a family,” Garcia adds, agreeing with you.
There’s a lull in the conversation as everyone ponders over what was said, sipping from their drinks or ripping up a napkin. It doesn’t last long when Morgan’s phone suddenly starts ringing. And then JJ’s. “You’ve got to be joking,” you say, staring at JJ who looks just as surprised as you are as she looks down at her phone where a message has been left.
“They can’t be calling us in, not tonight,” Morgan says, looking at the others with a sort of expression that’s asking for reassurance, even if he knows better.
“We can’t go,” Emily says, shaking her head, even though her voice wavers, as if she’s not all that convinced about it. That was the problem, in their line of work: you don’t always have a choice.
With a deep sigh, Morgan throws his napkin on the table and starts getting up from his chair. “We have to,” he says. “I’ll get Rossi.”
“I’ll talk to Strauss,” you say, straightening up in your seat. “Ask her to send another team. She knows me well enough to agree with that.”
“There’s not another team available,” JJ says, pressing her lips together as she meets your gaze. You slink back down in your chair and without looking, put your hand on Spencer’s knee.
Everyone shares a look of disbelief at what they’re hearing. Reluctantly, JJ starts to describe the case. “Nashville’s calling us in. Second body in two weeks, both killed on consecutive Friday nights. They realise they’re up against the clock and they’re hoping we might find something they didn’t.”
After a moment in which everyone lets themselves feel as miserable as they want about this, the BAU and their respective partners start getting up from the table, each as reluctant as the next. They all look over to Hotch just as Rossi and Morgan come back inside, and for a moment, they all freeze. Then Hotch pointedly turns away, clearly not trying to give away his frustration at not being able to join them, which prompts everyone to start moving.
Spencer’s surprised to see you walk in a whole different direction than the others and pauses to watch and wait for you. You stop in front of Hotch’s son, Jack, who’s trying to sneak a cupcake from the buffet table, wearing a gentle smile as you crouch down to his level. “Hiya Jackie-boy,” you say softly. Spencer’s heart clenches when the boy beams at you, having clearly taken a liking to you after the way you had taken care of him directly after Haley was killed.
Unfortunately, Spencer can’t make out what else you tell the little boy, but from the way Jack nods with a look of determination, it’s something encouraging. You ruffle the boy’s hair, which earns you a hug that looks tight enough to suffocate you.
When you do return to Spencer, you wordlessly link your arm with his as the two of you make your way outside. “I bloody hate his job sometimes,” you mumble, to which Spencer nods.
“Yeah, me too.”
“Just glad we got each other, eh?”
Spencer smiles down at you, the first one of the day that feels sincere. He couldn’t have said it better himself.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
After that first day on the case, everyone is utterly exhausted as they make their way to the hotel. There’s no use in staying up all night trying to find the unsub, not when everyone was so exhausted they could barely read. Apparently, going to a funeral, taking an overnight flight and then working a case all day didn’t do much for one’s rest. All of that to say, Spencer was more than ready to sink down on his bed and sleep for as long as he could, already dreading the sound of his alarm the following morning. It's why he feels more than a little annoyed at the soft knock on his door, preventing him from going to bed just yet. That feeling disappears instantly at the sight of you, dressed in that shirt he once leant to you and a pair of silky shorts that have his mind reeling.
“Hi,” you say softly, your expression a bit bashful as you fidget with the hem of your—his—shirt. “I hope I’m not bothering you, I just… I couldn’t really sleep, so.”
“No, you’re fine,” Spencer says, stepping inside to allow you in. “I’d make you tea, but.”
You chuckle, albeit a bit awkwardly. “Yeah, I know. It’s okay.”
At a loss for what else to say, Spencer sits down on the edge of his bed, watching as you pick up the hotel’s coupon for a free shuttle to the airport. You’re nervous, for some reason, which is interesting. He’s not sure he’s ever seen you nervous before. “You okay?” He asks carefully, to which you turn around abruptly, as if surprised to hear him talk.
“I—yeah. Fine,” you say, unconvincingly. It must be obvious on his face because you sigh, running a hand through your hair that seems to come from frustration. “I want to ask you something, but I—it’s a bit—I don’t know. If the answer’s no then I’ll leave and we can pretend I never asked, okay?”
Now feeling nervous too, Spencer nods, unconsciously straightening up as he braces himself for whatever you’re about to ask. Is it about… that? This? The thing between the two of you that neither of you has ever given a name?
“Can I sleep in here tonight?” You finally ask, effectively shutting down his mind with the question, particularly with how unexpected it is. It’s the last thing he imagined you to ask. “With you, I mean? In bed, together? I know it’s not exactly professional. Oh, God, this is ridiculous, you’re clearly uncomfortable. Nevermind, just forget I ever asked—”
“Yes,” Spencer blurts out, causing you to snap your mouth closed in surprise. “I mean, of course. Yes.”
And so, barely five minutes later, you’re lying in bed opposite of him, your eyes easy to find even in the darkness of the room. Due to the full size of the mattress, there was more than enough space for the both of you, yet Spencer was acutely aware of the heat radiating from your body. It took everything in him not to touch you, mostly because he wasn’t sure if you’d appreciate that or not.
“Thank you for letting me sleep here,” you whisper into the quiet room.
“Of course,” Spencer says at a similar volume. It still feels too loud. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“It’s not that I’m not okay,” you say slowly, hesitation in your voice. “It’s rather that I’d like to continue to be okay.”
Which doesn’t make all that much sense but he nods anyway. “And… I can help with that?”
You take a deep breath, closing your eyes for a moment, as if bracing yourself. “Remember when I fell asleep in your lap?”
Spencer’s heart skips a beat at your question. “Yes,” he says, his mouth dry.
“It’s—that was the first—I always dream when I sleep,” you say, tripping over your words for the second time tonight. It’s still strange to witness: you’re always so sure of yourself, so to watch you stammer and stutter was a strange phenomenon. “Nightmares, mostly, but normal dreams too. They’re always really intense. But, then, that night, when I slept on your lap, I… I didn’t dream. At all. And I didn’t realise how much I needed that until that moment.”
Spencer only stares at you, at a complete loss for what to say.
“I s’pose, what I’m trying to say is…” you say, hesitating before sighing. “That was the first time after a long, long time that I actually felt rested. It was because of you. And after today, after the funeral and now this case… well, I just—I kind of—”
“You needed to sleep well again,” Spencer finishes for you, staring at your mouth when you bite your lip. “And you think you need me for that.”
“Know. I know I need you for that.”
“Okay,” Spencer says softly. After a moment, he rolls onto his back, training his eyes on the ceiling and taking a deep breath. He can feel your confusion, your hesitation, so glances over and says, “Come on, then.”
After what feels like an eternity, one Spencer spends staring at the ceiling, you finally move. Tentatively, at first, as if you’re not sure about this whole thing, before suddenly all at once. Your head ends up on the pillow beside him, your chin resting on top of his shoulder, your soft breath hitting his cheek. Your hand intertwines with his, the one closest to you, now stuck between his and your leg, and your other arm comes to rest on his chest while you carefully place your upper leg on top of his.
For a moment, it’s dead quiet in the room, Spencer’s body suddenly feeling awfully hot. You’re the one to break the silence. “Your heart’s beating really fast,” you whisper quietly, and yeah, it is. It’s practically thundering out of his chest, loud and vigorous, close to the point of hurting, and directly below your hand.
“You tend to have that effect on me,” he says, refusing to turn his head to look at you, afraid of what he might try if he does. “Though I guess you knew that already, after what happened in the hospital.”
You hum softly, seemingly agreeing with him. Then you surprise him when you grab his hand, the one furthest away from you, and start pulling it over to you. His mind seizes to work when you press his palm to your chest, the heat of your skin noticeable through the fabric of your shirt. He can’t really focus on what it is you’re trying to do, because in the simplest of terms, he’s a man, and right now, his mind is screaming only one single word at him, over and over again. The word being a specific part of your body his hand is now awfully close to.
He concentrates as hard as he can to redirect his focus in the hopes that the heat now growing and growing doesn’t accidentally make its way down south. It’s then that he feels what you’re trying to show him: your heart. It’s racing, just like his, quick under your skin and as intense as his own. Finally, he turns his head to you, his nose bumping into yours when he does, something that sends another shockwave through his body.
“See?” You whisper, barely audible. “I think we’ve got quite a bit in common like this.”
You let go of his hand but he keeps it there, faintly aware that it might be another while before he gets to touch you in that specific spot, but knowing that that’s not the whole reason. It feels as if the two of you are on the precipice of something, something big, and he doesn’t want to let go of you, afraid that it might break the illusion.
“You know, you could’ve told me that sooner,” he murmurs, his hand slowly moving up, now over your collarbones.
“Where’s the fun in that?” You say, something flickering in your eyes that looks awfully much like a challenge. His hand is now behind your neck and he’s only vaguely informed about the fact that his body is starting to turn towards you, that he’s turning onto his side.
His nose bumps into yours again, your quickened breath intermingling with his in the intimate space the two of you are sharing. His hand has found its way to your jaw, his fingers tangled in the hair on the back of your head, his thumb caressing your cheek. The hand he still has intertwined with yours between your bodies gives a squeeze, one which you return, which gives him the encouragement he needs to move in even closer. His lips are barely touching yours, a feather touch that sends his heart up into his throat and his mind into the stratosphere. Your breath hitches, your free hand fisting itself into Spencer’s shirt, and he can’t think, can’t move, can’t breathe. All he knows is that he wants—needs to kiss you, that it’s finally happening, that he knows now, definitively: you feel the same way.
And then it ends. You turn your face downwards so that he can’t even see your eyes anymore and release a shaky breath. Spencer squeezes your hand, which you hold on to even tighter, but you still don’t look up. “What’s wrong?” he asks breathlessly.
“I can’t,” you whisper, voice thick with tears that he can’t see. “Not yet. It—it wouldn’t be fair.”
“I don’t understand,” Spencer says, pressing his lips to your hairline, his hand on your jaw trying to pull your head up by gently nudging you, but you refuse to move, refuse to show him your face.
“There’s so much you don’t know about me,” you say, shaking your head as well as you can. “It’d be unfair of me to let this happen. It’s the most selfish thing I could do to you.”
“No,” he mumbles into your hair. “No, it isn’t. I know you, I know who you are.”
“No, you don’t,” you say, your voice barely audible. “Not really. I haven’t told you everything, not by a long shot.”
“Neither have I, I’ve never even told you about my mother,” Spencer says, feeling more and more desperate as the seconds tick by.
“Spencer,” you say, finally lifting your head to meet his eyes, tears staining your cheeks. “It’s not like that. The things I haven’t told you—they made me into who I am. They’re a fundamental part of me. I can’t just ignore that because I want you. You need to know me, the real me, before you choose me. It’s the only way that’ll make it real if you decide you still want me.”
“I will always want you,” Spencer murmurs, kissing the tip of your nose. “Seven months and twenty-seven days, that’s how long I’ve wanted you.”
Something between a sob and a laugh escapes you and you place your hand on his cheek. “What are you saying?”
“If I’ve wanted you for that long, what’s a bit longer?” He says. “I’ll wait forever if I have to.”
“I would never ask that of you.”
“You don’t have to.”
You close your eyes and release a shaky breath. “Shit,” you whisper, as if in disbelief. “I have no idea why someone like you would ever choose someone like me.”
“Because it’s you,” Spencer says simply because it is that simple. To him, it is that simple. It’s you, what else was there for him to say?
It takes a while for either of you to speak again. Eventually, you bury your face in the crook of his neck, your limbs tangling together, heartbeats in tandem, beating as one. Just like that time when you fell asleep on his lap, Spencer knows this to be love. To wait for you, to hold you, to ignore his own aching heart in favour of easing the pain in yours. It’s you.
“Spencer?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember what I said?”
He holds his breath in anticipation, tightening his hold on your waist.
“I said not yet. I didn’t say never.”
He kisses your temple in response. Not yet. He can hold onto that.
Notes:
We loooovvvvvveeeee a slowburn. And an almost-not-quite-yet kiss. Hehe.
Chapter 9: Ashes in the Wind
Notes:
It's backstory time!!! It's super vague and probably doesn't make sense yet but don't worry, context will be given in future chapters. this gives a glimpse into our girl's past and what's going on up in that head of hers. All I can say is... pay attention to the dates. They're really getting important now. :)
Exciting stuff! Love ya!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 19th, 2009. 9 months and 2 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
Ever since that night spent together, Spencer has felt a surge of confidence in his feelings for you like never before. With everything now laid bare between you, he found it much easier to casually touch you throughout the day, openly expressing his affection and welcoming yours in return. It hadn’t gone unnoticed by the others; he had caught several suggestive, knowing glances from his colleagues. Yet, no one had dared to ask, which was probably for the best.
But right now, no one was focused on that. No, currently, they were working a case that had everyone feeling increasingly frustrated as time went on. The unsub, presumed to be male—because really, when were they not?—had been targeting women, drowning them in abandoned swimming pools and isolated bodies of water. The victims, all aged between twenty-five and thirty-two, shared little in common beyond their tragic fate. There were no discernible connections in terms of race or socio-economic status, yet they had all ended up abducted and drowned. They were always taken from low-traffic areas, like parking lots and jogging trails.
The media had already started calling the unsub the Drowning Phantom, due to the lack of description of the man and the fact that he never left any evidence.
At present, Spencer found himself standing by a fourth crime scene with you and Rossi, having been called there only fifteen minutes ago, interrupting a brainstorming session. They had barely begun to piece together a timeline when news of yet another victim broke. Whoever the unsub was, he moved frustratingly fast. This latest crime scene was by a riverbank on the city’s outskirts, secluded and quiet, just like the previous three crime scenes had been.
Your eyes were distant as you stared at the dead woman lying only ten feet away from you, her face and body bloated and discoloured from the water, rope tied around her wrists. “You okay?” Spencer asks you quietly, making sure Rossi doesn’t pick up on it.
“Yeah, fine,” you say, sending him a quick smile that doesn’t seem sincere at all. “Just, drowning, you know? Awful way to go. I hate even having to think about it.”
Spencer nods in understanding, keeping his eyes trained on the side of your face as you look back to the victim again, studying you in hopes of finding out more, but he doesn’t. You’re utterly unreadable like you always are.
When they get the all-clear, Spencer kneels by the body to examine the marks left behind. “There’s a wound on the back of her head. He incapacitated her just like the others,” he says, carefully turning the victim’s head with his gloved hands. “Bruises on the back of her neck, probably where he held her as he drowned her.” He moves on to her hands. “The rope is tied into a constrictor knot, just like the others. Her nails are broken, like the others, which means she tried to fight back. We can test for DNA but I don’t think we’ll find anything, the river probably washed it away.”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Rossi says thoughtfully, casting a sidelong glance your way just as Spencer does. Your attention is elsewhere, fixated on the gentle waves lapping at the small beach by the river. “You okay, kid?”
You respond with a noncommittal hum, your focus snapping back to the two men who are now studying you with curious expressions. “Yeah, just thinking, ‘s’all.”
“Care to enlighten us?” Rossi asks, arching an eyebrow. He knows something’s up too, clearly braver in asking than Spencer usually is.
“Nothing of note,” you say, folding your arms defensively. “Just wondering about the connection. There has to be something that the victims have in common, right?”
“Apart from drowning, not much,” Spencer says with a small frown.
Just then, Rossi’s phone buzzes to life, prompting him to step away to answer it, leaving you alone with Spencer. “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?” he asks you, his voice gentle. “You can tell me, you know that, right?”
“I know. I’m fine though, Spence, really.”
“Are you?”
You let out a weary sigh, raking a hand through your hair in frustration. “Just—not yet.”
He’s reminded of that night again. ‘I said not yet. I didn’t say never.’ He understands your unspoken words and gives a small nod. “Okay,” he softly says, getting back to his feet. Before he can add anything more, Rossi calls the two of you over, saying something about Garcia having found a connection between the victims.
Upon returning to the precinct they currently find themselves set up in, Garcia is already waiting for them on the other side of a laptop screen. “Hiya, pet,” you greet her, eliciting a radiant smile in return. You settle into the chair next to Emily, giving her arm a quick squeeze as a friendly hello. Spencer positions himself behind you, arms crossed, joining the rest of the team as they await Garcia’s revelations.
“So, I did some digging, and I found out that all three of the victims are involved with a local swimming pool in one way or another,” Garcia says, the sound of her keyboard clacking in the background as she types away. “Our first victim, Jessica Abney, used to be a swimming instructor for the kids at Aquablast Pools. The second victim used to take aerobics classes there, and the third one had two of her children taking swimming lessons in that very same pool.”
“What about the fourth one that was just found?” Hotch asks with a deep crease forming on his forehead.
“Let’s see… hm, I’m not seeing anything right away.”
“Still, I think it’s safe to say our unsub is involved with that particular pool,” Emily says, glancing around her colleagues.
“Somebody important, it seems like,” Spencer says, only continuing when he gets a few inquisitive looks. “All of these women had a different role there. Only someone who frequents the pool would have noticed all of them, so it has to be somebody important there, someone involved: someone on the board, maybe.”
“It could be that he’s an instructor,” you say with a thoughtful voice. “Someone with a lot of experience. That would explain how he’d seen all of them at some point, he was probably working.”
“Why start drowning them, though?” Morgan asks, frowning as he looks at the evidence board. “They all helped in keeping the business afloat in one way or another, teaching the kids, paying for classes… why would he target women that are helping him out?”
“Maybe he’s quiet-quitting,” you mumble, prompting a few light laughs. At this point in a case, gallows humour was never that far to be found. It was no surprise that it came most often from you and Emily.
“What if his job there isn’t the only link? What if there’s something else, something that happened at that pool?” Hotch says, looking around the team. “Garcia?”
“Way ahead of you, sir,” Garcia replies, her fingers flying over the keyboard as the sound of rapid typing fills the air. It doesn’t take long at all before she makes a small noise to announce she’s found something. “I think this might be it. Two years ago, a woman by the name of Anna Sanders drowned at the pool in a freak accident. Apparently, she had a seizure while in the water. The lifeguard on duty at the time didn’t notice and she ended up drowning.”
A hush falls over the group as they allow the information to sink in. J is the first to speak up. “Is there a husband, someone who would want to take revenge?”
“Nothing I see right away. If she was dating someone, she wasn’t posting it on the internet, and she definitely wasn’t married.”
“I’m still putting my money on instructor,” Emily said, shooting you a playful look. You chuckle and return the gesture with a fist bump, shaking your head in amusement.
“I’ve got another question for you, Pen,” you say, drawing everyone’s attention. “The lifeguard on duty—did that happen to be the instructor you mentioned earlier, Jessica something?”
Garica is quiet for a moment before she suddenly gasps. “Yeah, Jessica Abney. What are you, a psychic?”
“A betting woman,” you say simply, tilting your head back to look at Spencer. “Put it on black the next time you visit your mum in Vegas, eh?”
You earn yourself a couple of laughs, even one from Spencer, who tries to give you a stern look, urging you to stay on track, but you only grin in response.
“What about the others?” Rossi asks, stepping a little closer to the table. “Do they have any connection to the drowning?”
“I’ll have to do some digging, there’s nothing popping up right now. What I do have, however, is a bunch of info on Anna Sanders: family tree, credit card expenses, addresses. Should keep you busy while I do some more digging. Catch you bad boys on the flipside!”
With that, she disconnects, and the laptop screen flickers back to the homepage, prompting everyone to start delegating tasks. It’s Hotch who starts talking first. “It’s not a coincidence that Jessica Abney was the lifeguard on duty. Whoever is killing these women is doing it out of revenge.”
“Yeah, but the question is, why?” Emily says. “Sanders wasn’t married, didn’t appear to be dating anyone.”
“Maybe a brother?” You suggest, a thoughtful crease forming on your forehead. “A father? Could even be just a friend.”
“Or someone with an unhealthy obsession,” Rossi adds sagely.
“Like a stalker?” Morgan says, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “Could be possible. We’re clearly dealing with an organised offender, which is usually the MO of stalkers.”
At last, they were beginning to make some headway in the case.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Because Spencer was the only one on the team capable of reading twenty thousand words per minute, his task had been to read everything Garcia had sent them (and was still currently sending them). Meanwhile, JJ and Rossi were deeply engrossed in examining the list of potential suspects linked to the drowning of Anna Sanders. The investigation was becoming increasingly complex; despite not being in a relationship, Anna was remarkably active in her community. Emily and Hotch had gone to speak with Anna's family, hoping her mother, the only relative residing nearby, could give them some useful information.
The current hope was on you and Morgan, who were paying a visit to Aquablast Pools in the hopes of finding the unsub there. The BAU’s theory that this was someone heavily involved with the pool was still the most likely, which was why the two of you had gone over there to check it out. Spencer hadn’t been in favour of these divisions of labour, accustomed to working beside you, but the only thing he had been able to do about it was grab your elbow with an insistent look he had hoped meant something to you: to be careful. You had smiled at him, murmuring a soft, “I know,” before you had turned to leave with Morgan.
After nearly an hour of silence in the room, Spencer finally broke the tension. “This is interesting,” he says, drawing the attention of JJ and Rossi, who looked up with eager anticipation, both clearly glad that someone had at least found something of note. “In the coroner’s report, it says that Anna Sanders died at around nine pm. All four of the victims died around the same time.”
JJ leaned back in her chair, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. “You think there’s a connection?”
“There must be; it can’t just be a coincidence,” Spencer says. His eyes wander over to the evidence board as his mind runs through possibility after possibility. “What if our unsub was there when she died? It’s the only way he could’ve known about her time of death, it was never released to the public.”
“There probably wouldn’t have been that many people working at that time, right?” JJ says, looking between the two men in the room with her. “Maybe our unsub was working that night, that could explain how he knew that it was Jessica who was on lifeguard duty—that was never released to the public either, why would it have been?”
Without saying anything, the trio began to sift through the stacks of paper for the records of that night. They ended up with four names, which was still too many, but before they could start methodically sorting through the results, Hotch and Emily returned. Neither of them looked very thrilled.
“Nothing we didn’t already know,” Emily states flatly as she takes a seat in one of the vacant chairs. “You guys have anything?”
“We think we might’ve narrowed it down to four names,” Rossi says, holding out a sheet of paper for her to look over.
“Eliminate anyone who isn’t male,” Hotch says. His phone starts ringing, which he takes out with a small frown. “And anyone over fifty.”
That leaves them with three names. Spencer watches as Hotch walks out of the room to answer the call, and something like dread starts to pool in his stomach. He can’t pinpoint why, but he feels, instinctively, that something is wrong. His dread only intensifies when Hotch glances over his shoulder, directly at him, with a dark look on his face. Something is very, very wrong.
Without realising he was doing so, he slowly rose from his chair, earning the attention of his three colleagues still in the room with him, all staring at him with various looks of confusion. “Spencer?” JJ asks, but he ignores her. His gaze is fixed on Hotch, who momentarily pulls the phone away from his face and closes his eyes, before he puts it back to his ear and then signals to someone in the precinct.
Ignoring the protests that trail behind him, Spencer leaves the room, his eyes locked on Hotch. “What’s happening?” He asks, demands.
“Not now, Reid,” Hotch says, turning to the man he motioned over. “Issue an APB for a silver Acura, plates starting with EC and ending in a four.”
“Hotch,” Spencer says, louder this time, vaguely aware of the fact that Emily, Rossi and JJ are now standing behind him, curious too.
Hotch goes to open his mouth, likely to reprimand him, but hesitates when his eyes land on someone entering the precinct. Following his line of sight, Spencer finds Morgan, whose face is a canvas of guilt, rage, and anxiety. As his stomach starts feeling heavier and heavier, Spencer trains his eyes on the door, waiting for you to follow him in, but you don’t. He waits. But you don’t.
“Where is she?” he says, the words tumbling out so quickly he can barely keep track of them. He makes his way over to Morgan with shaky legs. “Where?”
“I’m sorry, Reid,” Morgan says, his voice thick with sorrow, his expression growing increasingly remorseful.
“Where?” Spencer repeats, starting to feel really goddamn done by everyone ignoring his questions. “Where is she, Morgan?”
“He—he took her, Reid. I’m so sorry.”
And just like that, his whole world implodes.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
It was easy, figuring out the identity of the unsub, after that. Morgan had seen him. Morgan had looked Olliver Campbell in the eyes, had questioned him, and hadn’t realised that it was him. That he was the man they had all been looking for. And now he had taken you, probably for his grand finale, to end it once and for all, knowing that he now had the entire FBI on his ass. He’d already taken out the most important people he considered to be responsible, so for him, this was the perfect ending.
The others had pieced together that the woman attending the aerobics classes had been in the pool at the time of Anna Sanders' tragic death. They discovered her presence in the background of the security footage, swimming just a few feet away. As for the mother whose children were in swimming lessons? She had been talking to Jessica Abney when Anna drowned, responsible for distracting the only lifeguard on duty at the time.
His choice of victims wasn’t driven by a preference for women; rather, he viewed all of them as complicit in Anna’s demise. This included the latest victim, only found that morning, who had been one of the paramedics responding to the scene of Anna's drowning. Had it not been for your abduction, it was likely he would have targeted her partner as well—who was a man, but that information didn’t matter, not anymore.
Spencer was utterly useless during all of this. His mind was wracked with worry and guilt, screaming at him that, ‘see? If only you’d been there, then perhaps you could’ve helped. You could’ve prevented this whole thing.’ Those thoughts made it impossible for him to focus, let alone produce any useful discourse or theories. He was just too busy blaming himself. It was an unfair way of looking at this, because Morgan was twice his size and probably a whole lot more effective in preventing abductions, but he couldn’t help it. He also didn’t want to blame Morgan, but he did. Spencer knew, first-hand, that splitting up was a guaranteed way of finding trouble, and from the way JJ had looked at him as Morgan had recounted what had happened, she seemed to be thinking of the same thing. She, too, still felt responsible for Tobias Hankel’s kidnapping of Spencer.
He didn’t care about that right now. All he cared about was finding you before it was too late—which was starting to feel more and more dire with every passing minute.
So far, the APB hadn’t resulted in anything, which meant that it came down to pure profiling in order to determine where the unsub had taken you. This felt like an impossible undertaking because, with about thirty miles of river and nearly twenty pools in the entire city, it was one hell of a task to figure out where Campbell would go.
“Out of the previous crime scenes, the most recent ones were by rivers,” Emily says from where she’s stood around the conference table the entire team is huddled around. “Maybe that’s his preference now? It gives him more privacy.”
“That doesn’t tell us to which part of the river he’ll go,” Hotch says, his tie looser around his neck than it had been a few hours ago. The crinkle in his forehead had yet to ease up. “Assuming he stays in the city, we have thirty miles of river to check, on both sides. We wouldn’t find them in time.”
Someone calls out to him from inside the main part of the precinct, and along with Rossi, he briskly walks out, leaving the others to continue and try figuring out where Campbell is taking you.
“What do you think, Reid?” Emily says, looking over at where he’s slumped in his seat.
“I don’t know,” he says, hopelessly. “I can’t—I can’t think. It doesn’t make any sense, any of it. There are too many variables, too many things to take into account.”
“What about the profile, what does that tell us?” JJ asks, biting one of her fingernails. The ones on her left hand have already been bitten down to the quick.
“Olliver Campbell, thirty-two years old, divorced. Lives in the city, works at Aquablast Pools as a janitor, has been there for over five years,” Spencer says, feeling like a robot as he goes over the profile again. "He's a loner. His social media doesn’t show any friends or family, mostly just posts about politics and poetry, generally Shakespeare and Edgar Allan Poe. He stalked Anna Sanders for six months before she died, made apparent from the online blog he kept about her. He believes that the women he killed are directly responsible for her death and exacts revenge on them by drowning them, but from the way he ties their feet and hands together it’s obvious that he’s afraid of them fighting back.”
It's quiet for a moment as everyone considers Spencer’s words. It’s then that Hotch and Rossi come rushing back into the room. “Campbell’s car was spotted,” is all Hotch says as he pulls out a map of the area, flattening it on the table. He grabs a pen and then circles the street where the car was seen. “It was found parked. Empty.”
“That’s not near the river at all,” Morgan says, pointing to the river a few miles south. Spencer has to bite his tongue to stop himself from lashing out, feeling a new wave of bitterness every time Morgan says even a single thing.
“There’s a pool nearby, look,” JJ says, pointing to a spot on the map, west from the car as she smiles hopefully.
Emily sighs. “I was just about to say the same,” she says, pointing at a completely different part of the map—east. “How do we know which one he’ll choose?”
Everyone slowly looks up at Spencer, and for good reason too: he was supposed to be their geographical expert. At the moment, though, he only felt like a pathetic, blubbering mess. “I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I can’t think—I don’t know. There’s too many variables.”
“Reid,” Morgan says, putting a hand on his shoulder. Spencer immediately pushes it off, ignoring the flash of hurt on Morgan’s face. “Reid, you can do this. This is what you’re good at. If anyone can figure this out, it’s you. I know you, if there is one thing you can do, it’s this.”
When Spencer doesn’t respond, Morgan puts his hand on his shoulder again. This time, he doesn’t push him off. “Come on, man,” Morgan says quietly. “This is your girl. You got this.”
Your girl.
It’s enough to kick his mind into gear and with a deep breath, he straightens his shoulders and looks between the map and the picture of Oliver Campbell. “This is his grand finale,” he says, thinking aloud. “He wouldn’t just choose any place. It has to be one of meaning.”
“Wouldn’t that be the one where Anna died?” JJ carefully suggests, but Spencer shakes his head.
“No, in his mind, that’s her grave. It’s why he still works there, he feels connected to it. He wouldn’t taint it by killing people there,” he says, pointing at the two pools that were the most likely options. “One of these two means something to him. Maybe something happened there, something of note.”
Morgan takes out his phone and starts dialling someone. “Garcia, I need you to look up something about two pools,” he says, glancing at Spencer for his approval. “Anything that happened there, anything important. The names?”
He glances at Emily and JJ, who quickly look down at the map. “Summerside Pool,” Emily says, glancing at the other one. “And Aqua Verona.”
As Morgan repeats the names to Garcia, something whispers in the back of Spencer’s mind. Something important, just out of reach. His eyes dart between the map and Campbell’s picture. He mumbles the names to himself, feeling each of the letters as they roll off his tongue, hoping to find something there.
It hits him all at once.
“Verona,” he says, grabbing the picture off the table. Everyone gives him a look of doubt, clearly waiting for him to elaborate. “Verona, it’s where Romeo and Juliet takes place.”
It’s obvious they still don’t understand and with a sense of urgency, Spencer taps his finger on the picture he’s holding. “His social media—he posts about Shakespeare all the time. It’s his favourite poet,” he says, then pointing to the map again. “The pool is called Aqua Verona! That’s where Romeo and Juliet takes place. In fact, in one of the movies made about the play, Romeo and Juliet share their first kiss in a pool.”
It's exactly what everyone needed to hear because there’s suddenly an explosion of movement. Everyone rushes to grab their things to leave, Hotch starts calling people and Rossi rushes out of the room to start barking orders at every available cop in sight. As they rush out to the cars, Spencer sends a silent prayer up into the night sky, begging for you to be okay just a little bit longer, to stay alive just a bit longer.
He was coming, just hold on.
December 15th 2006. 2 years, 1 month, 2 days before [REDACTED] joins the Behavioural Analysis Unit. 3 months, 7 days since rescue.
“And what about your sleeping patterns? Would you say those have been improving?”
“A bit, I guess. The bed’s still too soft, though. And I keep—I keep checking the windows.”
“What about your issues with water? Has that been improving?”
“I think so. Still can’t have it hittin' me in the face, though, it freaks me out. Sends me back. Haven’t had another episode since that one I told you about, but I can’t wash my face. Not if it’s not with a barely wet washcloth.”
The expensive fountain pen scratches over the paper that’s bound in an emerald green notebook. Red-painted fingernails grip the pen delicately, a stark difference from the stern, wrinkled hands attached to those scarlet nails.
“Have you gone to any of the meetings I recommended you?”
“Yeah, one.”
“Just the one?”
“They wanted me to talk. I don’t—I don’t like to talk. Besides, it’s not like I know them, why should I want to tell them anything?”
“Talking helps. Sharing experiences, sharing your emotions… it’ll help you see you’re not alone.”
“I know I’m not alone, I just—I don’t care about them, about their experiences or emotions or whatever. I want to leave all of this behind me, not wallow in it forever. It’s done, it’s over. No use sitting around, talking about feelings.”
A soft sigh. “You can’t just forget about these things. There is no leaving this behind: this is a part of you, forever. The more you try to forget about it, the more it’ll keep fighting to come to the surface.”
There’s a beat of silence. The older woman continues.
“Recoil, you said. That was all you felt. The guilt only came at night. Does it still?”
“All the time. Not just at night anymore. Their faces, they’re everywhere, all the time. I think that’s why I can’t stop…”
You trail off, never finishing your sentence, but instead hold out your hands, which tremble in the air. They haven’t stopped in months. You’re pretty sure they continue even when you sleep, which isn’t nearly as often as you’re allowing Hoffman, your therapist, to believe. She’s specialised in PTSD, particularly in cases like yours, which means that she sees through every single bullshit excuse you try to throw her way. She’s never unkind, but always direct.
“And you don’t think that talking about it will help with these symptoms?” Hoffman asks, crossing her wrists on top of one another and resting them on the legs folded over each other.
“No,” you say, simply, decisively. Talking wasn’t an option. Talking made it real, and it couldn’t be. It simply couldn’t. “Not like it’ll help with the fucking—with the—”
You don’t finish your sentence again, this time motioning to your left ear.
“You still hear them?”
“When I fall asleep and when I wake up. I think that’s why I keep checking the windows. I can’t tell if they’re real or not. Keep thinking I’m getting attacked.”
Hoffman stares at you for a few long moments, clearly thinking something over as she studies your person. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she was staring directly into your soul.
“You do understand that as long as you have these symptoms, I cannot clear you? You won’t be let into the academy, let alone the FBI itself.”
“Yeah, I know,” you mumble, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your jumper. Even with the three layers you’ve dressed yourself in, you’re still cold. After spending months totalling into years in the heat, the Virginia winters were an absolute, freezing torment for you: it was like you couldn’t get warm, sometimes.
“If you continue to insist on not talking about your experiences, there are other ways to deal with your symptoms. Granted, it won’t help with the underlying problem, but it could help with the side effects,” Hoffman says. You give her a sceptical look but she only smiles. “I know that this may be difficult to believe, but I am here to help you. I want to help you succeed, not hold you back from the life you want.”
“You really think it’ll help?”
“I do, yes. It’s rather unorthodox, but I believe that with your… unique circumstances, it could prove to be a success.”
You can’t help but scoff, feeling cynical. “And how exactly do you still have clients, if you have this magical cure just lying around?”
“Because it is not a cure,” Hoffman says, giving you a stern look. “It is, at best, a tool to help you deal with your symptoms: the shaking hands, the flashbacks, perhaps even your EHD. But it, as I said, doesn’t take care of the underlying problem.”
After evaluating your chances, you decide to give her a careful nod, curious as to what exactly she could be referring to. “So, what is it?”
Hoffman clears her throat, shifting in her seat. “Medical marijuana.”
With a snort, you give her a look of disbelief. “Weed? Really? You want to give me weed to help with my PTSD?”
“I do, yes. I believe it’ll help, given that it doesn’t turn into a habit.”
“You mean, as long as I don’t become an addict?”
Hoffman doesn’t respond, instead grabbing a form off the side table alongside her armchair. “With your signature, I can assist in getting you a card. You’ll use it on a trial basis. With the right precautions and boundaries, I think it’ll prove to be beneficial for you.”
Biting your lip, you mull it over for a moment. Your head’s been a mess for a long time now—chaotic, loud, and the feeling like it’s constantly exploding doesn’t help either. The cautious promise of a bit of peace, a reprieve from all the sorrow and pain, gives you hope. Even if it only works for an hour, you’d do anything for it. Anything to escape your own mind, to enjoy a bit of silence. To not feel so constantly haunted.
“Okay,” you finally concede, giving Hoffman a nod. “I’d like to try.”
Hoffman regards you with a look of interest, in the same way a scientist would with its subject. “But you don’t want to try simply talking?”
“There’s nothing for me to say. There’s no one that I… there’s no one to trust.”
You despise the look in your therapist’s eyes, the one of pity. Maybe it’s just the rage in your heart and the storm in your mind that convince you it’s pity, that it’s perhaps something else you can’t recognise anymore. These things are difficult nowadays, recognising kindness for what it is, instead of accidentally confusing compassion with belittling concern.
“I’d like for you to make me a promise,” Hoffman suddenly says, surprising you. Whatever you were expecting her to say, it wasn’t this. She holds out her hand to you, but you don’t take it, not until you know exactly what you’re in for.
“A promise?”
“We can call it a deal if that would make it easier for you,” Hoffman says. “When you do find someone you trust, however long that will take, I want you to promise me that you’ll tell them. Talk to them about it all, bare your heart for them.”
“And if I break it? My promise?”
“Then you’ll come right back here and tell me everything you couldn’t tell the people you love.”
After a moment of consideration, you lean over and shake Hoffman’s hand.
Notes:
I'd apologise for the cliffhanger but the thing is... I need you to come back to me, alright? I'm like an obsessive ex, just can't say my goodbyes to you.
Alsoooo don't worry I'll update pretty soon after this because leaving you hanging on a cliffhanger for weeks on end just feels wrong, I love you too much for that ya know? Feel like we're kinda past that at this point of our relationship, we've matured beyond that lol
Chapter 10: Scorched Earth
Notes:
I'm back! And quickly! Like I promised! Do you love me yet??
Anywayyy, this chapter has a warning: drowning and canon-typical violence and injuries. Be mindful of your limits babes :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
October 20th, 2009. 9 months and 3 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
The drive over to the swimming pool Aqua Verona feels everlasting for Spencer. He’s sitting beside Morgan, who’s driving at life-threatening speeds, sirens wailing and wheels screeching over the asphalt. Despite it all, Spencer feels that they’re going too slow. Every minute it takes to get over there is a minute in which you can die. At most, the average person could only hold their breath for up to two minutes—three, if you were especially lucky. After that, you’d be clinically dead: it would only take between five to ten minutes without oxygen for the brain to develop severe and possibly irreversible brain damage.
It was all very scientific, his train of thought, but it was the only way for him to get through this right now. If he concentrated on the emotion of it all, he’d become a useless mess. He’d lose his focus and could end up putting you into more danger by not thinking clearly. He couldn’t take that risk. But in all honesty? It was becoming more and more impossible to leave the emotion out of it.
I said not yet. I didn’t say never.
Not once had he considered that the ‘not yet’ might never arrive. That maybe the universe had different plans, that it would take away your voice forever, leaving him behind in a maze of loved whispers and uncertainties, truths that would never be uncovered. He’d never factored it in, he’d just always assumed that he had all the time in the world to find out who you are, what you left behind and carried with you to become the person he knew today. This wasn’t how it ended, right? It couldn’t be.
You couldn’t end in never.
Finally, finally, they arrive at the pool. Before Morgan has fully stopped the car, Spencer is already jumping out, nearly sinking through his still slightly messed-up knee that only functioned well when walking. He ignored any and all calls for his name, sprinting to the entrance and nearly slamming through the electric glass sliding doors. They didn’t open, of course, and so he reached for his gun, raised it at the doors and pulled the trigger. The glass exploded, showering the floor in shards that sliced into the soles of his shoes as Spencer stepped over them. For a moment, his mind sends its sympathies to Hotch, who’ll have to file the paperwork for the destruction he’s leaving in his wake. He sprints past the reception desk, jumping over the electric turnstile and nearly falling flat on his face when his toes catch on the top. His shoulder slams into the wall as he rounds the corner towards the locker rooms, once again nearly tripping over a pool noodle left in the men’s dressing room. He’s vaguely aware of the yelling and shouting not too far behind him, the voices of Hotch and Rossi yelling various orders as the team, accompanied by half the precinct and a SWAT team, spread out over the building to look for you.
When Spencer finally reaches the door that leads to the actual swimming pool, he feels his heart sink almost straight to the floor when he finds that when he tries to turn the door handle, it won’t budge. No matter how hard he tries, it simply won’t go down. His eyes shoot around the door, as if the surface will somehow hold the solution to his problems, and his gaze falls upon the tiny square window at the top. It’s barely bigger than his head, with wired glass and vaguely manipulated surface that distorts his view ever so slightly.
It's then that he hears footsteps behind him. He speaks without looking who it is. “I can’t get the door open,” he rapidly says. “I think something’s blocking it from the other side.”
“You had no trouble shooting the other glass, what’s stopping you from shooting this one?” Morgan says—thank God it’s him, he’s the most capable of kicking this door down should it come to that.
Unsure of what the next step will be, Spencer lifts his gun again and points it at the tiny window, squeezing the trigger and flinching when the gunshot echoes through the tiled hallway, loud and unforgiving. His ears ring as he goes to peer through the window while putting the gun back in his holster, but he quickly forgets about it when he notices you on the other side of the room, by the deep end of the Olympic-sized swimming pool. Your hands are bound behind your back with rope, as are your feet, and there’s a gag around your mouth. A gag that’s currently being fastened behind your head by their unsub, Olliver Campbell.
Both him and you are looking at the door, clearly surprised by the gunshot. Campbell seems so surprised, in fact, that he forgets to actually tighten the knot for the gag, because it falls away when you vigorously shake your head to loosen it. “Spencer!” You scream out, your voice echoing through the empty room. “It’s a broom! It’s wood, you can—”
You can’t finish your sentence when Campbell suddenly wraps a hand around your mouth from behind. Before he can do anything else, you throw your head back, the crunch of bone unmistakeable as it travels through the room and straight into Spencer’s ears. The unsub falls back to the floor, dazed by your sudden attack, blood spurting from his nose. It’s a luxury Spencer knows won’t last long, hopefully giving him enough time to get to you.
“What did she say? A broom?” Morgan shouts, a deep frown between his brows as he eyes the heavy, metal door, designed to keep people out after closing time to keep from any accidents.
“It’s what’s probably looped through the door handles!” Spencer says, nearly choking on the speed he uses to get his words out. “She’s trying to say that we can break through it—it’s wood!”
Thankfully, Morgan finally understands, and without hesitation, starts slamming his feet into the door. Once, twice, three times and finally, the door starts giving way. It’s then that a scream rings out, and Spencer watches through the slit in the door as Campbell throws your body into the pool, your hands and feet bound. And then something follows you: it’s a type of dummy, designed to look like a person—the type people use to practice saving drowning victims, Spence realises. It’s large and heavy, and sinks straight to the bottom- and has the rope that is attached to your feet wrapped around its body.
“No!” Spencer yells. In a fit of what can only be described as horror-induced adrenaline, he slams his body against the door exactly two times before the broom finally breaks. His brown dress shoes slip on the tiled floor, his hands just barely able to catch him before he’s fully spread out over the floor. His palms feel wet as he gets up and falls into a sprint to get to you, but he doesn’t care to check whether it’s water or blood. The hundred feet he has to cross to get to you feel endless, in the same way that running in a dream feels—except that this isn’t a dream, or a nightmare—it’s real, you’re drowning at the bottom of that pool, tied to a dead weight in the shape of a training dummy, and unable to free yourself with your hands strapped behind your back.
Before he can even get to you, Campbell is already waiting for him, suddenly raising a gun as Spencer approaches. Instinctively, Spencer ducks, thinking, rather uselessly, we hadn’t profiled him to have a gun, before hearing a gunshot go off. It echoes through the room, something hurts on Spencer’s shoulder, and then his body collides with the unsub. He tackles him to the ground without much grace at all, the tile hard and unforgiving as their bodies hit the floor. Campbell’s gun falls out of his hand and slides away, causing the man to try and struggle his way out from under Spencer, who only cares about getting up and leaving Morgan to deal with the unsub. His mind screams at him to hurry, to get to you, that time was running out, and so, without thinking, Spencer raises his fist and slams it into the man’s already bloodied face, rendering the man stunned enough to loosen his grip, ensuring that if you hadn’t succeeded earlier, his nose was now definitely broken.
The water’s cold when Spencer jumps—falls—in, the bubbles obscuring his view from you. The chlorine stings his eyes as he starts swimming down to the bottom blindly, knowing he has no time to waste while waiting for the bubbles to clear. You’re at the bottom, body swinging from left to right as best as you can get it to, trying to free your hands from their restraints where they’re bound behind your back. You succeed just as he reaches you, your hands moving over to your feet to try and loosen the knot there. Your eyes are wide when they meet Spencer’s, filled with fear and panic.
At first, he tries to lift you up from the bottom, to just swim you to the top, but the doll is too heavy, making it impossible to carry you and the dummy at the same time. He moves down to your feet, his fingers wrapping around the rope to try and loosen the knot just like you were trying before. True to the profile, it was a constrictor knot, which were practically impossible to untie, especially when the rope was completely waterlogged. That, along with the fact that the water was making it one hell of a task for him to apply any strength whatsoever, meant that it was unlikely for him to loosen the rope in time.
Realising that your hands have become eerily still, his eyes meet yours, which are no longer as alert as they were before. Your eyelids are starting to droop, your eyes distant as you no longer seem to quite see him anymore. Panic overtakes his heart when he realises that you’re about to run out of air. He grabs his gun, praying that the water hasn’t yet seeped into the weapon fully, enough to release at least just one shot. He presses the front of the barrel against the rope, making sure that it wasn’t pointed at your feet, and he squeezes the trigger. Nothing happens. He repeats the action, but once more, nothing happens. His lungs are starting to burn, warning him that he didn’t take nearly a large enough breath to stay under for this long, which only adds to the utter panic that is rushing through his veins: he’s running out of time. With a prayer he hopes actually reaches someone up there, Spencer closes his eyes for just a second before pulling the trigger one last time.
The gun goes off on that third try. The bullet rips through the rope, which is where Spencer loses track of it, but he doesn’t care where it ends up. Due to the sudden force of the gunshot and the lack of grip he has underwater, the gun flails out of his hands. He barely pays attention to it, wrapping his hands around the rope and pulling on it as hard as he possibly can, tearing through those final fibres to free you from the dummy completely. He expects you to move, but when his gaze moves over to your face, he finds that you’re completely unconscious.
Your lips are parted, small bubbles escaping from between them and rising to the surface, with your eyes closed and your head lolled forward. A fear Spencer has never felt before overtakes him and propels him into moving. He shifts his body so that he’s behind you, his arms wrapping under your armpits so that his hands can link themselves together in front of your chest. With every ounce of strength that he can muster up, Spencer uses his feet to push himself off the bottom of the pool. He kicks and kicks his feet with all his might, fighting to get the surface. His lungs burn and his head is starting to pound, his vision turning blurry as he gets closer and closer to the LED lights that flicker above the water.
With a loud gasp, he finally breaks through the surface. In an instant, he’s enveloped in a cacophony of yelling and heavy footsteps, the sounds of doors slamming and sirens ringing in the distance. He’s vaguely aware of someone calling out his name, urging him to swim in a certain direction. With you still held to his chest, Spencer does his best to swim to the shallow end of the pool using just his feet, pushing his stomach up in order to stay afloat. By the time his feet find solid ground again, his entire body is aching from exhaustion, the water now up to his waist—he doesn’t pay much mind to it, however, because it’s only then that he realises that you haven’t moved yet. You’re dangerously quiet and completely motionless in his arms: you’re not breathing.
“Come on,” Spencer mumbles, shifting your body so that your head is in the crook of his elbow, his eyes scanning your blue lips and the drops still sticking to your eyelashes. Your hair floats in the water, creating a halo around your head. Horrifically enough, for the first time since he’s known you, Spencer thinks you look peaceful.
“Come on, sweetheart, wake up,” he says, forcing the thought from his mind as his free hand taps one of your cheeks. You don’t even flinch. Ignoring the incessant yelling from around him, Spencer, with his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth hurt, pushes two fingers past your lips in the hopes of activating your gag reflex so that you might end up spewing the water from your throat. Nothing happens. His heart stops.
He uses that same hand to then squeeze your nose shut, and with a whispered apology, leans in and presses his lips to yours, blowing air into your lungs. You taste of chlorine, your lips cold and unresponsive. He blows air into your mouth three times before patting your cheek again, only to repeat his actions. With every passing second, his heart grows heavier and heavier, hopelessness clawing at his throat and trying to force a sob past his lips.
Please, please, not yet. You couldn’t end in never. This couldn’t be never.
A sudden, aggressive jolt wracks through your body and Spencer moves his head just in time to prevent your forehead from slamming into his, relief flooding into every artery as you cough and heave, water spilling out of your mouth and down your chin. For the very first time in his entire life, he’s glad to hear those sounds, helping you stand up straight by wrapping an arm around your stomach. He’s got the feeling that you probably haven’t found the strength in your legs yet, and so he keeps you pressed against him with an arm around you, so that all you have to focus on is trying to breathe.
“There you go,” he says, voice shaky with relief as he brushes your hair away from your face. “There you go, just breathe, just breathe.”
As the coughing starts to cease, Spencer expects you to start to relax, maybe even faint from the lack of adrenaline, but the opposite starts to happen. The more you start to breathe, the more panicked it sounds and the more you start to pull away from him. He opens his mouth to tell you that you’re okay, but you slam one of your fists into the arm around your waist, rendering him utterly speechless.
Then the screaming starts.
Over and over again, you scream out the word ‘no’, thrashing around in his arms. One of your elbows suddenly comes flying back towards his face, which he only just manages to dodge, the waterlogged fabric of your blazer grazing his nose. “Get off! No!” You scream, your voice filled with a type of terror that makes it sound like you’re being tortured.
Spencer is so stunned that his grip on you goes slack. You’re about to move away from him, still screaming, but then Spencer sees the way you’ve got your fists balled, the way you’re whipping your head around—and he knows that you’re going to hurt someone. Whatever state you’re in, whether it’s shock or an extreme type of survival instinct, you’re not in control of yourself. He immediately jumps forward, nearly throwing the two of you back underwater, wrapping his arms around your chest and biceps so that you can’t use your elbows to try and hurt him again. He forgets that you’re quicker than him and far more adaptable, and without even a second of hesitation you throw your head back in the same way you did with Campbell, hitting Spencer straight in the mouth.
Despite the pain shooting through his entire lower jaw, Spencer manages to keep his arms around you as a wounded groan escapes him. He can taste his blood when his lip splits at the impact. “Tommy, stop!” he shouts at you, barely able to overpower your screams as you continue to thrash in his arms, one of your feet slamming into his shin. “It’s me, it’s Spencer! Calm down!”
It’s then that he hears your voice in his mind, loud and clear. I used to get these really bad flashbacks, years ago… I was back in that place and I freaked the fuck out…
This is not what you need- him, screaming at you, it’s not what you need. You need to know you’re safe, that you’re not back there, wherever ‘there’ is. With that in mind, Spencer leans in and presses the side of his head against yours, careful not to incur another headbutt from you. He makes sure his lips are as close to your ear as he can get them with you still fighting in his grip, your foot connecting with his knee this time.
“It’s me, sweetheart, it’s Spencer,” he says, voice low so that only you can hear it. For a moment, your screams falter, which urges him to keep talking. “You’re safe, it’s over. You’re not—you’re not there, okay? You’re here, in Virginia, you’re with the BAU. You’re safe, they can’t hurt you anymore. You’re safe.”
Finally, you start to calm down. You stop fighting in his grip, your screams quieting down until they’re only small whimpers involuntarily leaving your mouth. “Spencer?” You say, your voice frail and so quiet that Spencer’s convinced he would’ve missed it had he not been so close.
“Yeah, it’s me,” he whispers, slowly loosening his grip in case you wanted to move away from him—he trusts you now, trusts that you’ll no longer be a danger to yourself. “It’s me. You’re safe.”
After a moment of silence that feels more tense than it probably should, a sob suddenly escapes you, tearing through your body so violently that you jolt. Before Spencer can respond, you turn yourself around and throw your arms around his neck in one fluid motion, holding on to him so tightly that for a moment, he loses his breath. Then he hugs you back, as firmly as you’re hugging him, giving you exactly what you need. His heart aches at the sound of your sobs, muffled in the crook of his neck, but he knows that there is nothing he can do, apart from holding you close and stroking his hand over the back of your head.
It's only then that he becomes aware of the silence that hangs over the room, the only noise that of the water dripping from your bodies, back into the pool that gently sways around his hips. His eyes flicker over the people inside, the sight of them a sudden, sharp reminder that the two of you aren’t alone, and that everyone witnessed this. Beside the nameless, unknown faces of the police department and SWAT team, there’s Emily and Rossi, stood frozen with widened eyes, and JJ, who has a hand pressed to her chest and another in front of her mouth, her eyes red-rimmed. Morgan, who’s unusually pale, and finally Hotch, whose hands are clenched into fists, jaw set. It’s when Spencer makes eye-contact with the latter, that the man seems to realise the desperation in Spencer’s eyes, begging for people to divert their attention away from you.
Orders are suddenly thrown around with little room for arguing, even though nobody seems interested in arguing at all—if anything, people just seem to be glad to have an excuse to do anything, anything at all apart from witnessing your episode.
It takes a solid five minutes for you to calm down. Even if your breathing doesn’t quite return to normal, your crying seizes, which allows Spencer to convince you to move so that he can get you out of the pool. He’s not entirely sure that your trembling has to do with the cold water still clinging to your clothes, but he’d rather not take the chance. With the help of Morgan, who is already waiting by the edge of the pool, you’re pulled out of the water and straight into a towel that JJ is holding out for you.
By the time Spencer is fully out of the water, you’re already being led out of the building by JJ, who isn’t wasting a second in getting you to an ambulance to get looked over. His eyes only leave your retreating figure when a similar towel is pressed into his hands by Morgan. Wordlessly, he takes a good minute in drying his hair, giving himself a bit of time to register the last twenty minutes—even if he did put up a strong front, he can’t deny the pounding in his head and the shivers that wrack his body, a personally recognised symptom of the adrenaline leaving his bloodstream.
“I’ve never seen her like that before,” Morgan eventually says, his eyes trained on the spot in the water where you had been screaming your lungs out only minutes ago. A piece of rope dances on the surface, in time with the small waves.
“Neither have I,” Spencer says, finally resting the towel around his neck.
Morgan seems surprised at his words. “Really? Then how’d you know what to do?”
“I didn’t. Not for sure, anyway,” Spencer says with a small shrug. “Just something she told me a while ago, about flashbacks. I figured that the best way to get her back was to stay calm, remind her of where she was.”
“Flashbacks, huh?” Morgan mumbles, eyes thoughtful as they drift over to the door you disappeared through with JJ. “Wonder what happened in those flashbacks to make her so afraid of water.”
“No, not water…” Spencer says, the realisation falling over him in the same way the water had enveloped him when he’d jumped in after you—cold, sudden. You weren’t afraid of water. No, you were afraid of something more specific. Something even worse. You had a fear of… “Drowning.”
“You okay?”—“Just, drowning, you know? … I hate even having to think about it.”
“I didn’t realise the water was still cold. The moment it hit my face I was back in that place…”
It was so obvious, in hindsight. How hadn’t he realised it before? All the clues had been right there, right in front of his face, yet he hadn’t even remotely attempted to put them together, to draw the lines and connect the dots. Was it because it was about you? That, somehow, subconsciously, his mind didn’t want to find these things out in such an analytical way? Or was he just blinded by his feelings for you? How much truth was there really to that saying; ‘love makes you blind’?
And how much had Spencer missed because of it?
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Upon returning to the hotel, Spencer took one of the longest showers of his life. Not just because he was cold, but because he had so much to think about that he lost track of time entirely. From a scientific perspective, he knew why thinking in the shower helped, how the relaxation led to a stream of consciousness freer than usual. That didn’t help him make sense of the emotions swirling in his head, however. Emotions he wasn’t particularly proud of either.
The strongest of them all was exasperation. Not just at himself, for not recognising the signs for what they were earlier, but at you too. And he hated that he did, but he just couldn’t help it. Why couldn’t you have just been honest with him from the start? Tell him what was happening in your head? Maybe then he could actually help you, instead of just looking on powerlessly, jumping in with half-baked ideas of support and solutions barely recognisable as such.
The frustration was partly misplaced, he knew that. You had some severe, underlying trauma that you weren’t ready to share, and it was wrong of him to want to push you into telling him sooner than you were capable of. That would just create distance, which he wasn’t aiming for at all. Still, he’d be lying if he said this wasn’t difficult for him.
Once he’s out of the shower and getting dressed, he starts to become aware of the state of exhaustion his body is in. Not only is his knee really hurting again—you just had to kick the one he was shot in a few months ago—the bullet that grazed his shoulder was seriously bugging him too. He needed stitches for the wound, something that didn’t bother him at the time, but was now a constant reminder of the absolute horror he had to endure: the horror being, watching you nearly drown. Watching you nearly die. One thing he had learned, was that he absolutely never wanted that to happen ever again. Seeing you throw yourself headfirst into danger to protect the people you cared about was one thing, but to witness your near-death because of it was something he didn’t want a repeat of.
He’s thankful for the knock on his hotel door, pulling him out of his own head and forcing him to go back to the real world. He is, however, surprised to see Emily behind it, a concerned expression on her face. “Hey,” she says. “You got a minute? We could use your help with something.”
In an instant, he realises that the concern on her face has nothing to do with him, but rather with you. In the back of his mind, he knew that Emily and JJ had been the ones to take you back to the hotel after you had been checked over, mostly because Spencer had to go to the hospital for his stitches.
“Is she okay?” Spencer asks as he steps out of his room and pulls the door shut behind him.
“Not sure,” Emily says with a frown as she makes her way down the hall, Spencer falling into step beside her. “We tried to convince her to take a shower, but she refused. Then, when we tried to get her to at least get out of those clothes, she went into the bathroom to change but she hasn’t come out since. Just keeps telling us to leave.”
He’s not surprised you refused to shower. He knows why, now. He’s unsure as to why you’re refusing to let anybody see you—maybe you’re just refusing any sort of perceived vulnerability? Absentmindedly, he rubs his hand over the bandage around his bicep, hidden under his sweatshirt—the skin there pulls, a constant reminder of his injury.
“How’s your arm?” Emily asks, her eyes drawn to where he’s rubbing his hand up and down his arm.
“It’s fine, it’s just… irritating,” Spencer says, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice as he mindlessly licks over the cut in his lip. “Just another thing, you know?”
Emily nods and gives him a sympathetic smile, which does little to soothe him. Once they get to your room, they find JJ stood by the door that presumably leads to the bathroom, her arms crossed over her chest as she talks to the solid, wooden surface. She sighs when she sees Spencer. “She won’t even talk to us,” she says, walking over to her colleagues. “Honestly, if it wasn’t for her constantly telling us to go away, I would’ve called an ambulance because I’d think she was passed out in there.”
“Did she say anything else?” Spencer asks, to which JJ shrugs.
“Couple things I didn’t understand. Mostly that she just wanted to go home.”
Spencer nods, swallowing thickly. It’s such an innocent thing to have you say, that you just wanted to go home. Almost childlike. It was a stark contrast to your usual composed demeanour, which rarely revealed what you were feeling, let alone the negative aspects of your emotions.
“Think you can try?” Emily says to him. “We figured that if anybody could get her to open the door, it’d be you.”
Hotch’s words echo in his mind. I think it’s obvious to everyone here that the two of you are close.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, absentmindedly. It’s obvious. Yeah, clearly.
“Good luck,” JJ says. “I’d be surprised if she even talks to you. She definitely didn’t talk to us.”
When he gets to the bathroom door, he steps as close to it as he can, gently knocking on it so as not to accidentally scare you. “Sweetheart?” he mumbles to the wood, so that only you can hear it. “Can you open the door?”
As he waits for you to respond, his mind wonders as to when exactly he’d started calling you that, ‘sweetheart’. Had it started in the pool? Or had he called you that before? Maybe watching you nearly die had given him the nudge he needed to cross that boundary, giving you endearing nicknames when he’d never had the courage to do that before. Now that he was using them, though, he couldn’t deny that it felt right. That this was exactly what he was supposed to call you.
The lock suddenly clicks, prompting him to take a small step back. The door opens inwards, revealing you behind it, looking impossibly small when, before today, you’d always exuded confidence in a way he’d been envious of. He gives a glance to the two women behind him, who are not trying to hide their surprise at seeing you come out so easily when you heard his voice—you hadn’t even tried to protest.
Upon meeting his eyes, Emily clears her throat. “We’ll give you two a minute,” she says, giving JJ a careful nudge. “We’ll see you in the lobby.”
It reminds Spencer that Hotch had given everyone a clear timeslot as to when they’d be leaving. It would give him a half-hour to get you packed and ready for the three-hour drive back to Quantico. Once Emily and JJ had closed the door behind them, the room was enveloped in silence as Spencer met your eyes again. They’re still red from the chlorine and black from the makeup that’s been partly washed away. If anything, you look like you’ve been crying your eyes out for hours. It’s a heart-breaking sight.
“Emily said you refused to open the door,” Spencer says softly, watching as you wrap your arms around your body.
“Didn’t want them to see me like this anymore,” you say, your voice rough, as if you’ve been screaming. Right, you had. What an awful reminder. “Why are you here?”
“What do you think?” Spencer says, not unkindly. “Are you going to let me in there?”
“I’m not going to shower,” you immediately say, even though you step aside to make room for him.
“I know,” Spencer says, simply. He puts the lid down on the toilet and motions for you to sit, before finding a washcloth on the towel rack. He makes sure the water is warm when he wets the washcloth, thoroughly rinsing out the water so that it’s only damp once he turns to you.
The way you eye him is faintly reminiscent. He can’t remember when, but you’ve looked at him like this before. You track every single one of his movements, making him feel like he’s the predator and you, the prey, making sure he didn’t come too close. Or maybe the other way around, maybe he’s the prey. It’s an awful feeling, either way. It makes him wonder if you really trust him or not.
He crouches down in front of you, careful not to touch you. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, quietly, awaiting your response with a tight stomach.
“I know,” you whisper. You reach out and trail along his cheek using your finger. “I’m sorry. It’s a survival instinct, I can’t—I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable.”
“Looks like we’re thinking the same thing,” Spencer says with a careful smile. He brushes a strand of hair away from your face before resting his hand on your knee, holding up the washcloth with his other hand. “I’m going to clean your face, okay? I’m going to start by putting it on your neck, and I’ll move up as slowly as I can. If you want me to stop, just tell me and I will.”
“The water,” you protest, voice hoarse.
“I know, it’s why I’ll go slow,” Spencer says, giving your leg a squeeze. “It’s a barely-wet washcloth, I promise. You’ll hardly feel the water.”
Something changes in your expression at those words. He’s not sure which one of the words gets to you, if it’s a specific one or a combination, but it seems to be exactly what you need to hear. That cagey attitude you just had, making you seem like a cornered animal, disappears and is replaced by an expression he finds difficult to decipher. His best guess would be that it seems like… trust. Genuine, unmovable trust. He’s not sure he’s ever seen it on you before.
After a moment, you nod stiffly, eyes trained on his hand holding the washcloth that then starts to move closer and closer, until it touches your neck. Your eyes flutter closed at the feeling but you don’t move, don’t push him away, and so, as careful as he can, he first cleans your neck. It’s more to get you used to the feeling and to allow his hand to move up, bit by bit, than it is to actually clean anything.
When he finally gets to your jaw, one of your hands shoots out and grabs his wrist, causing him to freeze in his movements. “It’s okay,” he says softly, keeping his voice steady and low, in the same way he had done in the pool. “You’re safe.”
It takes a minute, but you finally let go of him and let your hand instead grip the one that’s still on your knee. Spencer takes his time with moving the washcloth, just focusing on your jaw first before he slowly moves on to your cheek, wiping away the smudged mascara and what is left of your blush and concealer. Your grip on his hand never loosens—if anything, it strengthens at certain moments, giving him ample warning to take a small pause to let you get acclimated.
He's not sure how long it takes him to wash your face completely. It’s long enough for him to get entranced by it, feeling as if he’s falling into a kind of meditation. He’s so honed in on you, on every little response you give him, that it’s caused his brain to shut off for a few minutes, giving him the peace he’s started to associate with you. He does a lot for you, yes, he knows that, but he can’t help but think about what it gives him in return. Peace, for one thing. Intimacy in ways he didn’t even know it existed. He’s quite sure that this is the most serene thing he’s ever done.
Once he’s finished, he squeezes your hand before he stands up to rinse out the washcloth. He grabs a hairbrush next and takes a good few minutes to brush your hair, finishing by kissing the top of your head. “Come on, let’s get you into some clean clothes,” he mumbles against your head, waiting for you to get up, for you to make the first move, before following you out of the room.
He stares out the window as you get dressed, giving you a bit of privacy. Afterwards, he helps you pack your go-bag, making sure to put the still damp clothes into a separate plastic bag so that the rest of your clothes stay dry. As he waits for you to put your shoes on, he doesn’t comment on the sight of your hands, on the way they tremble so severely that you’re having trouble zipping up your boots. He knows what it means—it’s one of your symptoms, to do with your PTSD, which had been triggered in that god-awful pool.
Once he’s gathered his own things from his room to where you’ve followed him, the two of you make your way downstairs. The rest of the team is already waiting there, completely failing at hiding the way they nervously eye you up and down, waiting for some sort of bomb to go off. You put on a brave face, though, an almost-convincing grin on your face as you walk up to your team.
“Bloody hell, who died?” You say, ever so straightforward. It’s exactly what’s needed to break the ice, however, because almost everyone seems to relax at your words. Almost, because the frown on Hotch’s face doesn’t disappear, and Spencer’s unable to relax his tense shoulders. He sees the way you shove one of your trembling hands into your pocket, the other gripping your shoulder bag so that it can’t visibly shake.
Morgan jovially throws an arm around your shoulders as the team starts to make their way outside, giving you a familiar grin as he says something Spencer doesn’t quite catch. You giggle, giving him a playful shove, before nudging Emily into your conversation with him.
And even though you try your hardest, Spencer isn’t convinced by any of it.
Notes:
So much drama omg..... little bit more of an insight into our girl though, yes? Very exciting, I'd say, yes?
Also, I really appreciate all the love this fic has been getting. All the comments and kudos got me blushing and giggling and shit, it's crazy. Thank you so much <3
Chapter 11: Charred Truths
Notes:
This might be the longest chapter so far!!! That's okay though because I'm pretty sure the previous two were (relatively) short so I'm just making up for it ya know??
Some warnings for this chapter, my loves: weed (*gasp!*) and descriptions of torture (descriptions of the past, no one is actively tortured in this chapter!).
Remember, you're responsible for the content you consume. Love ya loads <3
Chapter Text
October 21st, 2009. 9 months and 3 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
The drive back is mostly spent in silence. Hotch is the one driving, with you beside him, your eyes fixated on the road ahead the entire time. Spencer is directly behind Hotch, giving him a perfect view of your side profile, and Emily is beside him, dead asleep the entire time. The quiet chatter on the radio fills the silence, but it doesn’t do anything to make Spencer feel better. He’s still worried about you, and from the way Hotch keeps glancing over, it’s clear that he isn’t the only one.
There’s a moment where Hotch reaches out and carefully touches your forearm, his eyes searching for an answer to an unasked question. In response, you put your hand over his, giving a quick squeeze and smile. It seems to be enough to convince Hotch to leave you alone, at least for the rest of the drive, because he turns back to the road without another word. Spencer only feels marginally better, but he’s not sure if he’s just forcing himself to feel better, or if he actually is sorting through his feelings properly.
Upon arriving at Quantico, Garcia is already waiting, catching you in a giant hug that lasts for minutes, with you somehow ending up consoling her as she sobs into your chest. Spencer catches a few things, mostly just about how awful she feels about what happened to you, but he doesn’t linger. He just makes his way over to his desk, gathering what he needs, before moving over to yours and doing the same there. When he walks out to the hall just beyond the glass doors, he’s just in time to see Garcia being led away by Morgan, who’s exchanging a playful wink with you as he diligently rubs Garcia’s back.
“Looks like she was having a tough time,” Spencer says to you, making you chuckle.
“She’s sweet, just a bit emotional about the whole thing,” you say, a smile on your lips as you watch her and Morgan disappear to her office.
“I’m surprised you aren’t,” Spencer says, maybe a bit too suddenly. Your smile drops and you shove your hands into your pockets to hide them from view, as if he didn’t see them shaking from the moment you stepped out of the car—he’s pretty sure they haven’t stopped doing so since leaving the hotel.
“Yeah, well, it’s either this or crying, so,” you say with a curt shrug.
Spencer frowns. “You don’t have to be afraid of crying. You’re allowed to cry, you know that, right?”
From the way you pointedly avoid his gaze, he realises that you’re not giving yourself that option. To you, it really isn’t a viable alternative. He wants to say more about it, but then realises that this isn’t the moment for that sort of conversation at all, and so instead, he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear to once again claim your attention with a different intention in mind.
“Let’s go home,” he says softly. The careful smile you give is all he needs to know that things are okay, for now. “I’ll drive, okay? I think it’s for the best.”
You nod, pressing the button to the elevators so that the two of you can get out of there. Your eyes flicker over his face, something thoughtful hidden in your expression before you speak again. “Let’s go to mine.”
It’s the last thing he’d expected you to say. In the entire time that he’s known you, you’ve never once invited him over to your place. He’d never asked either, because even if he sucked at social cues, he could very easily tell that you didn’t want anyone over at your apartment, for whatever reason. The fact that you so suddenly changed your mind about that point made him think that this was a pretty massive step in the right direction. Whatever convinced you to take that step, he’s glad that it happened.
“Are you sure?” He still asks, wanting to make sure that this is really what you want.
You smile and nod once more. “Yeah. It’s about bloody time, don’t you think?”
The drive to your apartment is reminiscent of the one to his—you weren’t lying when you said you lived nearby to his place. When he parks the car in front of your building, he estimates that it would take another fifteen minutes of driving to get to his own place, which was barely any time at all.
You live on the fifth floor, your windows facing the south so that sunlight is always hitting the windows. At the current time, around five in the afternoon, the sun casts a beautiful orange glow over your apartment, giving it a wonderfully cosy vibe. It’s a good thing, too, because without it, Spencer’s quite sure that his first impression of your place would’ve been overtly negative. It’s so… empty.
There’s all the necessary furniture, yes: a couch, two armchairs, a coffee table, a TV and a bookcase. It’s all there, really, but it’s all just slightly off. Static. If anything, it feels as though you walked into an IKEA and just copy-pasted one of the showrooms into your own living room. After a minute or so, he realises that it’s because there’s not really any decoration at all. There are a few plants, a vase and non-descript knickknacks, but that’s about where it ends: there’s not even any personality in the decoration that is in there. He can’t find any art on the walls, nor can he spot anything even remotely resembling a picture—not even some travel photograph you took when on a vacation.
There is absolutely nothing to suggest that it is you, specifically, who lives here. It could’ve belonged to literally any other person and he would’ve never been any the wiser.
Whether correct or not, he immediately assumes that this is why you don’t want anyone to visit. Not because you’re embarrassed or anything, but rather because you don’t consider this a home. If you did, you would’ve put in the effort to make it feel like one: that’s just what people did, they turned houses into homes. You hadn’t, however, which either made you staggeringly detached, or he was correct in assuming that you didn’t consider your apartment as your home.
“Tea, then?” You ask, brushing past him and into the kitchen, effectively snapping him out of his own mind.
“Uh, yeah, sure,” he says, realising that he’s still wearing a coat and his shoes. Once he’s taken those off, the sound of the kettle filling the apartment, he decides to just take a look around, giving you the space to prepare tea. He decides to look through your bookcase, because he likes to think that those always reflect a person’s personality the best.
You own a broad range of genres, going from regular fantasy, to romantic fantasy, to classic literature, thrillers, and even a few books on feminism. He smiles when he spots the book he’d given you a few months ago, The Bell Jar. “I remember giving you this,” he says, more as a way to make conversation than to actually say anything in particular, turning the book over in his hands.
“Hm? Oh, yeah. You were right, you know, it is depressing.”
Spencer chuckles and glances over his shoulder, watching as you pour hot water into two mugs. “I guess it is, yeah. I think it ends on a hopeful note, though,” he says, leafing through the pages with his thumb. “I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my eyes and all is born again.”
“You’re like my very own library, love,” you call out to him, making him smile. As he goes to put away the book again, his eyes fall on one he feels is incredibly out of place. It’s all the way at the top, slightly dusty and faded in colour. It’s a textbook: Theory of International Politics. It doesn’t take long at all for him to realise that it must’ve been from your time at college. Why is it just the one, though?
“Was that your major in college?” He asks without looking at you, keeping his eyes trained on the book. “International Relations?”
You take a while to answer. So much so, that he’s about to repeat the question, thinking you hadn’t heard him, but you finally respond. “It’s what I have a degree in, yes.”
It’s a strange way to answer. The way you’ve phrased your response makes it glaringly obvious that there is much more to it, but when Spencer turns around and sees the distant, pained look in your eyes, he decides not to push the matter. Whatever the reason, you’re obviously not thrilled to talk about it, and there’s really no reason to make you uncomfortable. Not after last night.
It doesn’t feel like that all happened last night. His body definitely feels like it’s skipped a full night of sleep, but maybe that’s why it already feels like it happened a week ago. One look at your gaunt cheeks and trembling hands tells him that it definitely doesn’t seem to be that way for you, though.
He takes his mug from you without commenting on any of it and continues to look through your bookcase as you sit down on the couch. “Anything you haven’t read?” You ask conversationally. “Not that I can imagine, though.”
“You’d be surprised,” Spencer says, running his thumb over the spine of a title he doesn’t recognise. “This one, The Unbearable Lightness of Being. I’ve never read it.”
“You’d enjoy it, I think. It’s very philosophical,” you say, pausing to swallow a sip of tea. “The title’s pretentious as all hell, but the way Kundera portrays love really spoke to me. Beautiful, yet… manipulatable.”
That definitely peaks his interest. He grabs the book from the shelf and takes it over to the couch—not to read, but to put on the coffee table, so that he won’t forget to take it with him once he leaves. He’s not exactly sure when that’ll be. It’s around dinner time, which he usually spends with you; he can’t really remember a week in which he didn’t have dinner with you at least four times. He also wouldn’t be all that offended if you’d rather he left. Maybe you need to be alone for a bit, he could understand that. He’d be worried the entire time, yes, but he’d give you what you need.
He sips his tea, scalds his tongue, and puts the mug down with a small sigh.
“You okay?”
He nearly laughs at your question. You’re really not the one who was supposed to ask that question. “I think I should be the one to ask you that.”
You hum but don’t respond otherwise. His gaze trails over you, from the way your hands clutch your mug with whitened knuckles, to the way one of your legs is folded under your body, your other foot planted on the floor, putting you in a position that would make it very easy for you to jump up and walk away. It’s an unconscious choice, he knows that. A way for your mind to keep you perfectly in-between fight or flight, left over from the trauma you experienced only mere hours ago.
“Are you okay?” He eventually asks, not allowing you to escape the question, not this time.
He expects you to brush him off, to give a half-baked answer, to even just completely change the subject, forgoing subtlety, but you don’t. Instead, you meet his eyes, and answer him head-on. “Not yet,” you say, voice quiet. “I’m still there, mentally. In the pool.”
Spencer nods slowly, trying his hardest to keep his surprise hidden. “I think I am, too, a little bit, so. I get that.”
You put down your half-empty mug and as you lean back, hold out a hand in the air, which trembles as if you’re outside in a freezing storm. He knows already, but seeing you so openly admit to it is something that touches his heart, deeply. “They won’t stop,” you whisper, voice suddenly thick. “I thought they would, on their own. That you’d—I thought that maybe you were enough to…”
Even though you don’t finish your sentence, he understands what you’re trying to say. You thought, hoped, perhaps even prayed, that love would be enough to fully fix you. That it would be the magic cure to all your ailments. But he knew, having found out in his own way, that love was never the cure, but rather an attentive, devoted means to an end. Love wasn’t a rescue. If anything, it was something—or rather, someone, to lose.
That didn’t mean he couldn’t help. He liked to think that it was because of love, that he could help. He shuffles closer and takes hold of your hand, folding it between his own. “I can help you,” he softly says. “I can help you heal, if you’ll let me.”
Your eyes flickered between his, red-rimmed with tears and filled with so much emotion that his own heart clenched painfully in response. “I once promised someone that I’d bare my heart for the person I trust,” you say. When you blink, a tear escapes. He gently wipes it away. “I always told her that there wasn’t anyone to trust. That there weren’t any reasons for me to talk about it.”
Your free hand ghosts over his cheek, the very tips of your fingers tracing over his skin. “For so long, I was afraid that it was too late for me. That it’s been too long and that I can’t remember how to trust. I’m not so sure anymore, now.”
You haven’t said it yet, those words, those specific, three words that have been on the tip of his tongue for months now, but he hears them nonetheless. And maybe that’s just delusion, but he likes to think that he knows you pretty well by now, and that, for you, trust is practically synonymous with love. It’s why he smiles, despite it all.
It’s then that your fingers trace over his lower lip, over the cut in the corner. “I did that, right?” You say quietly, voice filled with regret. “I don’t even—I can’t remember.”
“It’s not your fault,” Spencer says, decisively. “You don’t have to explain, I get it.”
“No, you don’t,” you say, shaking your head. “You don’t know—”
“I do,” Spencer gently interrupts as he grabs your wrist to get you to stop talking. “You have a fear of drowning, right? You were having a flashback, and that fear brought it on.”
He nearly chuckles at the surprise on your face. “I am a profiler, you know,” he says. “And I reckon I know you a lot better than you think I do.”
In the blink of an eye, you’re suddenly in his lap, arms around his neck, face buried in his shoulder. Despite the suddenness of it all, he saw it coming and hugs you back readily–it’s easy for him to recognise when you go to hug him now. Whenever words are too hard to find, you communicate in this way.
He’s not sure for how long the two of you sit that way, with his hands around your waist, his nose buried in your hair, enjoying the intimacy and quiet of the moment. Eventually, though, he starts to feel the way your whole body is trembling, not just your hands anymore, and your breath becomes shaky and uneven. It makes him pull back just enough to meet your eyes, his hand on your jaw, fingers tangled in your hair. He’s so close, he can feel the breath leaving your lips and hitting his cheek.
“Tell me where to find it,” he murmurs, staring into your eyes. “Your… medicine. I think you need it, right now.”
“Bedroom. My bedside table, in the drawer, there’s a tin box with a bird on the front,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. Your eyes drop to his lips and he can feel his stomach lurch at the sight. It takes everything within him not to lean in and close that inch of distance between the two of you. He knows that it would’ve been the worst moment and that it would only feel like he’d be taking advantage of you, with you being in such a vulnerable state.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he gently says, earning your gaze again. “I might end up kissing you.”
Much to his surprise, a small smile appears on your face. “I believe you technically already have,” you say, smile widening at the confusion in his expression. “You did give me mouth-to-mouth, right? I didn’t imagine that?”
He lets go a surprised breath, which turns into a sort of scoff. “That’s what you qualify as a kiss?” he says in disbelief. “You weren’t even conscious—I don’t really think it counts. I don’t want it to count.”
“Then it doesn’t. And I think I would prefer to be conscious when you do actually kiss me,” you say, eyes trailing back down to his mouth. “At least then I could kiss you back.”
After a few tense seconds, Spencer finally untangles himself from you, afraid that if he doesn’t put some distance between the two of you right now, he might end up making a mistake. “I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, kissing the back of your hand before standing up, which is cold and so jittery that he actually feels it in his heart. Despite that, you nod and smile, which seems convincing enough.
Even if he doesn’t know exactly where to go, Spencer decides to take the risk of opening a wrong door and makes his way down the hall, fulfilling his own prediction when he does, indeed, open the wrong door twice. Once to the bathroom and once to a small closet-like space, containing a washer and dryer and various cleaning products. The third door, all the way in the back, finally opens up to your bedroom.
He doesn’t expect to be so taken by the sight, but he is. It feels incredibly intimate, to walk into your space like this, all alone, when he has never been in here before. He almost feels weird about it, not having you in here with him, but he shakes it off in favour of getting on with the task he set out to do in the first place. He does take a minute to scan over the layout of the room, however, an unconscious smile playing on his lips as he finally finds some of the personality that was lacking so distinctly in the rest of the apartment.
In the corner of the room, directly in front of the window, is a sort of vanity. It’s made of a dark wood, reminiscent of the type in his own apartment, with a large mirror attached to the top. There are various makeup and skincare products arranged neatly on the surface in trays and baskets, intermixed with a blow dryer and hairbrush, left behind in a haste. Your bed is neatly made, with its corners tucked in tightly. Atop the covers rest what appears to be your pyjamas, and the sight of his t-shirt amongst them warms his heart. Maybe it’s selfish, but he’s glad that hasn’t changed yet for you.
On the dresser beside the vanity is a small tray with various bits of jewellery and a small collection of perfumes, along with a small table lamp, that also seems to function as a diffuser. There’s actual art on one of your walls, too. It’s a man standing on a cliff, his back to the painter, staring out over a choppy sea, his suit and hair blowing in the wind. It feels… lonesome, somehow. The endlessness of the ocean combined with the feeling of contemplation from the man make for a solitary tale. Especially combined with the lack of pictures or anything else to do with art—this painting had spoken to you enough to seemingly break your rule of not personalising your apartment. It was both a sad and beautiful thought.
As promised, in your bedside table, Spencer finds a tin box with a bird on the lid; a kingfisher, he’s quite sure. Inside, he takes out a pre-rolled joint and lighter. He’s not all that thrilled to bring it to you, with his own past and all, but he knows that an actual therapist signed off on this, so really, what opinion could he allow himself to have on this?
With a final look at your bedroom, Spencer makes his way back to you.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
He finds you still sat on the couch, eyes focused on a distant point he can’t see. Even zoned out, your breathing is uneven and shallow, on the precipice of a panic attack that feels all too familiar for him. When he sits down on the edge of the coffee table, placing a hand on your knee, your eyes find his, focusing back into the real world. Wordlessly, he gives you the lighter and cigarette, watching as you place the latter between two fingers and lift it to your mouth. After three tries of flicking on the lighter and failing to get a flame, Spencer gently takes it from your quivering hand, leaning in and switching it on for you. You breathe in deeply, allowing the joint to light up, and then lean back, turning your head as far away from him as you can before exhaling. He’s glad for the gesture.
“I should open a window,” you mutter while getting up from the couch. “Before the whole place smells like a Dutch coffeeshop.”
The rush of cold air that enters the room when you slide open the window is a wonderful distraction for Spencer, who’s still feeling hot from being so close to you earlier. He makes his way over into the kitchen to get a glass of water, no longer interested in the mug of lukewarm tea that he left on the coffee table. He leans against the counter so he can watch you, now sitting on the windowsill, gaze turned toward the open window. One of your feet is on the floor, the other on the sill, your knee pressed against your chest with your arms wrapped around it, the one holding the cigarette on top so you can continue to smoke.
He's not entirely convinced that it’s a good idea for him to be here for this, with his own past of addiction and all, but he also can’t bring it within himself to leave. He doesn’t want you to be alone. In complete honesty, he doesn’t want to be alone either. He wasn’t lying when he said that part of him was still in that pool. He can still hear your screams, the absolute terror in them, and that isn’t an easy thing to deal with. The only thing that really helps is to be able to see you, to see, with his own eyes, that you’re safe and that you’re okay.
“Pictures last longer, you know.”
Your voice drags him out of his head. He blinks in surprise, having not fully registered your words. “What?”
“You’re staring,” you say, a playful look in your eyes. “Taking a picture will last longer.”
He tilts his head just a bit, thinking of a reply. Then he grins. “If you insist,” he says, fishing his phone out of his pocket and aiming the camera at you. To his surprise, you blush, turning your head away to the window just as he takes the picture, a bashful look hidden behind the hand that brings the joint to your lips. That had been the secret all along then, to get you to blush. A simple picture.
It’s at least a nice photograph, he thinks. Grainy as all hell and the backlighting isn’t great, but you look good. Almost relaxed, in a way. He doesn’t see you like that very often.
“Well? What’s the verdict, then?” You ask, looking at him again, your cheeks dusted in a faint pink. You’re still a bit coy, so he might as well make use of the opportunity.
“You look beautiful,” he says, to which you scoff. Your cheeks turn dark red again, however, so he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. “Really. The sunset suits you.”
“So you’re just flirting with me now, are you?” You say, in an attempt to deflect.
“You’ve only just noticed?” Spencer shoots back, and from the way your eyebrows rise, he knows he’s caught you off-guard. “You’re better at it, but I flirt with you, too.”
“Better?”
“You’re… straight-forward. You’re more daring.”
“And that makes me better at it?”
He’s not sure how to respond to that. Shit, how do you always end back on top? From the way you smile knowingly, averting your gaze out of the window once more, he knows that you know you’ve won this round again. You clear your throat before speaking. “I reckon I’m up for Indian food, you?”
Just like that, the conversation’s pivoted into a new direction. Once he knows exactly what you want, he places the order and gets a bit of money from your purse, after you insist on being the one to pay. He sets it down on the counter so that it’ll be easy for him to grab once the food arrives, and it coincides with your finishing of your cigarette. You press it out on the outer brick of the building before tossing the rest of it out of the window, which bothers him only a little. He supposes that, technically, it’s biodegradable, considering that yours didn’t have a filter.
He waits a minute for the air around you to clear and then sits down on the windowsill too, with his back to the window. It presses into his shoulder blades where it’s slid up, the air cold on the rest of his back, which is a welcome sensation. He manspreads to a ridiculous extent, as it’s the only way to get comfortable on the narrow ledge—it also allows for his thigh to press against your foot, but that definitely didn’t have anything to do with it.
When he looks over at you, he finds your head tilted back against the brick wall, eyes lidded as you stare out over the city. Your body is fully relaxed, your breathing slow and even—and your hands are still. Even if he didn’t agree with the method, he couldn’t deny that it was incredibly effective. Your eyes flicker over to him for a moment, so quickly that he almost thinks he’s imagined it. Then you talk, and he knows he hasn’t.
“This is usually the part where I self-reflect,” you say quietly. From the tone of your voice, it sounds like there’s a little more to it than mere ‘self-reflecting’. “But now that you’re here, I don’t think I want to.”
“What do you want to do?”
You’re quiet for a moment. So long, in fact, that Spencer thinks you’re not going to answer anymore. It almost surprises him when you do. “Do you know Shakespeare?”
“We’ve never met, no.”
You giggle, shaking your head a little. Your foot nudges his thigh and he grins. “Sorry. I know a few things, yes.”
“Do you know…” you trail off, your eyes narrowing as you seem to focus on what you’re trying to say. He gives you a minute, knowing that, currently, your mind must be as slow as molasses. “It’s a sonnet. 29, I think. Do you know it? It goes… it goes, like, ‘in disgrace with fortune’…”
“‘When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes’?” Spencer tries and you nod enthusiastically.
“Yeah, yeah. Could you, like, read it to me? The last couple lines, preferably,” you say, vaguely gesturing to the bookcase on the other side of the room. “I’ve got the book, you know, somewhere, if you need it.”
He doesn’t. You know that. Distantly, you know that. It makes him smile. “Which lines, specifically?”
You shrug. “Let the spirit of old bean William guide you, eh?”
He nearly laughs, barely keeping it in as he nods. “Okay,” he says softly, focusing on his feet so that it’s easier to find the words. He’s not sure he’s able to recite poetry while looking you in your eyes. “When, in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes, I all alone beweep my outcast state, and trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, and look upon myself and curse my fate. Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, featured like him, like him with friends possessed, desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope, with what I most enjoy contented least. Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, haply I think on thee, and then my state, like to the lark at break of day arising, from sullen earth sings hymns at heaven’s gate. For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings, that then I scorn to change my state with kings.”
It's quiet for a moment. “That was the whole sonnet,” you whisper, eyes burning on the side of his face.
Spencer only shrugs. “It’s what William’s ghost guided me to do.”
You hum, nudging his leg with your foot again. “I love your brain, did I ever tell you that?”
“You’ve told me a few times,” Spencer says with a small smile, his hand wrapping around your ankle, his thumb rubbing up and down the exposed skin. It’s cold from the wind coming out of the window, making his own hand feel like it’s on fire.
Then again, the way you’re looking at him makes him feel like he’s almost completely on fire anyway, which is something he’s not entirely unfamiliar with. He reminds himself that you’re intoxicated and that he should take everything you say and do with a grain of salt, but what a temptation it is, to pretend like this is all normal and nothing to do with your state of mind.
“Whenever I used to read poetry, I never really understood it. I mean, I understood what they meant, but I didn’t… feel it, you know?” You say. Spencer nods, trying to keep up. “And then, after I met you, I realised that all those poems I ever read, they were all about you. I just didn’t know it at the time, but all those poems were written about you.”
Jesus Christ. Did you have to say something like that, right after he’s tried to reel himself back in? He knows he’s just staring at you now, but he can’t really find any words to respond with. You were just so… unfair. You—beautiful, frustratingly complicated you, rendering him speechless time and time again, all while never really saying what you mean.
You suddenly reach out, gently taking hold of his chin as you tilt your own head to the side. “You’re very pretty, did I mention?”
Spencer swallows thickly. “See? You’re way better at this.”
Biting your lip, you attempt to keep down a smile. “Just catch me off-guard with it. I’ll be a blushing mess, I bet.”
He’s not so sure. The open invitation to flirt with you whenever he sees fit is hard to ignore, however, and with a small squeeze to your ankle, he silently promises to take you up on it.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“…here too, there are exceptions. The tropical clearwing moths have lost nearly all their scales until their wings are transparent…”
Spencer’s not sure how the two of you ended up watching a documentary on butterflies. He’s not complaining, it’s utterly fascinating, and it’s an interesting experience, with you being intoxicated and all. In all fairness, you’ve been sobering up quite a bit already: the food must’ve helped, he wouldn’t be all that surprised if weed on an empty stomach wasn’t very dissimilar to alcohol. He’s glad about that, even more glad about the fact that your body has yet to start jittering again; your hands are as steady as a surgeon’s.
“…like the hummingbird hawk moth, which searches for nectar both by day and at nightfall. As the light fades it moves from flower…”
Your head’s in his lap, face turned toward the tv, the rest of your body stretched out over the couch. His feet are on the edge of the coffee table, ankles crossed over one another, directly beside the book he’s allowed himself to borrow from your bookcase. His fingers have been playing with your hair for a while now, twirling the strands, which are stiff from the chlorine you have yet to wash out. Every once in a while, he allows the backs of his fingers to brush over your neck, smiling every time he sees the goosebumps appear on your skin. He times it so that he can watch it become visible over and over again. He supposes that it could be annoying, but you have yet to complain, so he’s not in a rush to stop.
You suddenly hum. “Who would’ve thought butterflies are actually named after butter?”
Cream, technically, but yes. “Etymology can be pretty on the nose sometimes,” Spencer says, unravelling your hair from his finger, only to restart the whole process with a new strand. “Did you know the word ‘etymology’ is based on a Greek word meaning ‘sense of a truth’?”
This was usually how these nights went. You’d either watch something vaguely educational, or Star Wars, and would exchange small bits of conversation here and there. After that, you would take the couch and Spencer would go to his own bed—it was one of his favourite routines, by far. He’d never found the courage to actually invite you to sleep in his bed, beside him, but he’d always told himself he’d get to it eventually.
Tonight, though, he’s focused on something else. He knows, just as well as you do, that you haven’t showered yet. He also knows that you’re very far from interested in doing so, considering the effect it will most likely have on you, but he’s here, tonight. He could help you. It’s like he said earlier: he can’t be a cure, but he can help you heal, if you let him.
“Not to completely ruin the evening,” he starts, carefully, voice soft. Your body stiffens at his words.
“I know,” you say, before he can continue. “I know. I’m putting it off.”
“Let me help.”
“How?”
Once the two of you are in the bathroom, Spencer closes the lid to the toilet and sits down atop it. It puts him directly beside your shower, where the curtain will make it so that he can’t see you. “I’ll close my eyes,” he says to you, standing in front of him with a towel in hand, your expression unconvinced. “And then, once you’re in the shower, I’ll talk to distract you. The sound of my voice should ground you, remind you that you’re in the present and not in… well, the past.”
“Should?” You say, quirking an eyebrow, not making any effort at all to hide your doubt.
“A little faith here, maybe?” Spencer says, giving you the same expression.
Your eyes narrow a little. After a moment of silence, which has somehow turned into a stand-off between the two of you, you speak up again. “Well, are you going to close your eyes, or what?”
The sound of your clothes hitting the floor, one by one, is maddening. It’s ridiculous, really, how continuously his head screams at him that you’re naked in front of him. There’s no shot of hiding it either, he knows he’s as red as a beetroot. When the sound of the shower curtain finds his ears, he carefully cracks open an eye, opening them both fully when he sees that you’re behind it.
After a solid minute of silence, the water turns on. The distinct sound of it clattering on the tile below fills the bathroom, but that’s as far as it goes. Never once, not in the next few minutes that he waits, does the sound change to the water hitting your body.
“Are you okay?” he eventually calls out, voice echoing in against the tiles, through the steam.
“Not really,” comes your voice, so quiet that he can barely make it out over the sound of the shower.
He reaches for the curtain without thinking, slipping his hand between the plastic and the wall, and waits. It doesn’t take long at all for your hand to find his, lacing your fingers together. You squeeze so tightly that it nearly hurts. He realises, instantly, that you’re afraid.
“I’m right here,” he says, in a voice he hopes you find soothing. “Just… maybe try angling the showerhead so it only hits your legs? So you don’t have to put your whole body under it in one go?”
“Okay,” you stammer out, voice uneven. A minute passes in silence. Suddenly, a sob escapes you before you breathe in so sharply that Spencer flinches. “Spence, I can’t, I can’t. It’s too much—I can’t—”
Spencer shoots up from his seat, stepping close to the curtain, his forehead brushing against the plastic. “It’s okay, just breathe,” he says, feeling the water seep into his socks. He can’t find it within himself to care about that right now. “I’m right here. Do you feel my hand? I’m right here, you’re safe.”
You don’t respond. The only thing he hears is the muffled sobs from behind the curtain: you’re trying to hide it. That realisation burns him, enough for his mouth to move quicker than his mind. “I can come in there, if you want?” he says, his own eyebrows shooting up as soon as he finishes. What the hell is wrong with him? “I mean—to help you, you know? I’d keep my eyes closed, obviously. I can keep my clothes on, too, you won’t—I mean, I’m not going to…”
He trails off, feeling more and more like an idiot the longer he goes on. The silence hanging in the thick, damp air feels twice as heavy now, all thanks to yours truly. What was he thinking, honestly? Well, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He wasn’t thinking. He wouldn’t be surprised if you’d just kick him out right here and now. He’d deserve it, that’s for sure.
“Okay.”
“I—what?”
Your voice is barely audible, still uneven, but already a lot more focused than the panic he heard earlier, before he gave that dumbass suggestion. Well, not that dumb, apparently.
“I said, okay. You can come in,” you say. His heart shoots up into his throat. “Just… don’t—”
“I won’t look,” he says quickly. To his surprise, you chuckle as you squeeze his hand one last time, before letting go.
“That’s not what I was… I wanted to say, don’t slip on the wet floor, if you are planning on closing your eyes. I’d rather not have you go to a hospital because of me, for two consecutive nights.”
That comment relaxes him, but only a little. He’s still buzzing as he’s stripping down to just his boxers—for a moment, he contemplates taking them off, but then decides against it in the end. Probably not a good idea. He knows himself, knows his body, and can make an educated guess as to what will happen once he’s that close to your naked figure. At least the boxers can hide it just a little. Not to say that it was little, he’s just saying—nevermind. He’s spiralling, now.
He warns you before he pulls the curtain open, making an effort to keep his eyes trained on the ceiling. The steam is thicker there, dulling his senses in a way that’s quite welcome. He lowers his eyes slowly, so that he doesn’t accidentally see something he won’t be able to get out of his mind anymore, and his eyes land on the back of your head. You’re standing only a few inches from the stream, not allowing it to touch you, your arms wrapped around your chest. You’re hunched over, as if in pain, and that’s an awful thing to witness.
There’s a bruise along your spine, right between your shoulder blades. That must’ve happened after the unsub took you last night. That was last night? It already felt like ages ago—but, also, not quite. God, his mind really was a mess.
“I’m here,” he says softly, carefully reaching and putting a hand on your bicep. With his other hand, he reaches over you and grabs the showerhead. He makes sure it doesn’t touch you as he goes to pull it toward him.
“What are you doing?” You ask, voice as alert as that of someone who feels they are in danger, trying to peek over your own shoulder.
“Nothing, not if you don’t want me to,” Spencer says, keeping his voice gentle. He pretends not to see your eyes raking over his body: you don’t exactly take your time, but you don’t seem to try to hide it either. He’s not going to do the same, even if it is just the back of your body, because, well, you really are naked. It’d be unfair to you. Besides, he’d probably end up melting into a puddle.
“I trust you,” you eventually whisper, turning your head away from him again. “Do what you think is right. Just—warn me, you know?”
That’s all he needs. He steps a little closer, now extremely aware of the heat radiating off your body directly onto his. “Just your legs first, okay?” he says, only aiming the water at your feet after you nod. Your entire body tenses and doesn’t relax, even as his thumb strokes your bicep, but you don’t freak out. That’s progress, he thinks.
The whole process goes like that. Every time he goes a little bit higher, he tells you first. The fact that the water is warm must help, because you don’t seem nearly as tense as you were in the pool, after your flashback. The most notable part of it all is that you don’t tremble at all. Clearly, the weed worked. It’s only when he gets to your neck that he stops, keeping the stream on your shoulders, before leaning in and, rather thoughtlessly, pressing his lips to your shoulder.
His heart practically melts when he feels you relax at the gesture. “We need to wash your hair,” he says softly, close to your ear.
You sigh. “Yeah, I know,” you mumble. “It’s not really my hair that’s the problem, you know? It’s… my face.”
Spencer thinks for a moment. “Maybe you can tilt your head back? Like at the hairdressers?”
“Want to switch places, then? So the water can hit you, instead of me, when you put the showerhead back?”
Without warning, you turn around, and Spencer nearly slips in his haste of finding the ceiling, hurriedly averting his eyes. To his dismay, you actually snort in amusement, which gives him a momentary burst of courage to meet your gaze, all while keeping an Olympic amount of focus on not accidentally dropping his eyes down any further.
“Alright?” You ask, sounding far too smug for his liking. “Seem a bit tense, you know.”
Spencer narrows his eyes at you. “You’re naked,” he says, before realising that he’s still holding the showerhead, and that it’s now aimed at your chest—which he hasn’t looked at yet, thank you very much. But you haven’t mentioned it yet: he’s got you distracted enough that it hasn’t accidentally upset you at all.
“Never watched porn before then, have you?” You say, promptly making him lose any and all pride he was currently holding for you, now replaced with frustration at your teasing.
“That’s—that’s completely different and you know it.”
“So, you admit? You have watched porn?” You say, biting your lip to keep a grin down, which fails horribly. “Seen a lot of naked girls, then? Am I your type, you reckon?”
He raises an eyebrow at you, thoroughly unimpressed. “What’s got you so cocky all of a sudden?”
“Speaking of cocky—”
Spencer raises the showerhead so that it’s against your collarbones. “I will aim this at your face, don’t test me.”
“And I’ll probably end up maiming you,” you say, raising a similar eyebrow. “Unless you’re into that sort of thing?”
“Just—switch places with me, would you?”
He doesn’t miss the smug grin you have as the two of you move around each other. He also doesn’t miss the way you purposely brush your hip against his own as you turn to show your back to him once more. You cross your arms in front of your chest, probably in an attempt to stay a bit decent, before leaning your head back. He carefully wets your hair, keeping close attention to your face for any micro-expression that would warn him you were slipping back into a worse state of mind. Your eyebrows furrow, your lips press together, and he knows he’ll need to come up with something to distract you, quickly. He says the first thing that comes to mind.
“Just to be clear,” he murmurs into your ear, letting his fingers trail over your neck, “I have watched porn, seen naked girls, and none of them compare to you.”
You breathe in sharply, your cheeks turning a deep crimson, but your eyes stay shut. “Bastard,” you whisper, making him grin. Turns out that you were telling the truth about him flirting with you: he just had to catch you off-guard and you would turn into a blushing mess. Who knew?
He learns something new about himself too, that night: washing your hair is the most meditative thing he’s ever done. There’s just simply something about getting to run his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp, and watching the way your shoulders relax that brings out some fantastic happy-hormones. It definitely distracts him from the pain in his arm, where the stitches are pulling on his skin, and the feeling of his waterlogged underwear. He’d assumed that he wouldn’t have to feel wet clothes on his body for a long time after jumping into the pool to save you, but apparently, he’d assumed wrong.
But he knows, undoubtedly, he'd do it all over again just to get to this moment.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Spencer takes a while with getting out of the shower after you’re done. He lets you go first, so you can have a bit of privacy as you dry yourself off, but it takes some time for his mind to come back down to earth after that. He’s fighting to keep himself grounded, to not let his emotions get the better of him. He’s refusing to let his feelings for you take the wheel, in lieu of logic; logic that is reminding, very helpfully, that you’re intoxicated, traumatised and still recovering from that.
When he finally does turn off the water and step back into the bathroom, he finds a neatly folded bundle of clothes waiting for him, along with a towel. You must’ve grabbed the clothes from his go-bag, because he definitely didn’t think ahead to put his own sleepwear in the bathroom to get dressed in.
With the towel you left him slung around his neck, Spencer walks back into your living room, which he finds empty. The dishwasher is humming softly in the background and he realises you must’ve filled it while he was still in the shower. Feeling a little guilty about that, he decides to try and find you in your bedroom. It feels odd, walking over there in his pyjamas, hair wet from your shower, in your apartment, with your towel around his neck, to say goodnight to you in your bedroom. It feels very… domestic.
Just like he expected, you’re in your bedroom, sitting in front of your vanity as you rake a hairbrush through your blow-dried hair. Jesus, how long did he take in there for you to already have done so much? Your eyes light up when they meet his in the mirror, sending his heart into a frenzy. Then your eyes drop down to his arm, the one that’s still bandaged—bandages that are now wet, because like he said, he didn’t think ahead at all—and your expression goes from optimistic, to a clenched jaw and regretful eyes.
“I barely feel it,” Spencer says quickly, watching as you get up from your seat to walk over to him.
You carefully touch the bandage with a frown. “Just hate to see you hurt,” you say softly, now moving your hand to brush your thumb over his lip. “I did that. And I’m pretty sure I messed up your knee too, when I was thrashing around; you’ve been limping. Seems you always get hurt when I’m around.”
“That’s not true,” Spencer says softly, grabbing your hand so you stop focusing on his split lip. “If anything, you make it so I’m distracted from the pain.”
You hum, giving him a small, still sad, smile. Letting go of his hand, you grab both ends of the towel, stepping just a little closer, and for a moment, Spencer loses his breath. “You can tell me no on this,” you start, sounding almost a bit shy. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard that on you before. “But I was thinking… maybe you can sleep in here, tonight? With me?”
Goddammit. How was it possible that you always beat him to the punch on everything, every single time? Finally, he gets it in his head to ask you to stop sleeping on the couch whenever you’re staying over, but before he can actually do that, you completely flip the script on him. There is, however, one thing that he learned, many months ago, when it came to surprising questions: just answer. Because, if he doesn’t, he’ll end up the same way when you’d asked him out: back at the very start. So, he doesn’t hesitate—he’ll never, ever make the mistake of hesitating ever again, not with you.
“God, yes,” he says, perhaps a little too enthusiastically, but you laugh at his response, so he’s not too worried.
“Been waiting on that question, have you?” You ask, to which he nods.
“Been waiting on asking that question, actually.”
“So, why didn’t you?”
“I was never brave enough.”
Your smile widens, as if he’s said something inspirational, or funny. “Spencer Reid, not brave? I find that difficult to believe.”
He places his hands on your waist, which is brave, probably. “In what way do you find me brave, then?”
“You are an FBI agent, are you not? Risking your life every day?”
“That makes me brave?”
“Only the brave are given the task of wondering whether they’re going to live or die.”
There’s nothing he can say to that. He just stares at you, searching his brain for a proper response, but he finds nothing. You don’t seem to mind though. You just smile, a bit absentmindedly, and run your fingers through his damp hair. “Someone said that to me once, a long time ago,” you whisper. “My response was about the same as yours. For a while, I didn’t believe them. I think it’s true for you, though, so maybe…”
“Maybe it’s true for you, too,” Spencer softly finishes. That earns him a kiss on the cheek, which renders him utterly speechless, with cheeks that feel like they are aflame. You at least give him the decency of working through that on his own, taking the towel off his shoulders and hanging it over the back of your closet door so that it can dry.
Ten minutes later, he’s lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling as he wills his pounding heart to slow down. It doesn’t help much that you’ve found yourself a spot in the crook of his arm, your head on his shoulder and hand on his chest, legs entangled with his. He loves it, always will, but he still doesn’t know how to handle it.
“Do you remember when you told me about Tobias Hankel?” You suddenly ask, voice barely above a whisper. Despite the softness of your tone, it feels loud in the otherwise silent room. “About how he… tortured you?”
“Yeah, of course,” Spencer replies in that same whisper.
You swallow thickly and don’t immediately give a response. He lets you take all the time you need. “I’ve never told you, but… a similar thing happened to me, once.”
His heart skips a beat but he tries his hardest not to show his excitement. Not that he’s excited about hearing how you too had once been tortured, but rather that you’re opening up to him again. “Similar how?” he carefully asks, his thumb rubbing small circles into your bicep where he’s got his arm wrapped around you.
“Well, it wasn’t an unsub. I mean, I wasn’t even FBI yet,” you say, voice hesitant. “I got captured by this group I was supposed to take out, and obviously once they had me, they didn’t hold back. We were enemies, that sort of thing, and you don’t let the enemy go. You use them in any way you can.”
You’re quiet for a moment, which urges Spencer to give your arm a soft squeeze. “Tell me,” he mumbles, turning his head so he can press his lips to your forehead. “You can tell me anything.”
After releasing a shaky breath, you continue. “They hurt me. Like Tobias hurt you. They did this thing where—they’d put a wet rag over my face and then pour water over it. We called it dry drowning, but I think the more recognised term is waterboarding.”
In an instant, Spencer is rendered speechless. Puzzle pieces click into place quicker than he can keep up, while other questions arise at the same time. Your confession explained your fear of drowning, the way you respond so violently to cold water hitting your face: who wouldn’t, after going through something like that?
But the questions were a whole other thing. ‘We’ called it dry drowning—who was ‘we’? And who was this supposed group? And why had they been so interested in capturing you, in the same way you had been so interested in ‘taking them out’? What did that even mean, taking them out? You hadn’t been FBI at the time, so what had you been?
He can’t ask any of it. Not yet. You’re finally opening up, he can’t risk that yet. Even if it burns a hole straight through his chest, all the questions and all the not-knowing. He’s a man of science, it’s in his very being to ask questions. Maybe that’s why he fell in love with you: it had been the universe’s way of reeling him back in, telling him to slow down and stop being such a nosey genius all the time.
“Thank you for telling me,” he eventually manages to say. “And thank you for trusting me enough to tell me.”
“I should’ve trusted you way sooner,” you say, scoffing sarcastically. “Took my fuckin’ time.”
“No, you told me when you were ready,” Spencer says, shaking his head as best as he can against your forehead and his pillow. “I wouldn’t have wanted to hear it otherwise.”
You hum. “That’s why you never ask me about it, right? You don’t want to push me into anything I’m not ready for?”
He can’t help but smile. “Guess you’ve finally figured out my ploy.”
“And what a ploy, getting to know me on my own time,” you say, your smile somehow audible in your voice. “What was the end goal? Planning on using all of your intel against me?”
“I’m afraid I can’t disclose anything,” Spencer says, pressing another kiss against your forehead. “It’s all highly classified.”
“Ah, I see. Shame.”
Chuckling, Spencer rolls over so that he’s on his side. You push yourself against his chest, fitting there wonderfully, as if the space was made for you. He likes to think that it was. “I’m sorry those things happened to you,” he whispers, lips brushing against your skin.
“I kind of had it coming, I think,” you say, voice muffled by his chest. He hates that statement, but knows he can’t do anything about it: he doesn’t know enough. “But it did show me I was in desperate need of a career change.”
“You know, it’s funny: when I got tortured I stayed in my career.”
“Everyone’s post-torture epiphany is different, I suppose.”
The two of you continue to softly converse for a while afterwards, conversation turning nonsensical more and more as sleep hormones increase. Spencer doesn’t even remember falling asleep. All he knows is that right there, with you in his arms, he feels like the richest man alive.
Chapter 12: Infernal Confessions
Notes:
I'll be honest with you, I am very, very proud of this chapter. I've tried something new, something a little more experimental for me, and I'm very happy with how this turned out.
Also! We're finally getting answers! You're finally getting to find out our girl's past!!!! Yay!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
November 24th, 2009. 10 months and 8 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
Hotch had forced you to take the week off following that case. You, of course, hadn’t listened. Three days later, you'd strode into the bullpen like you had every right in the world, giving him a challenging look with narrowed eyes from across the room. Without a word, he pointed to his office, his expression an exact mirror of your own. Twenty minutes later, you’d emerged victorious—technically. You were allowed to stay, but at a cost. A towering stack of case files awaited you at your desk, sentencing you to two full days of desk duty. God giveth, and He taketh away, you had muttered under your breath, making the dangerous mistake of likening Hotch to the Almighty
That had been a month ago. No one had dared ask what had really happened in that pool. You seemed relieved by that silence. But in its place, other things had changed. Hotch had kept you on a shorter leash, and Spencer hadn’t taken his eyes off your hands for at least a full two weeks after your return, looking for that signature tremble. They had stayed steady all month, however. For a while, it seemed like everything had finally settled.
Unfortunately, good things were never made to last.
Now, Spencer sits rigidly at his desk, eyes locked on Hotch’s office door. Behind it, you're alone with Strauss, and a woman Spencer doesn't recognise. No Hotch, because he was still on his way and Strauss clearly didn’t feel obligated to wait for him. Whoever that other, much older woman was, is still unclear. You hadn’t been given the chance to elaborate, and even if you had been given the chance, you probably wouldn’t have done so anyway.
It’s utterly nerve-wracking, not knowing what’s happening behind that door, and Spencer has no pencils left to mindlessly chew on, now that JJ has taken them all away. She leans against his desk, arms crossed, equally tense. Across from him, Morgan and Emily hover by your desk, their expressions unreadable. No one speaks. All eyes are on that door.
How did it all get to this?
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“Put down the weapon!”
“You’re surrounded!”
“Give up, Morris!”
The voices come from all directions, overlapping, colliding, a chaotic storm of sound that makes it nearly impossible for Spencer to discern who’s saying what. His head throbs from where the unsub had slammed the butt of his rifle against it, the pain sharp and insistent, radiating behind his eyes. The flashing red and blue lights from the police cars, SUVs, and the helicopter above do nothing to ease the pounding in his skull. If anything, they make it worse. The rotor’s deafening whir drowns out half the shouting below, and the brilliant white spotlight from above sears through his hazy vision, making his stomach churn.
He can barely remember how he got here. One moment, the team had been closing in on Michael Morris. The next, something had cracked against the back of his head, and now—
Now, he was on top of a fire escape, his back pressed against Morris’s chest, with a fully automatic rifle digging into his temple. Morris had planned this well. He’s smart—just as they profiled. He’s positioned himself so that his head is obscured from any clear shot, his rifle angled in such a way that his head was obscured from the line of sight: no headshots from the back either, he had made sure of that by pressing himself against the wall behind him. The fact that they were two stories up didn’t help either, it just made it that much more impossible to take a shot.
There’s no escape, not this time, not for the unsub: and unfortunately, not for Spencer either.
Below, he can see you. The wind from the helicopter tears at your hair, strands whipping free from your ponytail, wild and untamed. Your gun is drawn, just as everyone else's, pointed at an unsub you couldn’t shoot, not if you also didn’t mind having Spencer getting shot in the head. The risk is too great. If the shot isn’t perfect—absolutely perfect—Morris might still have time to pull the trigger. And that’s a risk no one is willing to take.
“Morris, put the gun down!” Hotch’s voice booms through the megaphone, steady as ever. Unshaken. “There is nowhere for you to go.”
“Shut up!” Morris tightens his hold on Spencer, the barrel pressing harder against his skull. His voice is wild, frantic, desperation woven through every syllable. “Everyone, shut up! Shut the fuck up or I’ll kill him!”
He was smart. He made sure his face was obscured by his own weapon. It would make it difficult to kill him, not without hurting Spencer somehow, not without risking his life. The thing was, you were trained for these sorts of situations. In fact, the longer you stood there, weapon raised, the more of your old instincts returned, mind working methodically to figure out the best point of entry. There was always a gap, always.
“Morris, if you lower your weapon we can talk!” Hotch says, but it all feels hopeless. Spencer’s not sure about this one, not this time, not anymore. Maybe he’d finally come to the end of his rope. How was he supposed to know that it hadn’t been your never he was heading for in that pool, but rather his own?
Hotch lowers the megaphone and glances over his shoulder, his gaze sharp as it lands on you and Morgan.“We don’t have much time left,” he says. “Is SWAT in position?”
“Still working on it,” Morgan grits out, his jaw locked tight, his knuckles white where he grips his weapon. “Hotch—we have to get Reid out of there. You have to talk him down.”
Hotch looks at you next. You had wanted to be the one holding that megaphone, but he hadn’t allowed it—said you were too close to Spencer to negotiate properly. “You with me, Agent?” His voice is pointed, a warning buried beneath the words: don’t fuck this up.
As if he had to tell you that: this was Spencer, for God’s sake. Like you’d ever risk his life.
But you want to shoot. You want to end that asshole’s life, make sure he never gets to hurt anyone ever again. Especially not Spencer. And you want it to be you who does it: you want to take that life. You need it to be you. And you know you can.
“Yes, sir. I’m with you.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“How long has it been?” Morgan asks, frowning as he looks amongst his colleagues.
Spencer checks his watch. “Twenty-two minutes,” he says in a strained voice. “Coming up on twenty-three. Hotch should be here by now.”
“He’s taking his time,” Morgan grumbles, arms crossed, tension tightening the lines of his face. He had offered to join you earlier, but you had adamantly refused, and besides, even if you hadn’t, Strauss probably wouldn’t have allowed it.
“How’s your head, Spencer?” JJ then asks, concern lacing her voice.
“It’s fine,” Spencer says automatically, focusing his eyes back on Hotch’s office door. It was fine, really. A very light concussion. Was he supposed to be horizontal right now, resting? Yes, he was. Was he going to? Was he fuck.
“I’m getting coffee,” Emily suddenly says, pushing herself off your desk. “If I keep staring at that door, I’ll go insane.”
JJ follows her, leaving just Morgan and Spencer. Morgan hesitates for only a second before turning to him. “I didn’t want to speculate in front of them, but that woman—you know her?”
Spencer shakes his head.
“Your girl definitely knew her, though,” Morgan continues with a steadily-deepening frown. Spencer ignores the way his stomach clenches at the phrase. Your girl. It’s true, isn’t it? Or at least, it was. But right now, it feels impossibly distant. “I’m going to ask Garcia to look her up.”
Before he can say anything in response, Spencer watches Morgan rush out of the bullpen towards Garcia’s office. Great, now everyone was going to look into your past. Not exactly a good way to build trust.
Then again, after today—after everything—it makes sense. You’d told them you had taken a ‘course’ in sharpshooting. Nobody had bought it. Nobody had asked, though. That was the thing about profilers—they could always tell when someone didn’t want to talk. And when it was someone they cared about, they didn’t push. But now?
Now, your secrecy had pushed Morgan to dig into your past. And Spencer can’t even blame him.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
God, he should’ve told you. Admitted how he felt about you. Should have said it outright, explicitly, instead of letting it hang unspoken between you. Of course you knew. But it wasn’t the same. Would he say those words out loud if he got out of this one alive? No, probably not, he was too much of a coward, but still. The regrets were there.
And the dumbest part? Even now, even like this, he still thinks you look beautiful from up here. Hair wild in the wind, Kevlar strapped tight, weapon drawn with absolute precision. Maybe he was just delirious, he did have a head injury. But if this was the last thing he ever saw, there were worse ways to go.
You take a deep breath twice over, forcing your body to relax in what might be the most tense situation you’ve ever been in. Nothing in your past compares to this: you’ve never cared about the person on the other end so much. You keep your breathing steady as you momentarily lower your gun, shake out your shoulders, and raise it up again. You close one eye and look straight past the barrel of your handgun—shit, your hands were trembling. When had that started again? Was it because of this, because of Spencer? You needed something to lean on, it’s how you were taught anyway.
Spencer’s heart sinks when he sees you lower your gun again, wondering if you’re giving up on him. You take a few steps backward, never taking your eye off him, as if you’re trying to communicate that you’re not going anywhere. Whatever you’re doing, you’re trying to show him you’re not giving up, not yet. Once you get to the SUV behind you, you open the driver’s side door. When you rest your hands atop it, gripping your handgun, his heart falls out of his chest. You look like you’re looking for an angle. One that doesn’t exist, as far as he can tell: definitely not from that distance.
But, then again: even from all the way over here, he can see how frighteningly calm you are. You’re practically clinical, with the way you position yourself. There’s barely any emotion to be seen on your face. It’s like you’ve turned everything off.
Better, much better. No annoying tremble. The wind was strong, chaotic from the helicopter, which makes taking the shot even more difficult than it already was. The distance was a guess, too: with 1.047 inches at 100 yards, you had about a two inch drop in accuracy. This, mixed with the wind, gravity and constant swaying from the Unsub, made it a difficult shot, but not impossible. Your gun, a Staccato P, was reliable and accurate—at least they had let you choose your weapon—and was Match Grade, so you knew you could depend on it for this shot. When you close one eye, then the other, your vision jumps, but you’ve already accounted for that, all unconsciously: this was an instinct to you, after all these years. Your left eye is better, so you keep it open.
And there it was: a tiny gap, just barely visible from this angle, but the best you were going to get. It would enter through Morris’s cheekbone, and from this angle, would exit out the back of his head. It was the best you were going to get.
“Hotch, permission to take the shot, sir.”
Almost comically, Hotch and Morgan turn around with similar looks of disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about?” Morgan asks you.
“I have a good view,” you say, never taking your eye off the Unsub—no longer Spencer. There couldn’t be a Spencer right now, not if you wanted to be reliable. Ignoring was the only way you could go about this. “When I get the opportunity, I’m going to shoot.”
“Going to?” Hotch says, taking a step toward you. “You do realise who you’re talking to?”
“My boss, who is currently blocking the only line of sight that could save Spencer’s life,” you say, eyes turning into a glare. You had to focus, they had to let you—no emotion, fuck these people: it’s math, it’s muscle memory. Damn Hotch for making you remember Spencer in this moment. “Please, Hotch. Trust me. Please.”
Rossi takes the megaphone from Hotch, who’s currently too busy conversing with you, and continues to talk to Morris through the megaphone. Spencer barely hears any of it: what’s happening with you? What are you doing? What are you planning? And why the hell is Hotch stepping aside and taking a spot beside you?
Was he… was he going to let you take a shot from all the way over there?
With a trembling breath, Spencer closes his eyes: if he was going to die, he didn’t want his final view to be you, staring down your gun with a look as cold as ice. He’d rather die seeing nothing at all.
“You sure about this?” You hear Morgan ask. “SWAT is still figuring out the best angle.”
“I trust her. We’re running out of time.”
You tune it all out. With a deep breath, you focus on the facts, on the things you know. MOA: two inches. Wind direction: unreliable, mostly downward. Remember the gravity. Shoot upwards from the target. Your Staccato is reliable, accurate, MG, and shoots remarkably flat.
One shot, one kill. Just like they taught you.
“Permission, sir,” you say. “It’s now or never.”
It’s quiet for a moment. Then Hotch says, voice decisive: “Permission granted, Agent. Whenever you think you can.”
Your finger twitches on the trigger, but then a gust of wind hits and your heart shoots up into your throat: shit, you nearly messed that one up. Deep breath, try again, wait for that gap. There it was. Everything turns quiet, your ears fuzzy as you hone in on the Unsub, and rid yourself of any hesitation.
You pull the trigger.
Air whizzes beside his head: the sound reminds him of a fly, shooting past too quick to see. He hears a grunt coming from Morris, and an awfully wet, crunchy sound. His grip around Spencer grows slack, and Spencer opens his eyes just in time to watch the man crumble to the metal underground of the fire escape. There’s a hole in his cheekbone, about the size of his blown-out pupils. On the wall behind Spencer is blood and brain matter, tiny pieces of skull sticking to the bricks now covered in red.
Morris was dead.
When he looks over to where he last saw you, he finds you in the same position. You slowly lift your head, opening the eye you had closed, barely responding to the way Morgan shakes your shoulders in celebration. Your eyes are distant, your face unreadable. You look like a robot.
All at once, the adrenaline disappears from his legs, and Spencer sinks through his legs, barely managing to grab the balustrade to keep his knees from hitting the floor. He feels even dizzier than before, nausea now palpable on his tongue. Watching blood drip through the grates, out of Morris’s skull, didn’t help much either. He could normally handle these sorts of things—corpses, blood, brain matter—just fine, but for some reason, he can barely stand it right now. Maybe it’s because you’re responsible for it. You’ve just killed someone, and from what he saw, it definitely wasn’t the first time.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Hotch exits the elevators with a look of utter fury, his strides wide and purposeful. “Where?” he practically barks at Spencer, who points at his office as he unconsciously rises up from his desk chair. The moment Hotch opens the door to his office, the sound of yelling filters into the bullpen. It’s your voice, louder than Spencer has ever heard it, filled with the same fury he saw on Hotch’s face. Everything becomes quiet when that door closes again, and Spencer sinks back down in his chair with a deep sigh.
“That didn’t sound good,” JJ suddenly says from behind him, placing a mug in front of him. “What do you think is happening in there?”
“Like you said: nothing good,” Spencer mumbles. “Where’s Emily?”
“Went after Morgan when she saw him running off,” JJ says reclaiming her seat on the edge of his desk. She looks at him with a small frown. “You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Sorry, I’m not trying to make you mad or anything. I just—I figured she’d have opened up to you by now. It’s been almost a year, hasn’t it? And the two of you have been dating almost that entire time, right?”
“We’re not dating,” Spencer says, running a hand through his hair while he sighs once more. “We’re… it’s complicated. She’s complicated.”
JJ gives his shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “She’s clearly been through a lot. She loves you though, I can tell. Just give her time.”
“That’s all I’ve been doing,” Spencer says, voice turning quiet as doubt and security seep into his chest, straight to his heart. Love. Was it that, really? “Space, time. I’m not sure how much I’ve got left to give.”
He’s still so confused. He’d asked you, outright, if you had ever been in the army, and you had sworn up and down that you had never been part of such a thing. Had you been lying? No, there was no way. He had studied every little bit of body language, every little word, and you had so very clearly been telling the truth. Besides, weren’t ex-soldiers always proud of the fact that they served? You definitely seem like the type of person to wear that sort of thing with pride. So what was it?
Where had you learned to shoot like that? Who the hell were you?
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
Your voice is frantic when you finally reach him halfway down the fire escape.
“Please, Spence—are you hurt? I didn’t get you, right? I made sure I didn’t.”
His heart breaks at your tone of voice, at the fear in your eyes and the thin sheen of sweat on your forehead, even though it’s November and they’re in Colorado.
“I’m okay,” he manages to say, receiving your hug with open arms. The way you hug him is a relief, with one of your hands ending up on the back of his head so you can keep his face pressed against your neck.
“I’m so sorry, Spence,” you whisper into his ear with a frantic voice. “I’m so, so sorry. I had to. You have to believe me, I had to. I didn’t want to—I promised, I promised I never would again—please, I had to, you have to believe me.”
“I know,” Spencer says, raising his head so he can look you in your eyes. “I know.”
He doesn’t. He has no idea what the hell you’re talking about, what your promise is and to whom and what it means, but he can tell that you really are sorry, and he focuses on that. He has to, he’s got nothing else right now.
A tear escapes your eyes. “I’m sorry,” you repeat again. “I never wanted you to see me like this.”
“It’s okay,” he whispers. “Nothing can change my feelings for you, you know that.”
It’s obvious that you don’t believe him. He believes it, knows it to be true in his heart, but he’s also really confused right now, and maybe it’s for that reason that it comes out less than convincing. He’ll just have to remind you some other time.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
It’s another hour later that the meeting—or whatever it is, finally ends. And end it does.
The door to Hotch’s office swings open and bangs against the wall, earning everyone’s attention. You’re the one responsible, storming out of the office with a face of thunder, red cheeks and messy hair. You slam the door shut behind you so aggressively that the windows rattle, threatening to shatter the only barrier between the bullpen and that small office.
Slowly, Spencer gets up from his chair, watching closely as you stomp over to your desk. You look downright lethal, an air of aggression around you so palpable he feels like he could catch it in a jar. “What happened?” He asks, but it doesn’t seem to reach you as you rip your jacket from your chair and start to put it on.
Morgan and Garcia walk into the bullpen at that moment, with Garcia quickly hiding a file behind her back the moment she sees you. They then seem to become aware of your mood, and Morgan carefully starts to make his way over to you just as you’ve finished putting on your coat.
“You want to tell us what happened in there?” He asks you, but you just grab your bag off the floor and try to walk away. Morgan takes a step to the side to block your way. “Come on, pretty girl, talk to me.”
“Get out of my way,” you practically hiss. “I swear to God, Morgan, if you don’t get out of my way…”
“Not before you talk to us,” Morgan says. He goes to grab your bicep, and succeeds, surprisingly enough: Spencer had expected you to push him off immediately. “Come on, take a breath. It’s us, you can talk to us.”
You stare at him, eyes filled with rage, and seconds pass. Then you drop your bag to the floor, your hands coming up to rub over your face. Before you answer, you look around, and Spencer knows, instinctively, that you’re looking for him, and so he quickly walks over to you.
“What happened?” He asks again, the rest of the team following his example until you’re surrounded by the BAU. Even Garcia, with a fearful look and that file still hidden behind her back, joins in.
You sigh. “They took my gun.”
“What?” Emily exclaims. “What do you mean?”
“Apparently, I can’t be trusted with it until they’ve done a thorough mental evaluation,” you say, scoffing dryly. “They took my fucking gun! My gun!”
“Is it because of what happened with Morris?” JJ asks, to which you nod.
“Yeah, apparently, it shows a lack of care and responsibility for the lives of others,” you say, meeting Spencer’s gaze. “It’s not true, I mean—you saw me, right? I was good, I did it perfectly—I never would’ve taken that shot if I thought it put you in danger.”
“I know,” Spencer quickly says, placing a hand on your upper back. He believes you. “What did Hotch say?”
“Went the bloody mile for me,” you say, closing your eyes while running a hand through your hair as you try to recall the conversation from earlier. “Cursed Strauss out worse than me, the first time I got here. She wanted to put me on temporary leave, but he talked her down. Said he’d walk out if she did that.”
“Damn, really?” Morgan says, eyebrows shooting up. “Sounds like he really had your back in there.”
“He did. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for him, I’d have probably socked Strauss in the fuckin’ face, would’ve been well deserved too.”
A few chuckles ring out at your words, but Spencer can only manage a tense smile. You notice, your face falling as you look into his eyes. Something’s wrong, you can tell. He can’t get himself to convince you otherwise. Before anything else can be said, the door to Hotch’s office opens once more, and the others remaining inside finally walk out. The older woman, with bright red nails, stops in front of the team, who’ve now huddled around you like some sort of protective wall. She smiles. “It’s good to see you…” she says, about to add something—your name, it seems—before she settles on, “Agent.”
It’s weird, the way she purposefully neglects to use your name. And for some reason, you seem to be relieved about it. “You too,” you say, voice shaky.
The woman’s eyes flicker between you and Spencer, studying the way you’re leaning into him, his hand on your back. Her smile deepens. “I’m assuming we won’t be seeing each other again?”
“God, I hope not,” you say, which makes her chuckle. There’s more to it, though. She looks satisfied, as if that exchange of words has revealed something meaningful to her. It’s just one more thing.
Once she leaves, Strauss following closely behind, the team turns to you once more with expectant looks. You scoff. “My old therapist, you nosey bastards,” you say, before giving Garcia a pointed look. “That’s what the file you’re trying to hide is about, right? You looked her up?”
Garcia’s cheeks turn a deep pink. “Morgan made me!” She quickly says, bringing the file to her front. “And, uh—well, I was a little bit interested. We didn’t violate any laws, I promise. Just wanted to know who she was, and, well, we found that she is, like you said, a therapist. Specialises in—”
“PTSD,” you finish for her, scoffing once more at the surprised looks on your team members’ faces. “You can’t possibly be surprised by that. Have you met me? It’s pretty obvious I’ve got my fair share of it.”
“We’re just glad you’re talking to us,” JJ says, reaching over to grab your hand. “I feel like I’m only just now getting to know you.”
“Sorry,” you say, voice turning thick. “After today, I—I promise to do better. Really.”
You meet Spencer’s eyes purposefully, letting him know that most of it is meant for him, and he nods, letting you know that he understands, and accepts.
Everyone is sent home after that. Hotch is very obviously dealing with the migraine of a lifetime as he orders everyone to take the rest of the day off—even though it’s already four in the afternoon—but he still takes a moment to shake your hand as you privately tell him your thanks. Spencer stares the entire time, only looking away when Hotch lets go of your hand to hold your bicep instead, thumb rubbing small circles. That feels a little too private, a moment shared between friends, one he feels awkward about intruding on.
You and he leave together, sharing the elevator with Rossi, who had been dealing with getting your gun out of evidence the entire time, which hadn’t mattered in the end: you weren’t allowed to carry one for the time being. “Thanks, anyway,” you say, giving Rossi a smile.
“It was worth a try,” Rossi says. He glances at the top of the elevator doors, where the floor numbers count down to one. “Have to keep the honour clean, right?”
Right in front of him, Spencer watches as your face turns a pale white as you slowly meet Rossi’s eyes, horror written all over. The elevator dings, announcing its arrival at the ground floor, and the doors open. Rossi is about to walk out, but stops in front of you, grabbing your shoulder. “You did good, kid,” he says. “You made ‘em proud.”
Relief floods your expression and you nod with a weak smile, to which Rossi finally leaves the elevator. Spencer can only stare, wondering what had just happened. It had occurred right in front of him, yet he felt like he was miles away from it all, so far removed he had nothing to do with it anymore.
"Come on,” you then say to Spencer. “I need a drink.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Your apartment is dark when you and Spencer walk inside. As he takes off his shoes, you go to turn on the lights. The sun is already setting, now that it is the end of November. He’s still surprised by how sterile your apartment is, having forgotten after a full month of not having visited here—his place was still the one used most frequently—but he tries not to let it show.
“I’ll order food,” you say, taking your phone out of your pocket. “Indian okay? You can go take a shower, if you want. Towels are in the cupboard, by the washer.”
You’re avoiding him, that much is obvious, but the sound of a shower sounds pretty great right now, and so he lets you. Once he’s done, you get in too, eyes lingering on the water droplets on his bare chest. It makes him want to take his sweatpants back off and get into the shower again, join you in the steam, and so he quickly walks out. No matter how badly he wants to, he can’t. Not until he knows exactly what he’s walking into: he thought he knew, but he doesn’t anymore, and he’s not going to try anything with you until he knows.
The two of you eat at your dining table, which is round and made from a deep walnut coloured wood, which proves to be very interesting for the both of you as you stare at it throughout the entire meal. The silence is thick and awkward. It extends even through you clearing off the table and putting the dishes in the dishwasher. You boil water, pour two cups of tea and place one of them in front of him.
“Thanks,” he says clumsily.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t mention it,” you say, clearing your throat as you sit back down in your seat.
The silence continues.
Not as long as before, though, because you suddenly sigh. “Are we okay?” You whisper, vulnerable as you look at him. “I mean, after today—I—”
“We’re okay,” Spencer says, giving a one-shouldered shrug. “Yeah, we’re… we’re okay. Whatever ‘we’ exactly is.”
You bite your lip and look down. “Whatever, right,” you mumble. “You’re done waiting, then?”
“I don’t know,” Spencer says with a sigh. “I think I just need a little time, to work through everything that happened today. I’ve got a lot of questions but I know you won’t answer them, so.”
It’s a painful jab, one that very obviously hurts you. You practically flinch.
“I’m sorry, that was…” Spencer says, now feeling guilty.
You shake your head. “No, I get it. It’s fine,” you say, putting your cup on the table. For the first time since you’ve met, you haven’t taken a single sip from your tea. Instead, you walk back into the kitchen, open up the cupboard above your refrigerator, and take out a half-empty bottle of whiskey. With hands that now tremble, you look for a glass, which you give a generous pour of whiskey. You slam it back in one swift motion, sighing in obvious release once you’ve swallowed.
“There’s no going back, once I tell you,” you say, leaning against the counter with both hands, head bowed down. “You’ll be angry with me, for keeping it a secret. And you’ll be angry that you didn’t figure it out sooner, cos I know you well enough for that.”
Spencer gets up from his seat, taking a spot in the kitchen where he leans against the counter opposite of you, eyes trailing over your back. “I want to know you, all of you.”
You scoff, dry and drenched in disbelief. It stays quiet for a minute, then you suddenly turn around, gripping the counter like it was the only thing keeping you standing. Your eyes slip shut and you let go of a breath, clearly nervous. Then you finally speak up again. “Marine Corps, Black Ops, Scout Sniper.”
“…what?”
He’s heard just fine, though. Perfectly, in fact. It’s just not quite registering. He feels as if his ears are buzzing.
“That’s… that was my title,” you say, eyes still screwed shut. “Before… before the FBI. A long time ago. Black Ops, Scout Sniper.”
Spencer feels as if the ground falls away from beneath his feet. In an earth-shattering instance, everything falls into place. It’s all so abrupt he nearly forgets to breathe, memory after memory assaulting his brain in such quick succession he can barely keep up.
You had recognised that Air Force pin—you were skilled in hand-to-hand combat—Project J?—It’s like your eyes are used to looking like that, like they’re used to displaying pain and guilt—“This isn’t the first time I’ve seen a child die…”—"There aren’t heroes in war, only victims.”—you knew guns from barely any detail at all—your PTSD— “The things I haven’t told you—they made me into who I am. They’re a fundamental part of me…”—the way you used to look at him, when he could never figure out if he was the prey or the predator—the way your bed was made, the corners tightly tucked in: military corners—
And today. The shooting. You were a sniper. That’s why your shot had been so accurate, so perfect: it was your fucking job. It all made sense. It all made fucking sense. How had he not seen it before? How had he missed all of it? He knew about that saying, about how love could make someone blind, but he had never thought it to be so true, especially for himself. He was a genius, for God’s sake, and a profiler at that. How long had he been blind?
“Please say something,” you whisper, now meeting his shellshocked gaze with teary eyes. “Please, Spencer.”
“I—I don’t—” Spencer stammers, rubbing a hand over his face. “I don’t understand. Have you—you’ve been lying to me for months.”
“No,” you fiercely say, suddenly not so cautious anymore. “I have never lied to you, never. Not to anyone. Not since I joined the BAU. I just—I didn’t tell you, but that doesn’t mean that I lied.”
“But I asked you,” Spencer says, feeling more and more confused as the time goes on. “After that first case together, in the jet, I asked you. I asked if you were ex-military.”
You look away, purposely avoiding his eyes again. “Army.”
“What?”
“You asked if I was Army,” you say, voice becoming quiet again. “And I’ve never been in the army. It’s a branch in the military, but they’re not interchangeable terms. It was… poor wording, on your part. You gave me a cop-out, and I took it.”
“A cop-out,” he says, laughing in disbelief. “You’ve been lying to me for months because of a cop-out?”
“I never lied—”
“Lying by omission is still lying,” Spencer says, voice loud. To your credit, you don’t seem taken aback at all, even if this was the first time he’s ever raised his voice at you. “Are you telling me, if I had said military instead of army, you’d have told me the truth?”
You never respond and your silence doesn’t tell him much. Either it’s a yes, it really was that simple, or it’s a no, and you’d have lied to him anyway. He felt like an idiot the longer he stood in your kitchen. For months, close to a full year, he gave you all the space you needed, all the time, and the entire time you’d practically been playing him. The answers had been right there and you’d treated him like an idiot. And for what?
“Spence—”
“No, no, just—” he abruptly cuts you off, shaking his head as he tries to make sense of the war inside his head. “Does—how many people know about this?”
“Strauss,” you whisper, eyes filled with fear at how he’s responding. “My therapist, the one you met today. And I think… Hotch and Rossi, too.”
Anger bursts in his chest. “You told Hotch and Rossi before me?”
“No, no, I didn’t. Please, Spencer, you have to believe me. Hotch—I didn’t tell him, and he’s never asked, but he must’ve figured it out by now, and Rossi… I don’t think he knew before today. He must’ve figured it out after I took that shot.”
He’s transported back to that short exchange of words in the elevator. “So, when he said that— 'keeping your honour clean’, that meant something to you?”
You nod. “It’s the Marines’ Hymn. Rossi’s an ex-marine, and he—like I said, he probably realised I was too after I shot Morrison. But I didn’t tell him, I promise. He just… knew.”
“And I didn’t,” Spencer says with a humourless laugh. “You’d think I would’ve, being a profiler. Hell, being your closest friend! Or whatever it is I am, it’s not like we ever talked about it. I mean, for months, I was there for you, and you barely told me a thing. What was I, exactly? Just someone for you to string along while you never planned on telling the truth?”
Slowly, the guilt on your face starts to morph into anger. It’s obvious that you’re trying to hold it in, but you’re failing. “I never, never strung you along. As I recall, you told me you wanted to wait for me to tell you about my past willingly. And honestly, it’s a good thing I didn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“What, can you blame me? Look at how you’re reacting to this! I finally decided to tell you and you’re angry with me for it!”
“Because you played me like a fool! I was practically worshipping the ground you walked on and you made me look like an idiot! You played me!”
“I never played you, Spencer!”
“So why didn’t you tell me?” Spencer practically yells. Somehow, in that short exchange, the two of you have crossed the small distance, and are now in each other’s faces, yelling. “Why didn’t you tell me anything? Why does Strauss get to know this and I don’t?!”
“Because I’m ashamed!” You scream, before a sudden sob escapes you. A wave of pain so intense washes over your face that in an instant, Spencer loses all the fight that had been building up beforehand. “I’m ashamed of all of it! I hate that part of my life, that part of me, and I wanted to forget about it! Strauss knowing didn’t matter to me because it’s not her I’m in love with, it’s you!”
His mouth is suddenly drier than the desert. This wasn’t how he wanted this to go. Where did this go so wrong?
“I wanted you to know me for who I am now,” you say, tears streaming down your face. “I was so afraid you’d judge me for it, that you’d ask questions I couldn’t answer, because I was so much more than a fucking sniper, Spencer! I was barely a sniper for two years before they—”
You abruptly cut yourself off, clamping your mouth shut. Spencer goes to reach for your hand, but you push it away, before roughly pushing against his chest too. “I didn’t want to lose you,” you say, pushing him again, and again. “You were the first—the only good thing I’ve ever had, and I didn’t want to ruin that. And now it’s all ruined anyway.”
“It’s not,” Spencer says, tightly grasping your wrists so you can’t push him again. You immediately start to struggle in his grip, trying to pull yourself loose. “Listen to me, it’s not ruined. I’m an asshole, I wasn’t listening, but I’ll listen now, I’ll—”
“Listen?” You say, copying that dry, humourless laugh he’s thrown your way twice now, but it sounds more heart-breaking than cruel. “You want to listen? Fine, listen! I killed people, Spencer. I killed so, so many fucking people. My team and I, we were—we were fucking monsters, killing machines designed by Uncle Sam himself. I’ve got so much blood on my hands I’ll never be able to wash it off, no matter what I do.”
Spencer swallows dryly, finally allowing you to pull yourself loose. “That doesn’t scare me,” he says. “Nothing you say could ever scare me away. You can tell me anything, remember?”
“Except for my past, apparently. Because then you’ll just call me a liar.”
“I take it back,” he easily says, taking a step forward for every step you take back. “About the lying, about you playing me like a fool, I take it back—I was angry, and I didn’t mean it.”
You shake your head, gripping the edge of the counter once you’re pressed against it. “Yes, you did—just because you regret it now doesn’t mean you didn’t mean it then.”
“Please—”
“You should go,” you whisper, staring up at him. He’s so close to you now, he can feel the heat radiating off your body. “It’s over now.”
“It’s not.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” Spencer says, grabbing your cheeks with both hands. “I love you.”
More tears leak down your face, wetting his fingers. “You can’t say that.”
“I love you,” he repeats. “And you know that. I think you’ve known that for a while now.”
“You love the idea of me,” you say. “Whatever version of you’ve made up in your head, that’s who you love.”
“Sweetheart—”
“Don’t fucking—” you say, abruptly ripping your face from his hold. “Don’t call me that. Just go, leave.”
He doesn’t move and so you push him again, causing him to stumble back weakly. “Go!” You yell. “Just go, Spencer! I don’t want you here anymore!”
“It’s not over,” he says. “You have to know that. It’s not over. It’s not ruined.”
“It is for me,” you say with a hard voice, designed to cut him as deeply as you can. Your eyes betray you, however: there’s far too much emotion in those for you to mean those words. “It’s not like this was going anywhere, anyway. You’re too much of a coward and I’m too fucked up to give you a healthy relationship.”
And he knows that you do mean those words. That it was, like that very first fight in the jet all the way back in January, the truth. When he walks out of your front door, he knows for a fact that he’s accidentally left his heart on the counter, yours forever.
Because now it was over.
Notes:
I am so, so sorry. For ending the chapter like this, for all the angst, for finally giving you some answers and then taking them away again...
I'm really not.
But I am.
Thank you for reading, comments are always appreciated :) Cuss me out if you need to :)
Chapter 13: Molten Locutions
Notes:
I'm back super early!!!! And with a double update!!! 'What happened?' I hear you ask.
I love you too much to stay away.......Also, I just finished this fic in my Word doc, which is crazyyyy..... it also guarantees that I'll finish it on here too :) That's mostly why I got so excited to update again. That, along with your comments, because they make me smile and I need to smile, y'know?
Also also, I messed around with the lay-out a bit. If you'll notice, I seperated (and added a lil' somethin') to 'Genesis', which is now preceded by 'Prologue'. It's not that big of a change but it adds just a bit more to the overal fic.
Enough yapping!!!! I love you, have fun!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
December 24th, 2009. 11 months and 8 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
In the month that followed that awful conversation, a lot changed. At first, you hadn’t shown up back to work. After asking, Hotch had told Spencer that you had taken the week off, that you needed time to recuperate after that case: and besides, according to you, taking away your gun was a clear sign from the FBI that you weren’t fit to do your job. Hotch had seemed surprised, that Spencer hadn’t known about your time off. Embarrassed hadn’t even come close to how he felt, leaving Hotch’s office.
He'd gone to visit you once, after not talking to you for two days straight. You hadn’t answered your phone, but you had been talking to the others, which had made him irrationally frustrated. You had never opened the door for him, however. He’d stood there for a while, knocking, ringing your doorbell, and talking to that boring, flat surface, but it had stayed shut.
The following week, you had been sat at your desk, quietly working on something on your computer, and he’d nearly tripped over himself in surprise. All you had given him was a quick, flat smile and a neutral greeting. You hadn’t said another word to him the entire day, and the two days following hadn’t seen any improvements. You had even made it a point to get partnered up with other people, going out of your way to avoid working with him too closely. It had all reminded him of that first fight, directly after your first case, where you had only been professional with him and nothing else. It was the same thing now, even if you were clearly struggling to keep your composure more than that first time.
It was on the jet back after finishing the first case since your return that he finally managed to corner you in the kitchenette, closing the curtain behind him for a bit of privacy. He couldn’t take it anymore, the ignoring, the avoiding, both from himself and you.
“What do you want?” You asked, eyeing him warily, almost like evaluating a threat.
“To talk,” he said. “This isn’t—it’s not right. We should at least be able to work together, be friends. Right?”
You swallowed thickly and shrugged, leaning your hip against the small counter, trying to put a bit of distance between the both of you in the small room. “I don’t know,” you said, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Do you think you can trust me?”
“Of course I can,” Spencer said with a frown, almost feeling insulted at your implication. “Do you… can you trust me?”
You hesitated, glancing away as you seemed to think about what to say.
“I won’t tell anyone,” Spencer said, about to reach out for your arm but dropping his hand at the last second. You saw it but didn’t comment on it. “Everything you told me, it stays between us.”
“Okay,” you whispered with a small nod. “Okay. I don’t know if—I don’t think we can ever just be friends, but I’d like to try colleagues, for now. Like you said, we should be able to work that out.”
It wasn’t what he wanted but it had to do for now. So he nodded. “You should know, though, that I… I’m not giving up. Not yet.”
“Maybe you should,” you said with a small voice. “I said some bad things, Spence. You did, too: we both did. I don’t think we can just bounce back from something like that.”
“We can,” Spencer said, stepping impossibly close to you, hand carefully touching your cheek, allowing you to move away. You didn’t, so his hand stayed. “You know how I know that?”
Slowly, you shook your head, hesitation evident in your expression.
“Because you’re still calling me Spence.”
Biting your lip, you pointedly looked away and took a small step back. “That’s unfair,” you whispered, reaching for your cup, but he grabbed your hand before you could.
“It’s not unfair, it’s the truth. You haven’t given up yet.”
“Friends give each other nicknames too.”
“I thought we couldn’t be friends?”
For a moment, you just stared at him, conflicting emotions battling it out on your face. Then, without warning, you brushed past him and pulled yourself from his grip, disappearing through the curtain and leaving him on his own in that tiny kitchenette. The single cup of tea stood forgotten on that counter, a teabag of Earl Grey turning the liquid slowly black.
For the rest of the month, the two of you slowly got back into a working rhythm. Working cases together was easier from there on out, but you both made it a point not to touch each other, or let any conversations go toward anything personal. It was as you had said: he was too much of a coward to do anything about it, and you had convinced yourself there was nothing left to save. Neither one of you were willing to take the leap. You had eventually been given your gun back and the team had gone out to celebrate, happily taking the excuse to get drunk and have a bit of fun. Spencer hadn’t joined.
There had been one moment, one fragile moment, where a case involving children had hit you hard, and you had found him in his hotel room afterwards. The team was supposed to fly back the following morning, but you had been unable to sleep, and your hands had trembled so severely even your arms had joined in. With the lights off, you had joined him under the covers, where he had held you to his chest for the entire night. At one point, you had looked him in his eyes, nose nudging against his, and he had almost taken that leap. Had almost closed the gap. You had looked away once more though, perhaps having seen his intentions in his eyes, and he had spent hours afterwards kissing your forehead, and cheeks when he could reach them, and your neck once that became an option.
Then the first rays of the morning sun had started peeking through the curtains and you had entangled yourself from his arms, kissing his cheek before disappearing to your own room once more. Your hands hadn’t trembled again after that. Afterwards, you had both pretended it hadn’t happened, and had gone back to that awkward professionalism from the weeks before. That had been okay.
Well, until today.
It was Christmas Eve, and tomorrow, Spencer would fly out to his mother in Las Vegas to visit her for the holidays. He’d fly back on the morning of New Year’s Eve, to attend Rossi’s party, but Christmas was for him and his mother. When he felt like hurting himself, he would imagine if perhaps you’d have come with him, had things not gone so wrong.
It was a terrible thing to think about, torturing himself for no reason at all, but it had finally pushed him to put an end to this stupid dance, once and for all. With a bottle of an expensive whiskey brand he didn’t know, decorated with an ugly red and green bow, and a small, gift-wrapped box, Spencer found himself walking towards your apartment on a snowy Christmas Eve. This had only been sort of planned: the gift he’d had for months, when things had still been a little more… let’s say, linear, in terms of the budding relationship, but the whole ‘showing up unannounced’-thing was entirely unforeseen. He just couldn’t take it anymore: he had to see you, had to work this whole thing out before he’d go away for the holidays.
Besides, what was he going to tell his mom? He’d been writing about you in his letters for months. This couldn’t go unsolved.
With snowflakes still stuck in his hair and purple and grey striped scarf, Spencer found himself standing in front of your door, trying to find the courage to knock. There was a good chance you weren’t even home right now: maybe you were with JJ and Will, spending Christmas Eve with them and their son, or maybe you were with Garcia and Kevin. Maybe even Emily, or Morgan and his family. Shit, he should’ve planned this a lot better. He’s been swearing a lot lately, too: that was your fault. You had awoken something in him, something a lot more passionate in terms of language, and it was difficult to turn it off.
Finally, he knocks, deciding that if you weren’t home, he didn’t have to deal with the embarrassment anyway. After a minute or so, he resigns himself to the fact that you’re not home after all, and is about to leave, only to stop dead in his tracks when he sees you standing on the other end of the hall.
“Spencer?”
He could kiss you. He could pass out. Maybe both, he’s not sure. There you are, snow stuck in your hair, cheeks red from the cold, holding a festive poinsettia and a small bag of groceries. You’re gorgeous, a perfect addition to the Christmas backdrop of the city he can see in the window behind you.
He doesn’t say any of that, though. Instead, he holds up the bottle of whiskey. “Got you a gift,” he awkwardly says. “I was going to drop it off.”
Disappointment flickers over your face. “Oh, I see.”
“Wait, no, that’s not—I’m not dropping it off, I want to stay,” Spencer stammers, before sighing at his own dumb actions. “I thought we could talk. And I figured, I can’t just show up empty-handed.”
This time, you smile. “Want to come in, then?” You ask as you start to walk over to your door. “I was about to make dinner. You up for a traybake?”
If there was one thing he could say with confidence, it was there were far, far worse ways to spend Christmas Eve than by making dinner with you. It was all fairly simple, just cutting up vegetables and putting them in ovenproof dish along with marinated chicken thighs. Despite the simplicity of it all, he found himself having a blast: things felt like old times again. The two of you were talking about nonsensical, random things, even joking around. You had even put on Christmas music—but only classical music, Spencer had insisted on that, for his own sanity. You had also hung up string lights in your apartment, along the wall opposite all the windows, which made it just a bit cosier. It was definitely an upgrade from your usual impersonally, sparsely decorated apartment.
And if he carefully touched your waist a couple of times, at first to test the waters and then out of pure muscle memory, neither one of you said a word. You had even brushed a bit of hair behind his ear at one point, which he had enjoyed immensely, even if your eyes had widened and you had pulled your hand away like you’d been burned immediately afterwards.
During dinner, you had enjoyed a glass of your new whiskey while you listened to Spencer’s plans for the time he’d be spending with his mother, and his complaints about how insanely expensive it was to travel during the holiday season. He told you about playing chess with her, how she always somehow knew what he was thinking, and how things had been in his youth, before he had her admitted.
And you, wonderful you, listened to all of it without ever interrupting. Despite it all, you let him ramble on and on and on, like he hadn’t insulted you, like he hadn’t broken your heart. Like you hadn’t broken his.
“…and just last year, over 250 fires started because of dried-out Christmas trees. And that’s not even mentioning fires from Christmas lights!”
You smile, mindlessly twirling your fork between your fingers. “So, you’re saying it’s a good thing I didn’t decorate this year?”
“Statistically, you’re a little less likely to die in a fire than people who did decorate,” Spencer says, making you laugh. It’s a wonderful sound to hear, especially after everything. “Can I ask why you didn’t decorate? I mean, apart from the string lights.”
With a less enthusiastic smile, you lean back in your chair and shrug. “Never feel like it. I don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore, I haven’t done so in years. Besides, people decorate their homes, and this place just doesn’t really feel like a home to me.”
“Why not?”
“I think it’s cos I’m so used to always moving around? Part of me is still waiting for a call, I guess, telling me to pack up and go to a new place. If I want this place to feel like a proper home I should probably just start decorating, go from there, but… I don’t know. Just can’t get myself to care.”
Spencer nods as he looks around your apartment. “I like the string lights, though. Makes this place feel a little cosier. It always feels so…”
“Impersonal?” You finish for him. “Yeah, seems to be a bit of a theme for me.”
For a moment, you stare at the fork still in your hands. Then you suddenly put it down and stand up from your chair, giving Spencer a decisive look. “About time I change that, eh?”
Without waiting for a response, you walk over to your bookcase. Getting on your tiptoes, you pull out the textbook, Theory of International Politics, and a few other books surrounding it, until you reveal a small, wooden box. Even from all the way over here, Spencer can see the thick layer of dust on top of it. You don’t bother putting the books back, leaving them on your coffee table as you start to make your way back to him, wooden box in hand.
“I wasn’t planning on ever showing anyone,” you say, more to yourself than to him as you wipe the dust off the top. “But it explains a lot, and I think… I think I want you to know, so.”
You place the box in front of him and sit back down in your own chair. Carefully, Spencer lifts up the box, which is much heavier than he expected. Inside, metal pieces clink together. The outside is simple: it’s made of a darker wood, a sort of walnut, and only has two tiny, gold coloured hinges to keep the lid attached. Other than that, it’s very nondescript.
“What is it?” He asks, glancing over at you. You seem nervous.
“It’s everything,” you say. “Everything I’ve got left, at least. I got rid of most of it, but these things… for some reason, I just couldn’t get rid of them. I think it’s because I wanted proof, you know? That, one day, when I die, someone will find these and they’ll know that I did my part, that it hadn’t all been for nothing.”
Spencer stares at the box again. With that description and the sound of the metal clanking inside, it’s easy to deduce what’s in it. “Your medals?”
“And a few pictures,” you say, swallowing thickly. “The medals, I don’t think they’re all that interesting, but the pictures… it’s the people I used to know, and me when I was younger. I even think there’s one in there from basic.”
Your smile turns nostalgic while your eyes fill with an old pain, the type that comes with grief that has accumulated over years and years of loss. “Back then, I thought I was on top of the world. They’re good at that, you know, making you feel like you’re really a part of something, that you’re doing good things for the world. They definitely had me convinced.”
When your eyes meet his again, they’re shockingly open and vulnerable. It’s still something he can’t get used to, not with you. It’s such a rare sight still. There is, however, one thing he can say with certainty: it makes you look beautiful. When his eyes find that box again, a new resolve settles in his chest, and he puts it back down on the table, pointedly pushing it away.
“What’s wrong?” You carefully ask, doubt seeping into your expression.
“This isn’t how I want to do it,” Spencer says, shaking his head. “I don’t want to rummage through your past—I want you to tell me about it. Whatever you want me to know, that’s what I care about.”
Slowly, you nod. “Okay, I get that,” you say, reaching out for the box. You open it, momentarily taking out a white envelope, before grabbing one of the metal objects inside and then quickly closing it all up again. Whatever was exactly in there, you clearly didn’t enjoy being confronted by it.
With something clutched in your fist, you reach over to Spencer and wait for him to hold out his palm. In it, you drop a small, black metallic object. Upon closer inspection, Spencer is met with an emblem, shaped like a globe that’s intersected with an anchor: atop both is an eagle. It was clearly polished at one point but was now starting to dull from lack of care.
“My Eagle, Globe and Anchor,” you say softly, eyes lingering on the metal. “It’s what you receive after finishing the Crucible, the last bit of training. It means you made it, you’re a Marine now, for life. It was—it was the proudest moment of my life, when they put that emblem in my hand.”
“When did you sign up?” Spencer eventually asks, keeping the emblem in his hand while focusing on you.
“When I was eighteen,” you say, eyes turning thoughtful as you start to return to past. “I had no direction in life, no idea what I wanted to do and then one day, there was this military guy standing outside this state fair I was visiting with friends. He dared us to do pull-ups on this bar he was standing beside, and I thought, why not? Might be fun. I must’ve impressed him, cos next thing I know, he’s pushing this pamphlet in my hands for the Army, saying something about taking a test to see where I could serve, if I was interested. I figured I had nothing else going for me, so might as well, right? I took the ASVAB a couple weeks later.”
“ASVAB?”
“Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery,” you say with a small, surprisingly encouraging smile: it’s as if you want him to continue asking questions. Maybe you do, maybe it’s making it easier for you. “It’s this test you have to take when you enlist, so they can see what you’re eligible for. The better your scores, the more options you have.”
“What were your scores?” Spencer asks, leaning forward in his seat. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was numbers, especially those derived from tests.
You give a shrug, suddenly turning a bit bashful. “I don’t really remember the exact numbers, but it was high enough for some important folks to get interested.”
Even though he wants to call you out on your modesty, he doesn’t. He still remembers what you said that night: you were ashamed of your past. Perhaps pushing you to talk about trivial things like these wasn’t the right thing to do.
“Anyway, I wanted to go into the Army at first,” you continue, mindlessly running your fingers over the edge of the box still in front of you. “I figured I’d just do my time, go to college on Uncle Sam’s dime, and get the hell out. Then suddenly, I’m meeting with this recruitment Sergeant, who calls in the Master Sergeant.”
“I have no idea what that means,” Spencer says with a small smile, making you chuckle nervously.
“Right, yeah, sorry. Sergeants, they’re above what I would be after training, which is a Private. And then you have the Master Sergeant, who provides technical leadership in their specific MOS,” you say, and Spencer is about to open his mouth to ask about that acronym, but you quickly continue, smiling at him. “Military Occupational Specialty. After you pass the Crucible and get a college degree, you get to choose a specialty. Which, in my case—”
“Was Scout Sniper,” Spencer finishes for you, to which you nod.
“Yeah, exactly. Something I wasn’t interested in at all, by the way. Like I said, I just wanted a degree and then get the hell out, but this Master Sergeant, Sergeant Carver, he wanted more for me,” you say, scoffing dryly. “Asked me how I would feel about being an American hero; save lives, do what really matters. Apparently, he was impressed with my test scores: kept telling me I’d be of more use to the Marines than I’d be in the Army.”
You sigh. “I fuckin’ fell for it, too. I mean, a cocky eighteen year-old, getting told they get to be a hero if they just sign a different dotted line? I didn’t stand a chance. Three weeks later, they’re shipping me off to California for recruitment training. The worst twelve weeks of my life, or that’s what I thought at the time, but in the end, they gave me that.”
You nod to the emblem Spencer is still holding, which he carefully places on top of the table. “And proud that I was, thinking that was it, I could get a college degree now. Sergeant Carver had different plans for me, though: he just showed up one day, tells me I’ve been enrolled in college for International Relations, and gives me an address for me to go to the next morning. I show up, take one class, and suddenly, these Military Officials are pushing a piece of paper in my hand with my name on it. Just like that, I had a degree in International Relations.”
Spencer has nothing to respond with. You’ve just admitted to him that you’re in possession of a fraudulent college degree. You scoff at his expression. “Yeah, I know. I burned the paper the moment I retired, but still, the damage was already done. You know the worst part? I never asked any questions. Just went along with it all. It’s what they brainwashed me to do: you don’t question your superiors about anything, and I was such a stickler for the rules I just went along with it. Like a fucking idiot.”
“You weren’t an idiot,” Spencer firmly says, looking you straight into your eyes. “It’s like you said, you were eighteen. You didn’t know any better.”
“I should’ve said something,” you say, not convinced. “Instead, I bended my own morals and just stuck my head in the sand while they sent me off to train for my specialty.”
You take a deep breath, tapping your finger atop the box a few times. “That’s where it gets… murky. Or, even more so, I guess. There’s a lot I can’t tell you, cos… well, to be honest, they made me sign an NDA.”
“NDA?” Spencer says in surprise. “Why would they make you sign an NDA?”
“I did a lot of illegal shit,” you say, averting your eyes. “After two years of regular service, they made me part of a… team. We got sent to countries we definitely weren’t allowed to be deployed in, killed people we weren’t supposed to know existed… couple of other things. That’s as much as I’m allowed to tell you, but even if I was allowed to… I wouldn’t.”
“…Why not?” Spencer carefully asks.
“Some things you just don’t talk about,” you say, eyes turning distant. “You just—you have to leave some of it behind. If you don’t, it destroys you. Better to not talk about it.”
A silence stretches over the apartment. Slowly, Spencer reaches over until his hand finds yours, and you grip it without a hitch in your breath, like it’s second nature to you. “When did you retire?” Spencer eventually dares to ask.
“September 2006,” you say. “Only served six years. Feels like more, though. God, that pisses me off. I gave them my whole fuckin’ youth for free and I got nothing in return, just trembling hands and phantom explosions.” You sigh. “First to fight for right and freedom and to keep our honour clean, we are proud to claim the title of United States Marine. Some fuckin’ pride that was.”
Spencer gives your hand a small squeeze. “You retired in 2006… wait, how much time was there between your retirement and joining the FBI? That couldn’t have been more than a couple of months.”
“Four months,” you say, giving Spencer an awkward smile. “I know. It’s not… great. I just—I wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened, and Hoffman cleared me, so.”
“Hoffman?”
“My therapist. You met her, after I had that… meeting, with her and Strauss.”
“Right, yeah. She seemed nice.”
“She is. She did me a solid. Could’ve written me off as just another hopeless PTSD-ridden case, but she didn’t, she gave me a chance. I repaid her by nearly getting myself fired three times over from Counterterrorism, but.” You shrug with a grin, making Spencer chuckle.
“Yeah, I’ve always wondered—why Counterterrorism? But that was because of your background, right?”
You nod. “They thought I’d have some original insights. And they were right, I did, but I was still so hung up on all of it I was a nightmare to work with. When I got transferred to the BAU, I told myself I’d do better. Give people a chance. Lucky I did, right?”
With a squeeze in his hand, you give him a hopeful smile. Spencer returns it easily. “Lucky indeed,” he says, kissing the back of your hand. “Thank you, for telling me all of this.”
“There’s more,” you say with a small frown. “Like, a lot more. I can tell you, if you want.”
“I know,” Spencer says. “But I think it’s good if we stop here. I know that this is difficult for you and it’s definitely a lot to take in for me.”
You release a soft breath and nod. “That’s… yeah, I think that’s a good idea,” you say, running a hand through your hair with your free hand. “What shall we talk about, then? Something cheery?”
“I think I have something to lighten the mood with,” Spencer says with a conspiratorial smile as he gets up from his chair. You sent him a strange look but don’t say anything, watching him walk over to his coat, out of which he takes that small, gift-wrapped box.
“You got me a gift?” You ask, eyes widening as you reluctantly take the box he’s holding out to you. “Spence, I didn’t—shit, you couldn’t have given me a heads up? I don’t have anything for you.”
“It’s okay, I just wanted to get you something small.”
Carefully, you start earing off the wrapping paper until you’re met a dark blue box: on the top it reads Charmed Creations in silver cursive, which causes you to give him a curious look. You don’t ask, though, letting the gift speak for itself when your gently take off the lid. In an instant, you fall utterly silent, face morphing into shock. Slowly, you reach for the object inside, taking it out and letting it dangle off your fingers.
It's a silver necklace, with a delicate chain and a small pendant. The pendant resembles a tiny Millenium Falcon in front of the starry background of the galaxy, a look which had been achieved by tiny inset black gemstones that flickered in the light. Spencer had to admit: he was pretty proud of this particular find.
“Spence…” you whisper, clearly very taken by the gift. “How did you even come up with something like this?”
“I knew I wanted to get you something but not what,” Spencer says, enjoying your reaction immensely. “I stumbled upon this by chance and I immediately knew this is what I wanted to get you. Didn’t even think twice about it.”
“Well—I mean—I don’t really know what to say,” you say, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Spencer. So much.”
Spencer smiles. “Need help putting it on?”
It’s how he finds himself standing beside the table, with you stood in front of him, holding up your hair so he can put on the necklace. When you turn back around he smiles so widely that his cheeks hurt: it looks great on you, exactly how he had envisioned it.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur, gently taking the pendant between your fingers. “The stones, what are they?”
“Black onyx,” Spencer says, unconsciously reaching up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear. You look up, clearly taken aback by his actions, but you don’t move away. “In ancient times, Black Onyx was often worn as a talisman to ward off evil spirits.”
“Evil spirits?” You say with a playful smile. “Never expected you to be so spiritual.”
“I’m not,” Spencer says, crinkling his nose. “But I enjoy history, even if I don’t agree with their way of thinking.”
You chuckle, glancing down at your necklace again. “Well, what do you say? Am I a proper nerd now, like you?”
“Like me?”
“Oh, definitely. You’ve dragged me down into your nerd depths, lovely.”
Spencer rolls his eyes, pretending to be aggravated by your teasing, but still grabs you by your waist to pull you closer. “I can still take it back, you know. Exchange it for some gaudy Christmas themed necklace.”
You gasp dramatically. “You absolute heartbreaker,” you say, unable to keep the grin from your face. “You enjoy playing with my emotions, I can tell.”
“Right, yeah, because I’m such a player,” Spencer sarcastically says. “My reputation is stained by all the broken hearts I’ve left in my wake.”
“A nerd, heartbreaker and now a poet, too?” You say, grin only growing as your arms wind themselves around his neck. “Aren’t you the whole package?”
Even though it’s all funny comments and teasing remarks, Spencer finds himself returning to the drama from the past month, guilt flowing back into his veins until it becomes visible on his face. “About what happened when you first told me… I’m sorry. For everything: what I said, how I reacted. For leaving, even.”
“I told you to leave, Spence.”
“Yeah, I know, but I should’ve stayed.”
You sigh softly, putting a hand on his cheek as you peer into his eyes. “How about this: we both fucked up, and now we both regret it, and we both apologise for it. That about cover it?”
“I think so,” Spencer says, very aware of the way you’re not mentioning his whole confession, or your own. He had told you he loved you, you’d admitted to the same, yet you were pretending that never happened. Maybe it was for the best, for now: adding that talk on top of the one you just had probably wasn’t the best of ideas. “I really am sorry, though.”
“I know. I am, too,” you say, rubbing your thumb over his cheek. “I’m well ready to move past that whole thing.”
“Me too,” Spencer says softly. “So, are we… okay?”
“Of course, we are,” you say, smiling widely. “Like magnets, you and I, eh? Always snap right back together.”
Magnets indeed. It made him wonder which one of the two of you was the negative terminal, and the positive.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“I’m winning.”
“What? No, you’re not.”
“I am,” Diana says, raising an eyebrow as she stares down at the chessboard. “Only a couple moves left until I’ve got you cornered.”
Spencer frowns at his mother, unable to find his previous mistakes in the game. It’s the first day he’s here, at his mother’s clinic, spending Christmas there, and only last night had he been with you. The conversation was still fresh in his mind, commanding all of his attention. Perhaps it was for that reason he was playing the worst game of chess in his entire life. He had only seen you a few hours ago, when you’d been so nice as to drop him off at the airport, and the sight of you waving him goodbye through the other side of security stills fills him with warmth.
“So, what’s got you so distracted?” Diana asks, reaching to the board and moving one of her pawns.
“I’m not distracted,” Spencer says, thinking over his next move. “I’m just letting you win.”
“Please,” Diana says with a small scoff. “You think I don’t know you better than that?”
“I’m thinking about winning,” Spencer replies, pretending like there was nothing more interesting than the chessboard in front of him. Eventually, he moves one of his knights, taking one of Diana’s pawns in its stead.
“So, what’s her name?” His mother then says, casually.
“What?”
“The girl occupying your mind,” she says, not even looking up from the board. “Don’t try to deny it.”
“…Tommy,” Spencer eventually says. “How did you even know that?”
“A mother knows, Spencer,” Diana says simply, finally meeting his eyes. “I know that name. You’ve mentioned her in your letters a couple times, haven’t you?”
Spencer only nods, watching as his mother makes her next move. Shit, she really was winning. “So, are the two of you dating, or whatever it is you crazy kids call it these days?”
He can’t help but chuckle at her words as he shakes his head. “No, mom, we’re not dating. It’s… complicated.”
His mother scoffs. “Complicated? What could there possible be to complicate? Do you love her?”
Her directness never ceases to surprise him. It helps though, being so outspoken. There was never any room left for miscommunication or confusion, and you could get to the crux of a problem quickly. Still, it didn’t make admitting his feelings for a girl in front of his mother any easier. “…Yes,” he still says.
“She loves you?” His mother asks, barely fazed by his response.
“I think so.”
“Then what’s the problem? It doesn’t seem all that complicated, if you ask me.”
“It’s not really that part that’s complicated,” Spencer says, blindly moving one of his pawns without even thinking the move through. “It’s her who’s complicated. She’s gone through a lot, experienced some really bad things, and it’s made her… distant. Difficult to understand, sometimes. It’s been almost a year of back-and-forth, mom, and I honestly still think she’s a flight risk.”
Diana chuckles at that but finally meets his eyes again. “A flight risk,” she says softly, thinking over his words. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That her past will catch up with her and that she’ll leave?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. I’m not sure she’ll ever really leave, but she has this tendency of pulling away, of hiding. When she’s angry or hurt, she can really hold a grudge.”
“That’s not why you fell for her, though,” Diana says, tilting her head a little. “Aren’t there any good things you can think of?”
“Of course there are. She’s intelligent, and brave, and has this way of making you feel like you’re the only person in the room. And she’s fierce—all of her is: her anger, her pain, her love… she loves fiercely. She has this way of making everywhere feel like a home. That's not even mentioning her loyalty. And I just think she’s really, really cool.”
That makes his mother laugh. “Cool, huh? Sounds like quite the girl. So what’s holding you back, really?”
Spencer sighs, mindlessly spinning one of the pawns he took between his fingers. “I’m afraid I’m not what she needs. I don’t think I’d ever make things worse, but… what if I can’t make it better? What if I can’t fix it?”
“You don’t need to fix it, Spencer,” his mother gently says. “All you need to do is love her while she fixes herself.”
“What if she can’t?”
“Then you love the spaces in between the broken parts. Just because something is broken does not mean it cannot be loved.”
At a loss for words, Spencer swallows thickly. There was an undeniable truth to her words, even if that was difficult to admit to out loud. He watches as his mother looks down at the board, moves a knight, and then says, “Checkmate.”
Checkmate indeed.
Notes:
*Gasp!*
We love a Diana Reid cameo. Favourite character, probably, maybe, perchance.
Chapter 14: Firestorm
Notes:
I've got a content warning for you... but it's a bit of a spoiler? So do with this what you will. Content warnings: smut, dramatic confessions (Gasp!)
Enjoyyyyyyyyy xoxoxo :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
December 31st, 2009. 11 months and 14 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
By the time Spencer gets through security and sees you waiting there for him, he’s practically giddy. After spending so much time with his mother, and the heart-to-heart he had shared with her, he has had enough time to think things over. His conclusion has given him a new type of resolve and has him so excited for the night ahead, it’s difficult to contain.
“Hiya, handsome,” you say with a wide smile as he approaches. He doesn’t waste a second in dropping his weekend bag and wrapping you up in his arms, spinning you around once for good measure. You giggle as he does. “Someone’s happy to see me, are they?”
“Ecstatic,” Spencer says as he lowers you to the ground once more. Then he sees you’re wearing the necklace he gave you and his grin practically splits his face in half. “I was looking forward to seeing you again.”
You playfully pinch his cheek. “Adorable, you are,” you say, before grabbing his hand and taking a step towards the exit. “Come on, if we leave now you’ll still be able to shower without having to rush."
In terms of relaxation and mindfulness, Spencer could’ve planned his flights a lot better. Taking off at seven am on Christmas day was one thing, but returning on New Year’s Eve a mere two hours before Rossi’s party was planned to start was a whole other. Then again, he hadn’t been planning on going to that party in the first place, not after that fight he had with you: you had been the one to convince him to go in the end, an hour before he was supposed to fly to Las Vegas to visit his mother. During the drive home, you asked him about his mother and the time he spent with her, showing genuine interest that only reiterates the resolve he’s found in the last couple of days.
After a quick dinner and a shower, Spencer found himself sitting on your bed, watching you as you rushed through your room to find whatever it was you were looking for. You had been kind enough to use his spare key and get whatever he needed from his apartment so that neither one of you had to swing back there first anymore. It felt sickeningly domestic, in a way. You, letting yourself into his apartment, getting his clothes for him, and now getting ready in front of him.
“Oh I could’ve sworn—” you mutter to yourself as you drop to your knees and start looking under your bed. Spencer offered to help look for your shoes but your resolute ‘no’ had been enough to keep him seated on the edge of your bed. “Aha, I knew it!”
Triumphantly, you hold up a pair of glittery black heels, fitting for a New Year’s Eve party. They, along with your emerald green dress, made for an outfit very suitable for Rossi’s black tie theme. His own suit felt bland compared to you, but then again: as if he could ever outshine you.
“You ready?” You ask as your effortlessly step into the heels and continue to rush through your room, not even slightly disrupted by them.
“Uh, yeah, just need a tie,” Spencer says, only slightly distracted by your plunging neckline, which you’ve accentuated with a long golden necklace.
“Shit, I nearly forgot,” you say, abruptly turning around to walk over to your bedside table. Out of the drawer, you take a small, gift-wrapped package, holding it out to him with a smile. “Won’t trump yours, but, well. I had to try, yeah?”
“You didn’t have to,” Spencer says, giving you a look of disapproval, but you just grin and nudge his shoulder as you come to stand in front of him.
“Go on, grumpy, open it.”
When he takes his time to do so, you reach out to flick his ear, earning yourself a glare. Once he’s finally torn open the paper, he’s met with a tie: a tie that might be the ugliest one he has ever seen in his entire life. “Oh, my God,” he mumbles, staring at it with disbelief. “This is… the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You laugh in delight, clapping your hands together. “I was hoping you’d say that! D’you like it? I love it!”
The tie is a green similar to your dress and it’s about the only thing he can say he likes about it. It’s made of a sort of silk material, making it shiny in the worst way, only accentuated by the fact that it’s bedazzled, of all things. Not fully, of course: no, that would make it passable. In between random shiny plastic gemstones, there’s champagne bottles, top hats and fireworks. It’s utterly gaudy.
“Where did you even get this?” Spencer asks, holding it out in front of him as he tries to find anything salvageable about the accessory, anything at all.
“This holiday pop up shop—doesn’t matter, come on, stand up,” you say, ripping the tie from his grasp and trying to pull him to his feet. “Let me put it on you.”
Reluctantly, Spencer does as you say, getting to his feet. Now that you’re wearing heels much taller than your usual shoes, you’re almost as tall as he is. It’s intimidating, for one thing: at least when he’s taller than you he can claim a sort of dominance—which he knows he does not possess literally anywhere else in this relationship—but now, he’s got none of that. Still, nothing will deter his plans tonight: it’s going to happen, regardless of his cold feet or whatever else.
“How do you even know how to tie a tie?” Spencer asks as you wrap it around his neck.
“Back when I was still in the Marines, we had to go to these galas every once in a while,” you say softly, very focused on the knot you’re trying to achieve. Spencer, in turn, tries not to feel too excited about how willingly you’re now talking about your service. “I had one mate, lost his arm in Iraq. Couldn’t tie ‘em anymore, so I learned how to do it best I could. Now, he used to love the Windsor.”
You pause for a moment, frowning at the tie before suddenly continuing, as if trying to recall the next steps. “I never liked that one much, always felt a bit showy to me—but the Middle Windsor, I did like. He’d complain, of course, but always thanked me at the end of it. I think Hotch might like it too, actually.”
You suddenly let go and take a small step back, admiring your work. “There, how’s that?”
Turning to your mirror, Spencer closely studies the knot: he has to admit, it looks great. You’ve clearly had a lot of practice. “You just keep surprising me,” he murmurs, meeting your eyes in the mirror as you come to stand beside him.
“It’s how we keep it exciting, no?” You say with a quick wink.
Spencer smiles, carefully touching the knot, not wanting to mess it up. “Your friend… what happened to him?”
He’d picked up on the undertone immediately: now it was up to you whether you wanted to talk about it. Your smile turns sad and nostalgic. “He died a couple years ago,” you quietly say. “Couldn’t deal with it, so he… stepped out.”
With a sympathetic look, Spencer turns to you. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s okay, I’ve made my peace with it,” you say, squeezing his bicep. “Some of us don’t always come back. I just try to remember him for the good he did, not the end he chose.”
You suddenly take in a deep breath, straightening up and smiling. “We ready to go, then? Rossi won’t like us being late.”
Due to the size of your heels and the fact that you’ll be drinking tonight, Spencer is the chauffeur for the evening. You softly hum along with the radio, applying a pink lip-gloss that smells like strawberries, giftbag between your knees, fully in your element even after everything. Despite bearing the worst parts of your life to him, you haven’t changed a bit. If anything, you seem even more comfortable around him than before. Not a bit of that flight risk he’s come to associate with you to be found.
When Rossi opens the front door, Spencer’s met with the sound of boisterous conversation, festive music in the background and a few cheers when everyone seems to realise you and him have arrived. He knows, in an instant, that he’s in for a long, yet very delightful night.
“You look beautiful, bella,” Rossi says as he hugs you, to which you smile widely.
“Thank you, got you a little something,” you say, handing him the giftbag containing a bottle of red wine and an expensive cheese. One by one, you say hello to everyone, greeting each person with just as much enthusiasm as the last one. It’s infectious and, in a way, rather impressive.
“Nice tie, Reid,” Morgan says with a grin, making Spencer sigh.
“Yeah, thanks. It wasn’t my idea,” he says, to which you interfere with a wide grin.
“It’s mine,” you say. “Personally, I’m a big fan.”
As Hotch walks by, he takes a moment to study the tie with clear disdain on his face, before his eyes linger on the knot. “Middle Windsor?” He asks, to which Spencer nods. Hotch hums in appreciation. “Good choice.”
The rest of the evening goes by in a messy blur of wine, charcuterie boards, chaotic music games and New Year’s resolutions. Spencer loses track of you multiple times, oftentimes finding you across the room where you’ll send him a conspiratorial wink as soon as your eyes meet, like you’re both in on something private. It sends his heart into a dramatic frenzy every single time, something he’s got a feeling doesn’t go unnoticed by you.
Almost exactly ten minutes to midnight, Spencer spots you sneaking out through the patio doors and into the garden. For the last twenty minutes or so, you’d been talking with Rossi and Hotch, huddled by Rossi’s whiskey collection and subtly sharing a glass of what must’ve been very expensive whiskey, if the suspicious behaviour had been anything to go by.
Making sure nobody sees him, Spencer follows you outside onto the patio, where he finds you standing under the latticed arch that leads into the rest of the garden. Your arms are crossed in front of your chest, your shoulder leaning against the arch while your face is upturned to the surprisingly clear night sky, stars glimmering. It was a full moon tonight, the planet bright and formidable, plastered against an inky sky, surrounded by endless stars.
“You okay?” Spencer asks, his voice gentle as he comes to stand beside you. He sneaks a glance at your face—your profile soft in the moonlight, eyes reflecting the glow of the city beyond—before following your gaze upward toward the sky.
“Fine,” you softly say, exhaling a slow breath, white clouds curling into the crisp night air. “Just needed a moment. It’s bloody warm in there.”
He watches the way your shoulders rise and fall with the words, how the cold air makes you hug yourself just slightly, though you try to play it off. Your cheeks are flushed, from the alcohol or the heat of the party—or maybe both—but out here, in the stark contrast of the night’s chill, goosebumps bloom across your bare arms. Before he even thinks about it, he’s shrugging off his suit jacket and settling it carefully around your shoulders.
You glance at him, lips curling into a small smile. “I’m not cold, Spence. I came outside to cool down in the first place.”
“Cool down,” Spencer says. “Not freeze to death.”
Your quiet chuckle warms something deep inside him, a flicker of something he knows has been there for longer than he’s willing to admit. You shake your head, amused, and turn your gaze skyward again, the stars catching in your eyes like scattered embers. “You having fun?”
“Yeah, I am, actually.” And he means it. More than he’s willing to admit to out loud, really. He’s enjoying himself because you’re here, standing beside him, filling the night with the kind of warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. Even if all of that makes him nervous as all hell. “You? Saw you talking to Hotch and Rossi just now.”
“About whiskey,” you say with a smirk, casting him a quick, knowing glance. “Not exactly in the realm of your interests. Rossi’s got quite the collection, though. ‘S’impressive, really.”
“Jealous?”
“A little, yeah,” you admit with a hum. A moment passes between you, quiet but comfortable. Then, softer: “Rossi asked me where I served.”
Spencer’s brows lift in surprise, and his eyes are on you again, searching, but you keep your eyes focused on the stars. “He did?”
“Yeah, when Hotch went to the bathroom.”
He hesitates, reading between the lines of what you’re not saying. “What did you tell him?”
“The truth. Mostly.” Your voice is steady, but there’s something guarded beneath it. “Did a tour in Afghanistan, about 24 months. Got recruited into that… team, directly afterward. Didn’t tell him that, obviously.” You bite your lip for a moment, a fleeting pause that speaks volumes. A silence filled with all the things you still can’t say—not to Rossi, and not even to Spencer. “He told me he served in Vietnam. I think he must’ve noticed I don’t really like talking about it, cos he moved on pretty quickly.”
He wants to say something—something meaningful, something that lets you know he understands, even if he never truly can—but before he gets the chance, a voice cuts through the quiet.
“Five minutes! Five minutes till midnight!” Garcia practically yells, grabbing both your and Spencer’s biceps. “Come on! You’re going to miss the countdown. And don’t think I’m not going to kiss you!”
She points at you, her expression so comically serious that Spencer barely manages to hold back a laugh. Something tells him that to Garcia, this was no laughing matter.
“We’ll be right there, Penny,” you say with a humoured smile. “Go on ahead, yeah?”
“You better be there!”
And just like that, she’s gone again, already singing along to Whitney Houston’s I Wanna Dance With Somebody like it’s her personal anthem. You shake your head with a grin and turn to Spencer. “Come on, best get inside before we get told off.”
You shift, ready to head back in, but before you can take a step, Spencer reaches out and catches your elbow. “Wait,” he says, voice laced with something urgent—something raw. He tugs you back, and suddenly you’re close, his suit jacket slipping slightly from your shoulders as the space between you disappears. It’s then that the hesitation sets in and he wonders if this is a good idea.
You blink up at him, eyes wide with something unreadable. “What’s wrong, love?”
The endearment is soft, almost instinctual, and it nearly undoes him. He can smell the faint sweetness of strawberries on your freshly applied lip gloss, mixed with the warm, spiced scent of whiskey still lingering on your breath. Your perfume clings to the air between you, something floral, something familiar—something that has been quietly driving him insane for months.
And it’s all of that which pushes him to think, fuck it- right past all the logic, all the hesitation, all the million and one thoughts telling him to be careful. “I have something I need to tell you.”
“Okay,” you say, clearly confused but willing to listen. “What is it?”
He’s already told you he’s in love with you. You know that already. So, then, why is this so difficult?
“What I said before…” Spencer hesitates, his throat tight as he swallows. “About how I love you… I didn’t say it the way I should have. I used it like a card to play, like it was something to use, and that’s not what you deserve. It’s not a weapon. It’s just the truth. And I just—I need you to hear me.”
Your eyes are as wide as saucers now and he can see the doubt in them, the painful thorns of feeling unworthy, and he keeps talking, because he knows that if he pauses, you’ll find a way to run. It’s not something he’ll allow to happen tonight, not until he’s told you everything he wants you to know.
“I love you,” he says, voice steady now. “Not in some easy, careless way. I mean that I love the storm inside you, the one that sometimes feels too big for you to hold. I love the way you fight for the people you care about, even when it drains you. I love that you challenge me, that you never just accept things as they are. I even love the way you hold a grudge or how you carry your secrets around like they weigh more than the whole world.
—And I know, I know you’re complicated, but that doesn’t scare me,” Spencer continues, watching as tears start to well up in your eyes. “Even when you’re distant or angry, even when I don’t know how to reach you… you still make me want to try. I just need you to understand that—you don’t have to be perfect, or fixed, or any version of yourself you think I’m expecting. I’m not here to fix you. I don’t need you to be anything other than who you are, right now, in this moment. And if there are broken parts, I’ll love them just as fiercely as I love the rest of you.”
You swallow thickly. “Spencer…” you whisper, but he shakes his head, not yet done. Inside the house, barely audible, the countdown to midnight starts.
“I’ve spent nearly a year loving you from a distance, afraid you’d run if I got too close, but I can’t do that anymore. I don’t want to. You’re fierce, and brilliant, and maddening, and everything I want. And I just—I’m tired of pretending I don’t want this with you. Because I do. I want the good, the bad, the messy, the parts where we argue over something stupid—I want to make you feel safe and seen and loved for exactly who you are. And maybe—maybe I’m scared I won’t always know how to do that, but I’m more scared of not trying. I’m more scared of letting you slip through my fingers because I didn’t have the guts to tell you that you are everything I have ever wanted.”
…35…
…34…
…33…
“So, if you’ll let me… I’ll show you that you’re not too much to love. That you don’t have to face everything alone. I know there are things you haven’t told me, pieces of your story you keep locked away, but they don’t change how I feel. They don’t scare me. Not when it comes to loving you. I don’t need to know everything to know that you’re worth everything. I’ll be here, no matter what. I’m not going anywhere.”
…15…
…14…
…13…
“I know that a part of you feels the same, so what I need to know is… can you give us a chance?” Spencer finally finishes, voice barely above a whisper.
A tear spills over your cheek, your eyes still wide and filled with disbelief, like you’re waiting for a catch. “Spencer,” you whisper, but don’t continue.
…10…
…9…
“Please,” Spencer says, his fingers brushing your waist. “Please. Don’t run away from this.”
You stare at him for a long second. Then, suddenly, a small, disbelieving laugh escapes you. “You absolute heartbreaker,” you whisper, shaking your head. A tear finally slips down your cheek, but there’s a smile chasing it. “Oh, you absolute, utter heartbreaker. You have no idea how much I love you, do you?”
…5…
…4…
Now it’s his turn to be stunned. “You do?”
“Yes, you idiot,” you say, laughing again, watery and warm. “Or did you forget that I was the one who asked you out in the first place?”
…3…
…2…
…1…
Inside, people cheer loudly, intermingled with the sound of champagne bottles popping and the fireworks that explode in the sky above. Spencer doesn’t hear any of it.
He’s too busy kissing you.
He pulls you in like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, fingers threading into your hair as his lips crash against yours. The kiss is searing, consuming, a collision of longing and unspoken words that have stretched between you for far too long. His lips are warm, urgent, coaxing yours open as he drinks you in like you’re the only thing keeping him alive. You respond just as fiercely, your hands fisting in his shirt, holding on for dear life. There is no hesitation, no second-guessing—just the two of you, unravelling into each other, pouring every said and unsaid confession into the space between breaths. You taste like whiskey and strawberry lip gloss, a heady contradiction that makes his pulse stutter. He exhales shakily against your mouth, savouring the way you fit against him, the way your fingers tremble slightly as they clutch at his shoulders.
The world tilts. He’s not sure if it’s the kiss or the sheer force of feeling behind it, but he’s dizzy, weightless, lost. His teeth graze your lower lip, and a shiver bolts down his spine as he swallows the soft sound that escapes you. Spencer tightens his hold, his other hand spanning the small of your back, pressing you closer, as if proximity alone can make up for all the time you’ve wasted pretending this wasn’t inevitable.
Then, just as suddenly, something shifts when you seem to realise what this kiss all means, that the untold is now laid bare. Seemingly becoming shy, you start to pull away on an old, deep instinct, lips parting from his in a shaky breath—but Spencer doesn’t let you go. His hold tightens, his mouth finds yours again with renewed hunger, and whatever doubts were creeping in dissolve as he kisses you deeper. It’s reverent and raw all at once. His lips press against yours like a silent promise, his breath mingling with yours, and the only thing keeping him tethered to reality is the way you yield, the way you let him have this—have you.
And then the distant roar of voices pierces the moment. The sound of cheering grows closer, sharper, and awareness slams into both of you at the same time. You break apart, breathless, the absence of your warmth almost jarring. Spencer turns away quickly, rubbing a hand over his face, clearing his throat, trying—and failing—to regain his composure. His chest rises and falls unevenly, his legs unsteady beneath him, his mind barely catching up to the fact that it’s now officially the new year. A hand touches his shoulder and he turns just in time to receive JJ’s hug in earnest, forcing a smile, forcing words past lips that still feel bruised from yours. Over her shoulder, he notices you picking up his jacket from the ground just before Garcia tackles you into a giant hug.
By the time Spencer reaches Morgan, the latter is already waiting with a knowing smirk, his eyes practically twinkling with mischief. “You got a little something,” he says, tapping the corner of his mouth in indication.
Spencer frowns, confused, before instinctively wiping the back of his hand across his lips—only to freeze when he sees the tell-tale smear of red gloss staining his skin. “I, uh…” he stammers, his brain scrambling for something—anything—to say, but Morgan only throws his head back and cackles, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder.
“My man!” he exclaims, shaking Spencer slightly with amusement. “My—man!”
Spencer’s face burns hotter, but beneath the flustered embarrassment, there’s something else—something smug that he tries (and fails) to suppress. A rare swell of pride creeps in, and Morgan sees right through him, his laughter only intensifying.
After extensive well-wishing and watching of the fireworks, everyone goes back inside, pouring champagne and clinking glasses in celebration. Even Spencer finds himself holding a flute of champagne, though he barely remembers how it got there. The warmth of the room doesn’t compare to the warmth that settles in his chest when you find your way back to him with effortless ease. Wordlessly, you extend his jacket toward him with a knowing smile.
“Shame,” he says as he shrugs it back on, handing his glass to you to hold. “I thought it looked pretty good on you.”
You smile as you take a sip from his champagne before handing it back. “Not quite my size, I’m afraid,” you say, your fingers reaching up to smooth the strands of hair that have fallen across his forehead, and his heart trips over itself. Even after everything that’s happened tonight, you still have that effect on him. He wonders if it will ever wear off.
“You had quite the speech prepared back there,” you tease, tilting your head slightly, your eyes alight with something unreadable—something dangerous.
Spencer huffs out a small laugh. “I practiced.”
“I could tell.” Your voice is soft, but the way you watch him makes his pulse stutter, corners of your mouth only barely curling up. “I feel bad. I’ve got nothing prepared.”
“That’s okay,” he says, feeling reckless, feeling bold, as he slides an arm around your waist and pulls you closer—right in front of everyone. He knows they’re all pretending not to notice, but he’d bet anything that even Hotch and Rossi are taking note. He doesn’t care. “Just keeping looking at me like that and I’ll have nothing to complain about.”
You press your lips together to try and hide a smile, cheeks turning rosy. “Flirt,” is all you have to say.
“I thought I was a heartbreaker?” Spencer counters, feeling smug as he stares you down.
“What would you prefer I call you, then?” You say, raising an amused eyebrow. “Flirt, heartbreaker?”
“How about yours?”
The words are out before he can second-guess them, and he revels in the way your expression shifts—surprise flashing across your face before you quickly school it into something unreadable. But he knows you too well. He sees the way your eyes flicker, searching for a comeback sharp enough to regain the upper hand. And he’s missed this—the playful push and pull, the game that’s never truly been a game. He already knows you’ll win; you always do. But he loves it anyway.
Finally, you meet his gaze again, a wicked glint in your eye. “Aren’t you brave, all of a sudden?” You say, fingers skimming the edge of his collar with deliberate slowness, teasing him. “I’d be careful if I were you. Any more of that and I might kiss you in front of everyone here.”
Spencer swallows, pulse spiking, but he refuses to back down. “If that’s what you want to do, then I can only strongly advise you to follow that urge.”
You lean in then, lips hovering just beside his ear, your breath warm against his skin. “How about you drive us back to your place,” you whisper, voice dripping with suggestion, lips brushing over the shell of his ear, “and we can see where this urge you speak of will lead us to, hm?”
There it was, the winning comment of the night. Despite his best, most flirtatious efforts, you’ve managed to trump them all by that one single remark. Safe to say, Spencer had his goodbyes and well-wishes settled in barely five minutes, hastily urging your giggling self to the car once you’d finished as well, ignoring Morgan’s wolf-whistles, Emily’s cheers and Garcia’s scandalised gasps. He’s quite sure he picked up on Hotch saying something about an HR meeting, but he’s too distracted to be sure.
The drive back feels endless, his hand gripping your bare thigh as he tries his best to manoeuvre through the traffic, constantly interrupted by fireworks going off all around him. It doesn’t help that you keep leaning over to kiss his cheek and neck, emboldened by either the alcohol or the mutual confession of the night, perhaps both. He’s red-faced and in all sorts of states he can’t even begin to describe, all to do with too many clothes, too little room in said clothes, and a car that does not nearly have enough space for him to do what he’s so desperately wanting to do to you.
He's unable to keep his hands to himself as the two of you make your way up to his apartment—his, as opposed to yours, because his is a stellar ten minutes closer to Rossi’s and every second counts, really. He’ll worry about the fact that all his things are still at yours tomorrow. His hands switch from your waist to your arms and your hips and really, everywhere else he can reach, your giggles only encouraging him further.
Just as he puts his keys in his front door, you stop him. “Wait,” you whisper, face close to his as you grab his tie, pulling him against you.
“What?” he asks, feeling pathetically desperate as his hands firmly grip your hips.
“Kiss me,” you say, nudging your nose against his as he pushes you up against his door. Just as he leans in, you pull back a little. “Slow. I want—I want to know that this is… real. That it’s not just sex. So… slow.”
He can do that. He can definitely, totally, absolutely do that, even as the weight of your words hangs between you, charged and electric. His breath catches as his forehead rests against yours, his lips so close they almost brush yours. His hands tighten on your hips, fingers curling into the fabric of your dress as if anchoring himself to the moment. He exhales, the heat of it ghosting over your lips.
"Slow," he repeats, his voice rough but soft, a promise threaded through the single word.
His eyes search yours, molten and intense, before they close. The first touch of his lips is achingly gentle, a whisper of warmth that leaves him yearning. He lingers there, almost motionless, savouring the contact like it’s sacred. His hand slides from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you just a fraction closer. Your fingers curl into his tie, holding him steady as you tilt your head slightly, deepening the kiss in the faintest of degrees. His lips part against yours, an invitation, a question, and you answer in kind. It’s soft, unhurried, yet every movement sends ripples of heat through his body. His tongue brushes yours, tentative and reverent, as if he’s savouring a rare delicacy.
He groans low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips. His other hand comes up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking your cheek as if to reassure himself that this is real. Every touch feels deliberate, every movement like poetry written with lips and hands. The world outside his apartment building ceases to exist—the fireworks, the laughter from distant strangers, the city’s hum. All that matters is this: the way his body moulds against yours, the way his kiss conveys everything words can’t—desire, devotion, need.
When he finally pulls back, his lips linger on yours, unwilling to part entirely. His forehead comes to rest against yours again, both of you breathing heavily, eyes still closed. "You feel real," he murmurs, his voice barely audible but carrying the weight of a thousand emotions.
You smile against his lips, brushing the tip of your nose against his again. “You too.”
Blindly, you reach behind you and turn the keys still stuck in the lock. The moment the door swings open, darkness envelops the two of you, broken up only by the occasional firework outside. You quietly set your heels down among the jumble of shoes littering Spencer’s entryway, every movement so soft and careful as to not disturb the silence. After taking your coat, Spencer sheds his own and slips off his shoes, placing them next to yours. With each subtle movement, the silence thickens, and Spencer’s heart races as you finally face him, both with excitement and nerves.
You step closer, your hands playfully clasped behind your back. A mischievous glimmer dances in your eyes, but before he can voice his curiosity, you lean in, your noses brushing together. Slowly, almost torturously so, your lips meet his in a feather-light caress, reminiscent of the kiss you shared just minutes earlier. It takes every ounce of restraint for him not to pull you in and kiss you with the urgency he feels. Instead, he savours the gentle way your lips meld with his, exploring the tender nuances of a kiss meant solely to express affection.
Eventually, the need to connect becomes too strong for Spencer to ignore. He lets his hand rest on your jaw, inhaling sharply as you press your body against his. The kiss remains soft, yet the tension is palpable, and he attempts to part his lips to deepen the moment but you pull back, biting your lip in a failed attempt to suppress a smile. You grasp his tie, the playful spark in your eyes now mingled with an emotion he struggles to name. He hopes it’s desire, for that’s what he feels in this moment.
“Come on,” you whisper, tugging on his tie before turning away and taking his hand that has fallen from your cheek. You guide him through the apartment with the confidence like it’s your own, never once glancing back. Upon reaching his bedroom, you leave Spencer standing in the centre of the room while you stroll over to the bedside table, flicking on a single lamp. The soft, golden glow casts a warm ambiance, enhancing the room's inviting atmosphere.
You pause in front of him once again, closing the distance until he can feel the warmth radiating from your body. Without uttering a word, you begin to loosen his tie. The simple gesture sends shivers racing down his spine, and he makes no attempt to conceal the way his breath quickens or the undeniable arousal that’s so obviously tenting his trousers. As you slide the tie from around his neck, you let the moment hang in the air for a heartbeat before your fingers move to his shirt, methodically unbuttoning it. With each button you release, more of his chest is exposed, and you deliberately avoid his gaze, even as he is captivated by your every move.
Once his shirt is free from his trousers, you undo the final button, allowing the fabric to fall open completely. Your fingertips glide over his stomach with a feather-light touch, igniting goosebumps across his skin and causing his breath to catch in his throat. At last, you lift your gaze, peering at him through your lashes. The playful spark in your eyes has vanished, replaced by a potent mix of desire and longing that mirrors his own. Your fingers descend, finding his belt buckle, and after a brief pause, you begin to unfasten it. That’s when he breaks.
He lunges forward, crashing his lips against yours with an urgency that leaves no room for hesitation, savouring the soft gasp that escapes your mouth. He quickly grasps your face, pulling you so tightly against him that every part of you melds with him. The taste of whiskey, your strawberry lip gloss, and a unique, spicy essence that is unmistakably yours envelops him. He barely notices that his trousers have been completely undone, the belt unfastened and the zipper lowered, the buckle clinking against his leg with every movement.
One of your hands finds its way to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his hair, while the other begins to slide his shirt off his shoulders. Spencer eagerly copies your movements, helping to slip the straps of your dress down your shoulders. You respond effortlessly, stepping back to let the dress fall away completely, shimmying it off with a tantalizing grace. He stands there for a moment, utterly captivated, his mouth dry as he takes in the sight of you adorned in a stunning matching lingerie set. You look absolutely breath-taking and it leaves him feeling utterly helpless.
The scars are easy to look past. He hadn’t expected them, nor could he recall you ever mentioning them, but they don’t scare him. Etched into your skin are white lines, some thin, some thick, some longer than others, in various places: your legs, your arms, your chest, a few on your stomach. You don’t seem ashamed of them: you’re not trying to hide them at all. One of your fingers mindlessly touches a scar on your hipbone, a nervous tick of sorts, but you don’t hide any of it. You’re baring yourself to him in ways he can’t even comprehend the intimacy of.
“You… you’re gorgeous,” he remarks softly, his gaze shamelessly roaming over your figure.
With a surprisingly shy smile, you take a small step forward. “You don’t mind them?”
“Of course I don’t,” Spencer instantly says, practically appalled at your question. “What do I look like, an idiot?”
You giggle, shaking your head. “Some people get scared when they see them.”
“I could never be scared of you—I’d be insane. There is no one more breath-taking than you.”
Slowly, your smile turns coy. “What are you waiting for then, lover boy? You coming to get what’s yours?”
With that, he practically lunges forward. This time, you anticipate his move and meet him halfway, lips crashing together in a fervent kiss. He wastes no time, slipping his tongue past your lips the moment the opportunity arises. The soft moan that escapes you when your tongues connect nearly brings him to his knees. He craves more—so much more. In a swift motion that surprises even him, he grips the backs of your thighs and lifts you up, wrapping your legs around his waist, relishing the soft gasp of surprise that escapes you.
As he lowers you onto the mattress, he settles between your thighs, accidentally miscalculating the distance and unintentionally grinding against you. The muffled moan that escapes him only adds to the haze of desire, making him realise just how intoxicating such a simple action can be. He repeats the motion, again and again, grinding against you while trailing kisses down your neck. Your soft gasps and moans are like a siren's song, urging him to continue. One hand instinctively finds its way to your chest, squeezing one of your breasts just as his lips reach your collarbone.
“Spence,” you whisper, your voice thick with pleasure, igniting a fire within him that he never knew existed. He pauses his hips, focusing intently as he kisses his way to the curve of your breasts. Lifting his head, he gazes at the delicate black lace that separates your skin from his, marvelling at the view before him.
“What’s wrong?” you breathlessly ask, a hint of amusement lacing your tone.
“I want to see you,” Spencer replies, his voice rougher than he anticipated as he locks eyes with you again. “But I really enjoy seeing you in this.”
You let out a giggle—a sound he knows he will never get tired off—and take away his choice, leaning up just enough to reach behind you. He gives you the space you need, his mouth growing drier and drier as he watches you remove your bra, slowly pulling it away until you toss it to the floor.
“There will be plenty of chances to see me in lingerie,” you say, and what a future to envision, right?
If he thought seeing you in lingerie was breath-taking, he had no clue had been waiting for him behind all that black lace. He feels like a teenager again, gazing at your bare chest with a dreamy expression.
“My eyes are up here, big boy,” you tease, still amused as Spencer continues to stare.
“Uh-huh,” he mumbles dumbly, barely processing your words. Taking matters into your own hands, you grasp one of your breasts, squeezing it and letting out a purposeful moan to get his attention. It wakes him up instantly because no, absolutely not, that’s his job now.
With his hand on one and his lips on the other, Spencer loses track of time, exploring every inch of your chest he can find, leaving tiny bruises as reminders until your skin is adorned with red marks, some already turning purple. When he feels satisfied, guided by your breathy moans, he kisses you deeply once more, allowing one hand to wander down your stomach to your thigh. He leans on his other elbow, pulling back just enough to watch your reactions as his hand begins its slow journey toward your inner thigh.
Your lips part, eyes locked onto his, and the anticipation builds as his hand inches closer to that sacred space between your thighs. When his fingers finally graze your underwear, you gasp, one of your hands shooting up to latch onto his bicep. He’s thrilled to discover how responsive you are to such a light touch and decides not to waste any time in exploring a little more. As his fingers glide past the waistband of your thong, a groan escapes him the instant he realises just how wet you are.
The moment he begins to stroke his middle finger up and down, soft moans spill from your lips, sweet as honey. If angels could sing, it would sound like this, he’s sure of it. He continues that rhythmic motion, captivated by every change in your expression as you unravel beneath him. It’s only when you start pleading for more, your nails digging into his bicep, that he finally slips his finger inside you. Without any shame, he lets out a moan of his own as he pushes in deep, feeling your pleasure resonate through him. It doesn’t take long at all until one finger becomes two, his thumb finding your most sensitive spot, your moans a song of pleasure he cannot get enough of.
“Spence—so close—” you manage to gasp, and he nods eagerly.
“Give it to me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your neck. “Let go for me.”
You moan loudly, and instinctively, Spencer grinds his erection against your hip, chasing the high that’s building between you. “Come on, give me one,” he urges, his voice rough as he watches your face intently. Finally, your thighs clench around his arm, and he feels your walls pulse around his fingers. For a brief moment, everything goes quiet; your mouth parts in a silent gasp as your eyes squeeze shut. Then, all at once, you start moaning again, loud and unabashed, your body trembling, and he knows he’s truly outdone himself tonight. He's always told himself that should the time ever come, he’d make it worth your while, and he likes to think he’s succeeded.
It takes a while for you to come back down, and he showers your neck and collarbones with gentle kisses as he waits. When he slowly withdraws his fingers, you let out a genuine whimper, and he snaps his head up, eager to see your reaction. You must’ve noticed because you laugh breathlessly. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a man be so interested in my face before,” you say, voice rough.
“Those men are idiots,” Spencer easily says, his hand gliding up and down your thigh. “Your face is by far the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
You raise an eyebrow, teasingly. “Hmm, I don’t know, you seemed awfully interested in my chest just a moment ago.”
“I mean,” Spencer says, theatrically glancing down at your chest. “Can you blame me?”
You chuckle and lightly hit his arm. “You going to take those trousers off now?”
He doesn’t need to be told twice, nearly falling flat on his face as he rushes to take them off along with his boxers. By the time he’s succeeded, you’ve rid yourself off your thong, now fully naked atop the mattress, waiting for him. He pauses, taking in the sight of you—those little hickeys scattered across your skin, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes adorned with smudged makeup. You’re a vision.
“Want to go down on you,” he murmurs as he climbs back on top of you, starting to kiss down your stomach in a path unfamiliar still.
“Another time,” you say, taking hold of his chin and forcing him to come back up. “Right now, I want you—God, I want you.”
Without even the decency of a warning, your other hand reaches down and takes hold of his straining erection. With a pathetic groan, Spencer’s hips stutter forward against your hand. The feeling is almost instant enough to get him to that same peak you’ve only just come down from, and from your small smile, you seem to be aware.
“Need you,” you whisper seductively, a step up from the ‘want you’ from before, and he nods dumbly.
“You have protection?” He manages to say, eyes fluttering shut as your hand keeps pumping up and down, steadily working him closer and closer to an orgasm. Had it been anybody else, he probably would’ve felt embarrassed, but it’s you, so he’s not. Still, he wants to give you a good performance tonight, and you’re making it awfully difficult to focus.
“I’m on birth control,” you say, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. “I want to feel you, all of you. Want you to make me yours.”
That earns you a fierce kiss, a messy meeting of tongue and teeth, his mind reeling at what you’re telling him. Deciding to take away any lingering opportunity for you to continue teasing, he quickly hitches up one your legs so it’s wrapped around the arm he’s leaning on. The surprised gasp that escapes you has him feeling ridiculously smug, and it lasts as he starts to align himself with your entrance. He wants to ask you if you’re sure, if you’re ready, but when your hips unconsciously buck up to meet his, he loses any and all train of thought, taken over by a primal need even he can’t ignore anymore.
When he finally pushes in, he knows in an instant that this is the best he’ll ever feel. The intensity is overwhelming, demanding every ounce of his concentration to stave off a premature end. When his hips meet yours, he’s practically floored at how perfectly you fit around him. It’s as if the universe conspired for this very moment so as to make you just for him: it’s the only rational conclusion. Millions of years of evolution has gone into this very second, and he finds himself needing a moment to regain his composure.
With his forehead against your collarbone, he takes a few steadying breaths, groaning when he feels your muscles contract around him. “Shit—just—I need a second,” he manages to say while you mischievously flex those muscles again, an honest-to-God giggle leaving your lips at the sight of his struggle. His eyes meet yours with a look of disbelief.
“What?” You say with an innocent smile. “I’ve already got mine, can’t wait to feel yours.”
“If you think I’m leaving it at just one, you’re in for a ride,” Spencer says, and instantly picks up on the double entendre.
“That’s what I’m counting on,” you say with a cheeky grin, fully aware that it gets under his skin.
In response, he thrusts his hips down, effectively wiping that look off your face as it’s replaced with a loud, stunned moan. He can’t help but join in, repeating the motion just so he can hear you again. “Good girl,” he says as he watches your face intently, relishing in the pure pleasure he finds there. He grinds down again, groaning at the utter ecstasy that overtakes him, and he realises he’s past the point of no return. “Fuck, good girl.”
He's quite sure he’s never cursed around you like that before, at least not out loud, but it hardly matters now. Not when your moan is twice as loud in response to his words. For a while, he manages to keep his movements steady and deliberate, rolling his hips in that perfect rhythm he’s now learned drives you wild. Eventually, though, he knows he won’t be able to keep his own orgasm off any longer and his movements become sloppier, shorter, more frantic; especially when he hikes your leg up so that it’s over his shoulder and he has even more room to move.
You’re close, he can feel it, can see it. That studying of your face hadn’t been for nothing: it hadn’t just been for his own pleasure. A sudden thrill shoots through his body that lets him know he’s on the edge, and he nearly sinks through his elbows. Quickly, he shifts one arm beside your face, leaning in to you so he can press a sloppy kiss to your lips. “Come on, baby,” he groans out, relishing in the way your body responds to his plea. “Just one more for me, come on. Good girl, one more.”
You cry out his name as your hands claw at his shoulder blades, surely leaving marks there, and the sting of those only has him that much closer to the edge. “‘M’close,” he slurs, and you manage to nod in response.
“Me too,” you rush to say, which has him doubling his efforts. The sound of skin on skin slapping together is maddening, and he barely remembers to use his free hand to tease your most sensitive spot between your legs once again. Just a few seconds of this, and your breathless “Yesyesyesyes” fills the air, signalling the familiar tightening in your muscles, your walls gripping him tightly, and he knows he can finally let go. He only faintly registers your second orgasm, your cries of pleasure and nails digging into his skin, completely consumed by his own. It’s, by far, the most powerful release he’s ever felt, stars exploding behind his eyes, while every muscle in his calves, arches, and even his toes trembles with pleasure. He’s never been this vocal, the raw moans spilling from him without restraint.
When it’s all over, he fights the urge to collapse on top of you. Your chest rises and falls against him, each breath mirroring his own uneven rhythm. After a few minutes of blissful silence, he slowly begins to plant soft kisses along your neck, gradually moving up until his lips find yours. The kiss that follows is slow and sensual, perhaps his favourite yet.
“Okay?” he murmurs against your mouth, eliciting a smile from you.
“More than okay,” you reply softly, your fingers weaving through the hair at the nape of his neck. “You?”
“Spectacular,” he says. “No, monumental. Wait—splendiferous.”
You giggle against his lips. “Splendiferous?”
“It’s a word, I’m sure it is.”
You hum softly and kiss him again, which he eagerly reciprocates. It’s only then that he becomes aware that he’s still inside of you, which has him pulling back with a now sheepish smile. “Sorry, I should probably clean you up instead of crushing you like this.”
“It’s fine,” you say sweetly, eyes flickering over his face with a tender warmth. “Spencer Reid, you know I adore you?”
“I’ve been wondering,” Spencer says, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. “I had a hunch, though.”
“Good, cos it’s the truth,” you say, soft smile similar to his own. “Also, you’re the best I’ve ever had.”
With a theatrical flair, Spencer dramatically tilts his head back and balls one of his hands into a victorious fist. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he tells James to get fucked. Your laughter rings out, bright and joyful.
“For the record, you’re the best I’ve ever had too,” he tells you with a grin.
You feign shock, giving him a look of faux-betrayal. “You’ve been with other girls?”
“Alright, okay—I’ll get you a towel, yeah?”
Your boisterous laughter that follows him into his bathroom has him grinning like a child, cheeks hurting from the uncontainable joy radiating off him.
Notes:
I'll be honest, I was really doubting myself this chapter. For some reason, the dramatic confessions just always feel... off, to me? Idk. I'm not trying to dig for sympathy here, I just really struggled with this chapter. Same goes for the smut.
I wanted to make it super detailed at first, like proper pornographic, but in the end I decided to go for something that reflects the relationship the best. Interrupted with banter, a bit of teasing, and a bit of Spencer's awkwardness sprinkled in too. I hope I managed to get that across :)
Also, I'm in your walls right now, watching you read this, foaming at the mouth. Toodles <3
Chapter 15: Flashpoint
Notes:
This is a longgggggg one lads. There are also a couple of content warnings for this chapter. CW: mentions of sex, mentions of torture, and blood.
Things are really going to ramp up from here on out so buckle in :). This chapter and the chapters following this one will be exposition-heavy.Also! The dates at the top are especially important now. They'll give you a good idea of the timeline and make things easier to follow.
As always, thank you so incredibly much for reading this; it means the absolute world to me.
Chapter Text
January 17th, 2010, 8:12 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
In the two weeks following Rossi’s party, Spencer uses nearly every available moment he can find to explore every inch of you. It’s new territory, one which you have given him complete access to, and he never lets a single opportunity pass. It seems that now he’s started, he can’t stop anymore. The dam has burst and there is no stopping the flow. Every chance he gets, he gets you out of your clothes. He’s proud to say he’s close to having used almost every single surface in his apartment—yours is next on the list—and that, in terms of getting you off, his record is at five in a single session so far, thanks to spending a very, very long time with his face between your thighs one particular Friday night. He likes to think he’s getting to know you very well, thank you very much.
It’s not just sex, though, it’s… everything. He feels like he’s getting to know you on a whole new level, like there’s this new dimension he’s discovered. It’s as if he’s acquired a whole new perspective, now that you’ve told him the truth. Everything he’s learned about you before then had only confused him, but now, he understands what it all means, and it helps him create the picture that is you. Have the two of you discussed what exactly this relationship was? No, that was something that had yet to come up.
There was something fun about this rollercoaster, the constant highs the two of you kept reaching now, and neither you nor Spencer had found the bravery to stop the ride and actually have the Big Talk. The idea of it was daunting, even after everything. In his own personal opinion, Spencer didn’t want to consider you as his girlfriend until he had properly asked you, and he had the vague inkling that you probably felt the same way. So, whatever you were to him right now, he wasn’t sure. Important, for one thing. What he did know, was that friends didn’t do this.
This, being you, naked, in his lap in the middle of the bed, grinding your hips in very specific, practiced motions with one of his hands grasping your throat, the other squeezing your hip, and his mouth on your chest. Early morning light filters through the curtains, leaving thin strips of gold over your body as it moved in tandem with his, letting him know that the he was going to be so, so late to work if the sun was already out. Not that he was about to stop. No, you were whining and writhing and moaning and making so many wonderful, delectable sounds that stopping wasn’t even a word he could recognise right now.
Not that he’s doing much better: he’s been mumbling nonsense for nearly twenty minutes now, purring to you all kinds of things that would make even the most experienced ears blush. Every inch of your body had been inked with his words, only recognisable by the occasional hickey he’d left along with them. He’s still not sure what exactly changes whenever he’s with you like this, but where he’s always been so easy to tease when you were talking to him, he loses any and all shame the moment you take off your shirt. It was as if all apprehension went out the window the moment he saw even an inch of skin you normally kept hidden, and so far, you didn’t seem to mind it all very much.
“Spencer,” you moan, causing him to momentarily pause his assault on your chest, your hands tangled in his hair. “I’m so—I can’t, love, I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” he says, pressing a kiss to your jaw. He wraps an arm around your lower back and pulls you against his chest, changing the angle just enough for you to cry out. “Just one more, baby, just one more. You can do it, for me.”
You whine, a sound he’s come to love so dearly over these last few weeks, doing your best to keep your hips in that fantastic rhythm that has him so close to his own release. In response, he briefly tightens his grasp on your throat, just to increase that pressure a little, and your head lolls back as your mouth falls open in a silent moan. That view alone is enough to send him over the edge—again, he should mention: it would be the second one of the morning.
A quick glance at his alarm clock tells him that you have to leave in ten minutes, if you still wanted to go by your place to get your things. Neither you nor him would be on time anymore, but he honestly couldn’t care less about that. Still, he didn’t like making you rush—especially not with this specific activity—and knowing you still had to go by your place will put a definite strain on you this morning: three shirts and two pairs of underwear in his dresser wasn’t nearly enough to keep having you stay over every night. Maybe you should just move in with him?
That thought hits him like a train, so abruptly and so powerfully that his hands fly down to your hips, squeezing you so tightly you gasp in surprise and stop moving, probably thinking that’s what he wants. He’s not even sure what he wants right now. It’s as if he needs a moment to ground himself, staring at you with widened eyes, with you completely out of breath and with reddened cheeks. “Spencer, what—”
He lunges forward to kiss you, and despite your surprise, you kiss him back. “Nothing, you’re fine, it’s nothing,” he says as he pulls back, trying to ban the thought from his mind, even if he doesn’t know how: he hasn’t even asked you to be his girlfriend yet, where the hell did that thought even come from?
You’re about to ask more, and so in one quick movement, he switches positions so you’re on the bed, making you gasp in surprise once again. “We’re going to be late,” he mumbles against your skin as he starts to kiss down your stomach.
“So why did you—oh,” your words disappear into a long, intense moan the moment his mouth reaches that sacred spot between your legs, and he knows he doesn’t have to worry about any questions anymore.
Five minutes later, he’s very proud to report that he’s managed to get two honest-to-God tears from you, something he would have hated to see under any other circumstance, but knows is one hell of an accomplishment under this one. Satisfied and smug, he watches from the bed as you rush towards his shower, hair a mess, legs trembling, and chest marked to hell and back.
“Shit, I’m going to be so late,” you practically shout as you turn on the shower, disappearing behind the curtain.
“Want to shower together?” Spencer calls out to you, one hand behind his head, the thin sheet pooled over his legs, knowing what answer will come without having to hear it.
“Absolutely not! Knowing you, we’ll be even more late!”
Yeah, fair enough, he thinks as he drops back into the pillows, eyes closing as a grin overtakes his features. He’ll shower after you, it’s fine. It’s probably for the best, taking these few minutes to ground himself into real life again: if he doesn’t, he’s not sure he’ll be capable of letting you put your clothes back on, let alone leave his apartment.
He watches, unabashed, as you get dressed, wearing the jeans from the movie date from yesterday, along with a shirt that definitely isn’t yours. He likes seeing you in his clothes, though, so he doesn’t complain. “Pizza tonight?” You ask as you slip on your boots, not even glancing over to where he’s lounging in his bed. “And make sure to change the sheets this time, please.”
“Take-out? Or make it ourselves?” Spencer asks, checking the time on his alarm clock. You should’ve left ten minutes ago, whoops.
“Take-out,” you say, quickly running a hairbrush through your hair. “Okay, I got to go. I’ll see you at the office, yeah?”
Dropping the brush onto the floor—on purpose, as a way of damning him for making you late, he knows you well enough by now to recognise these little things—you lean over and quickly peck him on his lips.
“Don’t forget those files, Hotch’s been asking about them for two days now,” Spencer says, grabbing your shirt and pulling you back for another one. And another one. And another, much longer one.
You abruptly pull back, sending him a warning look. “This is what I’m talking about, Spence,” you say, grabbing your bag from the floor. “I’ll lose my bloody job at this rate, with you holding me hostage all the time. And don’t forget the sheets!”
“I love you, too,” Spencer purposefully says, heart fluttering as the words leave his lips. He can’t believe he still gets to tell you that.
For a moment, you pause in the doorframe, eyes turning soft as you smile at him. “I love you,” you say, waiting for him to smile back before disappearing down the hall. “Change the sheets!”
The front door closes with a decisive thud, leaving the apartment in a silence he used to think was blissful, but without you just feels empty. With a sigh, Spencer sinks down in the mess of pillows and sheets, which still smell of your perfume, red wine and—well, you know. Certain activities. He’ll change them, he will. Just, a shower, first. And then breakfast. And he’ll change them then. Yeah.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
By the time he walks into the conference room, he’s fifteen minutes late. Hotch looks severely unimpressed from where he’s sitting at the opposite end of the table, and from beside him, Morgan is grinning like a teenager. The others just exchange amused glances, with even Rossi seeming entertained by the whole thing.
Spencer clears his throat as he sits down in one of the only chairs left, noting that you haven’t arrived yet. “Sorry, traffic was a nightmare.”
“Traffic, right,” Morgan says, playing with a pen as he sends Spencer a wink. “Traffic give you that mark on your neck, pretty boy?”
With a blush, Spencer rubs a hand over his neck, as if it would do anything to get rid of the hickey you left. He feels like a fifteen year old, even though his teenage years had definitely never been this eventful. It was almost like he was making up for lost time.
“What about pretty girl?” JJ says, pointedly switching the nickname around as she gives Morgan a look, telling him to leave it alone. “I thought you two always carpooled.”
“Yeah, she had to get some files from her place,” Spencer says, ignoring the delighted chuckle from Morgan at the implications of him using the words ‘her place’, as it suggests you’d been spending the morning at another place entirely. “She’s really not here yet?”
Emily shakes her head. “Not as far as we know.”
“I’ll text her,” JJ says, taking out her phone.
“Tell her to meet us on the jet,” Hotch says as he gets up from his seat and starts handing out files to everyone. “We’ll debrief her on the way to Iowa.”
“Iowa?” Morgan asks, opening out the file. “Isn’t it freezing over there right now?”
“Then I suggest you bring a coat, Agent.”
Throughout the entire debrief, Spencer has trouble focusing. An uneasy feeling starts to settle in his stomach as the minutes pass and you don’t show up. It only worsens when you don’t answer JJ’s texts, or Emily’s, or his own. You don’t pick up when he calls either. By the time Hotch finishes talking, the uneasiness has transformed into worry. Being late was already unlike you, but not even answering any texts or calls? That went beyond unlike you.
“She’s not answering,” Spencer says, pulling his phone away from his ear when your voicemail starts for the fourth time in a row.
“Maybe she fell back asleep?” JJ suggests with a small shrug, even though the concern is evident in her eyes.
“Maybe she’s sick,” Morgan says, looking over at Spencer. “You saw her this morning, did she seem sick?”
“She was fine,” Spencer says, glancing over at Hotch. “This isn’t like her. When has she ever been late?”
Hotch clenches his jaw, looking down at his file before he sighs. “I’m sure she’s fine,” he says. “We’ll wait another fifteen minutes before leaving for the jet. I’m sure she’ll show up.”
That doesn’t help Spencer at all, and he bites the inside of his cheek as his boss leaves the room. “I’m sure she’s fine, Reid,” Morgan says, getting up from his chair. “She probably just got into a minor fender-bender or something on her way here, probably wrapped up in insurance stuff right now.”
“Telling me she got into a car accident doesn’t exactly make me feel better,” Spencer says with a cocked eyebrow. “Maybe I should stop by her place, see what’s going on?”
He looks between his colleagues, JJ frowning at her phone after she too fails to call you. “You and what car?” Emily eventually asks. “I’ll come with you, always wanted to know where she lives anyway.”
And so, Spencer finds himself in Emily’s car, driving toward your apartment. Part of him feels guilty for revealing your address like this, especially if it would turn out that you were fine, but he knows you’ll understand. He’ll make it up to you with flowers and a bottle of wine, something like that. The entire drive over, he keeps texting and calling you, ignoring Emily’s attempts at trying to calm him down, but you never answer. He’s just about to call Garcia, tell her to find out your phone’s location, when Emily parks her car in front of your apartment building.
Wasting not a single second, Spencer takes the stairs three steps at a time, ignoring the vague strain it puts on his knee he injured all those months ago. It’s only when he gets to your floor that he abruptly pauses, met with your front door on the other end of the hall, opened. It’s a small crack, as if someone forgot to push it into the lock, but it’s opened nonetheless. Beside him, Emily slowly takes out her gun as the two of them exchange worried glances, before he does the same.
With his heart pounding in his chest, Spencer slowly approaches the door, Emily beside him. They flank either side of the door, guns raised, and after nodding at Emily, Spencer calls out to you. He waits a few seconds, but no response comes. When he tries once more, he’s met with silence again. Either the apartment is empty and you just forgot to lock the door, or something bad has happened to you. He prays it’s the former.
Slowly, Spencer pushes open the door, glancing around the corner in the safest way he can, just as he’s been trained to do. The hallway is empty and so he and Emily enter, taking careful, diligent steps as they enter your flat. Slowly, he moves around that thin wall that hides the living room when you first walk in, and the moment he gets a full view of the room, along with the dining table and kitchen, he nearly sinks through his knees at the sight.
In the middle of the room is one of the dining room chairs, tipped over onto its side. Surrounding it are remnants of zip ties and, most horrid of all, blood. Small flecks and a few larger pools, the size of his palm, surround the chair, staining your hardwood floor and the white cushions. Bile rises in the back of his throat as his eyes drift over to the table, where one of your kitchen knives lay abandoned, its silver blade covered in dark red blood.
Vaguely, he’s aware of Emily gasping, rushing to all the other rooms for a sign of life, but instinctively, Spencer knows you won’t be there. Whatever happened here, someone took you once they were finished.
Someone took you. No, someone kidnapped you. Someone kidnapped you, after they finished torturing you. How long had you listened to your phone going off as someone cut into you with that knife? No, not someone: your attacker. An unsub. You were a victim now, attacked by an unsub. All while he was sat at home, eating breakfast, smug about his morning with you, before heading to his cushy job. He should’ve gone with you. What kind of an asshole was he anyway, letting you go to your place all alone? He should’ve gone with you so that he could’ve helped you out, like a good boyfriend would’ve done—actually, no, fuck that, he should’ve just told you to go on ahead to Quantico while he went by your place to get your things. Then maybe he’d have been the one attacked, instead of you.
“Spencer!”
He looks to Emily in surprise, her hand gripping his shoulder as she looks at him with widened eyes: she never used his first name. “Did you hear anything I said?”
Slowly, he shakes his head. “No, I…,” he trails off, looking back at the bloodied chair. “She was tortured.”
Emily swallows thickly. “I—I know. You need to focus, Reid. We don’t know how long they’ve been gone. I’ll call Hotch, let him know what happened, you should—”
Suddenly, a phone starts ringing. Both Spencer and Emily slowly look toward the couch, where, on the floor under the furniture, your phone lights up, vibrating against the hardwood floor. Your ringtone feels like it’s mocking the two agents, like its laughing: you’re too late. I’ve been here the entire time while everyone rang, and now you’re too late. Now, she’s gone.
You’re gone.
January 17th, 2010, 9:46 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 1 hour and 34 minutes since last sighting
Spencer stands quietly by the counter, watching as his team members methodically move around the room to figure out what exactly had happened to you in that short hour-and-a-half that you’d been alone. Beside him, Garcia is hurriedly typing away on her laptop, trying to find any security footage of you and the unsub: there had already been a missing person’s alert released in the hopes that someone—anyone—had seen you, but so far, Spencer had little faith in any information coming in that way. It was bizarre, standing here, in your apartment, watching the rest of the team move through your still scarcely decorated space, most likely profiling those same things he had the first time he visited here. But this wasn’t a visit to see your apartment. No, this was a crime scene, which was now being closely studied by the people you had tried to keep in the dark for so long.
“You said the door was opened?” Hotch asks, a frown on his face as he stares at the upturned chair and the blood, a grim testament to whatever had occurred there.
Emily nods. “Like someone forgot to close it,” she says. “We’ve got broken zip ties, blood—likely hers—and this knife, which we can assume came from her kitchen. No sign of forced entry, so she either knew her attacker or they caught her off-guard.”
Rossi kneels down by the chair, jaw set as he studies the blood. “Whoever it was, they weren’t here to talk. This wasn’t random: look at the zip ties. This was planned.”
As the nausea returns once more, stinging in the back of his throat, Spencer quickly looks away from the blood and looks at Garcia instead. “Anything?” He asks, voice rough, hating the way everything was so… methodical. He understands why, knows that staying level-headed and treating the crime scene like any other was the best way to handle this, but it still sickens him. This wasn’t just a victim no one had personal ties to: this was you. Your apartment, your blood, your history they were soon going to dig into.
With a guilty, grim expression, Garcia shakes her head. “Nothing so far. Whoever took her knew about the cameras in the area: it’s like they vanished into thin air.”
While the others continue to theorise what had happened to you, Spencer tunes all the noise out and closes his eyes for a moment, trying his best to not to give in to panic. His worry for you is so thick he wants to throw up but he knows it won’t help, that the best thing for him to do right now was to be as methodical as possible, to apply his intelligence and profiling talents to find you. But he can’t. No matter how hard he tries, all his mind allows him to see is you, tied up in that chair, while an unknown assailant cuts into your skin with one of your own knives.
A hand suddenly grabs his shoulder. When he opens his eyes, he’s met with Hotch’s concerned ones, studying him closely. “I know this isn’t easy,” he says quietly, mindful of the others listening in. “But we need you focused, Reid. It’s the only way we can find her.”
Wordlessly, Spencer nods. He knows that, that’s the whole problem: his mind is in a raging war with his heart, simple logic battling powerful emotions.
“Anything you can tell us about her state of mind this morning?” Hotch asks, letting go of his shoulder and glancing toward the group. “Anything that could help us? You know how this works, there’s no—”
“No detail too small, I know,” Spencer weakly says, purposefully avoiding his boss’s gaze. “There’s nothing, Hotch. She was fine; stressed about being late, but fine. Wanted me to change the sheets.”
That last part doesn’t even make sense to anyone but himself, but he’s not really sure what else to say. Perhaps he’s just trying to convince himself that this is all really happening, that he’s not still asleep in that bed he shared with you last night. He forgot to change the sheets, shit. You’ll be so mad. Assuming he’ll ever be able to tell you about that. No, don’t think like that, it’s not too late. There’s still time to find you.
Before anyone can reply, the unmistakeable sound of heels clicking on the hardwood floor interrupt the tense atmosphere, and in walks Erin Strauss, expression taut, yet unreadable. “I see you’ve beaten me to it,” she says, eyes lingering on the bloodstains. “Unfortunately, this is where your involvement ends.”
“Excuse me?” Emily says, her nostrils flaring.
Strauss levels her gaze at her, unwavering. “You’re off the case, Agent. You all are.”
What can only be described as rage bubbles up in Spencer’s chest, but before he can get a word out, Hotch speaks up. “With all due respect, ma’am, we’re the most equipped to handle this. She’s one of our own.”
“Which is precisely why you won’t be working this case anymore,” Strauss says, eyes flickering over every individual team member. “You’re too close to this. Another team will take over from here.”
“Too close?” JJ says, eyebrows shooting up. “We’ve rescued our own before, why take us off this one, now?”
Spencer has a horrible, sinking feeling as to why. It has to do with your past, the parts he does not yet know about, and oh, if only you had told him. He keeps quiet as he watches Hotch walk over to the section chief, face like thunder. “A word?” is all Hotch says as he motions to hallway outside, and without even a hitch in her composure, Strauss nods.
The moment they disappear from sight, Morgan looks over at Spencer. “Anything in this place that can help us?”
“What?”
“Look, clearly, Strauss doesn’t want us on this case, and I have a feeling she won’t listen to whatever Hotch is saying to her out there, so we need to get from this place what we can before we’re kicked out,” Morgan says, taking a few steps closer. “Is there anything here, anything at all, that might help us find her? Because if there is, now would be the time to take it.”
Vaguely, a voice in Spencer’s head is screaming at him that what Morgan is describing is a federal crime: several, in fact. Messing with a crime scene, stealing evidence, concealing evidence… all kinds of things that could have him lose his job, maybe even have him ending up in front of a judge.
Knowing all of that, Spencer’s eyes flicker over to your bookcase, to that textbook, as if his unconscious mind figures it out before he does. He’s instantly reminded of that wooden box you’d showed him on Christmas Eve, the one with your medals and pictures, all of which he hasn’t seen yet. With a newfound resolution, Spencer stalks over to the bookcase, rips out the necessary books, and nearly sighs in relief when he finds the box there, untouched.
Just as he puts the books back, the sound of Strauss’ heels clicking on the floor reach his ears. He turns around just in time, handing the box to JJ who quickly hides it under her jacket folded over her arms, nerves flaring as Strauss walks back inside, Hotch hot on her heels. Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything amiss as she starts to talk.
“I understand that this isn’t easy, but it’s in everyone’s best interests to have another team handle this,” Strauss says, eyes lingering on Spencer. “Due to the delicate matter of this case, we cannot afford any mistakes. You’re off this case. Now, this is a crime scene, one which you have no need to be seeing anymore, which means I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
A heavy silences hangs over the room when she finally finishes speaking. It’s obvious that everyone wants to argue, but with a single look from Hotch, they all deflate. Grudgingly, the team makes their way outside, all giving the room a last one-over in the hopes of capturing that one more bit of evidence once overlooked.
The moment they’re all in the hall and out of Strauss’ earshot, Hotch turns around with a determined look. “This isn’t about being ‘too close.’ Strauss has her reasons, but they’re not ours. We’re not dropping this case.”
Surprised, Spencer’s eyes widen as they meet Hotch’s. His defiance is uncharacteristic, especially because it was done so sneakily. Spencer had seen Hotch go up against his superiors plenty of times, questioning their choices and beliefs, but he had never seen him say one thing to their face, and then go completely against their orders the moment they look away.
After a moment, Rossi takes a step forward. “What’s the play?” He asks, clearly in agreement with Hotch’s sentiments.
“We go back to the office, figure out what we can with the things we know so far,” Hotch says with fiery eyes, resolved and clearly not planning on backing down any time soon. He meets Spencer’s gaze. “You think you can help with that?”
“I think so,” Spencer says, looking over at JJ, who produces the small box from under her jacket, handing it over to him. He looks around the team as he holds up the box, the insides quietly clinking together. “There might be some stuff in here that could help us find her. I don’t know exactly what’s inside, but I know she kept it for a reason.”
Hotch nods. “Good. We’ll look through the contents once were back at the BAU.”
As everyone starts to make their outside with a newfound determination, Hotch grabs Spencer’s shoulder, giving him a look of promise. “We’ll find her,” he says, voice firm. “I promise. We’re not losing her.”
Spencer wants to say that he knows. That he knows he can count on his team members, that they care about you like he does, that they’ll all walk through fire for you if they have to. The words get stuck in his throat, unable to move past the massive ball of doubt and guilt. There’s so much you had yet to tell him, so much he still doesn’t know: what if he can’t help? And everything he does know, he’ll have to share with everyone. That’s where some of the guilt comes from: you don’t want them to know, and now he’ll have to diverge all of those secrets without you even being there to defend yourself. How will you react once he finds you again?
What if he never finds you?
January 17th, 2010, 10:20 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 2 hours and 8 minutes since last sighting
The wooden box sits on the table in front of Spencer, closed and untouched, entirely lacklustre, had it not been for the knowledge of what lies inside. The whole team is sitting at that same table in the conference room, the door closed, blinds drawn, the air tense. Everyone is waiting for Spencer to open the box, to reveal the contents, but he can’t: not yet. There’s context to what lies in those wooden confines, needed to understand what will be revealed soon.
“Reid.”
He looks up to find Morgan watching him closely, a small frown on his forehead. “We’re losing time.”
“I know,” Spencer says, sighing. His fingers skim along the edge of the box. “I know. It’s just—we can’t go back, after this. She might hate us once this is all over.”
“She won’t,” JJ gently says, shaking her head. “If there’s one thing I can say for sure, it’s that she’d never hate us. If anything, I think she was just… scared. Scared of what we might say once we knew the truth.”
Spencer nods. “I know,” he says again, voice soft. He does know. You’d told him exactly that, the night of that argument: ‘Because I’m ashamed,’ you’d said—screamed. ‘I’m ashamed of all of it’.
With your words ringing in his ear, Spencer finally opens the box, met with an off-white envelope that’s creased in the corners, your Eagle, Globe and Anchor laid on top from that time you had so hastily put it away again. Knowing it will be the perfect way to get the conversation started, Spencer takes out the emblem and lays it down on the table for everyone to see. After a second or so, JJ reaches out to grab it. “What is it?” She asks, studying it for a moment before handing it to Emily.
As Spencer speaks, the emblem slowly makes it down the line, held and studied by the team one by one: all, except for Rossi, who barely even glances at it as he hands it to Hotch. “It’s called an Eagle, Globe and Anchor,” Spencer says, eyes lingering on Rossi, knowing he recognises it. He probably has one at home himself. “It’s what you receive when you finish your training as a… a marine.”
Everyone’s gazes snap to him in surprise, with Morgan’s eyes visibly bulging as he grasps the emblem. “She’s a marine?”
Nodding weakly, Spencer once again looks over at Rossi. “Scout Sniper, specifically,” he says, to which Rossi quirks an eyebrow.
“She has an MOS?” He says in surprise. “She moved quickly, going to college and finishing an MOS in such a short time?”
Deciding against revealing the fact that technically, you never went to college at all, Spencer just shrugs. “From what I know, her situation was… unique. She did a degree in International Relations, then her MOS—she was really good, I think, but she didn’t want to admit it to me,” he says but before he can continue, Morgan holds up a hand.
“Wait—just, hold on,” he says, running that same hand over his face next. “Can we not brush past this, please? Tommy was a marine? Our Tommy?”
“Are we really surprised?” Emily says, leaning back in her chair with a small frown. “Remember that first case? The way she took down that unsub? Or the knowledge she had on that military pin?”
“Or the way she shot that unsub who was holding Reid hostage,” Hotch adds, mumbling as his eyes distantly stare at the emblem in Morgan’s hands. There’s a look in his eyes Spencer recognises all too well: how had he not seen it sooner? Sure, he’d probably theorised, but how hadn’t he called it before the coin had landed?
“Does that mean… do you think Strauss knows?” Garcia quietly says, hands fidgeting with the edge of her laptop. “That this was why she took her gun, after that case? And why she kept such a short lease on her all the time?”
A silence falls over the room. It was a stinging revelation, realising that Strauss knew about your past but they all didn’t, even though you clearly didn’t like Strauss. You had your reasons, probably, but it still hurt to think about. Spencer knows: he felt the exact same way that night you finally told him.
“What else can you tell us, Reid?” Hotch eventually says, swiftly moving along from that particular topic.
Spencer clears his throat. “Uh, well, I know that she did a tour in Afghanistan for 24 months, and that she got recruited into some sort of team directly afterwards.”
“A team?” Rossi asks, leaning forward in his seat with clear interest.
“She couldn’t tell me about the details,” Spencer says, suddenly feeling helpless. This was about where his knowledge ended. “She had to sign an NDA, apparently. The rest of her career was with that team, and all I know was that she did… ‘illegal things’.”
“Why would someone in the military have to sign an NDA?” JJ asks, turning to Rossi, who slowly shook his head.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of any soldiers or marines having to sign an NDA,” he says, voice thoughtful. “There are things that are classified, but that wouldn’t require an NDA.”
Morgan sighs. “This is getting more confusing by the minute,” he mutters, before motioning to the box again. “Anything else in there?”
As Spencer goes to rummage through the box, Rossi gets up from his seat and pauses to stand beside Spencer. With a small frown, he takes the first medal Spencer procures from the box. Then he blinks, shock filling his features. “What is it?” Spencer asks, peaking at the medal in Rossi’s hands. It was round like a coin, a man holding a long rifle etched onto the front, the word ‘Expeditions’ visible along the upper edge of the medal. The ribbon was red and gold-coloured, slightly faded in colour.
“It’s an Expeditionary Medal,” Rossi eventually says, thumb running over the front of the medal. “It’s considered one of the highest honours a Marine can receive.”
To Spencer, it meant nothing, because he knew that to you, it meant nothing anymore either. ‘The medals, I don’t think they’re all that interesting,’ is what you’d said. It didn’t exactly sound prideful.
After a moment, which was filled with a cautious silence from everyone in the room, Rossi puts the medal down on the table and reaches for the box. Out of it, he takes a sort of embroidery patch, with was a simple red and gold stripe. “This is called a Service Stripe,” he says, holding it out so everyone can see. “You get one of these every four years.”
Next, he takes out a ribbon: the Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, issued to those who had served overseas. After that appeared a Good Conduct medal, meaning you had served for over 3 consecutive years of ‘honourable and faithful’ service. Next, the Global War on Terrorism Service Medal, Global War on Terrorism Expeditionary Medal—similar to the first, except for overseas—and the Meritorious Unit Commendation, meaning that your unit had been awarded for outstanding service.
It's the next medal that has Rossi visibly pause. It’s a medal portraying an eagle surrounded by barbed wire, attached to a black and white ribbon. “Oh, bella,” he whispers to himself, momentarily closing his eyes.
An uneasy feeling settles in Spencer’s chest. “Is that not a good one?”
After a moment, Rossi sighs softly. “This,” he says, pausing for a moment, “this is a Prisoner of War Medal.”
Garcia gasps, putting a hand in front of her mouth. “Prisoner of war?” she says, eyes visibly widened. “That’s awful! Does that mean she got hurt?”
“Not necessarily,” Rossi says, quickly glancing over at Spencer with a look of sympathy before he reaches into the box once more. “This, however, does.”
The medal that comes out of that small, wooden box next is the only one Spencer can instantly recognise, even with the little knowledge he has on all of this: it’s heart-shaped, gold, with a purple ribbon and purple background for the profile of George Washington.
A Purple Heart. Awarded to those who got wounded in battle.
Bile rises in the back of Spencer’s throat, and he swallows thickly. Refusing to even think of you getting hurt like that, let alone the possibility that it might be linked to that POW medal, he quickly grabs the neglected envelope instead. He opens it without waiting for anyone else, ignoring the voices of his team members who don’t recognise the medal and Rossi explaining the meaning.
The first picture feels like a punch to the gut. It’s one of a much younger you, clad in a camouflage uniform, sleeves rolled up to fend off the oppressive heat radiating from the sun above. Your hair, noticeably longer than it is now, is gelled back into a tight bun. You’re propped up on your forearms against a low fence, hands lazily clasped together. A broad grin spreads across your face as you look at someone just out of the frame, clearly unaware of the picture being taken. It’s a surreal sight, seeing you in uniform. The Eagle, Globe, and Anchor emblem on your chest stands out, but the absence of any other medals suggests this was taken when you were likely still eighteen, just beginning your journey in service.
“Is that her?” JJ suddenly asks, voice soft as she leans over to look at the picture. “She’s so young there, look at that baby face.”
Spencer can’t help but smile a bit. It’s true: your features are softer, more rounded, lacking the sharpness they have now. It’s your eyes that are the most different from today, though. There’s a light in them he doesn’t recognise, a sense of weightlessness, perhaps even hope. He’s never seen you like this before—so joyful, so carefree. You seem to radiate happiness. ‘It was the proudest moment of my life, when they put that emblem in my hand’. This must’ve been around that time.
The next photo appears to be from a similar period, judging by your youthful appearance. You’re surrounded by a group of people, kneeling on one knee, all grinning at the camera. There’s a guy behind you, appearing to be roughly your age, with his hand on your shoulder. Beside you is a girl with bright red hair, her smile mirroring yours. She’s angled toward you, more so than the others, and the profiler within Spencer concludes that she must’ve been a friend.
In the next image, you’re wearing that same uniform, but this time you’re fully equipped for action, reminiscent of characters from war films. A sturdy, brown helmet is fastened securely beneath your chin, and you sport a bulletproof vest adorned with an array of small pockets. Elbow and knee pads protect your limbs, while gloves complete your tactical look. Various pouches cling to your arms and legs, and a heavy backpack rests on your shoulders. Everything is coloured in the shame shades of brown, green and grey. In your hands is an automatic rifle, held effortlessly as if its weight is inconsequential. Your expression has shifted from a smile to intense concentration, as if you’re attuned to a voice just beyond the frame. Surrounding you are others in matching uniforms, all equally absorbed. Among them, Spencer spots familiar faces from the earlier photo, including the girl with red hair. The backdrop is far from the familiar landscapes of the United States, featuring arid, reddish soil, distant mountains, and sparse greenery. This must’ve been taken during your deployment.
As that picture makes it way down the table, along with the other two, Spencer grabs the next. This time, you’re dressed in a strikingly different uniform: a deep, dark blue with a high collar, adorned with gold buttons and a white belt. Your white gloves stand out sharply against the luxurious blue fabric. In the picture, you’re shaking hands with an older man, who is wearing a proud smile as he looks down at you.
Was this your sergeant? The one you had mentioned? Carver?
It’s in the fourth image that Spencer is starting to recognise you for the worst reasons. Your eyes have lost their spark, mirroring the lacklustre quality of your smile, which now appears forced, as if you’ve only just barely recalled how to curve your lips upward. The man beside you seems oblivious, grinning at the camera with an arm draped around your shoulder, pulling you close—it’s the man from before, who had his hand on your shoulder. Spencer recognises the look in his eyes: it’s the same way he looks at you. Whoever this man was, he clearly harboured feelings for you: feelings which you didn’t reciprocate, if your expression and body language were anything to go by. You appeared older here, around twenty-two, if he had to guess.
When he turns the photograph around, he finds a date scribbled onto the back: March, ’03. He was right, then: you were twenty-two when this was taken.
The final picture shakes him to his very core. It’s the most recent of the bunch, featuring faces he hasn’t encountered in the earlier photos, apart from that guy from before and the redhead. They’re smiling, but only barely, just like everyone else. You, however, are a whole other story. You’re glaring at the camera with a chilling intensity, eyes dull and lifeless and sunken in, your mouth a straight line. Your cheekbones are protruding in a way he knows isn’t healthy, and deep, dark blue bags frame your eyes. Despite the bright sun and vibrant backdrop, your cheeks lack any hint of colour. The only way he can articulate it is that you resemble a ghost. Standing next to you is that same older man—Carver?—who wears a smirk that suggests a sense of pride. Yet, it’s a different kind of pride from the earlier photo; he seems almost self-satisfied, as if he knows something the rest of them do not. On the back of the photograph, it reads July ‘06.
A jolt shoots through his body. You retired in September of that same year. This was it then, that team you had mentioned: and clearly, well on its way to an end. Whatever morale he had felt in those other pictures, it wasn’t anywhere to be found here. Apart from that older-looking man, everyone looks drained and tired, eyes far away, even the ones that are smiling.
As the pictures make their way around the table, Spencer leans back in his chair and rubs a hand over his face. When his gaze catches on the clock on the opposite side of the room, his heart stutters: you’d been missing for over two hours now. Time was running quicker than he could keep up with. Every second he sat here, was another second you were unaccounted for, that unsub doing God knows what to you.
“If it wasn’t for the situation, I’d have thought she looked cool,” Emily mumbles, more to herself than anyone else. She suddenly frowns, tilting the photograph she’s holding toward the light. “What’s that, on her chest? It looks like some sort of name? The others have it too.”
Spencer nearly trips in his haste to get to her, taking the photograph to get a better look: she’s right, he can’t believe he missed it the first time. In that final photo, the one that can only be described as picturing a team of zombies, everyone has some sort of name on their chest. He blinks a few times, turning the picture around until finally, he can make something out. It’s a… ‘j’?
After a short second, a realisation so abrupt practically punches him in the stomach, leaving him breathless. “J,” he says, looking toward Hotch, who he knows can recognise it too. “On her chest, it’s a ‘J’.”
Hotch quirks an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate.
“What if it’s to do with Project J?”
Finally, the penny drops. Hotch parts his lips, before abruptly looking off to the side, an intense focus on his face as he tries to figure out the connection.
“Project J?” Morgan asks with a frown, letting go of his own photograph and dropping it onto the table. “We supposed to know what that is?”
“A while ago, back in February, she was working on these files,” Spencer hastily explains, waving around the picture he’s still holding. “She didn’t want me looking at them, but on the front, it said Project J. I never asked about it, but I’m pretty sure they came from Strauss.”
After a moment of confused silence, he turns to Hotch again. “Remember? She was here all night, working on them?”
“I remember,” Hotch says, voice quiet, clearly lost in thought. “It wasn’t just that one time, though.”
Now it was Spencer’s turn to feel confused. “What?”
Sighing softly, Hotch looks up at him with a guilty expression. “She worked on those files more than once. From time to time, Strauss would call my office, requesting that I send Tommy up after hours. She’d tell us she was going home, but instead she’d take the elevator to Strauss’ office.”
Something cold washes down Spencer’s back as he stares at his boss, suddenly feeling like the wind has been taken out of his sails. “She… but she never…”
He sounds pathetic, mumbling like a fool about how you had never told him. Was this another one of your loopholes? Technically, because you never told him and he never asked, this wasn’t a lie? You just omitted it all out of… what? Avoidance? Shame? Or did you just not care about him enough to think to tell him?
“What does it mean, Project J?” JJ eventually asks, sending a concerned look to Spencer, who stubbornly avoids eye contact. God, he feels like an idiot.
“I don’t know,” Hotch says, shaking his head regretfully. “I was under strict orders not to look into it, and I had enough other things going on I never thought to ask. I figured it was something left over from her time at Counterterrorism.”
After a moment of tense silence, Garcia slowly raises a hand, glancing around the room with cautious eyes. “I could try and find it in the database?”
“FBI or Military?” Morgan asks. Garcia tuts.
“Like I’d choose just one?”
Barely five minutes later, Garcia is typing so rapidly, Spencer feels dizzy. He can’t say for certain that she’s the reason, however: it could also be all of the revelations from the last hour, assaulting his senses and every little things he thought he knew about you, now called into question in front of all of his friends. JJ keeps looking over at him, as does Morgan, but he refuses to meet their concerned gazes. It’s the last thing he wants right now, to talk about his feelings. He wants to do this part on his own, so that he doesn’t have to share the embarrassment he’s feeling right now. Did he even know you a little bit, even at all?
“Hm, I can’t find anything,” Garcia eventually says with a deep crease in her forehead. “It’s too broad, but from what I can see, it’s not what we’re looking for. Unless our little soldier is involved in a financial report from last year?”
Vaguely, Spencer wants to point out that soldier is close to an insult for a marine, but he can’t get himself to care. So, instead, he says something else entirely. “What about her name?” He asks. Eyes linger on him, his colleagues picking up on his short tone. “She was in the military, it means that there has to be a file on her, right?”
“Good thinking,” Hotch says, but it falls on deaf ears.
“Okay, now this is really weird,” Garcia says, staring at the screen as if it’s written in Chinese.
“What is?” Morgan asks, getting up from his seat to look at the laptop over her shoulder.
“There’s no one in the database with that name—no one that looks like her, anyway. Angie Tomlinson, right?” She asks, waiting for everyone to nod. “The closest match I can find is someone named Angelina Thompson?”
Bile rises in the back of Spencer’s throat once more, doubling in intensity the moment Garcia turns her laptop around for everyone to look at the screen. It’s not your picture. Not even close, actually. The face staring back at him is the same one he’s seen in those pictures, always close beside you, always smiling: the redhead. The redhead he’d profiled to have been one of your friends from that time was now identified as Angelina Thompson, a name so eerily similar to yours, it felt like a joke.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Emily says, looking so utterly confused it was nearly comical. “So Tommy isn’t in the Military’s database, but another woman with a nearly identical name who served alongside her is? What does this even mean? Tommy’s name isn’t…?”
“A fake name?” Rossi says, slowly shaking his head in disbelief. “How does someone join the FBI with a fake name?”
“They don’t,” Hotch thoughtfully says, eyes lingering on one of your photographs. “Not unless they’ve been issued by a government agency.”
Morgan catches on first. “A government agency… like WITSEC.”
Gripping the armrests of his chair so tightly his knuckles are turning white, Spencer fights off the urge to throw up. A fake name? You had a fake name? Was there anything about you that was the truth? Everything he had ever learned, was there any truth to it, or had it all been lies?
“Why would she be in WITSEC?” Emily asks, running a frustrated hand through her hair. “And who the hell would join the FBI if they were in WITSEC? Who would even hire her?”
“Strauss, apparently,” JJ says, once more looking over at Spencer.
“What if it’s connected?” Morgan says, glancing between his colleagues. “Her fake name and Project J, whatever that is? What if something went wrong and she had to go underground?”
“But why choose a name so recognisable?” Emily responds. “If you had to go into hiding you wouldn’t choose a name tied to your past. It’s the whole point of WITSEC, to create a new identity.”
“Maybe she didn’t have to hide, maybe she just wanted to hide her past while paying homage to the people she loved,” Rossi says, pointing to the screen. “Angelina Thompson is dead. Died in September of 2006—maybe Tommy wanted to honour her.”
Died in September of 2006. That was when you retired. You had a fake name, inspired by an old friend who died in the same month you retired, whilst part of some secret team named Project J.
The next thing he knows, he’s sprinting to the bathrooms, just barely reaching a toilet in time before his stomach empties itself of its contents. The bitterness that follows isn’t just in his mouth, but drenches his lungs, seeping into his stomach and slowly poisoning his heart. Nothing, none of it, had been true. Everything he knew about you was a lie.
“Spencer?”
It’s a woman’s voice, tentative and soft, careful not to scare or anger him. It’s JJ. She carefully knocks on the door. “You okay? Anything I can do?”
After flushing the toilet, looking away as what is left of his breakfast vanishes from the porcelain, Spencer opens the door, quickly brushing past her to get to the sinks. There, he washes out his mouth before splashing water on his face. For a moment, he hides his face in his hands, relishing in the cold that stains his skin. Eventually, JJ’s hand rubs up and down his back in an attempt to soothe him, and even though he appreciates the gesture, it’s not what he needs. He doesn’t tell her that, though. Just dries his hands on the front of his trousers and looks into the mirror, met with a pale face that’s still soaking wet, tips of his hair now dripping too.
“It’s must be difficult, all of this,” JJ says, taking a step back to give him his space. “Nobody’s judging you, you know.”
“I’m judging me,” Spencer says, swallowing thickly. His throat burns. “Never knew about any of it. Her name, her past, those medals, the pictures… I didn’t know about any of it.”
“Because she didn’t want you to—”
“And why the hell not?” Spencer snaps, knowing it’s not JJ who deserves his anger right now, but he doesn’t know where else to put it. “Am I not the one she loves? Am I not the one who spent the whole of last year walking on eggshells, giving her space? If it’s not me she wants to tell, than who? Who else could there possibly be that deserves to know this more than I do?”
To her credit, JJ doesn’t seem taken aback by his outburst at all. She thinks for a moment, then folds her arms in front of her chest. “It’s not about deserving, Spencer. I’ll be honest, right now it sounds like you did all of those things for her purely because you wanted to know about her past. Like you feel like you deserve an award for waiting or something.”
Irked, Spencer straightens up. “That’s not what I—”
“Isn’t it?” JJ says, taking a step closer, eyebrows knitting together. “Don’t think I don’t know about that fight the two of you had in November. She stayed at my place for like two days because she was afraid you’d show up her at her door to yell some more. What is it that you said, something about her stringing you along? About how she played you? That you felt you deserved the truth before anyone else because you loved her?”
Spencer just stares at her, stunned. He hadn’t known about that. Another thing. So when your door had stayed closed… and you talked to JJ about this stuff? Relationship drama? How had he overlooked that?
“That girl is traumatised, Spencer! She’s got scars I can’t even imagine the magnitude of—she was probably just relieved she found a guy who didn’t care about that, who just wanted to know her for her, instead of her past!” JJ is prodding a finger into his chest now, getting up in his face as if she wasn’t at least a head shorter than him. “You’re not owed a thing, that’s what love is! It means blindly giving and hoping the other person will appreciate it. Love isn’t owing someone something! If she didn’t want to you to know about any of this, then that’s her right! It was up to you to choose whether you wanted to deal with that or not: if you couldn’t love her regardless of that, you had every right to leave, but you didn’t! You chose to stay, that was your choice!”
You don’t need to fix it, Spencer. All you need to do is love her while she fixes herself.
His mother’s words ring in his head, as loud as JJ’s, dizzying him all over again. JJ seems to notice because she pauses, looking up at him with a small frown.
“I… you’re right,” Spencer eventually mumbles, to which she seems surprised. “She trusted me because she thought I didn’t care, that I loved her because of it, not in spite of it. That’s why she told me.”
JJ takes a deep breath and steps back, nodding. “It’s about time. And besides, I don’t think that the stuff we learned about in there was something she didn’t want to tell you. I think she couldn’t risk it. There’s something fishy going on, something much bigger than we originally thought, and she knew she couldn’t risk us knowing about it.”
Spencer nods. “I think you’re right.”
“I always am.”
He scoffs. “That’s such a mom thing to say.”
“Well, I did just scold you,” JJ says with a small smile, tilting her head to the side. “Now, if you’re ready, I think it’s about time we walk back into that conference room and go get our girl back. How about it?”
With a newfound confidence, Spencer follows her out of the bathroom.
Chapter 16: Combustion
Notes:
Thank you so much for all the comments on the last chapter, they mean so much to me!!! Sorry that this one took so long, but it was my birthday and then I had a hangover that lasted like three days lmao and then I got sick but........ enough yapping baby let's get this bread!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 17th, 2010, 11:37 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 2 hours and 57 minutes since last sighting.
Spencer had never much understood the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. There were various versions of the story, but the gist of it was always the same. In Greek mythology, Orpheus and Eurydice shared a profound love. When, one day, Eurydice succumbed to a snake’s venomous bite, Orpheus, stricken with sorrow and armed with a lyre gifted to him by Apollo, played songs so sad and mournful that all the nymphs and gods wept. It was on their guidance that Orpheus travelled to the underworld, protected by the gods, to plead Hades for the return of his beloved. Hades agreed, on one condition: Orpheus had to walk in front of Eurydice and not look back until they both had reached the upperworld. Agreeing to his terms, Orpheus set off back to the upperworld. Yet, as he crossed the threshold into the realm of the living, he looked back at Eurydice, forgetting Hades’ stipulation in his eagerness to see her again. Eurydice vanished once more, this time forever, leaving Orpheus to wander the earth without his lover for the rest of his life.
There were many reasons as to why Spencer didn’t like the story. There had always been one question that plagued his mind, however: why? Why would Orpheus look back? How could he fail when the stakes were so high, the rules so clear? It would’ve been so easy not to look back, to have waited for her to cross into the world of the living, and he would’ve been reunited with his lover. Spencer had always believed that, had it been him in Orpheus’s place, he wouldn’t have turned. He was certain of it. He would have kept his eyes fixed forward, his resolve unshakable, until Eurydice stood safely by his side.
What he had never considered was who Eurydice might be.
Spencer prided himself on his media literacy—he was a genius, after all—but somehow, this part of the story had always eluded him. It wasn’t until now, with you, that the truth became clear: if you were his Eurydice, he would have turned. It wouldn’t have mattered if you stumbled or cried out or if he simply doubted the silence behind him—he would always turn. Because to love someone is to turn around. To love someone is to risk everything, even when you know the cost.
That’s why Orpheus looked back. That’s why the story is a tragedy.
Before you, Spencer had been sure he would never be Orpheus. He would never enter the underworld, never risk the peril of loss. But now, he knows: he would traverse any realm, defy any god, to bring you back. And he would always turn around, no matter the consequences. Not because he lacked resolve, but because he loved you too much to trust the distance, the silence, the uncertainty.
This realisation, dawning as it did, felt cruel in its timing. He shouldn’t be standing here, watching you bloodied and broken, having a revelation about ancient myths and the nature of love. But revelations never come at convenient moments, and this one had been waiting. For a long while, it seemed.
When Morgan stopped him outside the conference room, he knew in an instant that something was wrong. Over the man’s shoulder, he caught a fleeting image of someone who looked suspiciously much like you on the screen before it disappeared, due to Hotch quickly turning off the monitor.
“What’s going on?” Spencer asks, fear gripping his heart. “Was that her? It was, wasn’t it?”
“Reid, hold on,” Morgan says, gently pushing Spencer back by putting a hand on his chest. “Give them a second in there.”
“A second for what?” JJ says, a deep frown etched into her forehead. “What’s going on?”
Hesitating, Morgan clenches his jaw and looks over his shoulder, where Rossi, Hotch, Garcia and Emily are seated at the table, faces pale and troubled. Garcia’s crying. Something is wrong- very, very wrong.
“Look, right after you ran out, Garcia got an email,” Morgan carefully says, eyes studying Spencer closely for any response at all- almost like he's dismantling a bomb, and is studying every single detail to look for a sign to stop. “It contained a video.”
“What kind of video?” Spencer asks, feeling more and more frustrated and terrified with every second that passes. “Morgan, what kind of video?”
“It’s… it’s her,” Morgan says, glancing over at JJ. “It’s not good. She’s… hurt.”
Not waiting for anything else, JJ quickly walks into the conference room, but Morgan still doesn’t allow Spencer to pass. “Let me go,” Spencer says, tempted to punch his colleague in the face.
“Reid, listen to me,” Morgan says, voice insistent, and finally, Spencer pauses to listen. Maybe it’ll get him in that room quicker. “You don’t want to see what’s on that video, alright? Trust me. It’s bad, man, really bad. Once you’ve seen it you won’t get it out of your head.”
Spencer swallows thickly. “I have to see it,” he says quietly, even if his entire being is screaming at him not to go ahead with this. “I have to see all the evidence. It’s the only way we can find her.”
After a few tense seconds, Morgan nods hesitantly and steps aside so Spencer can enter the conference room. In there, the air is palpable, and the various expressions of sympathy, shock and abhorrence are enough to have him hold his breath.
“You don’t have to see this, kid,” Rossi gently says from where he’s sitting at the table, face more emotional than Spencer has ever seen.
“I have to,” he says, looking over at Hotch next. It takes a moment, but finally, Hotch nods stiffly and turns the screen back on, motioning to Garcia to restart the video. In front of Spencer unfolds a scene so grim, the room feels like its drenched in it.
The video is taken in landscape mode, with you in the middle of the frame. You’re tied to a chair, probably in the same way you’d been tied up in your apartment, your head lolled forward, causing your hair to obscure your face. The clothes you’re wearing are bloodied, the shirt torn by your stomach, and there are already bruises on your arms. A person enters the frame next—from his build, clothes and large hands, it seems to be a man. He positions himself behind you. For a moment, nothing happens. Then he suddenly grabs the hair on the back of your head and roughly pulls your head up so that you’re now looking straight into the camera.
At the sight of your face, Spencer bites his tongue. There’s dried blood crusting your hairline, and fresh blood leaks out of your nose, over your lips and down your chin. A large cut through your eyebrow bleeds steadily too, accompanied by a bruise on your cheekbone. There’s another one blossoming on your jaw, already turning a deep purple. You’re clearly in pain, breathing in sharply through your nose as you seem to try and keep it all in, nostrils flaring.
“Come on, sunshine. Give your friends a smile, eh?” The man says, voice carrying a faint Scottish lilt as he roughly yanks on your hair again.
“Fuck you,” you spit, blood flecking your lips. In response, the man forcefully shoves your head away. With a grunt, you slowly raise your head again, gaze sharp and unwavering despite the pain.
“I’m surprised, sunshine,” the man says, crouching down in front of you. He’s wearing a ski mask so that his face is obscured. “You used to love following orders. Or am I remembering that wrong?”
You glare at him with a hate so palpable, it’s felt through the screen. “Fuck. You.”
The man just chuckles. “Now where’s all that wit, huh? Or is that only reserved for the special boys in your life?”
A sick smirk makes its way onto your face. “You wouldn’t know, would you?” You rasp out. “You were never special to me.”
The punch that lands against your cheek comes so fast, Spencer doesn’t have time to prepare himself. Skin cracks against skin and everyone flinches. A loud, pained grunt escapes you. Spencer grips the edge of the table, willing himself to keep standing: if you can take a punch like that, he can watch it without showing weakness. He has to. Slowly, you turn your face back to the man once more, and a taunting grin paints your features. Blood stains your teeth, blood that wasn’t previously there, making you look downright horrifying.
“Hurt your feelings, did I?” You mock. If the punch actually hurt you, you’re not showing it. Spencer feels sick again.
“Acting tough isn’t going to help you,” the man hisses, abruptly getting back to his feet. “It didn’t save you then and it won’t save you now.”
“I don’t care about being saved,” you say, eyes following him around the room as he disappears from the frame. “At least I’m not acting like a coward about it, hiding my face behind some stupid mask. All I have to do is say your name and they’ll know who you are.”
“Go ahead. I’ll just edit all of it out,” the man says. He comes back into frame, now with a knife in his hand, which he presses against your neck. “Go ahead. I’ve got all the time in the world. Maybe I’ll take out your tongue, once you’re done?”
You stare up at him defiantly but don’t say anything, and he scoffs. “Maybe I should tell ‘em your name, eh, Echo?” he says, motioning to the camera with his knife. Something flickers in your eyes at that nickname, which he notices. “Now, how long has it been since someone called you that nickname? What is it that your little friends call you again? Tommy?”
He spits your name like venom. Your name, which isn’t your name at all. Echo isn’t either, he called it a nickname, but what kind of nickname is it? A good one? Or does it have negative connotations? Spencer can’t tell anymore. Your eyes are unreadable to him now, and the situation is far too messed up for him to make sense of any of it.
“Just go ahead and kill me,” you say, eyes unwavering as they stare into his. “Bloody end it already.”
“Kill you?” The man says, putting the knife back to your throat. “I’m not going to kill you.”
“Why not? You too scared?”
The man just stares at you. It seems to enrage you. “You’re still too much of a coward to do the dirty work yourself, huh?” you say, leaning forward just enough for a drop of blood the escape where the blade pierces your skin. It runs down your neck and stains the collar of your shirt. “Still a fucking coward. Just like you were back then.”
The man suddenly grabs your throat with his other hand, pushing you back and squeezing so roughly a wheeze escapes you. “I’m not killing you because it would be a fuckin’ mercy,” he says, bringing his face close to yours as he squeezes and squeezes, forcing the air out of your throat. “Killing you would just be giving you what you’re too fucking scared to take. You think I can’t tell how it haunts you like it haunts me? You think I don’t hear all those fucking voices either? Those screams? It still follows you around, poisoning you, taking everything from you. I’d be a fool to take that away. Killing you would be doing you a fucking favour.”
He leans even closer, now placing the tip of the knife directly under your eye as you struggle against his grip on your throat, fighting for air. “I want to watch you suffer. I want you to watch your little friends die, just like back then. Everyone you’ve ever cared about will die in front of your eyes, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it. I want it to haunt you. I want to see you break, to know there is nobody left in the world for you, and then, maybe, I’ll kill you. Maybe. Once when I’m done with you, there’ll be nothing left of you but a fucking ghost. A shadow of who you were.”
Finally, he lets go. Spencer breathes with you, sinking into the chair behind him now that his legs can no longer keep him standing. For a small moment, he believed that was it, that he was about to watch you die. The room is dead silent, everyone watching the video play out, powerless as to stop whatever will happen next. Your gasps and wheezes, desperately fighting for air, are one of the worst things Spencer has ever heard.
“Do they even know, huh?” The man continues, waving the knife around like it wasn’t a weapon at all. “The things we’ve done—the things you’ve done? Do they know? Or did you lie them like you lied to me? Did you lie to them about all of it, like you always do?”
“…No,” you rasp out, voice barely audible, shaking your head as well as you can. “No…”
“Liar!” The man yells, pressing the knife back against your cheek. “All you do is lie!”
“Not—not to them,” you say, barely managing to get the words out. “I’ve never lied to them. I’ve never… not to him.”
“Lying by omission is still fucking lying, you bitch,” the man says, before whipping the knife against your arm, creating a swift cut that has you crying out in pain.
Spencer doesn’t realise he’s jumped to his feet until he feels his legs tremble again. He watches in horror as blood flows from the cut on your arm, while the unsub’s words echo in his mind. Lying by omission is still lying. He’d said the exact same thing to you that night. This psychopath was telling you the same thing Spencer told you during that fight. It’s only now that he realises how much he regrets it all: will he ever get to tell you?
The man disappears off the screen and you watch him before your eyes suddenly fill with fear. You start screaming the word ‘no’ over and over again as you fight against your restraints, trying to pull yourself free. The man appears once more, holding a wet rag in his hand and a large bottle of water in the other. He’s about to put the rag over your screaming face—
The screen suddenly turns off, tearing Spencer from his own guilt-ridden mind, his eyes flickering over to Hotch. He’s wearing a sympathetic expression as he slowly lowers the remote. “There’s no more talking after that,” he explains, swallowing thickly. “Just… a lot of violence we don’t need to see. All the necessary information we could possibly get from this video, we’ve already seen.”
At a loss for what to say, Spencer only nods. A hand touches his shoulder. “You okay?” Morgan quietly asks, brows scrunched together in concern. Spencer starts to nod again but then shakes his head instead.
“We need to find her,” he hoarsely says, looking around the room to meet his colleagues’ eyes one by one. Garcia has tears in her eyes—JJ still has a shocked hand in front of her mouth. The rest aren’t doing much better in terms of composure.
After a few seconds, Hotch suddenly straightens his back, grabs a marker and turns to the whiteboard. “What do we know?” He says, kicking the BAU back into gear. Processing emotions and traumas could be done later, after they all found you: now, it was time to work the case.
“They know each other,” Rossi says, looking thoughtful. “The things they said were familiar, they kept talking about the past. I think they served together.”
“He called her Echo,” Emily adds, leaning forward on her elbows. “He said it was a nickname.”
“He knows about us,” Spencer says, trying to recall the words exchanged in the video. “He knows what we call her. He knows about… me.”
“He doesn’t just know,” Morgan says. “He said he wants to kill us. Everyone she’s ever cared about.”
A tense silence falls over the room. “Everyone she’s ever cared about,” Hotch says to himself, before he suddenly turns around to face the room. He looks at JJ. “Call your husband. Tell him a car will come pick him and your son up so they can be taken to a safe location. I’ll do the same for Jack.”
He turns to Spencer next while JJ runs out of the room to call Will. “Your mother,” he starts, but Spencer shakes his head.
“She’s never met my mother. I think we’re good there,” he says and with a nod, Hotch leaves the room to take care of transportation for his son. Then Spencer remembers someone, someone you haven’t mentioned in a long time—someone you cared about. He looks over at Garcia. “The guy she used to see—James. We have to warn him too.”
Without hesitation, Garcia starts rapidly typing away, frantically looking up any possible contact information the team can use to contact your ex-fling. She suddenly pauses. “Oh, no…” she whispers, looking up from her laptop with a sad expression. “He was found dead two weeks ago in his house… it burned down. The police think it was a faulty gas line.”
Rossi sighs. “I think we can safely deduce that it wasn’t,” he says regretfully. “Two weeks ago… looks like this unsub has been planning this for a while. What else do we know?”
“He spoke with a Scottish accent,” Emily says. “Right? I’m not the only one who clocked that?”
“Then I might know who our unsub is,” Garcia says, causing everyone to look at her with surprised expressions.
“How?” Morgan asks, clearly impressed.
“Uh, well, I figured if he knew our Tommy so well, then maybe he knew that redhead, Angelina Thompson, too. So, I looked through training records from around the time I guessed Tommy signed up and found our redhead, and from there on out I checked all the men from that training period and found only one with dual citizenship to Scotland.”
After a few seconds of stunned silence, Garcia turns around her laptop to reveal the picture of a familiar looking man. “Meet Jagger Bennett. Joined the Marines when he was eighteen and his Military Occupational Specialty is Mortarman.”
Morgan reaches down and grabs one of the pictures scattered atop the table. It’s the one with you and that man, who has his arm around your shoulder. “That’s him, isn’t it?” He asks, pointing to the man. Spencer realises he’s right. The man who so clearly used to be in love with you was now identified as Jagger Bennett.
“There’s only one problem with that,” Emily says as she reads over the information on the screen. “Bennett died. September 2006, just like that other woman, Angelina Thompson.”
A silence falls. Spencer’s mind races. I want you to watch your little friends die, just like back then. Something clicks, something small: another piece of the puzzle falls into place. “He said he wants us to die like her friends back then,” he says, more to himself than to anyone else. “What if that’s what happened to Project J? What if everyone involved died in September of 2006 except for Tommy? What if she made it out, assumed everyone was dead and tried to disappear with a new name?”
“Without realising someone else did make it out,” Rossi thoughtfully says, staring at Bennett’s picture. “And now he’s come back to take his revenge.”
“We need to get to those files,” Morgan says, voice resolute. “If we find out what happened, maybe we can figure out what this Bennett guy is planning. If this really is a revenge ploy, he could be trying to recreate the situation so he can spin it for his own satisfaction. Watch Tommy and us die and walk away victorious, instead of being one of the victims.”
“It’s the perfect revenge fantasy,” Emily agrees. She suddenly stands up from her chair, expression determined as she focuses on Spencer. “Those files—you said they had to do with Strauss, right? They could be in her office. All we’d have to do is distract her, get someone in the door and take the files without her noticing.”
“Are you suggesting breaking and entering, Agent?” Rossi muses, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes betray him, however: he’s clearly considering the same thing. “It’s risky. Who’s to say she isn’t already reading through those files? She probably already knows everything we’ve just figured out. She’d notice if you stole them.”
“What if we didn’t have to steal them?” Spencer says, earning everyone’s attention. “All I’d have to do is just… read them. They wouldn’t even have to leave that office.”
Slowly, everyone looks at each other, considering the plan and going over all the risks. “Ah, fuck it,” Emily then says. “What do we have to lose at this point?”
“Well, while you crazy kids break into the Section Chief’s office, I’ll try to figure out where the video came from,” Garcia says, turning the laptop back around so that it’s facing her. “With a bit of luck and a lot of elbow grease, I could try to pinpoint where the video was sent from.”
Everyone nods, newfound confidence palpable in the air around them. There was a chance: the odds weren’t so bad now, not anymore. It’s then that Hotch walks into the room, JJ behind him, pausing abruptly at the sight of his team looking suspiciously excited about something. He narrows his eyes.
“What are you planning?”
January 17th, 2010, 12:15 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 3 hours and 35 minutes since last sighting.
“What do I even tell her?” JJ frantically whispers to Spencer and Emily before glancing around the corner to Strauss’ office. “It’s not like we talk all that often!”
“Just tell her you need help choosing a case,” Emily says, shrugging helplessly. “Tell her you’re too distraught about what’s happening that you can’t think straight and could use her help.”
JJ hides her face in her hands and sighs. “Okay, fine!” she finally relents, looking back up again. “But if I lose my job because of you two, you have to quit in solidarity!”
Spencer places a hand over his heart. “Cross my heart,” he solemnly says, to which Emily nods.
“And hope to die, yup.”
With an unconvinced final look, JJ disappears around the corner to approach Strauss’ office. Spencer and Emily don’t dare peek around the corner and wait anxiously, hoping it will all go to plan. “I’m so not quitting my job for her,” Emily mumbles to herself, making Spencer grin.
Doing this helps, somehow. Apparently, breaking in to someone’s office helped with forgetting the horrors he just witnessed in that video, along with all the headache inducing information he’s learned in the last three hours. This, though, he can do. He can break into his Chief’s office and read—steal—extremely sensitive, classified information. It’s not quite Orpheus walking face-first into hell, but it’s the most daunting thing he can manage right now: he’ll have to traverse the burning flames of hell another time.
He sucks in a breath when Strauss and JJ suddenly walk past and down the hall. Thankfully, Strauss didn’t notice the two agents hiding around the corner, too busy talking to JJ, who sends them a quick look, wordlessly telling them to hurry. Barely five seconds later, Emily is closing the door behind her while Spencer rushes to find the corresponding files. He checks the filing cabinet in the office first, but doesn’t find them there. They’re not on Strauss’s desk either, nor are they in the messy drawers under the desk. Emily doesn’t have much luck in the bookcases she’s looking over.
“If I had highly sensitive files no one was allowed to read,” Emily mumbles, looking around the room, “where would I hide them?”
Spencer’s eyes fall back on the desk: more specifically, the drawers. It’s almost cartoonish, the idea he’s considering. He opens the top drawer again and blindly feels the bottom of it: his fingers brush over a small nub and his heart jumps. “Pen, I need a—” he doesn’t have to finish his sentence when Emily shoves a pen into his hand.
The moment he pokes the tip of the pen against that little nub hidden on the bottom of the drawer, a small click rings out through the quiet, tense room. Then the bottom falls out, straight into Spencer’s hand: atop it are two casefiles, thick and practically bursting at the seams. On the front read the familiar words Project J.
Not wasting another second, Spencer quickly starts to scan through the first file, handing the other one to Emily in case he won’t be able to get to it on time. The information he’s reading is dense and scattered, difficult to connect and even harder to understand the relevance of. There is one part he recognises instantly: Jericho. That’s what the ‘J’ in Project J stands for. Project Jericho.
Each page is stamped with TOP SECRET in bold red ink. Spencer’s fingers tremble as he flips to the first page, revealing a photo of seven Marines standing together in full gear, their faces lit with the kind of camaraderie forged only in battle. You’re in the middle, your call sign ‘ECHO’ emblazoned on your flak jacket. Your grin is wide, your arm slung around another Marine—Angelina Thompson. On her chest reads the call sign FLATLINE. Behind the two of you, another figure looms: Jagger Bennett, call sign: REAPER. His eyes, even in the photo, seem darker than the others’. He has a hand on your shoulder. The text under the picture is simple, short, calculatedly clinical.
Pictured above: Project Jericho, March 2002, black ops Marine unit specializing in high-risk, off-the-books missions in hostile territories. Objectives: infiltration, sabotage, and high-value target elimination. Mortem Occumbere Pro Patria.
Spencer can’t help but pause, his chest tightening. This is your world. A world you never wanted him to see. As he reads further, the sharp lines of the Marine Corps insignia on the pages blur into the story of Project Jericho. His mind, like a machine, absorbs every word, piecing together the puzzle of what you endured. The report is clinical, but the horrors it describes are anything but.
First Mission: “Successful elimination of HVT. No casualties reported.”
Spencer’s eyes narrow. Even the successes feel cold, transactional. He wonders if you ever felt like more than a tool in someone’s chess game. HVT, was that the ‘high-value targets’ mentioned earlier? Elimination, that means someone was killed. Were you the one to deliver that final blow to end someone’s life? His eyes scan faster and faster, desperate to take it all in before time runs out. He freezes when he reaches a detailed account of an ambush, labelled simply: Final Mission, September 2006. This was it, wasn’t it? This was the end of Jericho. His stomach churns as he reads about a canyon rigged with explosives, radio silence, and the bodies of six Marines left behind. It’s not detailed at all, a lot of it either marked with black ink to make it unintelligible or labelled as [REDACTED].
Surviving member, Lance Corporal [REDACTED] ‘ECHO’ [REDACTED] extracted in October 2006 from [REDACTED], [REDACTED]. All others KIA.
His heart pounds as he flips the page to find a list of names. Angelina Thompson is at the top: Deceased, KIA. Jagger Bennett is listed next in the exact same way. All other names are the same, all KIA: killed in action? And why was your name redacted? Had the BAU been correct in presuming you were using a fake name? And why weren’t they revealing where they extracted you from? Even worse than that, why were you extracted a full month after that final mission went wrong? Is that where your POW medal comes into play?
He rubs his eyes, as if that will help clear the knot tightening in his chest. It doesn’t. Instead, he feels anger bubbling up—at Strauss, at the military, at whoever orchestrated this mission that left you to carry the weight of six ghosts and God knows what else. Then he sees it: Psychological Evaluation: Lance Corporal [REDACTED]. His breath catches as he reads the words that feel like they were ripped straight from your soul.
Subject exhibits acute survivor’s guilt and PTSD stemming from their experience during Project Jericho. Presents with signs of EHD, tremors stemming from PTSD, hydrophobia, insomnia. Refuses to discuss the incident in detail, particularly the loss of Lance Corporal Thompson. Refuses treatment. Highly protective of their team. Shows strong loyalty to leadership but internalises blame for mission failure.
Spencer swallows hard. He thinks of all the nights you spent awake, your fear of drowning, the times you pushed him away when he tried to ask about your past. This is what you’ve been carrying all along. He’s been blind for so long, but not anymore. Now, he knows you, knows how to help. He closes the file, knowing he’s got everything he needs from this one, and takes the next one from Emily. She gives him a curious look, clearly wondering what he’s just read, but she doesn’t say a word.
This file isn’t so much on Project Jericho anymore, but rather seems to be a detailed account of Jagger Bennett. As he reads, Spencer’s fingers tighten on the pages. He, like you, has a degree in International Relations, probably acquired in the same way. He’s part Scottish, part American. He was a Mortarman, which appears to be someone particularly talented in explosives. He was presumed dead in that final mission Spencer read about earlier. But somehow, somewhere along the line, that presumption had changed. Murders in Iraq, calculated brutality, a trail of bodies leading through the middle east, Europe and then back to the United States. All killed in similar manners: all left behind with a J carved into their chest. That was probably what had clued you in to his survival: how long had you known about this? How long had you been working on this file, tracking his movements, knowing he was getting closer and closer?
One detail stands out: Signature Kill Tactics. The description of mortar-based traps matches the unsub’s murders. Spencer’s mind races, connecting the dots. All the victims seemed to have been involved with the United States Military in some sort of way, even if they didn’t have anything to do with Jericho directly. An arms dealer, a military investigator, an ex-naval officer… all killed in explosions. One died when his car exploded, another killed in an explosion in his cabin in the mountains. The pictures leave little to the imagination: a door blown off its hinges, the cabin’s interior in shambles, a bloody ‘J’ carved into the man’s chest and a mortal shell embedded in the floor directly beside the victim. A burnt-out car, a badly burnt body of a woman who had so desperately tried to climb out of her car and to safety. Just barely visible in the charred flesh is another ‘J’, carved into her chest.
Carvings left post-mortem. Presumed weapon: KA-Bar knife, military grade.
All the explosions are specific, barely touching the surrounded areas. He only wanted to kill those he had specifically targeted, careful not to hurt anyone else. All it did was showcase just how talented he actually was at this sort of stuff. Just like you had been so freakily accurate when you managed to shoot that unsub holding Spencer hostage. Clearly, Project Jericho only consisted of those most talented in their specific MOS. Talented enough to fake college degrees and deployments.
The final victim must’ve been that James guy you had been seeing. According to Garcia, his body had been too badly burned to make out anything specific, but Spencer is willing to bet Bennett still tried to carve that letter into James’ chest.
At the very end of the file, Spencer finds another part of the puzzle, and perhaps the next step.
Subject: Master Sergeant William “Bill” Carver
Rank/Role: Senior Operations Coordinator, Project Jericho
Status: Retired, 20 years of service
Current Residence: Fredericksburg, Virginia
This is your sergeant, the one you had mentioned. He’s still alive. And he lives in fucking Virginia, of all places. Was this luck? Or rather God laughing in Spencer’s face, whispering in his ear: the answers had been under your nose all along, you fool. If only you’d looked down. His eyes scan so rapidly, he barely takes the time to let it register.
developer Project Jericho—served as overseeing officer—strategically ruthless—unwavering under pressure—experienced with high-risk black ops missions—direct involvement in Operation Phoenix Erebus … final deployment of Project Jericho … raises significant concerns—personally approved operation’s parameters despite intelligence gaps—internal investigation into failure of Operation Phoenix Erebus—received no formal reprimand.
That part. ‘No formal reprimand’. That part infuriates Spencer: all your scars, your nightmares, your trauma… all because of this man, who had never had to answer for any of it. You watched everyone you cared about die and your sergeant retired to a cushy private residence. Spencer steps back, his legs suddenly weak, his hands running through his hair. His heart races as he pictures your face on that webcam feed.
He hands the file to Emily. “Him. We need to talk to him,” he says, throat dry. Emily reads over the page with a frown.
“Of course he retired in Virginia. Conveniently close to D.C., but far enough away to disappear,” she mutters, her face hardening. With one last look at the file, she closes it. “Come on. We got what we need. Hopefully, Garcia managed to figure out where the video came from.”
After putting everything back into its place, Spencer follows Emily out of the office with a hard expression. Just hold on, a little longer. He’ll find you.
January 17th, 2010, 12:47 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 4 hours and 12 minutes since last sighting.
The team is dead silent as they stare at Spencer, who’s just finished relaying all the information he just found in those files. He stares back, waiting for any questions he knows he can’t answer. The conference room is tense, the table covered in your pictures, medals and random pages from the team’s attempt at seeming busy with something else.
“So, Carver,” Morgan eventually says. “He’s the one we need to talk to.”
Spencer nods. “That’s what I was thinking. He’s the key. And I think he knew exactly what he was sending them into during that final mission.”
“You said he lives in Fredericksburg?” Hotch asks, before turning to Garcia. “Can you—”
“500 Greenbank Road, Fredericksburg, Virginia,” she says before Hotch can finish his sentence. “It’s only a thirty-minute drive from here.”
Hotch turns back to Spencer. “Go, take Morgan and Rossi.”
“Me?” Spencer asks, surprised.
“You know her best. You care about her,” Hotch says, hesitating before sighing shortly. “And, speaking frankly, as someone who’s also been her superior, I can say with confidence he cares about her and will be more willing to talk if it’s to someone he knows cares about her even more than he does.”
His emotional and amicable confession comes as a surprise for everyone. It was the first time they had ever heard Hotch admit so willingly to his personal feelings and, in this case, paternal sentiments toward a team member.
“Yes, sir,” is all Spencer says.
“I’ll keep trying to locate her,” Garcia says with a tense expression. “The metadata of the video has been bounced through multiple proxies, but I know I can hack it. I just need a little more time.”
“We’ll keep studying the video,” Emily adds with a nod towards JJ. “Maybe there’s some background noise that can help us find her, or details we missed the first time.”
“There’s something else,” Garcia says, looking to Spencer. “Carver, he’s been living off a military pension, with no recent activity on his financial accounts or social media. It’s like… it’s like he’s hiding in plain sight.”
Not sure what it could mean, Spencer can only nod weakly. The more he learns, the more intricate the web appeared. All he can do now is hope that Carver has the answers everyone needs.
Notes:
Sooooo a lot of information in one chapter, hope it wasn't overwhelming :) love ya babes see ya in the next one
Chapter 17: Backdraft
Notes:
We're back babyyyyy
Get ready for the absolute info dump. It's less than the last chapter but it's still a lot of information when you try to connect it to everything we've learned so far. If you've got any thoughts on all of this, I'd love to hear them. It's really satisfying to see people figure all this stuff out and I loveeeeee reading about it.
Anywayyyy enough yapping let's get it!!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 17th, 2010, 13:27 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 4 hours and 52 minutes since last sighting.
William ‘Bill’ Carver lived in a modest, weathered two-story house on a large plot of land overlooking the Rocky Pen Run Reservoir, surrounded by trees on all sides. A perfect retirement home for someone looking for isolation: the area is quiet, with the faint sound of wind chimes. The American flag flies from a pole in the front yard, alongside a faded Marine Corps banner. The mailbox has the name “W. Carver” in peeling letters.
Spencer exchanges wary glances with Morgan and Rossi as they approach the porch. It’s Rossi who knocks on the front door. It takes a long while, but finally, Carver answers it, not taking the chain off. An older man with a strong build, sharp eyes and a face weathered by years of hardship: there’s no doubt in Spencer’s mind that this was a man who had spent his whole life with the Marines.
“Can I help you?” He asks, voice gruff. In response, they show their FBI badges.
“I’m Special Agent Morgan, these are my colleagues Supervisory Special Agent Rossi and Special Agent Doctor Reid,” Morgan says, taking off his sunglasses. “We’d like to have a word with you. Can we come in?”
Carver’s demeanour is guarded, but there’s a flicker of recognition when he sees their badges. “A word about what?”
“You were a Marine, correct?” Rossi asks, quirking an eyebrow. “A Master Sergeant. You oversaw something named Project Jericho?”
Something visibly changes in Carver’s demeanour. He straightens his back, expression hardening. “How do you know about that?” He says, voice hard. Suddenly, he shakes his head and takes a step back, about to close the front door. “That was a long time ago. Whatever is happening now, I don’t know anything about it.”
Without thinking, Spencer grabs the door, preventing the man from closing it. “Maybe you’re not involved anymore, but you know what happened to Jericho. Seven Marines died,” he says, practically ready to beg the man to let them in, even with all the anger in his heart, ready to explode. He lowers his voice. “He took her.”
Carver’s eyes flicker with concern. “Who did?”
“Jagger Bennett.”
The interior of the house is simple, reminiscent of a farmhouse, yet spartan. The coffee table is covered in old newspapers, the couch worn and faded. The smell of old wood and faint cigar smoke linger in the air. There are a few things on the walls reminiscent of an ex-Marine, such as another Marine Corps flag, a collection of medals and various pictures. One of them is one from your training days, perched atop the fireplace mantle: Spencer can tell this from how young you look, but it’s a picture you’re barely visible in. You’re all the way in the back, not even meant to be in the photograph, dressed in your basic uniform.
“That was before I became her Master Sergeant,” Carver says from where he’s seated in his armchair. Spencer turns around, away from the photograph on the mantle. “It’s the only picture I was allowed to keep with her in it.”
“Why?” Morgan asks, brows furrowed. He’s leaning against the wall opposite of Spencer, arms crossed in front of his chest.
“Plausible deniability,” Carver says. “Technically, we never knew each other. This picture… could just be a coincidence.”
A coincidence. This man ruined your life and he dared to call it all a coincidence? Spencer’s blood is already boiling, and he’s barely been here for more than five minutes. He needs to reel it in, he knows that, but with every second that passes, you’re with Jagger Bennett enduring God knows what, and it’s difficult to think of anything else. Let alone tell himself to stay calm in front of the man that destroyed you.
Rossi’s eyes linger on the flag as he sits down on the couch. “Where did you serve?” He asks Carver, who looks at him with muted interest.
“Vietnam, at first. All over, afterwards,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You?”
“Me?”
“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Agent.”
A small smile tugs on Rossi’s lips. “Vietnam,” he says simply. “That’s not what we came here to talk about, though, Sergeant.”
Carver nods, looking down at where’s picking on the fraying edges of the chair’s armrest. “Project Jericho,” he says quietly, sighing. “Been a long time since I heard that name. What do you want to know?”
“Start with why you sent Project Jericho on a mission that got nearly the entire team killed,” Spencer says, feeling very little sympathy for the man in front of him, even if he seemed broken and guilt-ridden by his past, which he clearly tried so hard to hide from.
Carver’s jaw tightens. “That’s what they told you? That it was my call?” He says, laughing bitterly. “I was following orders, just like everyone else. The higher-ups came to me with intel—said it was critical, time-sensitive. They needed my best team, so I gave them Jericho.”
“Following orders?” Spencer says, anger bubbling up to the surface. “And you didn’t question them? You just sent them into a death trap without pushing back?”
“You think I didn’t push back?” Carver says, voice low and defensive. “I asked for more intel, backup, better equipment. They told me what they always tell you in the Corps: ‘You have your orders.’” After a beat of silence, he sighs again. “It’s what you do. It’s what Jericho was founded on. Marines that never questioned their orders. That’s how we chose them: then we trained them to become the best they could ever be. Unbeatable. Never questioning orders. The perfect Marine.”
I always told myself—I’d never just blindly follow orders again. Your words haunt Spencer’s mind. Everything that had seemed so innocent at first, so meaningless, was now revealed to have been significant all along. If only he had paid attention.
“What was the mission about? What did they tell you?” Morgan suddenly asks, bringing the focus back to the conversation.
Carver hesitates, then leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They told me Jericho was going after an HVT: a high-value target. Someone funding insurgents, supplying them with weapons we couldn’t trace. But the details never added up. Intel was spotty. It smelled wrong from the start. I should’ve known better.”
“You did know better,” Spencer says, voice bitter. “And you still sent them.”
“Reid,” Morgan warns, but it’s no use. Carver’s eyes flash with anger.
“I didn’t have a choice! Do you know what happens when you disobey orders in the Corps? You think I could’ve stopped it? You think any of us could’ve?”
A silence falls over the room, with Spencer biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from lashing out. He couldn’t anger the man further, he couldn’t risk losing any intel. He takes a step back, visibly conceding, hoping the man picks up on it, even if he absolutely loathes doing it.
Rossi is the one to break the silence, his tone deliberate. “What about Jagger Bennett? What do you know about him?”
Carver leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly. “Bennett was... different. Even back then. The best damn Mortarman I ever saw, but he had a streak in him—something cold. He thrived in chaos. When the ambush happened, I thought he was dead like the rest.”
“What changed?” Morgan asks with a frown. “You thought he was dead, but you clearly know better now. So, what changed? What else do you know?”
“The victims,” Carver says, eyes turning distant. “Bodies started popping up with the letter ‘J’ carved in ‘em. And the way they were killed… I knew the moment I saw ‘em.” He shakes his head, his voice tinged with bitterness. “I don’t know what he’s after, but if he’s gone this far, it’s because he feels betrayed. By the Corps, by me, by the whole damn system. He’s coming. He’s coming for all of us.”
With a quiet voice, yet no less intense, Rossi speaks up again. “What about the ambush? What happened?”
Carver’s face seems to age ten years in an instant. He rubs his hands together, a nervous habit that betrays his composed exterior. He was cracking, slowly, right in front of them. “The mission was supposed to be simple—target extraction. The higher-ups said we had reliable intel on a financier moving weapons to insurgents. The idea was to hit their compound before they could relocate. Jericho had done tougher missions before. They could handle it.”
Rossi frowns. “But the intel was wrong.”
“Dead wrong,” Carver says, nodding grimly. “The compound wasn’t just a safe house—it was a set-up. And it wasn’t one target. It was a whole cell, armed to the teeth, rigged with explosives they weren’t supposed to have. By the time Jericho realised, it was too late. There was no escaping that.”
Spencer’s voice is a sharp whisper. “How could they have been that unprepared?”
Clenching his jaw, his voice tight with guilt, Carver stares at the floor, as if unable to meet Spencer’s eyes. It was strange to witness a man with such austerity be incapable of meeting someone’s gaze. “Because we didn’t know they’d been tipped off. Someone fed the insurgents our mission details. It was a setup.”
“A leak? From where?” Morgan asks, narrowing his eyes.
Carver shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’ve been asking myself that for years. All I know is that Jericho walked into hell because of it.”
A moment passes. “And Tommy?” Spencer eventually asks, voice muted, afraid of the answer. That was the last part, the one he didn’t know about yet. All he knew was that you were extracted nearly a month after all that happened, which was a large gap left unexplained. “What happened to her?”
Finally, Carver looks up, meeting Spencer’s eyes with an unreadable expression. “That’s what she’s calling herself these days, then?” He asks quietly. “Tommy?”
“Yeah. Angie Tomlinson.”
Carver’s eyes flash with recognition. “Oh, kid,” he mumbles to himself, letting his head hang low. “Angelina. Oh, kid.”
“That’s who she named herself after, isn’t it?” Rossi asks, leaning forward on the couch, his elbows on his knees. “Angelina Thompson. She was also part of Jericho, along with Jagger Bennett?”
“We called him Jax, or Reaper, his call sign,” Carver says, still not lifting his head. “Angelina… she was good. Best medic I ever met. Annie, we called her, she hated her call sign. It’s where Angie comes from, I guess. I... I told her, don’t pick a recognisable name. Forget nostalgia. Why didn’t she listen?”
“Guess she was done taking orders from you,” Spencer says coolly. The ex-Marine finally looks at him again, not seeming surprised by the response at all, even as hurt flashes in his eyes. “What happened to her, Carver?”
Carver’s expression darkens and a long moment passes. Nobody speaks, waiting for him to reveal the truth. Finally, he talks. “She… was taken. She was injured, but she survived. They dragged her off while the others were dying around her. We didn’t even know she’d survived until a month later. She contacted us using a satellite phone. She managed to escape, somehow, and these people found her, patched her up.” His hands tremble as he rubs his face. “She was barely more than a kid, and I sent her to that hell. By the time we got her back, she wasn’t the same. How could she be? I told myself that she was strong enough to survive, but... I failed her. I failed all of them.”
“What happened to her during that month?” Morgan asks, voice quiet as if he doesn’t want to ask that question at all, afraid of the answer that might follow.
“Officially, her wounds were from unidentifiable origin,” Carver says, voice muffled by his hand. “Unofficially… she was tortured. But you can’t put that in a file. Not without accusing a country you weren’t even supposed to be in of committing a war crime.”
A memory hits Spencer instantly. I got captured by this group I was supposed to take out—they hurt me—we called it dry drowning, but I think the more recognised term is waterboarding. Finally, another puzzle piece clicked into place. A wave of nausea hits him, and he swallows thickly. His voice is quiet when he speaks again. “She survived, but… a piece of her died there. She never came back fully.”
Carver nods, his voice barely above a whisper. “Every day, I wish I could go back and change what happened. But we don’t get to undo the past. We just carry it.”
A silence passes. Morgan clears his throat, pushing himself off the wall. “I’ve been wondering one thing,” he says, pausing beside the couch Rossi is sitting on. “Why ‘Jericho’? Why name the team that?”
Carver’s lips press into a thin line, and he leans back in his chair, his eyes distant. “The name came from the Old Testament—the Battle of Jericho. You know the story? Walls that couldn’t be breached, an enemy that couldn’t be defeated. The idea was that Jericho was supposed to represent that spirit. An unstoppable force.”
“Except the walls fell, and the city was destroyed,” Rossi says, raising an eyebrow.
Carver gave a hollow laugh. “Yeah. I guess I didn’t think that part through.”
Satisfied with the information, Rossi stands from the couch. “Thank you for talking to us,” he says, glancing at the pictures on the wall. “I hope you can find peace, one day.”
Before the three of them can walk out of the room, Carver speaks up again, his voice heavy. “If you’re going after Jagger, you’d better be ready. He’s not the man we trained anymore. He’s something worse.”
Pausing in his step, Morgan glances over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Carver’s gaze is distant, haunted. “A man like Jagger doesn’t survive something like that and come out the other side whole. He’s a ghost now—a Marine with nothing left to lose. And those are the most dangerous kind.”
With that haunting note, Rossi and Morgan exchange tense glances before finally walking out. For a moment, Spencer hesitates. Just as he turns around, ready to forget about this pathetic heap of a man forever, the ex-Marine speaks up again. He says a name. The silence that follows is chilling.
“…what?” Spencer breathlessly asks, not daring to turn around.
Carver repeats the name. “That’s her real name. Figured you’d want to know.”
Clenching his jaw, Spencer slowly looks over his shoulder. “That’s not… that wasn’t yours to tell.”
Unflinching, Carver stands from his chair. “You love her, right?” he says, not waiting for Spencer to confirm his thoughts. “He loved her too, you know. Jax. It’s probably part of the reason why he hasn’t killed her yet. He loved her back then and she took what she could get. It’s what she does. She takes and takes. It would’ve driven any man mad, but Jax… he kept hope.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Spencer asks, coldness spreading in his chest.
“Take it as a warning,” Carver says. “She takes. It’s what she does. One day, there won’t be anything left to take. Walk away, before that happens.”
Feeling sick to his stomach, both disgusted at what the man was saying as well as how you’re being described, Spencer shakes his head. “You don’t know her,” he says, voice weak. “You have no idea who she is. You never did.”
Just as he’s about to step through the front door, Carver calls after him once more. “When you see her, tell her I’m sorry. Tell her I… just tell her, please.”
Spencer never responds.
January 17th, 2010, 14:49 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 6 hours and 14 minutes since last sighting.
The rest of the BAU is working hard when Spencer, Rossi and Morgan return. They’re met with the sight of the monitor turned on, displaying an image of you. You look even worse than before, battered, bruised and bloody, head lolled to the side, passed out. For a moment, Spencer thinks it’s another video. Then Garcia speaks up.
“So, I didn’t find out her location, unfortunately,” she says, expression sympathetic as she explains to the three what she did. “I did, however, manage to do something else. Whoever this psycho is, he’s a tech-savvy devil. He’s bouncing his signal through so many proxies and onion servers that it’s like chasing a ghost in a digital maze. Every lead I chase vanishes into another dead end."
“That doesn’t sound like you got anything from the video,” Morgan says, earning himself a light-hearted slap on his bicep.
“Hush. This guy is good, but not Penelope Garcia good,” she says, motioning back to her laptop. “I figured, if I can’t find him directly, maybe I can find a backdoor through his hardware. The video stream has a unique encryption signature— and if I cross-reference that with known exploits for common webcam models, then… jackpot!"
Spencer just stares at her. She sighs. “I can’t find his location yet, but I can tap into his webcam remotely. If his webcam has a mic, we might hear Tommy. And if I can control the LED indicator light using the spacebar… we can let her know we’re watching."
“I could kiss you, you know that?” Morgan says, wrapping an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close.
“Well, don’t kiss me yet. We haven’t been able to check the light yet, because she’s been passed out since I managed to get access to the feed. I am, however, able to say that the microphone works. You can hear that psychopath moving around in the background.”
“You’re incredible, Garcia,” Spencer says, earning himself a surprised, yet appreciative smile.
“We learned a lot of useful stuff too,” Rossi says to the others, who pause in what they’re doing to listen. It takes a while to recap all of it, and emotions surge into all directions with every new thing revealed. The room is filled with barely contained outrage, anger and disbelief by the time everything has been explained thoroughly, giving everyone a much needed second wind.
“Poor girl’s been put through the ringer,” Emily says, cheeks red with emotion. “It’s a good thing I didn’t go with you. I’d have choked that bastard out on the spot.”
Spencer’s inclined to agree. He was pretty close himself, after he revealed your real name so carelessly. If there’s one thing he can say with certainty, however, is that he’ll take that name to the grave. He won’t reveal it, not until he knows you’re okay with it, and he’s got a sneaking suspicion you’d rather he pretend not to know it at all. But then again, does he really know you anymore? What was the truth about you?
He shakes his head, ridding himself off those thoughts. No, not now. He can’t question all of it, not now. Not without you here to defend yourself. He loves you, he has to hold on to that.
“Guys,” JJ suddenly says, nodding to the monitor. “She’s waking up.”
She was right. You’re slowly lifting your head, blinking so sluggishly it seems like your eyelids were made of lead. Your eyes flicker around the room, as if you’re confused about where you are.
“There she is,” a crackly voice says, and Spencer’s body tenses. It’s him. Bennett. Jax. Reaper. “Slept for a while, didn’t you, sunshine?”
You open your mouth, but only a cough comes out. Bennett appears into frame, holding a bottle of water, which he puts to your mouth. The moment he steps back, you spit out the water again. “Don’t need your fuckin’ charity,” you say, voice rough and groggy.
Bennett chuckles. “This ain’t like what we were trained to do, sunshine. I ain’t going to let you die. I’ll force it down your throat if have to.”
Spencer wonders what it all means. Why you’re refusing the water, and what dying has to do with it. The way he talks about it is familiar, like he knows exactly what it means, and like you know too. Apparently, whatever this is, you were both trained in it.
“Mortem Occumbere Pro Patria,” you mumble, letting your head hang back for a moment. There’s bruising on your neck, from where Bennett choked you. “Ain’t that the truth, eh?”
With a dry scoff, Bennett leans over you. “Your pronunciation still sucks,” he says, and for a moment, his hand hovers over your face, as if he’s about to stroke your cheek. Then he seems to remember himself and abruptly steps back.
“What’s that mean?” JJ asks, turning to Spencer, who’s still trying to figure out what just happened.
He frowns. “Death for your homeland,” he thoughtfully says. “It’s by Horatius. The full line is dulce et decorum est pro patria mori: How sweet and proper to die for one's country.”
“Cheery,” Emily mumbles.
Then, your eyes start to wander around the room once more. Instantaneously, Spencer reaches for Garcia’s laptop and starts spamming the spacebar, hoping—praying that it works. For a moment, your eyes don’t seem to pause at all, but then they snap back and widen.
It worked.
Your lips part and you seem to realise what’s happening, but then remember that Bennett is still in the room. Slowly, barely visible, you shake your head, indicating to him to turn off the light, to stop signalling, and Spencer listens, turning the light off again.
“Avenging them won’t bring them back,” you whisper, returning your gaze to Bennett. Spencer is not sure what the plan is here but he’s willing to take your lead, waiting for the next opportunity to communicate with you. “They’ll be dead whether you kill someone else or not.”
“It’s not about avenging them,” Bennett says from somewhere beyond the screen. “It’s about destroying what you have. You don’t deserve it, any of it. Not after what you did.”
“What I did?” You ask, frowning before coughing. “What—what did I do?”
“You lied to me. For years, you lied. Just used me for your own entertainment.”
After a tense moment, you swallow thickly. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I was selfish. But it’s different now, I promise. I changed.”
“It’s not only about that,” Bennett says, voice snapping. “I don’t care about that anymore.”
“Then what, Jax?”
“Don’t—! Don’t call me that.” Bennett steps back into frame, towering over you, his face still hidden beyond the frame. Your eyes are unwavering, staring straight at him. He’s unravelling and you know it: they all know it.
“Jax—”
“Shut up!” Bennett yells, fist forcibly connecting with your cheek. Your head snaps to the side, blood leaking out of your mouth when you look back up at him. You want this—you want him to lose himself, to beat you up. Spencer can barely watch but doesn’t look away. He’s reminded of that time you’d managed to get an unsub to accidentally confess to murdering his victims: you knew what you were doing. He had to trust you.
“Just tell me,” you say, voice thick with blood. “Please—I don’t want to die not knowing why you’re doing this. Please, Jax.”
Bennett hesitates, his fists clenched by his side. Then he suddenly exclaims loudly, disappearing from frame. Finally, he breaks. “You’re a liar, Echo. You’re a fucking liar. Like you don’t know. I crawled out of that hellhole, I had to watch them bleed out while the military swept us under the rug. Project Jericho wasn’t a mission—it was a death sentence.”
“The ambush wasn’t a setup, Jax,” you say, voice surprisingly emotional. “This isn’t some grand conspiracy.”
"Of course you’d say that. You’re the perfect soldier, right? Follow orders, no questions asked. But I figured it out. Jericho was a cover—a way for them to experiment with us, to see how far they could push us before we broke." Bennett appears back in frame, grabbing the back of your head and bringing his face close to yours. “I pieced it together, Tommy. They abandoned us. They knew the risks, and they sent us in anyway. And you—” he pauses, his voice breaking, "you didn’t even care. I thought we had something. But you used me. You never gave a damn about me!”
A tear slips from your eyes, guilt blooming on your face. “I’m sorry, you’re right. I didn’t love you, but I—” a gasp escapes you when Bennett tightens his grip on your hair. “But that doesn’t mean I wanted this for you. I cared about you—even if I couldn’t be what you wanted.”
Unconsciously, Spencer clenches his fists. He hates hearing this, all of this, and tries his hardest to keep it all down.
“You didn’t even look for me. You just disappeared. Like I never mattered,” Bennett says, as you try to shake your head.
“No, please. That’s not true. I didn’t know, Jax. I didn’t know you were in there with me, I thought everyone was dead, I thought—”
“Stop lying!” Bennett roars, roughly yanking on your hair, eliciting a pained cry. “All you do is lie! But I won’t fall for it, not anymore. I’ll make you pay. I’ll make everyone pay.”
He suddenly lets go of you again. There’s a few sounds off camera before he reappears, pressing a gun to your forehead: you don’t even flinch. “Make a noise, and I’ll blow up this whole place, you understand?”
Without waiting for a response, he walks off. After a few seconds, the sound of a door opening and closing rings out over the microphone. You turn to the webcam, blood trickling from your mouth.
“Spencer?”
January 17th, 2010, 15:20 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 6 hours and 35 minutes since last sighting.
Practically tripping over himself in his haste, Spencer presses the spacebar a few times, hoping you’ll recognise it as the enthusiastic yes that nearly tears itself from his throat in a yell. Weakly, you smile. “Penny figured out some stuff, then?”
Spencer presses the spacebar a few times, ignoring the dramatic sniffle from Garcia behind him. You chuckle breathlessly. “How about… how about this?” You say through heavy breaths, flinching when something hurts. “Twice for yes, once for no?”
Hitting the spacebar four times, lighting the LED twice, Spencer agrees. YES.
You smile again. “Is everyone there?”
YES.
“Good,” you whisper. “We all know everything, then? All the bad stuff?”
Hesitating for a moment, Spencer eventually responds. YES.
You nod slowly. “It’s okay. It was bound to come out one way or another.”
A silence falls. Spencer glances over his shoulder. “Do you think she knows Morse Code?” He asks, earning a couple of incredulous looks. “Yeah, fair enough.”
And so he tries. L-O-C-A-T-I-O-N. A frown overtakes your expression and he repeats the motions, until recognition flashes in your eyes. He nearly laughs at the ease of communicating, grateful that for once, something was working out in his favour. “I’m sorry, Spence,” you say. His heart sinks. “But I can’t. I don’t know where I am and… even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
Y?
“He’s got the whole place rigged. It’ll blow the moment you come close. And if that doesn’t kill you, he’ll make sure to finish the job. You heard him, he’s not in his right mind. I can’t risk it. I can’t risk… you.”
“Tell her to tell us what she sees,” Hotch says, his voice filled with authority as he narrows his eyes, like he can somehow glare at you through the screen. “Tell her it’s an order.”
Spencer tries his best to do what Hotch asks, figuring out the quickest way to communicate all of that without losing necessary context. D-E-S-C-R-I-B-E…L-O-C-A-T-I-O-N. He waits for you to recognise what he’s trying to say, waits for the slightest shift in your expression. H-O-T-C-H…S-A-Y-S…O-R-D-E-R.
A small laugh in the form of a huff escapes you and you flinch again when the pain returns, taking a few seconds to let the pain subside before responding. “Sorry, sir,” you say with a crooked smile. “My time of taking orders is behind me. I’m shit at listening anyway, you know that.”
Despite it all, a few nervous chuckles ring out through the room, necessary to keep the tension bomb from exploding. Nonetheless, frustrated tears prick in Spencer’s eyes and he tries his best to blink them away at the way you seem so set on dying alone and refusing everyone’s help. P-L-E-A-S-E.
You shake your head. “I’m sorry, love. I can’t.”
This isn’t where it ends. It just can’t be. He refuses to accept that. With a deep breath, he presses the spacebar again. H-A-P-L-Y…I…T-H-I-N-K…O-N…T-H-E-E. He can only pray you understand, that you know what he’s referring to. Another tear escapes you and he knows he’s succeeded.
“That’s unfair,” you whisper. “Please, Spence. I can’t. I don’t want to risk it.”
I…L-O-V-E…Y-O-U.
“Please, Spencer…”
Your lips part and your eyes flutter shut. A shaky breath escapes you, and you whisper something that’s barely audible over the crappy microphone, but it sounds suspiciously much like ‘heartbreaker’. Then your eyes open again. “I don’t know where I am, exactly,” you say, “but I can describe what I see.”
Hotch practically flies through the room to grab a marker while Morgan nearly tears the whiteboard off its hinges as he flips it around to write on the back of it. Spencer presses the spacebar again, triggering the red light twice, letting you know everyone was ready on their end, waiting and listening.
“The walls… the walls are brick, but not clean—old, industrial. There’s graffiti near the ceiling, so I think this place has been abandoned for a while,” you say in a shaky voice, eyes flickering around the room as you try to come up with other details. “Uhm, there’s a faint smell of fuel—diesel, I think. And... I heard a train about ten minutes ago.”
“Sounds like some sort manufacturing plant,” JJ remarks, glancing over to where Hotch is rapidly writing the details down so as not to forget anything.
"And… and there’s a window in front of me, behind the camera. It’s barred but I can see through the dirt. The sun, I can see the sun, it’s shining on the building across the street,” you say, voice wavering as you seem to try and focus on something. “I think there’s a sign—it’s neon. Blue and green, blinking. Looks like it says 'Depot' or… maybe 'Deep'?"
“Could be a business, maybe?” Emily says. “Like a bar?”
Suddenly you tilt your head, eyes widening. “There’s… there’s an ambulance. I can hear it. It’s close. Maybe two, three streets away from here? They just turned the sirens off, I think.”
Garcia springs into action, grabbing a tablet now that Spencer is busy with her laptop. “I’ll look up ambulance dispatches!”
“Cross-reference them with industrial areas,” Spencer says, not glancing away from the screen, from you. “And see if you can’t figure out if there’s any train tracks nearby.”
Slowly, he blinks the light at you again. M-O-R-E. You let go of a small breath, shaking your head. “More? I—there’s nothing else, I don’t—” you cut yourself off with a sob, desperation taking hold of you as you strain your neck to look around the room. “There’s water dripping somewhere close. Maybe a busted pipe? And—the building’s falling apart. Rusted metal beams, broken glass everywhere. I can see a vent overhead, but it’s too small to climb through. I think we’re on the second floor—I can see something like a fire escape.”
You look back at the camera again, tears leaking from your eyes. “I’m sorry, Spencer. If this doesn’t work, just… please don’t blame yourself.”
Spencer stiffens at your words, his jaw tightening. Don’t say that, not yet. There’s still time, he can still find you. At a loss for what else to do, he spams the spacebar, frantically flashing the light at you. Faintly, you smile. He straightens up and turns away from the screen. It was his turn now. Geographical profiling was his strong suit: this was what he was good at. “Garcia, when was the video sent? The exact timestamp?” He asks, and Garcia taps away on her tablet.
“11:32 A.M.,” she says, looking at him with curious eyes.
He nods slowly, muttering to himself as he tries to work his way through all the information. “She left my place at 7:43, it takes ten minutes to drive over to hers, including early morning traffic it probably would’ve taken her longer, which means she was at her place at around 8 am,” he says, looking at the clock on the opposite wall. “I got here at 8:45 and we got to her place at 9:30. She couldn’t have been gone very long at that point. If we got the video two hours later, it means Bennett had around 3 hours to torture her at her place, take her to a different location, set up everything, take the video and send it to us.”
He grabs a map of Virgina and a ruler and pencil from his bag. Unfolding the map, he quickly finds your apartment, and using the ruler, quickly calculates the time and distance. Then, he draws a circle. “There,” he mumbles, pointing to the circle. “Realistically, including the time it takes to travel and including everything I mentioned earlier, this is the area he could be in. Anything beyond the circle would’ve taken him too long, it wouldn’t have fit the timeline.”
He looks up at his colleagues, who are all staring in various degrees of surprise, amazement, and faith. Morgan puts a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t stop on our account,” he says, giving him an encouraging grin. “You got this.”
Nodding, Spencer glances over at the details Hotch had written down and looks back at the map. Train tracks. Using a red marker, he outlines all of the train tracks in the circle. “She said she heard the train, but she didn’t feel it, right?” He asks, not waiting for a response. “If it had been close, she would’ve felt a tremor in the ground.”
“What about the industrial areas?” JJ says, pointing to the map. Agreeing with her, Spencer uses a green marker to outline any possible industrial areas, including areas that aren’t fully industrial, but could still include abandoned buildings like the one you described.
Before he can say anything else, Garcia speaks up. “I found all ambulances currently dispatched,” she says, showing Spencer another map on her tablet. “Those lines are their routes, from where they started to where they ended. Two are still enroute.”
The map in front of him is now marked red for train tracks, green for industrial areas, and blue for ambulances. Looking back at the whiteboard, he remembers something else. “The sun,” he says, looking back at you still displayed on the screen. “She said she could see the sun hitting the building across the street. The sun is going to set in a little over an hour from now, which means it’s coming from the south, south west. That means… she’s facing northeast.”
He looks at the map again. A building at least two stories high, the front facing the northeast, relatively close to train tracks, close enough to an ambulance to hear the sirens… there. He found it. With a shaky hand, he points at a spot on the map. “One of these buildings,” he says, slowly looking up to meet Hotch’s narrowed eyes. “She’s in one of these buildings. I can’t be sure which one.”
Garcia leans over and then starts rapidly tapping away on her tablet. Hotch sighs. “We need specifics,” he quietly says. “We can’t just barge into every abandoned building in the area, not without alerting Bennett. We have to be absolutely sure.”
“Got it!” Garcia suddenly shouts, slapping a hand in front of her mouth when she realises how loud she was. Everyone looks at her expectedly. “There’s a nightclub nearby called ‘The Deep End’. Blue and green neon sign. And this is the building across from that nightclub.”
She shows the tablet to everyone. Displayed is an image of an abandoned building, with barred windows on the second floor and a fire escape. That’s it, that’s where he’s keeping you.
F-O-U-N-D…U
Both relief and fear floods your expression. “Hurry,” you say softly. “I don’t know when he’s coming back, but be careful, please. He’s got this whole place wired and he knows what he’s doing. Please be careful.”
Spencer swallows thickly. His fingers hover over the spacebar: there’s a million things he wants to say but there’s not enough time for any of them. So, eventually, he gives you three simple letters: O-M-W.
Time to get his girl.
Notes:
Oh dearie!!!!
Now why does Spencer rushing after you feel so familiar.... hmmmm..... wonder how that will play out thematically hmmm.......
Chapter 18: Baptised in Flame
Notes:
Uni is kicking my ass lads, we die like men
Alsoooo, couple content warnings : PTSD, serious injuries, fire (idk).
Loveyaloads
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
September 7th, 2006. 3 years, 4 months, 10 days before [REDACTED] joins the Behavioural Analysis Unit. 3 days since rescue. 4 years, 4 months, 10 days before abduction.
The room was cold, sterile, with the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Officially, you were still being treated, still a patient. In actuality, you were in some Military base somewhere, one you had never seen before—which was saying something—covered in bandages, pumped full of so many different pills you couldn’t even feel your own heartbeat, let alone any of the cuts, bruises, and broken ribs. You were sitting in a metal chair, unforgiving on your stiff back, hands clasped tightly in your lap. Your fingers trembled as you kept your gaze fixed on the table, avoiding the eyes of the people sitting across from you. There was Carver, the son of a bitch, standing beside the table, alongside two military officials you didn’t give a fuck about, seated in similar metal chairs. Their uniforms were crisp, clean, covered in medals of all sorts. Beside Carver was a woman, some therapist or another, named Hoffman, with bright red nails clasping a clipboard. In all their generosity, they had secured you a shrink. How kind.
Carver spoke up. “We just want to help, Corporal,” he said. Right, you had been posthumously promoted after they assumed you were dead- surprise. Now you were a Corporal, instead of a Lance Corporal. Not that it meant anything anymore. “We need to know what happened out there. What you saw. What you went through.”
Your lips tightened, and you shook your head almost imperceptibly. “It’s all in the report,” you said, voice cold. “You don’t need me to say it again.”
One of the officials leaned forward, his tone firm but not unkind. "We’re not just looking for facts, Corporal. We need context. How did you escape? Who else was involved? Did you make any contact with civilians or insurgents?"
Your shoulders hunched slightly, and you rubbed your trembling hands against your jeans. Your voice quivered when you spoke up. "I’ve already told you. I don’t remember."
September 8th, 2006. 3 years, 4 months, 9 days before [REDACTED] joins the Behavioural Analysis Unit. 4 days since rescue. ??????? abduction.
They had put you up in some boring, white and grey room with a single bed, a table with two chairs, and a dresser for clothes you didn’t have. You weren’t allowed to leave, not yet. They were concerned, they had said, but you knew better. They wanted to be sure you wouldn’t run your mouth, that you hadn’t become so fucked in the head you would accidentally blabber to the wrong people. That was the whole joke, though: you couldn’t get the words past your lips. No amount of alcohol, love or good company could lodge those words from your throat. This was something to take to the grave.
Your eyes darted around the room, finally falling on one of the windows. The blinds were partially open and you moved instinctively to check them, hands trembling as you peeked outside. You could hear that therapist enter behind you, steps light and quiet. You wondered if she was afraid of you.
“They’ll be getting you for the next meeting soon, but I asked to see you first,” Hoffman said softly. “You don’t have to talk to them if you’re not ready.”
You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on the parking lot outside.
“Do you mind if I sit?” Hoffman asked. You only shrugged, still not looking at her. She sat down at the small table in the corner, giving you your space. “Do you sleep at all?”
“I close my eyes,” you said flatly.
"And then?"
Your jaw tightened. "Explosions. Faces. The sound of their voices. It doesn’t stop."
September ???????? [REDACTED] joins the Behavioural Analysis Unit. ????? days since rescue. ??????????????
It was all so dark. Endlessly dark. You were lying on your bed, in that stupid, grey room, staring at the ceiling. The mattress felt too soft beneath you. Paradoxically enough, it hurt. You shifted uncomfortably. Your hands gripped the blanket, trembling, while you strained your ears to listen to the faint sounds of the base. Your eyes darted to the window. You got up, crossing the room silently, and checked the locks on the window. They were secure, but you still peered through the blinds.
A faint phantom sound echoed in the distance, a door slamming somewhere far away. You flinched visibly, breath quickening, the noise transforming and transforming until it was gunfire and explosions, deafening. Someone screamed—you? Or her?
You sank to the floor, pressing your back to the wall, your knees pulled to your chest. When you blinked, a tear escaped. He gently wipes it away.
“Please… I need help… please…”
September ???????? [REDACTED] ???? rescue ??????????????
“You’ve been through hell. No one expects you to be okay right now. But if there’s something—anything—you can tell me, it might help us figure out what went wrong."
You stared at Carver, eyes hollow. He was sat across from you at that rickety table, in those uncomfortable chairs. He looked older than you remembered, deep lines etched into his face, which was lined with concern. For you, maybe. Probably not. When did he even get here? Where was here, anyway? Where’s Spencer?
"They’re all dead, News,” you said, fingers fidgeting with each other, a faint tremble in each of them, ignoring the way your Master Sergeant visibly startled at the nickname. “Every single one of them. And I’m the one still breathing. What’s there to figure out?"
A beat of silence. Carver leaned forward, his voice soft. "That’s survivor’s guilt talking. I trained you better than that. Taught you how to look beyond that."
Your laugh was bitter and sharp. "I should’ve died with them."
"But you didn’t. And now you have a chance to make their deaths mean something. Don’t let anyone take that from you."
Slowly, your eyes looked toward the window, to the slit in the curtains. “Mortem Occumbere Pro Patria, right?”
“I noticed you keep checking the windows. Do you feel unsafe here?"
That was a different voice. You looked back and found Doctor Hoffman there, eyes kind, expression patient. What? When did she get here? Where was Carver? How long had it been? Had he ever even been here?
Eventually, you looked away again, attempting a shrug. "I don’t feel safe anywhere."
Doctor Hoffman nodded slowly, legs folded over one another, hands in her lap. Her nails were a deep red colour. It reminded you of blood. It stained your skin, too, but nobody else could see it. No matter how many times you had tried washing your hands, you kept seeing the blood. At least you could still wash your hands.
As if reading your mind, Dr Hoffman spoke up again. “What about water? The reports say you refused to shower after you were found.”
You clenched your hands into fists, still staring at the window. “I can’t—” you said, voice breaking, “it reminds me of them. Of what they did.”
Thankfully, Hoffman didn’t press further. Instead, she leaned forward in her chair. "You don’t have to do this alone. Let me help you."
Finally, you looked at her, eyes filled with anger and fear. “No one can help me,” you said, voice hollow. “They’re all still here. Every time I close my eyes. Every time I hear a sound. I can’t make them leave. No one can help me."
A friendly smile overtook Hoffman’s features. “I’d still like to try, if that’s okay with you?”
“I can help you,” he softly says. “I can help you heal, if you’ll let me.”
????? Sep—??? NO NO NO ????? NO RESCUE __________ ??????????
You shot up in bed, desperately gasping for air. Cold sweat clung to your body, which wracked with shivers, yet you felt impossibly hot. The room was dark, your eyes desperately shooting around, hoping to figure out where you were. Nothing was familiar, but everything you saw felt safe. Wherever this place was, it wasn’t tainted. It was clean.
Finally, your eyes fell on a body in the bed beside you. Fear gripped your heart for a moment, but then the body moved, its arm reaching for you, slinging over your stomach. It’s him. He’s here.
With trembling hands, you reached for Spencer, trailing your fingers over his cheek. He was fast asleep, lips parted, hair a mess. Everything about him screamed serenity and safety. There was nothing about him that scared you: he was a beacon of light in a world devoid of colour. And he was here. With you.
Slowly, you lied back down in the bed, heart still pounding in your chest. Like instinct, Spencer pulled you into his chest without waking for even a moment. Safety enveloped you like a thick blanket, driving everything away. The coarse sand vanished from your mouth, the sounds of gunshots disappeared—there was no screaming anymore, no pain, no blood. There was only him. He was your safety, your morphine, your oxygen—the wind that drove away all the bad thoughts. He was untainted by all of it, so far removed he became a stronghold in the middle of the rough sea.
And he was yours. Yours to love, to hold, to cry with.
You curled into him, burying your face in the crook of his neck where you breathed him in: slowly, the smell of gunpowder and copper disappeared until there was only him. Only Spencer. You pressed a kiss to his skin, and another, and another. He woke up, only slightly, softly humming in appreciation. One of his hands slipped under your shirt and trailed over your skin, following your spine up and down, up and down.
There was only him.
Only him.
January 17th, 2010, 17:22 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 0 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 8 hours and 37 minutes since last sighting.
The drive to the abandoned building feels endless and all too familiar. Spencer keeps getting reminded of that case where you ended up kidnapped and nearly drowned. During that drive, too, he’d been so overtly focused on your survival, his mind had retreated back into the most basic, scientific reasoning it knew. As if driving away all the emotion made it easier. Today, however, it all felt impossible. Science mixed with emotion, leaving nothing but confusion in its path. Up was down, left was right. The sun was suddenly setting in the east. Nothing made sense anymore.
“We’ll get her back, Reid,” Morgan says from where he’s behind the wheel. “We’ll get her back and we’ll get that bastard who did this to her.”
“I know,” Spencer says, not sure if he means it or not. “We’ll get her back. We have to.”
Finally, they pull up to the building. They park a little further away, hoping to approach unnoticed. Unfortunately, they’re alone in this: now that Strauss had taken them off the case, they couldn’t ask for any assistance without her finding out about it.
In the setting sun, the building seemed perfectly normal. Old, much older than originally anticipated, but normal. Nothing about it betrayed the horrors hiding inside, or the possible bombs or traps hidden all over. Some of the windows are shattered and the building’s structure is visibly decayed. A slight wind carries the faint sound of dripping water and the groan of unstable metal.
Spencer’s heart pounds in his chest as he exits the SUV, his hand gripping his flashlight so tightly his knuckles whiten. His Kevlar vest feels too tight, like it’s limiting his breathing. The air feels heavy, electric, as though the world itself is holding its breath.
It’s Hotch who speaks up first once everyone has regrouped. "Stay sharp. The building is unstable, watch for traps."
Spencer barely registers Hotch’s words. His focus is singular: you. You’re in there, alone with Bennett, and every second feels like an eternity. The longer he stands out here, the more anxious and impatient he becomes. The team approaches the main doors cautiously, their flashlights cutting through the darkness, raised alongside their guns. Hotch raises his hand to signal a halt.
“Garcia, we’re at the main entrance. Do we have any schematics on this place?”
Garcia’s voice crackles over the comms. "Yes, sir. It’s an old steel mill. Three floors, multiple stairwells, and a maze of hallways. But there’s no way of knowing what’s intact after years of neglect."
Nodding, Hotch glances back at the team. “You heard her. Watch out in there. Reid, Prentiss, you’re with me. Morgan, JJ, you’re with Rossi.”
Before anyone can even respond, a series of deafening explosions erupt from inside the building. The ground shakes violently beneath their feet as a fireball bursts through a nearby window, sending shards of glass raining down.
"Everyone, back!" Rossi yells. The team scrambles for cover as the main doors blow open, the force of the blast knocking Spencer off balance. He staggers but doesn’t fall, his eyes fixed on the inferno inside. It’s like he’s staring straight into hell, flames roaring, metal groaning.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Penelope Garcia sits in her office, staring at the multiple screens on her desk, desperately trying to find the schematics of the abandoned building you’re still being held hostage in. On her laptop is the live feed, where she glances every couple seconds to make sure you’re still okay. That man, Bennett, returned a little while ago. He hadn’t hurt you again, but kept mumbling all sorts of indecipherable things. Then, he had left again. You had been on your own since then.
Only a few minutes, Penelope thinks to herself. They’re on their way. Just a few more minutes.
“Penny?” You suddenly say, voice crackly over the cheap microphone. “Are you there?”
With a small gasp, Penelope presses the spacebar four times. YES.
You smile weakly. “Good. I’m glad. I’m sorry you have to see all this. I know it’s not easy for you, this part of the job.”
Penelope’s fingers hover over the keyboard, unsure of what to do. She wants to tell you that yes, this isn’t easy, but that for you, she can handle it. But she doesn’t know how to communicate that. Instead, she activates the light only once. NO.
“No? As in…don’t apologise?” You ask, head tilting to the side. “Or, no, as in, you can handle this just fine?”
Helpless, Penelope just responds with two flickers of the light. YES.
You chuckle quietly. “I always underestimated how tough you are,” you whisper with a small, slightly guilty smile. “Pen, I… I don’t think I’m getting out of this. Can you… do something for me? Please?”
Utterly rejecting where you’re going with this, Penelope blinks the light only once. NO. You let go of a breathy chuckle. “This ain’t a debate, love. Just… listen to me, okay?” you say, coughing and then flinching. Your voice lowers, tinged with regret. “I think we both know there’s a good chance I’m not making it out of this one, and if I don’t—if I don’t make it...can you give Spencer a message for me?”
With trembling hands, Penelope presses the spacebar. YES. Before you can speak, she quickly presses another button: a recording starts, making sure none of your words will go to waste. By the time you finish, tears are in Penelope’s eyes, her hands trembling above the keyboard.
“Thanks, Penny,” you whisper, voice hoarse. Your eyelids are drooping, your head slowly lolling forward. “For being here. For not letting me go quietly into the night, eh?”
Penelope hates the way you’re talking. She hated that speech enough already, why would you finish it like this? As she watches you slowly start to slip out of consciousness, she rapidly starts spamming the keyboard, the only way she can hope to keep you awake. It doesn’t work. Your head drops forward, hair obscuring your face. After a few seconds, blood mixed with spit leaks from your mouth and onto your lap, and that’s when Garcia looks away. There’s only so much she can handle.
In her ear, her earpiece crackles. “Garcia, we’re at the main entrance. Do we have any schematics on this place?” Hotch says on the other end.
Taking a deep breath, Penelope focuses on the other screens, giving a last quick glance at your unconscious form. “Yes, sir.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
“Dammit!” Morgan yells as he scrambles off Emily and onto his feet, his furious and helpless expression illuminated by the flickering flames in the old mill. “What the hell do we do?!”
“Call emergency services!” Hotch says, voice loud and clear, hair a mess from the explosion, rushing to get back to his feet, dirt staining his white dress shirt. “We can’t risk going in, not anymore. The building’s too unstable.”
Spencer’s breath comes in shallow gasps. The sound of roaring flames and the groan of metal fills his ears. He can feel his panic mounting. God, no—please, no. "She’s in there! We can’t just leave her!"
With an expression filled with guilt, Hotch shakes his head. “Reid, we’ll find another way,” he says, voice firm, holding out a hand as he takes a step closer. “We can’t risk it, right now we—”
Spencer doesn’t wait for Hotch to finish. He darts past him, heading straight for the entrance, ignoring the shouts of his colleagues and superiors. There is no other way, this is the only thing he can do.
"Reid, stop!” Hotch yells. “That’s an order!"
But Spencer doesn’t stop. He barely hears Hotch’s voice over the pounding of his own heartbeat. He has to find you, has to get you out of there. This isn’t where it ends, not like this. He can still get to you.
When he enters the building, he’s immediately overwhelmed by the heat and smoke. The air is thick, acrid, and every breath burns his lungs. Flames begin to creep along the walls, eating away at the ancient structure. He’s in the middle of an inferno, ready to claim his body with bright flames and inescapable heat. When he tries to call out to you, he immediately breaks into a coughing fit, unable to call past the thick smoke. Not that it would have made a difference: the only response is the groan of bending metal and the distant crackle of fire. He presses forward, weaving through debris and fallen beams, his desperation outweighing his fear. He has to find you, he has to.
In the midst of the deathly chaos and desperation gripping his heart, he tries to remember everything you described and the conclusions he had made with those descriptions. You said you thought you were on the second floor, and he had concluded that you were at the front of the building. It was a start, for now: it was all he had to find you. He manages to find the stairwell, burning his hand on the metal doorhandle, and takes the steps three at a time. Every step threatens to give away beneath him, the metal groaning dangerously, weakened by years of neglect. Just as he reaches the second floor, another explosion shakes the building. He just barely manages to catch himself on a broken railing, glancing back and watching as the upper half of the staircase falls away into a crash of metal and concrete, a cloud of dust and smoke shooting into the air.
He’s about to take another step when dizziness suddenly overtakes him. Instantly, the analytical part of his brain takes over and starts to categorise every little thing. His vision is blurry, he has a headache, his lungs are burning. The building is old, there was a good chance he was actively breathing in asbestos, not to mention the carbon monoxide released by the smoke. So, he’s breathing in all kinds of toxic chemicals, combined with the soot and smoke assaulting his eyes and clinging to his skin. The headache was from a lack of oxygen, as was the dizziness, and the smoke was making it difficult for him to see, every little particle he was inhaling blocking his airways. It wouldn’t be long before he’d pass out. Then he’d never be able to get to you on time.
With a new burst of adrenaline at that thought, Spencer starts pulling on his sleeve, clawing at the stitching until it finally gave way. He wraps it around his mouth and nose, tightly knotting it behind his head: it won’t be enough, not for long. It would be far more effective if he could get it wet, but it had to do for now.
He blinks furiously a few times, tells himself to suck it up, and then starts stumbling through the smoke, flames and debris. He tries calling out to you again, not even realising he’s using your real name, but he gets no response and only coughs violently when he tries again. He stumbles into a random room, which is too much of a mess to make anything out of. When he turns back around, he makes his way down the hall, rounds the corner and then—Jagger Bennett.
The ex-Marine stands at the far end of the corridor, a dark silhouette against the growing firelight. His face is calm, almost detached, as if the chaos around him is of no consequence. He’s beside an open door, leading into another room, and Spencer knows instantly that you’re in there.
“You’re late,” Bennett says, barely audible over the roaring flames. He glances down at his watch. “Funny, I figured you’d be on time.”
“Get out of my way,” Spencer says in a steady voice, reaching for his gun.
“She’s still in there,” Bennett says, not acknowledging Spencer’s words, or the gun now aimed at him. “I made sure you could be on time. But you’re too late, so she’s probably dead now. It’s not my fault. It’s yours.”
“What the hell are—”
“All you had to do was be on time!” Bennett suddenly roars, expression filled with fury. “We we’re all on time, why couldn’t you?!”
He takes a step forward and instinctively, Spencer’s squeezes the trigger. He doesn’t close his eyes, keeping them trained on the man. He doesn’t get to find out if his bullet hit its target, because another explosion rings out and the next thing he knows, the ceiling is collapsing on top of him and Bennett. Spencer just barely manages to jump back, watching as part of the floor collapses under the sudden weight. He looks up, trying to look for a figure in the smoke and dust, but finds no one.
Bennett is gone.
With careful steps, his back pressed against the nearest wall, Spencer manages to reach the room you’re in. It’s covered in debris too, but there’s windows with bars, just like you had described. He narrows his eyes and crouches down to try and get under the smoke accumulating at the ceiling, slowly getting heavier and lowering to the floor more and more. It wouldn’t be long before crouching wouldn’t make a difference anymore. He stumbles further inside, frantically looking around, hoping to find you in time. He calls out to you, accidentally using your real name again. No response. Just the roar of flames, the creaking metal and collapsing concrete. Was he too late?
Suddenly, something moves in the corner of his eye. A piece of debris rolls over the floor. Then, he sees a body move beneath a thick layer of concrete pebbles and dust, pinned to the floor by a large, metal beam. He doesn’t even think when he sprints over and drops down beside you, his still-not-fully-healed knee aching in protest. Your face is covered in blood and soot, yet pale beneath it all. There’s a large gash on your forehead, bleeding steadily.
The moment you see him, your eyes widen and you start to shake your head. “No, Spencer, no! You’re not supposed to be here, what the hell are you doing?”
“Trying to save your life,” Spencer says, quickly analysing the beam that’s keeping you pressed to the floor so that it might allow him to figure out how to get it off you.
“No, you have to go,” you say, frantic. “Please, you have to go, Spencer. The building is going to collapse, you’ll die, please—”
“You really think I’d leave you here?” Spencer interrupts, voice loud. His eyes meet yours again. “You really think I’d let you die? On your own, for that matter?”
Something flashes in your eyes, mixed in with the flames that reflect in your pupils, and it shifts the world. Suddenly, you’re struggling to remove the beam from your body again, desperately pushing against the hot metal. “Help me with this then,” you say, in a tone like your life isn’t dependent on it.
It kicks Spencer back into gear and he frantically looks around for something to help. He spots another piece of metal, something that must’ve broken off, and quickly grabs it. He shoves it under the beam and uses the leverage along with your strength to just barely lift it off your body. You have less than half an inch of movement but start moving immediately, kicking yourself under from beneath the beam. Then Spencer’s impromptu jack breaks, sending him stumbling back as the beam crashes into the floor once more. A cloud of dust shoots into the air, momentarily blinding him.
Suddenly, you come stumbling through the cloud, colliding with Spencer’s body, who quickly wraps his arms around you. “You okay?” he asks quickly, to which you nod, gasping for air that is quickly disappearing.
“We have to get out of here,” you say, before breaking out into a coughing fit. Without hesitating, Spencer rips his makeshift mask off his face and quickly ties it around your head, even as you try to push him away. “Spencer, no—"
“I’m fine,” he says, shaking his head as he roughly ties the knot. “Look, I’m fine, yeah? I’m fine. You need it more than I do.”
It’s a lie: he’s dizzy, he can barely breathe with the way his lungs burn, and all he can taste is ash, but for you, he’s fine. He doesn’t allow you to make the decision on whether or not you believe him and grabs your wrist, pulling you back to where he came from.
“Follow me, do exactly what I do,” he says once he sees you eye the giant hole in the floor. Carefully, with his back pressed against the wall, he takes small steps over the little bits of concrete still left. It groans dangerously, some of it shaky, barely attached to the rebar that sticks out precariously. Spencer tries his hardest to focus on where he places his feet, knowing you’re right behind him, copying his every move.
When he’s halfway, he suddenly hears a small noise behind him. You groan painfully, before gasping. Without thinking, he snaps his head back. Just in time too, because he watches as you stumble, eyes rolling back into your head, and he knows you’re about to faint: whether it be the blood loss, or the lack of oxygen, or the heat, or all of it combined, he doesn’t know. But that doesn’t matter. All he knows is that he came here to save you, and that’s what he’ll do. Instinctively, he wraps an arm around you, pulls you into his arms, and falls blindly.
Thankfully, the part of the ceiling that collapsed did so in one giant piece, which lies perpendicular to the floor below, making it a sort of slide. His back cracks painfully when he hits the concrete, your unconscious body pressed to his chest, and he slides down without control until he hits the floor. His side suddenly screams at him in pain and he can feel his skin getting wet, but it doesn’t matter. The fall, in all its glory, had made for a shortcut, and he suddenly finds himself only a few feet from the entrance he came in through.
Flames roar in front of it, blocking the way, but he can jump through. He has to. With trembling legs, he gets to his feet, one of his arms under your shoulders, the other under your legs. You’re heavy, especially with the lack of oxygen in his body and the burning heat that surrounds him. He stumbles, eyes doubling their sight, and he blinks rapidly. Embers and ash rain down on him, the thickening smoke stings his eyes, flames lick at the walls and burn his skin with their heat. The exit is right there, he just has to make it. Just take a step. One more.
He looks at you. You’re still unconscious, mask tight around your face, blood and soot staining your face: through the black and red are tracks, like you’ve been crying, showing hints of clean skin. You’re not breathing.
His mind screams at him to move, that if he doesn’t, he’ll die, but he can’t. Not until he’s certain you’re still breathing. Not until he’s certain you’re still with him. He whispers your name, your real one, doesn’t even realise, and then your face suddenly moves. Your brows furrow a little, like you’re coming back to the surface, and finally, he can move again. He’s not sure if it was done unconsciously, if perhaps you’re in pain and your body is just responding to that, but it doesn’t matter. It’s enough for now. Enough to keep him moving.
With a final push of strength, Spencer manages to make it to the door. Flames reach for his body, taking as much as they can, burning his skin and torching his clothes, and then suddenly, he feels cold, the cool evening air enveloping him like a merciful blanket. He made it. When that realisation hits him, his legs immediately give way from beneath him and he crumbles to the asphalt. People are yelling at him, hands touch and pull and push, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is you.
He pulls you away from his chest just enough to look at your face and rips off the mask that’s singed at the edges. Your head flops heavily into the crook his elbow, completely unresponsive. “Come on, wake up,” he says, desperation gripping his heart. He grabs your chin, fingers digging into your cheeks. “Come on, sweetheart, wake up.”
For a second, he’s back in that pool, trying desperately to wake you up after you nearly drowned. It’s practically biblical, the stark contrast between the cool, quiet water in that pool back then and the burning, roaring flames behind him now.
“An ambulance is on its way, Spencer, hold on,” he can hear JJ say close to his ear, but he doesn’t respond. He’s far too focused on you.
He lets go of your chin and starts tapping your cheeks. A tear accidentally escapes from his eyes and drops onto your cheekbone. “Wake up, honey, you got to wake up for me,” he whispers, throat burning. In the distance, he can hear sirens. “Come on, wake up. Come back to me, baby.”
“Shit, Reid, you’re bleeding,” someone else says—Emily, he’s pretty sure—and they suddenly push something against his side. He groans in pain, feeling something sting the flesh there. When he looks down, he sees blood staining his shirt, steadily dripping down his waistline where it seeps into his trousers. It’s then that an ambulance comes rushing around the corner, sirens wailing, lights flashing, allowing just the tiniest bit of relief to seep into his heart. He looks back at you and finds you still unconscious, the relief vanishing in an instant.
“Wake up, please,” he says desperately. He presses a hard kiss to your unresponsive lips. “Please, honey. Wake up. Come back to me.”
Finally, finally, you start to stir. Your eyes flicker, lids heavy as you try so hard to keep them open. The whites of your eyes are red and irritated, but at least your eyes are open. He nearly sobs in relief.
“Spence?”
“I got you, just hold on. Help’s coming. I got you.”
One of your hands reaches up to touch his cheek, fingers weakly brushing against his soot-streaked skin. He leans into your touch without hesitation, closing his eyes as if he can ground himself in the sensation. Tears cut cleaner paths through the ash on his face, streaks of anguish and relief blending together. “Just had to play the hero, didn’t you?” You whisper, voice barely audible.
He scoffs in surprise. “You’re making jokes right now? Seriously?”
“Laughter’s the best medicine,” you say, a weak smile on your face. Your eyelids flutter and he knows you’re slipping again.
“Hey, don’t do that. Stay with me,” he says, nudging you a little. “You have to stay awake, okay?”
“I scorn to change my state with kings,” you say, so quiet he has to strain to hear you. “I think I get it, now.”
Then your hand falls away from his cheek and your head lolls back once more. “No, no, don’t do that,” Spencer frantically says, shaking his head as he tries to nudge you awake again. “Come on, baby, don’t do this to me. Please.”
He holds you tighter, prays to a God he doesn’t believe in, but nothing happens to change your state. And then the paramedics are pulling you from his grasp, urgent hands working quickly to stabilise you. Spencer stumbles, exhaustion and pain catching up to him all at once. As they lift you onto the gurney, his skin feels cold and slowly, the physical agony starts to set in. He watches as they wheel you toward the ambulance, your body so still it makes his chest ache. Someone is at his side—Hotch, maybe, or was it Emily?—but he can’t focus on anything except the distant, fragile hope that you’ll come back to him. You have to.
Not yet, please. Not yet.
Notes:
I am so sorry
Also if I put it in all this effort with the Eurydice and Orpheus parallels and no one picks up on it I will literally end my life (jk) (not really)
Chapter 19: The Ember Hours
Notes:
This is a longggg one lads, but I figured I'd make up for all the cliffhangers lmaooo
Content warnings: injury descriptions, mentions of suicide/suicidal idealisation, vague description of smut *gasp!*
Enjoy, my loves :)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 18th, 2010, 14:51 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 1 day since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
The hospital is quiet and sterile, smells of chemicals and unseasoned food, and the plastic chairs are far too uncomfortable. Spencer has been sitting on them for hours on end now, waiting and waiting for you to be cleared for visitation. His side throbs dully, aching due to the lack of any medication that could numb the pain. He’d refused it, of course, and this time, it had been more difficult to do. You hadn’t been there to support him, to help him explain.
He wasn’t even sure how he got the injury. It must’ve happened during that fall: the doctor had said something about how his skin had been torn open by something that hadn’t been sharp enough for a clean cut. A piece of rebar, maybe, or a jagged edge of metal sticking out from the rubble. Not that it mattered, now.
You were somewhere down that hallway he’s not yet allowed to enter, being treated for injuries he’s not allowed to know about. Many stitches, a lot of internal bruising and some broken ribs, but that’s as far as he’s been told. During the entire time he’s been here, different members of the team have come by to show their support. JJ, with clothes for both you and him, Morgan with a puzzle book that’s far too easy for Spencer—although he appreciates the thought—and Emily with food. Rossi came by without anything tangible and had simply sat with Spencer for a long time, neither saying a word. That had been the nicest of all, perhaps.
Hotch kept showing up occasionally. Spencer was pretty sure he was working remotely in the cafeteria downstairs, visiting your ward every once in a while to see if you were awake yet. Every time he did, Spencer had only shaken his head, and Hotch had left again with a solemn nod. The only person whom had yet to visit was Garcia. That was surprising, considering her empathy rivalled that of the word itself. It probably wouldn’t be long before she’d show up, though.
Spencer coughs as he works on his stupid puzzle, flying through the pages with ease, his chest constricting with every little cough. He’d already been given a ton of oxygen, had his lungs checked over and over again, but it still hurt to breathe and even more to cough. That would probably last over the next couple of days. The same would be true for you.
He remembers brushing his teeth earlier, how his spit just kept coming out black from all the ash and soot and smoke. He’d imagined you doing the same, envisioning blood amongst all that black, and then had quickly banished those thoughts from his mind.
“How’s my favourite genius?” A voice suddenly says, and he looks up to find Garcia standing in front of him with a smile and a frilly pink coat that hurts his eyes.
“Stressed,” he says, tossing his puzzle on the seat beside him, thankful to be able to get rid of it for now. “Frustrated.”
“They still haven’t allowed you to see her?” Garcia asks with a small frown as she sits down in the other chair beside him. He only shakes his head. “They tell you how she’s doing, at least?”
“Vaguely,” Spencer says, leaning back in his chair and grunting when his side protests fiercely. “Just that she didn’t need surgery, miraculously enough. She has a couple broken ribs, internal bruising, but nothing life threatening. Inhaled a lot of smoke.”
Garcia nods and gives him a sympathetic look. Then she suddenly takes a deep breath and reaches into her bag. “Well, since you’ve got the time,” she says, producing her bedazzled and cat stickered laptop from her bag, along with a USB. “I think you might want to see this.”
“No more new information, please,” Spencer weakly says. “I know you’re all working the case but I don’t think I can handle learning anything new right now.”
“Don’t worry, it’s nothing like that,” Garcia says, starting up her laptop and finding the right file on the USB. Then she turns to Spencer. “So, to be completely honest here, she told me only to tell you this if she didn’t make it. I recorded it, just in case, but now… I still think you should see it.”
Unconsciously, Spencer straightens up in his seat, nerves prickling his stomach. “What are you talking about?”
“When you guys were making your way over to that abandoned factory, she started talking to me,” Garcia says, very obviously not using your name. Clearly, she doesn’t know which one to use anymore. “Said to give you a message. I managed to record it before all those explosions went off and the feed cut out. I think you need to see it.”
While he’s still trying to make up his mind, Garcia suddenly shoves the laptop in his hands. “Here,” she says, opening the file. The screen fills with a still frame of you, in that chair, bloodied and bruised, looking straight into the camera. “Just press the spacebar whenever you’re ready.”
She leans back to give him space and Spencer stares at the screen. Does he even want to see this? Was he meant to? He looks over at Garcia, who just gives him an encouraging nod, and his fingers hover over the spacebar. Finally, he presses it. The video starts.
You take a deep breath before you start to speak, eyes intense as they stare into the camera. “In case I don’t get to tell him myself… tell Spencer I’m sorry. For not telling him the truth about who I am. I was scared he’d see me as broken... like I wasn’t enough for him.”
You hesitate, tears escaping your eyes. “Tell him none of this is his fault. Not Jax, not me being here. If I die, it’s because of choices I made—stupid, reckless choices. Tell him not to blame himself. Please." Your voice cracks and you swallow hard. "And tell him... he’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. The only thing that made me think maybe... maybe I could be something. He saw the real me, and somehow, he still stayed."
Your eyes close, voice soft and steady even as a tear runs down your cheek. "Tell him he deserves to be happy. And if he can... to let me go. I tried, I really did. I tried so hard, for him. But if this is the end of the line, then… I have peace with that. I just don’t want him to blame himself for any of this. It’s not his fault. None of it ever was.”
“Thanks, Penny,” you finally whisper, voice hoarse. Your eyelids are drooping, your head slowly lolling forward. “For being here. For not letting me go quietly into the night, eh?”
The video ends. A moment of silence passes, interrupted by a small snivel from Garcia. “Sorry, I just—oh, every time I hear her say that stuff it makes me cry. It’s just so sweet.”
“I know, it’s—it’s okay,” Spencer quietly says, swallowing thickly as his heart thunders in his chest. To him, it hadn’t been sweet at all. This wasn’t a love note in case you didn’t make it. No, this was a suicide note. You hadn’t been planning on making it out at all. You had been ready to die there. That’s why you had been so shocked when you’d seen him in that building. You’d been ready to die on your own, but when he’d shown up, you had been forced to continue fighting. That hurts, a lot. Fuck, that hurts. Worse than the stitches and the first degree burns on his calves.
“Thanks for showing me this, Garcia,” he whispers, handing the laptop back to Garcia, who nods.
“Of course, honey,” she says, squeezing his forearm before putting the laptop back in her bag. “I knew it was the right thing to do.”
“Doctor Reid?”
Spencer practically flies out of his chair at the sound of your doctor’s voice. He meets the man’s eyes with a hopeful and pleading look, and is met with a polite, yet slightly concerned smile. “You can see her now,” he says, quickly continuing before Spencer can walk past him. “There is one thing—she’s refusing any pain medication. I’d like to ask you to convince her otherwise: her injuries are extensive and will be difficult to manage without any medication.”
“Oh. Uh, yeah, I’ll talk to her about it,” Spencer says, a bit surprised at what he’s hearing. He’s got a sneaking suspicion as to why you don’t want any, and it has to do with that awful video he just watched. He glances over at Garcia who sends him an encouraging smile.
“Go. I’ll let the rest of the team know,” she says, then adds, a little playfully, “in twenty minutes. Give the two of you a bit of time before they all come barrelling in.”
When Spencer arrives to your room, he hesitates in the doorframe. He takes a moment to study you, now that you’re unaware of anyone watching you. You’re leaned back in your pillow, head turned away from the door. Your eyes are on the windows, watching the view of the city. He expected them to be like they always were: hollow, distant, lifeless. It’s what they always appear as, when you don’t think anyone’s watching. That’s not the case at all, however. They’re filled with a fire he’s never seen before. It’s fierce and powerful, completely different from any other look you’ve ever had before. It takes him a second, but then he recognises it from that short moment when you were stuck under that beam. Something had flashed in your eyes then.
Whatever it is that made the change, it has awakened something in you. Something ancient, something unfamiliar. It’s a lust for living. It’s the readiness for a fight. It’s… life. You’ve found the spark of life again.
That look is contrasted by your face, which is heavily bruised: one of your eyes is a dark blue and purple, along with various shades of yellow that cover your cheekbone below. The gash on your forehead has been covered with a bandage. Your bottom lip is split and a thin cut divides your eyebrow in half, which is being held together by two butterfly bandages. There’s even more cuts and bandages and bruises on your arms. He can’t say anything else about the rest of your body, as it’s covered by your hospital gown and blanket.
Finally, he takes a small step into the room and gently knocks on the door. Your eyes shoot over to his frame and in an instant, something changes drastically.
“Spencer,” you say, voice breathless, and desperation fills your expression. You start to sit up and push away the blanket, your movements frantic and uncontrolled. You’re practically fighting to get out of the bed and to him and he knows that if he doesn’t get over there quickly, you’ll injure yourself just to get to him.
He’s by your side in seconds, sitting down on the edge of the bed just as you throw your arms around his neck. Then you shatter. Loud, broken sobs escape you as you cling onto him like he’s the only thing keeping you alive, fingers digging into his skin to the point it hurts. He just holds you, as tight as he can without hurting you, and lets you cry. He realises quickly that you’ve been keeping this in since the moment you awoke, which was who knows how many hours ago, and only now do you feel safe enough to let it out.
The two of you sit like that for a long time, with you sobbing into his shoulder while he holds you in his arms, hands rubbing up and down your back to try and comfort you. He whispers all sorts of sweet nothings into your ear, some of which make you cry harder, others which make you cling more intensely. And if Spencer felt a few tears escape his eyes too, then there was no one who could prove it. By the time you calm down again, hiccups are tearing through your body, which trembles like you’ve been out in a snowstorm. Your face is pressed against his neck, wet from your tears, and your breathing is shaky and uneven. Spencer’s managed to get you into his lap so he can hold you properly and from the way you cling onto him, he’s got a feeling you’re not about to let go anytime soon.
“You’re okay,” he gently whispers, lips brushing against your hair which still smells of smoke. “You’re safe. It’s over, now. You’re safe.”
Your grip on him tightens just a little more. “Thank you,” you say against his skin, barely audible.
“What for?”
“Saving my life,” you say, hand finding the back of his head and fingers tangling in his hair. “I’d about given up, if I’m honest. Figured it was time to cash in my cosmic karma, but then you showed up, like some knight in shining armour. I knew I had to keep going then: maybe I can’t live for myself, but for you… for you, I can.”
Completely stunned and at a loss for words, Spencer pulls your face away from his neck and then kisses you, fiercely. It’s the only thing he can do right now. He’d already been debating in his head on how to bring up that whole video without accusing you of something or making things worse, yet here you were, bringing it up all on your own. Not even waiting a day or two, no beating around the bush: you took it all head-on. In terms of growth, he’d completely underestimated you on this.
“God, I love you,” he says when he finally pulls back, cradling your face. “I ever tell you I’m proud of you? Because I am- I really, really am.”
You smile, reserved and a bit shy. “Shut up,” you say, no power behind your words.
“I’m serious.”
“I know, that’s why I want you to shut up.”
He kisses you again and this time, you anticipate him. You taste of salty tears and copper and your lips are chapped and it’s all perfect. Just simply, purely perfect. When he pulls back again, he uses his sleeves to wipe away the tears that still cover your cheeks, kissing them both once he’s done. For a moment, his eyes linger on the bruises and the cuts and the bandages, which you seem to notice when you smile sympathetically.
“I’m okay, Spence,” you softly say, grabbing one of his hands to lace your fingers with his. “It looks worse than it feels, really.”
“Your doctor said you’re refusing pain medication,” Spencer says, thumb rubbing over the back of your hand. “Why? You’re not doing it to make yourself suffer, right? This isn’t some martyr thing?”
A small chuckle escapes you and you shake your head. “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s rather that… well, I know about your past, you know? And I don’t want to take them with you around because it might tempt you to relapse—not that I think you’re weak or something! But I just keep thinking about when you were in the hospital and how you refused meds and—”
“That’s got nothing to do with you,” Spencer gently interrupts, trying to meet your shifty eyes. “I can handle that stuff. I’m not going to let you suffer because I refused to take them, or because you think I’ll relapse. I’ll be fine.”
Your eyes flicker between his, as if you’re trying to determine whether he’s telling the truth. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I am,” he says, giving your hand a squeeze. “Promise me you’ll talk to your doctor?”
Slowly, you nod. “Promise,” you say, before clearing your throat. “So, what else did he tell you? About my injuries, I mean?”
“Not a lot,” Spencer says with a frown, feeling the frustration from that conversation slowly creep back up on him. “He said that if we’d been married he’d have been able to tell me more.”
“Guess there’s only one thing we can do, then: book a flight to Vegas,” you say with a dead-pan expression, making him laugh.
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. Already booked the tickets. And I hired an Elvis impersonator to officiate the wedding.”
“Shame, I’d have gone for Michael Jackson,” you say with a grin. It’s a good sign, that you’re still able to joke around. Then your expression turns serious again. “Are you sure you want to know what he did to me?”
Spencer grits his teeth but nods. “Yeah, I do. How else am I going to take care of you, right?”
At least that makes you smile. “So, apart from the obvious,” you say, pointing to your face, “like the bruises and cuts and stuff, I’ve got a couple bruised ribs, two broken ones. My wrists are sprained from the bindings, one of my knees was dislocated so they popped that back in, and I have a few minor burns and a slight concussion. There was a nasty wound on my thigh from when that beam fell on me, so they had to stitch that. Most of the damage Jax did was superficial, thankfully.”
Spencer swallows thickly. “So, you’re just being dramatic, essentially?”
“Oh, absolutely,” you say, nodding solemnly. “This is all an act. Just a desperate bid for your attention, really.”
“I figured. That’s what I told the others.”
Your eyes light up and you glance at the door. “Are they here?”
“Garcia is in the hallway,” Spencer says, unable to keep a smile down at the way you seem eager to see everyone. “I’m pretty sure Hotch is downstairs in the cafeteria. And the others are at Quantico, working the case. Bennett, he… he escaped, I’m sorry.”
The bright look in your eyes dissipates. “Yeah, I’m not surprised. It’s what he does: bloody cockroach, he was. Or, is, I suppose, “ you say before you suddenly groan, rubbing a hand over your face. “Fuck, I can’t believe he’s alive. I mean, I knew he was for a while now, but it was easier to deny when I was just tracking him. Seeing him again, after so long, after everything…”
Spencer squeezes the hand he’s still holding, earning your attention again. “You should know—I read the files. All of it. And the others, they know, too. We know everything.”
He doesn’t expect you to be surprised, so he’s not worried when your expression remains unchanged. “No, you don’t,” you then say, taking him aback anyways. “Not everything. Those files tell most of it, don’t get me wrong, but you don’t know what really happened.”
“You mean, what happened during Mission Phoenix Erebus?” he asks, and your eyes widen a little. Clearly, there was quite a difference between being aware that he knew everything, and hearing him actually say it all aloud.
“Yeah—yeah, exactly,” you mumble, pressing your lips into a thin line. For a moment, you hesitate to speak, but then Spencer squeezes your hand again and you continue. “Does it not… bother you? Everything you read?”
“Of course it does,” Spencer says, feeling anger bubble up in his chest as he looks down at your hand intertwined with his. It’s why he misses the way your face falls. “The way they used you, like you were some sort of pawn in a game… it sickens me. They destroyed you and no one paid for it, nobody. It’s… nauseating.”
Your hand grabs his chin, forcing him to look up into your eyes, which are now filled with tears. “You don’t care about what I did?” You whisper, voice rough with emotion. “The deaths, the violence—doesn’t that bother you?”
Resolutely, Spencer shakes his head. “No, it doesn’t. I know who you are. Your past is your past for a reason. It’s not your present and it’s most certainly not your future. Everything you did, you did because they said you had to. They had you convinced and kept you on a leash. That’s not your fault.”
You swallow thickly. “I’m not blameless, Spencer. I’m not denying what I did, I’m owning up to it: I killed people, I hurt people, I destroyed futures.”
“You were following orders.”
“But I was the one who pulled the trigger. Just because they were orders doesn’t mean I’m absolved of what I did. Please, Spencer, don’t—don’t act like it was someone else who did that. There’s always a choice and I—I made the wrong one. Don’t turn me into a blameless victim.”
He hates hearing this, hates hearing you say this. But he can’t disagree: who would he be to disagree? He wasn’t there, when all of it happened. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have a rifle pressed into his hands with orders to go into hostile territory and not leave a single person alive. That’s why he can’t disagree with you, it’s why he can’t tell you that you were a victim too, in a lot of ways. In fact, he even thinks a part of you was right: you joined the Marines, you knew what you were singing up for. You still carried some of the responsibility.
But he can’t say that to you, unable to agree with the way you’re beating on your own already broken heart, and so instead, he presses his lips to your forehead. You lean into his touch, a shaky sigh escaping your lips as you allow the silence to linger. When he pulls back, the words escape his lips before he can stop them: “I know your name.”
You visibly freeze, looking up at him with wide, fearful eyes. “…How?”
“Carver,” Spencer says, and your face turns even paler than it already was. “We visited him for information—we needed everything we could get. He told me.”
“Just—just you?” You ask, voice quiet. He nods and a breath of relief parts your lips.
“But, the others, they know you’re using a fake name. We couldn’t find a file on you and after we found Angelina’s file… it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.”
“That makes sense, I suppose,” you say, running a hand through your hair as you allow his words to settle. “Annie… she was my best friend. We were inseparable. When I got back to the US, after everything happened, they advised me to take on a new identity. Just in case, you know? I wasn’t supposed to choose my name but…”
“You wanted to honour her sacrifice?” Spencer finishes gently.
You give him a small smile. “Yeah, exactly. Stupid, in hindsight, cos it’s how Jax found me, but I don’t regret it, I think. It was the right thing to do—and it was about time I started to see the difference between right and wrong.”
It was then that a short knock rang out through the room, and when the both of you look at the door, you find Hotch standing there. Behind him is Garcia, who looks like a wreck the moment she sees you, but she holds back as Hotch takes a few steps into the room.
You straighten your back, meeting his gaze head-on. “Sir,” you say, voice softer than Spencer expected.
“Agent,” Hotch says with a nod. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck.”
The corners of Hotch’s lips quirk up. “You gave us all quite the scare.”
Your own mouth curves into a smile. “You were just afraid of all the paperwork you’d have to do if I died.”
“It would’ve been quite the nightmare, yes,” Hotch says, eyes twinkling. He holds out his hand for you to shake. “It’s good to have you back, Agent.”
“Thank you, sir,” you say, giving him a strong nod.
Then Hotch steps back and clears his throat. “She’s all yours, Garcia.”
There’s a blur of pink fabric, chunky jewellery and blonde hair and then Garcia is hugging you tightly, sobbing into your shoulder and mumbling all sorts of incoherent things. You just hold her tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and trying your best to console her, your eyes flashing with amusement when they meet Spencer’s.
Then Hotch looks at him. “A word?” He says, nodding his head to the hallway.
There, the hallway is as quiet and sterile as Spencer had left it, uninviting and wanting him to get back to you as quickly as possible. “Something wrong?” He asks his supervisor, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“No, nothing’s wrong,” Hotch says, shaking his head with a small frown. “I just wanted to let you know we still don’t have a lead on Jagger Bennett, but we’re working on it.”
Spencer nods. “Yeah, I figured I’d have probably heard something by now.”
“There’s something else I wanted to discuss with you,” Hotch says, frown deepening. “I understand you want to be with her right now, and I can give you tomorrow off, but after that… I need you to come in. We need all hands on deck right now. Bennett is dangerous and we have no idea what he’s capable of, it’s in our best interest, and that of the public’s, to find him as soon as possible.”
Something churns in Spencer’s stomach at the thought of having to leave you on your own while he works a case you’re a victim in, but he still nods. “I understand,” he says, which he does. “She’s not going to like you side-lining her on this.”
“Yeah, I know,” Hotch says with a grimace. “But I have no choice. Strauss caught wind of everything we did, how I ignored her orders, and she’s been keeping a close eye on us. And besides… I’m not going to let her work her own case. She’s injured enough as it is.”
When he looks at the entrance to your room, a thoughtful look crosses his features. As if his own words had awoken new thoughts he had not considered previously. “She’s also the only witness we have,” he mumbles to himself. His eyes clear up and he turns to Spencer again. “If at all possible, I’d like for you to bring her in as soon as you think she’s able to. She knows Jagger Bennett better than anyone: her information could help us build a profile. That way, she’s still involved with the investigation indirectly."
"She still won’t like it,” Spencer says, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he considers his supervisor’s words. “I’ll talk to her, though. See what can I do.”
“Thank you, Reid.”
With that, Hotch disappears down the hallway, leaving Spencer to work through everything on his own. He can hear Garcia animatedly talking to you, your soft responses and the easy patter of the rain that has suddenly started on the windows. For now, things are okay.
Yet, in his stomach, lies a stone heavier than the weight of the world.
January 19th, 2010, 01:48 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 2 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit.
Your approved discharge from the hospital was that very same afternoon. Armed with a hefty amount of painkillers and antibiotics, along with an ugly get-well-soon helium balloon given to you by Morgan and a teddy bear from Garcia, you arrive to Spencer’s apartment in the early hours of the evening. Not yours, because it’s still a crime scene. Even if it wasn’t, that’s not where you wanted to go. You’d told Spencer as much when he’d helped you into the car.
Showering takes a long time. Watching you strip down and reveal every inch of bruised, battered and cut-up skin was already difficult enough, but seeing you once again struggle to get even slightly close to the stream of water from the showerhead made Spencer so livid with the world, he’d been tempted to punch a wall. He didn’t. Instead, he helped you.
He stood in front of the water so that it only touched him and once you were ready, aimed it at your feet. Slowly, he’d worked his way up, careful of the stitches and the scabbed-over scratches. He washed your hair, your body, your face when you were ready. Helped you dry off afterwards, helped reapply the bandages, put you in one of his sweatpants and t-shirts and then made you a cup of tea. Kissed your cheeks when you didn’t expect it and your lips when you did.
That had been hours ago, though. Currently, Spencer finds himself in bed, beside you, trying very hard to sleep. The thing is, when he says he’s beside you, he’s only really telling half of the truth. At first, you’d slept for about two hours, in his arms, only slightly twitchy. Then you’d woken up, and things had only gone downhill from there.
It was easy in the beginning, keeping his eyes closed when he felt you leave the bed. The first time, he’d assumed you just needed the bathroom and had slipped back into his sleep once you’d returned to the bed. Then came the second time you left and returned, and then the third, and the fourth. By that point, he was wide awake. With his eyes squeezed shut, he listened and tried to make sense of what he was hearing.
You kept checking the windows in the bedroom, running your fingers along the edges as if to find a way to open them, even though they couldn’t. You’d stare through the curtains, at the street, studying cars that passed by and the streetlight that kept flickering. Then you would walk out of the room and he’d hear you check very single room before hearing you unlock and then lock the front door. The windows in the living room would be opened and closed, also locked twice over, and then you’d lie back down in bed with him. You’d flinch occasionally, at noises that weren’t there, and sometimes, your fingers would press against the inside of his wrist, as if looking for a pulse.
That whole process restarted after about fifteen minutes, enough time for sleep to take Spencer once more, but not nearly enough for him to enter a REM cycle and stay asleep through the noise. By the time you returned from attempt number God-knows-how-many at checking the apartment, he was frustrated with you, and frustrated with himself for being frustrated in the first place. He knew what was happening, technically. He’d read your files, read the Psychological Evaluation: PTSD, EHD, insomnia.
So, scientifically, he understands. Realistically, he’s desperate for sleep and a bit of peace after everything he’s been through these last forty-eight hours.
When he feels you get up from the bed again, he swallows all of his frustrations and sighs softly. He opens his eyes to find you by the window again, unaware that he’s awake, eyes trained on the quiet world beyond. He sits up in the bed and rubs a hand over his face, trying to ignore the way his eyes burn and his jaw strains against the massive yawn he’s trying—and failing—to suppress.
“Hey, hey, hold on,” he says gently when you’re about to walk out of the room—presumably to check the front door again—catching your wrist as you pass the bed. Thankfully, you don’t fight it and pause in your step, looking surprised at seeing him awake.
“Did I wake you?” you whisper, eyes filled with guilt. “I’m sorry. I’ll go and lie down on the couch, I just—”
“Hold on,” Spencer repeats, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed and pulling you over until you’re standing between his knees. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s happening right now.”
You swallow thickly and clench your jaw, reluctance clear as day on your expression. “I can’t sleep.”
“I know,” Spencer says, careful not to force you into a corner as he searches for the right road to take. His hands find your hips and he forces himself to smile through his exhaustion. “But I don’t think that’s all. You keep checking the windows and the doors.”
Your hand cups his cheek before you take a shaky breath, contemplating your response for a long while. So long, in fact, Spencer finds himself already drifting back to sleep against your palm, his eyes flickering open again when your voice fills the room, so quiet it barely reaches his ears. “I keep hearing gunshots. Screams, too. I can’t make them leave. They’re still here.”
He has no idea who ‘they’ are, but he can take a guess. Finally, he can see beyond the surface, make out that which is obscured by your elusiveness and trauma-induced shadows. He doesn’t need you to say it all precisely anymore.
“Do you need me to get you something? To distract you from everything?” He asks, slipping a hand under your shirt to touch your bare waist, in the hopes it might ground you to reality. “I haven’t got any here, but I can get it from your apartment. I’ve got clearance to enter the crime scene, technically.”
You don’t laugh at his poor attempt at a joke, but that’s okay. That isn’t what he’s aiming for. “No, that’s okay,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t think it’ll mix well with the painkillers.”
“Okay, I get that,” Spencer says, nodding as he thinks hard, trying to find another solution. “You have to sleep, though, honey. We can’t have you walking around the place at all hours of the night.”
“I know. Shit, I know,” you whisper, hiding your face in your hands as you sigh shortly. Clearly, he wasn’t the only one feeling frustrated by this. That makes him feel guilty, because it means that you know how this is affecting him, you just can’t stop it from happening.
“What helps?” He asks, rubbing his hand up and down your waist, still under your shirt, while the other holds your hip. “To distract yourself, I mean?”
If he has to stay up with you all night, he will. If you need a bottle of whiskey, he’ll drink it with you. If you need to walk around in the freezing cold for an hour, he’ll be right by your side. There’s not much he isn’t willing to do to help you. Even if he is getting a headache from the lack of sleep right now.
“You,” you say into your palms. The way you say it is so… organic. Almost as if it was a dumb question for him to ask, as if there was no other answer you could’ve possibly given. “You help. When I woke up, and you were there, that always helped. I could fall back asleep.”
His heart swells at your confession, making him wonder just how many times he’s helped you by merely being there, fast asleep, never knowing.
“But I guess, after Jax, it’s not enough anymore,” you continue, removing your hands from your face so you can meet Spencer’s eyes in the dark. “He flicked a few switches I thought I got rid of. And now I can’t turn them off anymore.”
Spencer nods slowly, taking in your words. His hand pauses on your waist and he leans forward, touching his forehead to your abdomen. “I think I can help,” he whispers, squeezing your hip just a little. “It’s unorthodox, though. But it’ll distract you, I’m pretty sure.”
“My therapist gave me weed to deal with my traumas, I think I can handle unorthodox.”
That makes him laugh and he looks up, finding a smile on your face, too. “Fair enough,” he says, pushing his hand a little higher up your waist until a sliver of your stomach becomes visible. “I have your permission, then? To distract you?”
“Of course,” you say, biting your bottom lip as you stare down at him. You’re catching on, he can tell. “I trust you.”
With those words, Spencer knows he’s got the full go-ahead. He leans over and presses a soft kiss to the sliver of skin he’s exposed, only smiling a little when he hears the soft puff of air that escapes your lips. Using both hands, he pushes the shirt up further and kisses your skin, over the bruises and the old scars there. Your hands thread through his hair, your breaths heavy as you watch him kiss your stomach.
He pulls back just enough to help you pull off the shirt, once more mesmerised at the sight of your naked torso, only for him to see. The dark makes it easier to look at the bruises and scars and he lightly brushes his thumb over a contusion, noticing the way you tense as he studies those awful, awful marks holding memories you’d rather scrub from your mind forever. He finds a spot untouched, presses his lips to it, and sucks until a small mark forms, feeling your hands tug on his hair at the sensation. Then he does it again, and again, until bruises mix with hickeys.
“There,” he whispers once he’s satisfied, looking up to meet your gaze, “now we can’t tell the difference anymore.”
It doesn’t take very long until you’re both entirely undressed and tangled in the sheets, tangled in each other. He holds you close, with an arm around the back of your neck and the other around your waist, but he’s careful not to hurt your injured body. His lips switch from your neck to your cheeks and your lips, drinking in the gasps and moans that flow from you with every slow, deliberate roll of his hips. He doesn’t try to pretend like this isn’t just as good for him as it is for you, not hiding the grunts and only slightly embarrassing whimpers that escape him as your nails scratch into his shoulder blades and your hands tangle in his hair. He gets you there twice before he can’t take it anymore, drowning the sounds of his orgasm by kissing you deeply when he falls over the edge.
His hypothesis turns out to be correct. He’s managed to quiet your mind enough to where you can fall asleep again, safely pressed against him in the middle of the bed.
It’s well after ten by the time Spencer wakes up that morning. He’s surprised to find you still fast asleep beside him, a little pale and with hands clenching the blanket, but otherwise relaxed. Part of him had expected to find you already awake, perhaps in the living room, reading a book, but here you were. He’s glad about it. The last few days have been exhausting for you, in more ways than one, and you needed to sleep.
It's for that reason he does everything in slow-motion, moving as quietly as he can so as to not wake you up. He doesn’t even make coffee, too afraid that the sound of the machine might rouse you. Preparing his breakfast takes forever, as does getting back into bed beside you so he can keep you company while he reads and you sleep. By the time you do wake up, it’s noon. Spencer’s positive he’s never even seen you sleep past nine, so this was something entirely out of character for you. Part of him is glad you managed to sleep for so long, another is angry at the reasons why you even needed to in the first place.
“Morning,” he says softly when he notices you blinking against the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. You give him a small smile and lift a hand to rub your eyes, only to freeze in place and hiss in pain.
“Ah, shit,” you manage to say, rolling onto your back as you gently touch your side, groaning when you’re not careful enough. Instantly, he’s reminded of the broken and bruised ribs.
“Hold on, I’ll get your meds,” he says, doing so along with a glass of water and the first granola bar he finds, remembering the doctor’s instruction about not taking the medication on an empty stomach.
Once he’s helped you sit up in bed he helps you take the medication, smiling sympathetically as you shudder at the taste of the pills, flinching as you swallow it down. You weren’t great at swallowing pills—you’d confided in him as much yesterday—and clearly, these pills weren’t making it any easier on you either.
Still, you give him a grateful smile and nudge his cheek with your knuckles. “What a way to start the day, eh?” You say, attempting to joke away the light tension that has washed over the room.
“Keeps me on my toes,” Spencer says, making you chuckle.
“Good, just what I was aiming for.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
On your insistence, you and Spencer drive out of the city to take a walk around Burke Lake. Even with the broken ribs and the obvious limp you’re trying to hide, you don’t complain about the pain even once. Feeling like he’s got no other choice, Spencer tries his best to ignore every little signal from your physical suffering and matches his pace to yours. For a little while, things are quiet as you enjoy the sounds of nature all around you, noses buried in scarves and hands pushed deep into pockets to keep warm. Throughout the walk, Spencer pretends like his head isn’t spinning with unanswered questions, and convinces himself he’s not hungry for answers. He can wait a little longer, right?
“So,” you eventually say, eyes trained on the ground so you can watch where you place your feet. “Remember that rule you had, about not asking questions so I’d open up on my own time?”
Spencer nods, wondering where exactly you’re taking this. “I do, yes.”
“Do you think that, maybe… maybe it’s time to break that rule? Or get rid of it entirely?” Your voice is only slightly insecure as you talk, quickly continuing when he doesn’t immediately respond. “Cos, like, I can tell you’ve got questions. Anyone would have questions. And I—I think I’m ready to answer them, now. If that’s what you want.”
For a few seconds, Spencer stays silent. He’s a bit taken aback by your words, but at the same time, feels his heart swell with pride at what’s unfolding right in front of him. You, willingly opening your heart with the risk of hurting it, and doing so unasked. “Are you sure that’s what you want?” He asks carefully, looking over to meet your eyes when you seemingly decide you’re brave enough to meet his gaze head-on.
“I think so, yeah. I mean, you’ve got questions, right?”
“A ton, actually.”
“Okay, so… go ahead. I’ll try my best to answer them.”
Nodding, Spencer thinks over all the gaps he still has, finding an easy spot to start from. He doesn’t want to start with the one that’s bugging him the most, because it’s a huge thing to discuss and he really doesn’t want to scare you off. And so, he starts as easy as he can. “How long have you known Jagger Bennett was alive?”
You bite the inside of your cheek and think for a moment, eyebrows furrowing in thought. “About half a year after I joined Counterterrorism. Strauss called me into the International Operations Division, said there was a case spanning over multiple international offices they could use my assistance on. Something about how I… had the ‘proper intel’, or whatever. Didn’t take me very long to confirm it was Jax: his signature was… familiar.”
Spencer remembers the details from those cases, the ‘J’s carved into the chests of the victims who all had something to do with the US military in one way or another, and he nods in understanding. “So, what about Strauss?”
“What about her?”
“Well, she knows. About you, about Jericho. Why? She was never head of Counterterrorism, and I’m pretty sure she was never in the Marines either.”
With a humourless chuckle, you shrug. “Coincidence, really. When I said I wanted to join the FBI, there was some higher-up on project J who knew Strauss personally. Got me an interview, made her sign an NDA and told her to keep an eye on me. She took a liking to me, I think. Kept me on even after I deserved to get fired five times over. It’s why she placed me with the BAU after Counterterrorism was done with me: said it might help me find Jax quicker that way, learning about the mentalities of unsubs and how to build a profile.”
Spencer lets the words hang in the air for a while, to allow them to sink in. “So, when you joined…”
“I had ulterior motives,” you say, having the decency to look remorseful for the revelations. “Hotch… knew. Sort of. It’s why he was so mad: he figured me out quicker than I could blink.”
“He said you worked on the Jericho files more often than that one time I found you in the office.”
Turning just a bit paler than before, you look away and take a shallow breath, remembering that time he’d found you after you’d spent the entire night at the Quantico office. You clearly feel guilty about not telling him about those other times, if your reaction is anything to go by. “I, uh… yeah. I did. I didn’t tell you, cos—well, I couldn’t, and Strauss didn’t want me to.”
“I’m not mad,” Spencer is quick to say, before knitting his brows together as he tries to figure out how to convey what he’s thinking. “Well, I mean, I was when I found out, but I’m not mad anymore. I just… I wish you’d have told me. Told all of us. We could’ve helped you.”
“I know, I see that now,” you say, eyes momentarily closing. “I’m sorry, Spence. I wish I’d seen it sooner.”
Wordlessly, Spencer puts an arm around your waist and pulls you closer. He presses his lips to your temple and gives you a smile. “It’s okay,” he says, promises. “Really, it is. I get why you didn’t think you could, but things are different now, right?”
“That, they are,” you say, returning his smile. “Any other questions, then?”
He hesitates, at first. But at the sight of your vulnerable eyes and willing lips, he talks. “Bennett, he… he was in love with you, wasn’t he?”
Something flashes in your eyes: something ancient and undefinable. You look away and find a bench in the distance, overlooking the lake, and nod toward it. “Let’s sit down for a minute, yeah?”
“That bad, then?” Spencer says once you’re both sitting down, feeling a little nervous about your reluctance in answering and trying to hide it with a weak joke. You’re about to deliver a blow, one you’re trying to soften, and it makes him wonder what there could possibly still be to reveal that would shock him. Surely, he’s got the gist of all of it by now?
“It’s not great, I’ll be honest,” you say with a sigh, running a hand through your hair anxiously. “Your question… it’s because of what he said, right? And about what I said, when you saw me through the camera?”
Spencer only nods, reminded of all the words exchanged. Words Bennett had never wanted anyone else to hear. He already has a vague inclination as to where all of this is going, but he doesn’t dare say it aloud, afraid he might overstep or scare you into silence.
You sigh again. “I’d always known Jax had feelings for me. He never told me outright, but I knew. And at first, I didn’t… I just pretended not to notice.”
The refractions of the sun on the lake shimmer in your eyes, which turn distant as you talk, your mind lost in a past Spencer can only watch from a distance. “When they created Jericho, I could handle it, initially- the things we had to do. Or I thought I could, at least. But at one point, I couldn’t ignore the memories anymore, you know? The pain I dealt, the lives I took… it all started to haunt me and I couldn’t handle it any longer. I just needed a distraction, something I could use to shut my mind up. And so, one night, I find Jax, ‘cos… I knew he wouldn’t say no.”
Blinking, your hands clench into fists. The regret is palpable in the air, so strong Spencer can taste it. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, does his best to give you as much space as he can while the blood roars in his ears. “I told him I didn’t want a relationship. That it was just sex. A release, for the both of us. But I… I strung him along. Always gave him just enough breadcrumbs to keep him hopeful for a relationship one day, because I knew that was the only way I could keep using him for my own selfish needs. If he figured out he didn’t stand a chance, he’d probably end it.”
“—and the worse things got, the worse I used him. He just let me. I think, looking back on it now, that maybe he felt he deserved that kind of treatment, and that… God, it sickens me. I mean, he had his issues, but he never deserved that. He didn’t deserve me.”
Carefully, Spencer slips his hand into yours, forcing one of your fists to open up so you can squeeze his hand, instead of pressing your nails into your own palms. “How did it end?” He asks softly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “Because of Phoenix Erebus? Or before that?”
“Before,” you whisper hoarsely, watching the way his thumb draws small circles on your hand. “About a month before the last mission, we were… right before I left, he stops me. Asks me to marry him.” You scoff humourlessly and shake your head. “Said we were made for each other, that we understood each other in a way no one else could. That he could make me happy. I told him nothing could make me happy anymore. He said he wanted to try. I told him I didn’t love him, that I could never love him, and that I would never be with him.”
Spencer breathes in sharply as he takes in your words. “Brutal.”
“Tell me about it,” you mumble, digging your fingers into his hand. “I have a lot of regrets, but that one… it might be one of the highest on the list. I destroyed him. It’s no wonder he hates me so much, now. I bloody well deserve it.”
“I don’t think he hates you,” Spencer says, seeing the confusion in your eyes when you look at him. “Part of him still loves you. I could see it, sometimes. There were these little moments, and the way he talked about your life… I don’t know. I think he still loves you, but he’s so angry that it doesn’t matter anymore.”
“I think that might make it worse.” You take a deep breath, blinking rapidly to try and keep the tears that have suddenly appeared at bay. “I left him there, Spence. I broke his heart and then I let him think I left him behind."
“Left him?” Spencer carefully asks. He thinks he knows what you’re referring to, but he refuses to make any sort of leaps, no matter how small. Every detail matters and he can’t risk filling any of it on his own. Not if it endangers the picture he’s trying to paint.
“The final mission. Phoenix Erebus. When I was being held captive, they told me I was the only one who survived the attack. I didn’t believe them, at first. I refused to. But after a month of torture and only ever seeing the faces of my captors, I had no reason to think anyone else made it,” you say, voice quiet and eyes distant once more. Spencer can feel a faint tremor in your hand as you recall the worst experience of your life, and he immediately becomes guarded, looking for any other tell-tale signs that might predict an oncoming panic attack.
“But… Bennett, he was there?” He says, still using his thumb to rub very deliberate circles into the back of your hand in the hopes it might ground you to reality.
You nod slowly. “I didn’t know. I swear, I didn’t. When I escaped, I just… ran. I killed them and I ran. I never even thought to check. It was only when I was brought in on that case with International Operations that I realised he must’ve been in there with me the entire time. God, I should’ve checked. Should’ve made sure.”
“You were fighting for your life,” Spencer is quick to say. “You didn’t have time to think about that.”
“I was taught to stay level-headed in any situation,” you say, eyes fierce, shining with unspilt tears. “And I failed. And one of my closest friends had to endure God knows what by the enemy because of it. I can’t look past that, I can’t forgive myself for that.”
Spencer wants to tell you otherwise, wants to try and convince you that it wasn’t that simple, but he can’t. he knows, purely from the look in your eyes, that it is an uphill climb he can’t persevere. Not today, not in the middle of this case, and not while you’re still recovering.
“We have to find him,” you say when he doesn’t respond, brows furrowing together in unrelenting resolve. “We have to make sure he can’t hurt anyone else.”
He’s glad you’re using ‘we’, at least. It wouldn’t have surprised him if you’d seen yourself as a lone ranger on this, but he’s very happy to hear you’re considering the team a part of the case. It’s refreshing, to see you no longer set on doing things on your own. “Even though I agree with you,” he says carefully, squeezing your hand affectionately, “Hotch took you off the case for a reason. You need to rest, to heal.”
“I don’t give a fuck, to be honest,” you say simply. “I’m working this case. To hell with orders or healing, I can focus on that after we catch Jax.”
“Hotch won’t like it.”
“That’s too bad. He needs me. You all do. I’m the only one who knows Jax, the way he thinks, the way he operates. I’m not just a witness on this, Spencer. I’m the only one who can find him.”
Spencer takes a deep breath as he considers your words. You’ve got a point and he knows that, but it’s not really him who needs convincing. He’ll support you, no matter what you choose to do, even if it might end up with him on Hotch’s shit list. “Just… promise me you won’t go off on your own? You’re not alone in this, not anymore.”
You look back out over the lake, eyes shimmering with ancient emotions and deep-rooted doubts. “You have to understand, Spence… I’ve lost a team before. I’m not risking that again.”
“I know,” Spencer says softly. He grabs your chin, turning your face toward him once more. “But you’re not doing this on your own. I won’t let you—nor will anyone on the team. This isn’t just on your shoulders anymore. We do this together, or not at all.”
Your eyes study him closely, flickering over his face to look for anything that might feed into your doubts, but you find nothing. He knows that, because he means everything he’s saying, and it shows in his expression. Finally, you bite the inside of your cheek and nod, momentarily glancing down at your hand still intertwined with his.
“Okay. Together.”
Notes:
I was so excited to post this one lol, I'm so proud of the whole 'now we can't tell the difference anymore' line I was blushing and giggling and kicking my feet and shit when I was writing it lmao
Love to hear your thoughts as always <3
Chapter 20: Pyre of Secrets
Notes:
Omg we're getting so close to the end now I'm kinda sad :(
Still got a wild ride ahead of us though so buckle up lmaoContent warnings: descriptions of torture, mentions of child death, canon-typical violence descriptions.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 20th, 2010, 08:30 A.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 3 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit
It feels strange, walking into the bullpen that following morning. Spencer is not sure what makes it so: he’s walked into the office with you beside him countless times. Maybe it’s because he knows who he’s walking beside, now. He knows who you are, knows your past, your troubles and your traumas. Despite the events from the past few days, Spencer feels more connected to you than he ever has, and perhaps it’s for that reason that the bullpen feels a little different that morning.
Although technically not having permission to do so, Spencer had gone by your apartment that morning to get your things: a bag full of clothes, that stuff you always put in your hair so that it would hold more volume, a bunch of toiletries and makeup, and the necklace he’d given you for Christmas. Said necklace currently rested on your chest, proudly displayed for the whole world to see, which had him feeling giddy every time he noticed the tiny gemstones catching and refracting the light.
For your sake and his own, he pretends not to notice the light limp you still have, or the bruises that peek out above your blouse where you’ve undone the two top buttons. Your face is still a canvas of bruises and cuts, your right eyebrow now split in half by a cut scabbed over, your neck still adorned with purple marks of hands that squeezed too tight, too long. None of it, however, can take away from the bright gleam in your eyes, that newfound spark that has somehow completely transformed your entire appearance. No longer did you look like you suffered under the weight of the world: now, you carried it like it was made for you to carry.
The bullpen is practically empty when you arrive, and it’s not hard to guess that everyone is probably in the conference room to continue working on finding Jagger Bennett. It is indeed there that you find the entire team, spread out over chairs and hunched over documents, or standing in front of whiteboards to look over evidence. A hush falls over the room when you step inside, Spencer close behind you, and for a few seconds, the team just kind of stares at you.
“Bloody hell,” you eventually say, breaking the silence with a small grin. “Didn’t think I looked that bad.”
It breaks the ice spectacularly and for the next five minutes, you’re greeting and hugging your colleagues—your friends, reassuring everyone that you feel well enough to help on the case and pointing out that if you weren’t, Spencer would’ve stopped you from coming in. Spencer isn’t quite so convinced of that: he’s not sure he could win against you in such an argument. You had this stubborn streak he’s never quite overwon.
“Now that we’re all caught up,” Hotch eventually says, his gaze mildly concerned as he watches Garcia dramatically dab at her misty eyes with a handkerchief. “I feel it’s important to specify that the only work you’ll be doing will be from this conference room and from this conference room only. Any fieldwork will be reserved for the rest of the team. Is that clear, Agent?”
You give Hotch a small, warm smile as you take a seat at the head of the table. “Yes, sir. Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” you say, neglecting to mention the argument you and Spencer had this morning when you’d been of an entirely different opinion and Spencer had to convince you of the necessity of this arrangement.
“Hey, so, I gotta ask,” Morgan suddenly says, leaning back in his chair with a grin that screams trouble. “What do we call you now? Tommy? Or your real name?”
Nothing in your expression or your posture gives away any surprise at the question, or discomfort, for that matter. It’s as if you’d been expecting it. “Whatever you want,” you say, voice softer than it was before. “Tommy is the person you’ve all come to know over the past year.”
You glance over to a picture up on the evidence board: you, in uniform, posing for a headshot used on your old military ID badge. “She’s my past, but she’s still me. I know now that pushing her away is no use, so… it’s up to you. Whatever you want to call me is fine, but… remember the weight of it, is all I ask.”
It’s a well-rounded answer: you’ve clearly given it a lot of thought already. Spencer hadn’t really asked about it yet. He’d just continued using your nickname, sticking to what he knew and assuming you’d bring it up on your own time. It was a rhythm he had yet to break from, the whole ‘no asking’-thing.
“So,” you say, clearing your throat and shifting in your seat. “Apart from my name… you’re all aware of my past?”
Glances are exchanged, as if trying to silently decide who’ll take the lead on this. It’s Emily who seems brave enough when she speaks up, folding her hands atop the table to lean forward. “We’ve read the files,” she says, nodding to Spencer. “We know you were a Scout Sniper and that you were recruited into Project Jericho, which was some sort of black ops Marine unit for off-the-books missions. We know that it went on for years and that it ended in 2006, during Operation Phoenix Erebus. That everyone was considered dead, including you, but that you somehow survived.”
You stare at Emily as she talks and nod when she’s finished, licking your dry lips before giving a response. “And you know about Jax and Annie, and Carver.”
“Your medals, too,” Rossi says, eyes meaningful when they meet yours. “We’ve made a few… assumptions, based on those.”
“Right,” you whisper, expression tense. “Guess the Purple Heart and the POW medal gave it away a bit.”
Hotch takes a small step forward. His expression is stern but his eyes are sympathetic, like he’s genuinely affected by what has happened to you but he doesn’t want to reveal it. “We’ve signed the same NDA you have, meaning that anything you can tell us about Jericho and Bennett is permitted in this room.”
You scoff dryly. “Should’ve fuckin’ figured, God forbid the truth comes out,” you mutter to yourself, looking over to Spencer. “You got one, too?”
Spencer nods. “When you were still being treated. I didn’t… I didn’t really think about it. Just signed it to get it over with.”
“Which means you’re free to tell us anything you want,” Morgan says, brows furrowing together as he studies your expression. “And anything you don’t want.”
“What if…” you start, taking a deep breath and then nodding to Garcia’s laptop. “What if I don’t tell you? What if I show you?”
“Show?” JJ asks, watching as you get up from your seat and make your way over to Garcia, who’s already opening up her laptop. “What does that mean?”
“Well, before I joined the FBI, I had to meet with this therapist—Hoffman, you all met her after the Morris case, remember?” You start typing on Garcia’s laptop as you talk, and from the way Garcia’s expression turns more and more confused, Spencer can tell you’re clearly going down some roads in the system she has never traversed before. “She records all of her sessions. The FBI has the most important ones in the database—in case I ever went nuclear, I guess. Give them what they needed to lock me up. Anyway, one of the- yeah, here it is. One of the tapes has everything you need to know.”
You turn the laptop around so everyone can see the screen. Not that there’s much to see: just soundwaves, ready to reveal the past. You don’t return to your seat and instead lean against the wall the furthest away from the table, and Spencer has to fight every instinct within him not to join you.
“Play it,” you say quietly, hand coming up to fidget with your necklace, your fingers playing with the tiny Millenium Falcon as your eyes focus on the carpeted floor. “It’ll tell you everything you need to know.”
For a few seconds, no one moves. It’s as if everyone is bracing themselves for what they’re about to hear. You didn’t need to be a profiler to know that it wasn’t going to be an easy listen. Whatever happened to you, it destroyed who you were as a person so severely that you still weren’t back to who you once were. Playing the tape could, in turn, destroy everyone’s perception of you. None of your friends might ever see you in the same way ever again—Spencer might never see you in the same way again. But that tape held the truth; the horrid, naked truth of a life you’ve regretted ever since starting it. It holds a part of your soul.
The very same soul Spencer has fallen so hopelessly in love with. The very same soul that turned to poetry for salvation and worked sleepless nights to save lives. A soul that found solace in the arms of a genius who thought all he was fit for was catching serial killers and gathering knowledge like a collection. A soul so scarred, so hidden, it hadn’t seen sunlight in years. A soul which now bears itself in painful vulnerability for its closest friendships and fiercest love. A soul that has bound itself to Spencer’s irrevocably. It’s for those reasons that Spencer stands up, leans over the table, and presses play.
The tape starts.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Sunlight filters through the yellowed blinds by the window, casting a warm, golden glow over the diplomas that line the far wall of the office. Plush carpet cushions your feet and the chrysanthemums in their white vase spread a floral, sweet scent through the room. There are magazines on the coffee table in front of you and you wonder if anyone has ever read those. You can’t imagine so: why would someone pay for therapy only to then read a magazine during their sessions?
Beside the magazines is your cup of tea, untouched, steam billowing into the air as the liquid steadily cools. Chamomile. She said it had medicinal benefits: that it helped calm people down. That drinking it every morning could help with the symptoms, and so you did. But it wasn’t morning anymore and you didn’t even like chamomile all that much, so the cup stood untouched still.
Doctor Hoffman places a tape recorder on that very same table, her fingers, decorated with golden rings and bright red nails, hovering over the record button. She says your name, your real name, even though you continually insist on your new one. “You’ll only have to do this once,” she says with a soft voice. “Then never again. You have my word.”
“Okay,” you say, clearing your throat and shuffling in your seat to get more comfortable. The armchair is too big, too fluffy, and it hurts, somehow. You’re not used to soft anymore.
Dr Hoffman presses the record button and begins to speak. “Preliminary psychological assessment of the candidate, Angie Tomlinson, casefile one-seven-one-four. The date is October sixteenth, 2006. The time is sixteen-forty-nine, Eastern Daylight Time.”
She sits back in her chair, places her clipboard to the side and meets your eyes. Her expression is kind, her eyes soft. “Do you understand why you’re here, today?”
“To talk about Jericho,” you say, mindlessly fidgeting with a bit of lint that sticks to the cushion. “And OPE. So you lot can determine if I’m all there in the head, before you take me on board.”
Something akin to amusement flashes in Dr Hoffman’s eyes. She’s used to you by now. Your ruthless responses don’t scare her off, your attempts at creating conflict no longer work. She was good at her job, unfortunately for you. “You were telling me about your recruitment into Jericho. Perhaps you can tell me about that some more? How did it start?”
“News got an idea for some special team,” you say, still looking down at your lap as you try to keep the assault of memories at bay. “He didn’t have a name for it yet, but they called it Jericho once they had us all picked out.”
“News?”
“It’s what we called our Sergeant, William Carver. There was this American outlaw in the Wild West who had the same name as Bill, got the nickname News ‘cos he liked seeing himself in the papers. We called our Serge the same ‘cos we thought it was funny—he hated being in the public eye. Guess that’s why he came up with Jericho, mould the world to his own liking without ever having to go public with it.”
Hoffman regards you for a moment, gives you time enough to allow that particular memory to settle. “You said they picked you,” she eventually says. “How did that come to be?”
“I was good at killing,” you say, phrasing it in a way you’ll know will give it shock value, but you’re not surprised when Hoffman’s expression stays unchanged. “I was good at killing and following orders. That was what they needed: the best Marines, but especially Marines that didn’t ask any questions, that didn’t question orders. Killing machines without a conscience. They thought I was the perfect fit.”
“And Angelina Thompson?”
Your nostrils flare and your fingers dig into the chair’s cushions at the mention of her. “Don’t say her name,” you say quickly, trying your hardest to keep down the wave of grief that threatens to consume you. “I can’t—not yet, please. Don’t make me.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Hoffman says, holding up her hands while her voice remains unwavering. She knew you, she knew your limits. She was good at her job, perhaps fortunately so. “What about the missions you were sent on? What did those entail?”
You force yourself to relax, uncurling your fingers from the fabric of the chair and leaning back into a less guarded position. “The missions always relied on our discretion, on the basis that we didn’t talk about them. We mostly focused on taking out HVTs. We rescued hostages, sometimes. Other times, we… destabilised governments where they needed us to, take out arms dealers that sold to other countries, that sort of thing. Our job was to stay in the shadows, so that’s what we did. And we were good at it. No one ever even knew our faces.”
“But things went wrong?” Dr Hoffman carefully says, head tilting to the side as she studies your body language. “Your final mission, Operation…”
“Operation Phoenix Erebus,” you say, gaze fixing on an invisible point in the room. “Another HVT- multiple, this time. They said there was intel on a financier moving untraceable weapons to insurgents and that we had to take out their compound before they could relocate. It was supposed to be simple, but… it felt off. It was just too clean. Some of the intel didn’t make sense, I mean—they knew details they weren’t supposed to. It was like someone wanted us to go there, like they made sure to set the perfect scene.”
“And this was unusual?”
“For us, yeah. We were used to going in blind—it was what we were trained to do, to work with what we had. All of a sudden we get perfect intel? A step-by-step instruction on how to take out an entire compound? It didn’t make sense. But we didn’t ask. I didn’t ask. And I should’ve, I should’ve fucking—I should’ve pushed back, asked questions. If I had, then maybe—”
You cut yourself off and look away, blinking against the tears threatening to spill. Hoffman leans forward in her seat, voice soft when she speaks. “Remember to breathe. Tears aren’t a sign of weakness, Corporal.”
You scoff weakly and shake your head. “Don’t call me that. That’s not who I am anymore.”
A silence passes and your eyes find the cup of tea, now cold. Without hesitating, your grab the cup and drink from it, emptying the contents in seconds. It’s bitter, now that it has completely cooled down, but it distracts you from the pain in your chest and the burn in your eyes.
“What happened during Phoenix Erebus?” Hoffman asks once you’ve put the cup down again. Her voice is tentative, like she’s dismantling a bomb.
Taking a deep breath, you close your eyes. It’s easier to talk when they’re closed, for some reason. “The compound was at the end of a canyon- one way in, one way out. Limited visibility. We figured they were expecting us- they had to have been, with intel like that. But there was no one. It was an ambush. Timed bombs, placed with absolute precision. The charges went off the moment we breached. The chain reaction took out the entire compound in a matter of seconds.”
Your throat tightens but you force yourself to keep talking, squeezing your eyes shut even tighter, as if it might drive away the flashes of memories behind your lids. “It all happened so quickly. There—there was nothing I could do. I heard them die. My unit, my team. Some—some of them didn’t even have a chance to scream. Annie, she—”
A sob wracks through your body and you force yourself to breathe, opening your eyes again and trying to find something familiar to ground yourself with, but there’s nothing. Dr Hoffman can’t help you in that way, and the feeling of your nails digging into your palms doesn’t deal nearly enough pain to distract yourself. You do what they trained you to do, to override your instincts and your needs. You keep going.
“I couldn’t save her. Her legs, they were… there was shrapnel in her throat and she couldn’t talk.” Your voice breaks and your nails pierce through the skin in your palms. “I watched her die. I watched all of them die. Annie, Jax, Rudy, Carlos… all of them.”
The silence stretches and you wipe your palms over your jeans, ignoring the miniscule traces of blood that cling to the fabric. If Hoffman sees it, she doesn’t comment on it. “Do you need to take a break?” She asks, expression professionally taut.
“No, no, I just—I need to get this over with. Please.”
Slowly, Hoffman nods. “What happened next?”
You take a shaky breath and focus on your empty cup on the table, balanced precariously on the spine of one of the magazines. “The insurgents—the ones we were supposed to take out, they came by to check if we were dead. If their trap had worked. I was too injured to fight, to escape, but… if I hadn’t been, I wouldn’t have tried to run. I wanted to die with my team and instead, God spared me. And for what?”
With a humourless scoff, you shake your head. “They took me to this abandoned house, out in the desert. They put me in a basement, fixed up my wounds just enough to keep me alive and then blindfolded me. I guess they—it was their way of trying to do sensory deprivation but… they were fuckin’ amateurs. They had no idea what they were doing.”
“But you do?” Hoffman carefully interrupts, brows knitting together only slightly. “Sensory deprivation as a form of torture?”
“The only way to learn how to withstand torture is to learn what kinds there are and to go through them,” you say, frighteningly easily. It’s been droned into you for years by now. It’s like reciting a mantra. “White torture is the CIA’s favourite, did you know that? Put someone in an empty, white cell and make sure there are no shadows, no sounds, nothing. It doesn’t take very long for hallucinations to set in. If you can’t get a white room, just take away someone’s sight and hearing and let their mind take care of the rest.”
“But they only took away your sight? Not your hearing?”
“Like I said, amateurs. They tried their best, though, I’ll give them that. Fed me at random intervals so I couldn’t keep track of time, kept me blindfolded so I couldn’t see the sunrise… well, in between the dry drowning and the beatings, that is. But I counted the days.”
“How?”
A ghost of a smile makes its way onto your lips, carefully wistful. “A bird. Every morning, without fault, a bird sat on this tiny window somewhere at the top of my room, and it would sing. The sun would rise and the bird would sing and I knew another day had started.”
“It sounds like it was a source of comfort for you, this bird,” Hoffman says, her own lips upturned into a kind, sympathetic smile, perhaps noticing something in your posture you didn’t realise you revealed. “Let’s talk about your escape, next. I know that it might be difficult for you, but—”
“Talking is the first step to healing, I know,” you quickly say, not willing to hear it repeated again. You were already talking about it, what more could she possibly ask from you? “The people holding me hostage, they were all older. I could tell from their voices, from their violence. They were… experienced, in this life. Except for one; there was this boy… He couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old. He was… kind.”
“You sound conflicted about that.”
“I killed him. Of course I’m conflicted about that.”
To her credit, Hoffman doesn’t seem taken aback by your response. She just regards you carefully, in a sort of silent encouragement. “How did that come to be?”
You take a deep breath and look down at your lap. “They teach you how to withstand torture, in the Corps. My training was a little more… detailed, than most, but the gist of it is all the same: you give them every bit of useless information you can, dress it up like proper intel, and when that stops being enough, you focus on dying as quickly as you can.”
The bloodstains in your jeans keep your eyes fixed as you speak, your voice sounding further and further away with every word you utter. “You stop eating and drinking, you stop talking. You just… wait to die. And when you can, you take the first opportunity you get to end it. Hang yourself, cut an artery, that sort of thing. But this boy… he was too innocent, too kind. He kept trying to feed me long after I decided to give up. I think he thought he was helping me, sneaking me food and water when no one was watching—he didn’t realise he was just prolonging my suffering.
“And then one day, after so much time spent in silence and pain, he tells me his name: Asim. Says that… that it means ‘protector’, ‘ḥāmi’. I tell him my name and he says he’s never heard of it before, but that he’ll look it up so he can tell me what it means. I knew then and there that he was the only chance I had of making it out alive. So I… I used him. Gained his trust with every little word we exchanged.”
“What did you talk about?” Dr Hoffman asks, sensing your reluctance in continuing.
Shame starts to fill your veins and you allow it consume you, making sure it burns as severely as it can. It’s the least you deserve. “He told me he was born in Mosul. That it was the most beautiful city in the world, but then the American soldiers came. He said that he watched as a bomb fell on the roof of his house and killed his parents when he was ten years old.” You blink against the tears in your eyes. “He was forced to flee with his older brother and now they were here. He said that I don’t look like those soldiers, the ones that took the city. That my clothes were different.
“I told him that technically, I’m not a soldier. I don’t think he understood, he didn’t really speak English and I barely understood Arabic. But after a little while, he trusted me. That’s when I asked him to take off my blindfold, just to see what he’d do. If he was… naïve. If I could use him. And he took it off.”
You bite your lip, hard, wishing it would draw blood so the taste of it can distract from the nausea in the back of your throat. “Whenever he came to feed me, he’d take it off and we’d talk. And then one day, I ask him to loosen my restraints. I told him my wrists hurt, that I just need the ropes to be a little bit loosened. And I remember—I just kept thinking to myself, don’t do it. Don’t fall for it. Don’t listen to me, don’t trust me, just run.”
“And did he?”
You shake your head. “He loosened the ropes—barely took any convincing at all. It was… easy, after that. I waited for the right moment, when he came to feed me again. I knocked him out and then took his gun—he had a fuckin’ MEUSOC. I think it was Rudy’s old weapon. Guess I got lucky.”
“How so?”
“‘Cos, the M45 MEUSOC is one of the most effective in close-quarter-combat,” you say, shrugging and taking refuge in the informative detailing, rather than your emotional, traumatic memories. “We trained hard with them. Fired over five-hundred rounds a day when we were preparing to deploy. I always kept mine on the seven-round mag, but Rudy substituted his with a ten-round. That’s why I knew the gun was his.”
If Dr Hoffman is a little lost on your explanation, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she nods and you know just from the look in her eyes, that she’s going to steer you back on topic. “Did the gun help you escape?”
“Mostly,” you mumble, allowing the horror and the shame to bubble back up. “There were only four rounds left, but by then I’d already taken two of the eight men out so I just grabbed one of their AKs. Didn’t take me very long to take them all out. I was about to leave until—”
You bite your lip again, and this time, you taste blood. “I hear this scream behind me. And this word; ‘akhi’. When I looked back I saw Asim, holding the body of one of the men I shot. His brother. My people had killed his parents and now I had killed his brother…”
Dr Hoffman allows for a moment of silence to pass, to allow you to take a breath. “What happened next?”
“He was holding a knife and he—I begged him to stop, to stay away. But he just—he wouldn’t listen. He just kept lunging at me and I—I had to—I didn’t have a choice, I swear.” Tears flow down your face uncontrollably as you shake your head. “I never wanted to hurt him. He was a child, I—I never hurt the kids, I never—I’d never killed a child before but he just wouldn’t—I didn’t have a choice, I swear, I didn’t—”
It takes a while for you to calm down enough to continue talking. When you do, your voice is rough and distant, and the rest of your words come out robotically, like you’ve rehearsed them. “I just started walking, after that. I didn’t care if I lived or died. No one was coming for me, I knew that much. I remember collapsing, at one point. I remember staring at the sky, feeling the sand cut into my skin and the sun burning my eyes. I thought I was going to die there.
“Then this family found me, a couple with three children. Brought me back to their house, gave me water and clean clothes, stitched up my wounds, cleaned up all the blood. They knew who I was, what I did… they knew I was military, but they still helped me, even though all I ever did was aid in the destruction of their country. When I could talk again, they handed me this satellite phone—I think they must’ve stolen it from a convoy, at some point. A helicopter picked me up the next day.”
Hoffman folds her hands in her lap and regards you with a thoughtful look. “These people, their compassion… did it surprise you?”
“Yeah, it did. They could’ve left me out there, but they didn’t. I don’t know why, Lord knows I didn’t deserve it, but they saved me. How come I get to kill so many people and hurt so many more, and be repaid with that? If God exists, why would he forgive me and not Annie? Or Jax? What did they do to be sacrificed, but not me?”
There is no answer for that. You know, your therapist knows it. It’s why she moves on to something else. It’s probably for the best. “What was it, specifically, that made you quit the Marines? Was it the end of Jericho? The death of your unit? Or perhaps Asim?”
“Take your pick,” you say, leaning back into your chair. You suddenly feel exhausted. “All I know is that it was my job to kill people, and I couldn’t do it anymore.”
Hoffman tilts her head ever so slightly. “Before Asim, before Phoenix Erebus… what did you feel, when you killed your targets?”
“Recoil.”
To her credit, Hoffman doesn’t so much as flinch. “Is that all you felt? Recoil?”
“When I was taking the shot, yeah. The guilt only came at night. Jax, he… he helped me with that, sometimes.”
Another silence passes. Hoffman leans forward in her chair, fingers reaching for the recorder, but then she pauses, her eyes meeting yours. “What did it mean?”
“What?”
“Your name. What did it mean?”
A face flickers in your mind. Young, with big brown eyes and black hair. It’s covered in blood and tears and screams when you kill it. You blink the memory away.
“I don’t know. He never got to tell me.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
A click signals the end of the tape and Spencer watches as the soundwaves on the screen end. A long, heavy silence stretches over the room and it seems as if, for a few minutes, the world has paused to allow the contents of the tape to settle.
Blood roars through Spencer’s ears as he stares at the tabletop, trying his hardest to make sense of everything he’s just heard and where it all fits into the puzzle he’s managed to create of you so far. He’s overwhelmed by it all, struggling to make sense of everything that has just been revealed. It’s not just the descriptions of your experiences, it’s also the way you answered certain questions: there was something so different about you back then. A certain callousness he’s not used to. He knows you’re tough- tougher than most, but this wasn’t just the silent strength he’d come to recognise. There was a certain lack of care to your words and your tone.
Like that one answer: recoil. That wasn’t an answer you would ever give today, that killing someone made you feel nothing other than the recoil from your weapon. Or the way you spoke about the torture you had endured- like it hadn’t completely destroyed you, like it hadn’t rewired your brain into a fight-or-flight response whenever water touched your face too suddenly.
When he finally finds the strength to look up, he’s not surprised to find that everyone else is just as affected by the tape as he is, if not more. Garcia is crying, wiping at her mascara-stained cheeks with that same handkerchief from before, and beside her, Morgan’s jaw is clenched, his eyes fixed into a hard stare. JJ is a little pale, her eyes red-rimmed, and Emily is uncharacteristically quiet, gnawing on the inside of her cheek like it can distract her. Rossi’s eyes are distant, like he’s stuck in an old memory, and Hotch’s expression is at least twice as stern as it normally seems.
You suddenly push yourself off the wall, cheeks devoid of colour as you stop to stand beside Spencer. “That’s it,” you say quietly, staring at the laptop. “All of it. That’s how it ended.”
The silence perseveres. Your hand touches Spencer’s shoulder and he doesn’t hesitate to reach up and place his palm over the back of your hand, keeping it trapped against his shoulder. He squeezes and hopes it’ll communicate the gratitude he feels for your vulnerability, for allowing him to see the part of your soul that no longer reaches the light. You squeeze back and something settles in his chest.
“Obviously, I didn’t know Jax was alive back then,” you say, breaking the silence once more. “I thought I was the only one who survived.”
“Carver thought no one had survived the attack,” Morgan says, looking over to you instead of the laptop.
“Maybe,” you say, a certain kind of doubt in your voice that can only really come from a place of betrayal. “I don’t really know if they thought we were dead. All I know is that they never sent a team to look for us. I got out on my own, and I guess Jax must’ve as well.”
Hotch clears his throat, blinking a few times before he turns to you, finding his professionalism once more. “What do you know about that? His escape?”
“Not much, to be honest,” you say regretfully, taking your bottom lip between your teeth as you think. “From what we understand so far, shortly after I escaped, another group associated with those particular insurgents showed up at the house. We think they must’ve found Jax there, recaptured him and then kept him as a prisoner for six months.”
“Six months?” Emily asks, having found her voice again. “How do you know it was six months?”
You shift on your feet and glance over at the whiteboard, eyes lingering on a crime scene photo from one of Bennett’s many murders. “That’s when the killings started. We found a group of terrorists affiliated with Ansar al-Sunnah—an insurgent group—murdered just outside the western part of Mosul. We knew it was Jax because… the bodies were mutilated similarly to what we now know is his signature. We just… weren’t sure at the time.”
“He hadn’t found his signature yet,” Spencer mumbles thoughtfully, eyes lingering on the picture of a burnt body beside a blown up car, a J carved into the chest. “He was still experimenting, just like a regular serial killer.”
Getting up from his seat, Morgan walks over to the board and taps his finger on the picture of Jagger Bennett, dark eyes staring straight into the camera for his portrait. “So, Bennett gets taken prisoner after Jericho is demolished in an ambush—somehow, he knows you’re in there with him, and after you escaped, thought you left him behind on purpose. He escapes six months later in- what, March of 2007?”
You nod. “That’s our estimation.”
“He escapes, kills his hostage takers, and then what?” Morgan frowns as he turns back around to look at his colleagues. “Vows to take his revenge?”
“All the people he killed, the trail of bodies,” Emily says, using her pen to point at the pictures on the board, “they all had something to do with the US Military, right? He’s been taking his revenge for a while.”
“I’m his end goal,” you say quietly, taking your hand off Spencer’s shoulder so you can run it through your hair instead. “I broke his heart, left him to die… there’s no worse betrayal than that.”
“If that’s the case, why aren’t you dead yet?” Morgan says, and even if his words are harsh, you know he doesn’t mean them like that. “He had you—the explosion could’ve killed you, but it didn’t.”
“Because that’s not the revenge he has in mind for me,” you say, eyes filled with what seems to be grief. “You heard him, right, after he took me? He wants me to suffer. He wants me to watch you all die. That’s why the explosion didn’t kill me—he wanted it to kill all of you.”
“So why didn’t it?”
“We were too late,” Spencer says, the realisation hitting him so abruptly he actually has to take a breath to allow it to sink in. Everyone looks at him with confused expressions and he quickly continues. “When I was in there, I ran into him. He said something about us ‘being on time’—he kept going on about it. He said… ‘we were all on time, why couldn’t you?’”
Beside him, you rub a hand over your face and begin to nod. “The ambush—the explosions were set on a timer. Someone leaked our landing time to the compound, which was how they were able to set up the explosions. Jax must’ve figured out the same thing and tried to do it here.”
“But we weren’t on time,” Rossi thoughtfully says, eyes lingering on Jagger’s picture. “We ruined his revenge fantasy, even after all that effort he put into it.”
“Maybe he’ll try to recreate it again?” Garcia suggests, brows knitted together as she tries to figure out what the next step will be as best as she can amongst the profilers in the room.
You shake your head. “No, I don’t think so. It’s ruined now—Jax, he’s… for all his faults, he’s an idealist. He believes in things wholeheartedly.” You bite your lip and seem to think carefully, picking and choosing your words with utmost precision. “It was the same thing with Jericho. In his eyes, he was recruited into Jericho because of his skills. He believed Jericho was a perfect team, funded by a government that believed in the project and led by higher-ups that were trustworthy. And then Jericho failed—now he believes we were betrayed, that someone gave us false intel and that there was this whole conspiracy behind the whole thing. His ideal was destroyed and he immediately turned his back on it."
"You think he'll do the same now,” Spencer says, meeting your eyes as he follows you down the same train of thought. “Now that his perfect revenge fantasy failed, he doesn’t want to redo it. The ideal has been destroyed.”
“Exactly,” you say, hand finding his shoulder once more. “I don’t think he cares about the fantasy anymore. Now, all he wants is to go out on his own terms.”
Hotch takes a step forward, expression pulled into a tight frown as he seems to think over your words. “And those would be?”
Regretfully, you shake your head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry—I know you want me here to help build his profile, but I don’t know this Jax. I know the old him, the one from before OPE. Whoever he is now, however his brain works… it’s not the same person I knew.”
“We do know one thing,” JJ carefully says, waiting for you to meet her eyes. “He still loves you. If he’s as you say he is—idealistic—he’ll want to take you out with him. If he really is planning on dying, he’ll want to do it beside you.”
A tense silence envelops the room and Spencer feels your grip on his shoulder tighten. The idea is morbid and extremely concerning, but he thinks JJ is right. If Bennett was really letting go of his old beliefs, there was a good chance he’ll go for the next best thing: he can’t kill the BAU, so he’ll kill you instead, make it so that you couldn’t be with your team. Take himself out at the same time and end Jericho in the way his conspiracies had convinced him it was always supposed to have ended: together, with no survivors- no one left to tell the story of Jericho.
“Then there’s only one thing left for us to do,” Hotch says, breaking the silence and regarding his team with a newly invigorated expression. “We find Bennett. Figure out his next moves and stop him from conjuring up another fantasy.”
“Where do we start?” Morgan asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“We look into every single one of his old crime scenes. We study the details, the mistakes, find the things that aren’t there.”
Hotch looks at you, expression heavy and meaningful. You nod, as if you understand what he’s about to say, and finish his thoughts for him.
“We build the profile.”
Notes:
Yooooooo we got some backstory up in this bitch!!!! We finally know what happened all that time ago... I hope it was satisfying to find out about, and if it clicks with what you've already learned so far :)
Love ya for reading this babes <3
Chapter 21: Where Smoke Rises
Notes:
The way I'm going on holiday in twenty minutes!!!! Couldn't in good conscience go without updating lmaoooooo
Also, that means I didn't quite proofread this one, so if it's a bit janky or littered with typos, then I'm very sorry for that :(
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
January 22nd, 2010, 17:07 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 4 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit
The overhead lights cast a cold, artificial glow over the conference room. Files, coffee cups, and half-eaten energy bars clutter the table, remnants of a team too drained to care about keeping things neat. The air is thick with frustration, the kind that comes from working a case too long with too little sleep and even fewer answers.
It’s been two days.
Apart from a stolen, burnt-out car found just outside of Washington D.C., there have yet to be any leads on Jagger Bennett’s whereabouts or what he might be planning. It’s safe to say that by this point, everyone is exhausted and irritated at the lack of progress. Even Hotch is starting to lose his composure, his tie a sloppy mess around his neck, his white button-down wrinkled and a little too untucked.
Spencer knows he’s not doing much better. His eyes burn, his body is jittery from all the caffeine, and his sleeves have been pushed up behind his elbows for so long now, he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to get the wrinkles out. He hasn’t sat down in hours, glowering at the evidence board like it might eventually slip up and reveal something to him if he just stares at it for long enough. The crime scene pictures have morphed into your face and body about four times now, and he’s afraid that once he gets to a fifth time, rubbing his eyes and blinking rapidly won’t be able to rid himself of the image.
A loud, frustrated groan rings out through the conference room and when Spencer looks over his shoulder, he finds Morgan is responsible for the sound. “I just don’t get it- we’ve had every unit in the area on alert for two days and we still don’t have a single damn lead. Facial recognition hasn’t picked him up on any cameras, there’s no witnesses who saw him leave the city and there are no suspicious credit card transactions. How does an asshole like this just disappear?”
You’ve already explained all of that, multiple times. How to disappear, that is. It’s what you were trained to do. ‘How to be a ghost’, you’d called it. Spencer really hadn’t liked it when you said that you would be able to do the same, if you went out there right now. He hates the idea of you just… disappearing whenever you wanted to.
“We have leads,” JJ says though the tired edge in her voice betrays her annoyance.
“Right, yeah, a stolen, burnt-out car,” Morgan sarcastically says, rubbing a hand over his face, “with no prints, no DNA, not even a witness who saw the car being stolen. There’s no proof that Bennett’s even the one who stole it.”
“The car was burned with the same technique as the victim of ’08,” JJ points out, nodding to the evidence board where that awful photograph sits, picturing the woman and her vehicle. “Same accelerant, same explosives. That’s not a coincidence.”
As the two continue to bicker, Spencer’s eyes drift over to you. You’re sitting on the other end of the table, eyes burning a hole into the Jericho file you’ve been working out of over the past few years, your face gaunt from the lack of sleep. He can see the weight of it all pressing down on you, intermixed with guilt and perhaps even fear. Your fingers play with your necklace, twisting it like it’ll give you the answers you need if you just keep winding it.
“That’s enough,” Hotch suddenly says, cutting through the mounting argument between JJ and Morgan. “Take a breather. Now.”
After a few tense seconds, they both get up from their seats and make their way out of the conference room. Just as they do, Emily walks back inside, raising her eyebrows at the rest of the team as she passes the duo. Her eyes linger on Garcia, who’s been dead asleep for the past two hours, nestled beside her laptop.
“Good to see morale is still high in here,” she comments sarcastically, earning herself a scoff from you.
“Yeah, ‘s’all peachy,” you mutter, tossing a pen onto the table and leaning back in your chair with a sigh, flinching immediately afterwards, your hand shooting up to touch your ribs. “Fuckin’ Christ.”
Emily snorts at your words. “Yeah, sure looks like it,” she says, patting Spencer’s shoulder as she walks past him to take a seat at the table. “Your turn for naptime, pretty boy. Couch is real comfortable.”
“I’m fine,” Spencer says, tearing his concerned gaze away from you and to his colleague. “Ask someone else.”
On Hotch’s order, everyone had been taking turns getting a couple hours in on the couch in Rossi’s office. Nobody actually wanted to take a break in working the case, but when Mom and Dad glare at you from across the room until you’re walking out the door, you don’t have much of a choice in the matter. It’s now Spencer’s turn, even though he’s of the opinion that JJ needed it far more than he did.
“Go, Reid,” Hotch grumbles without looking up from his file. “That’s an order.”
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek and looks over to the table. You give him a shrug, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’, only to immediately flinch in pain again. “You should take your meds,” he says, which immediately results in a massive glare from you, as his comment has now directed everyone’s attention toward you.
“I’m fine,” you say, purposely avoiding everyone’s gazes as you reach for your file, barely stifling a small groan. “The painkillers make me drowsy. I can do without ‘em.”
“Just as the doctor prescribed,” Rossi says with a quirked eyebrow, sarcastically pointing out the flaw in your thinking.
“Take your meds, then lie down in Rossi’s office,” Hotch says, before immediately pointing his pen at Spencer with a stern look. “Alone. No fraternising in the office.”
Spencer gives him a look of outrage, barely believing that his boss was actually telling him not to sleep with you in the office- like he needed an actual warning? Before he can say anything in response, you speak up, shaking your head fervently. “I said I’m fine, Hotch. I’ve had worse than a broken rib.”
“That’s not the point, Agent.”
A dry scoff escapes you and Spencer notices the way your grip tightens on the file you’re holding. “Look, I can handle it. If a bit of pain is what I need to find Jax, then so be it.”
Indignation flares in Spencer’s chest, so quickly and so fervently he doesn’t even realise he’s talking until the words have already left his lips. “Can you stop trying to martyr yourself?”
A stunned silence falls over the room. Even Spencer is surprised at his own words, although his surprise doesn’t come close to yours, your eyes widened and lips parted as you stare at him, dumbfounded. He, like you, has no idea where that even came from. Perhaps it had been brewing for a while now, undetected and buried beneath every other emotion he’s given precedence.
You shift in your seat, the file dropping back onto the table. “Martyr?” You say, voice low, and Spencer realises you’re trying your best not to explode then and there. “That’s what you think I’m doing? That I’m—that I’m trying to get some bloody praise out of this?”
“No,” Spencer quickly says, shaking his head, suddenly feeling mortified. “No, that was- I used the wrong word.”
“Then what?” You snap, jaw clenching as a storm brews in your eyes. “Victimise? You think I’m victimising myself, Spencer?”
“What? No—!”
“Alright, easy,” Emily suddenly says, holding out a hand toward you, like she can physically hold the argument back. Beside her, Garcia stirs awake, blinking in confusion at the sudden rise in volume around her. “This is the last thing we need right now.”
“She’s right,” Hotch says, a deep frown etched into his forehead. “I suggest you two get some fresh air and put your differences aside for the time being—we won’t find Bennett if we’re too busy arguing with each other.”
Both you and Spencer hesitate, and Hotch’s frown deepens even further. “That’s an order.”
Aggressively shoving your chair back, you’re surprisingly quick in getting out of the room, even through the pain you’re currently in. By the time Spencer gets to his desk, you’re already getting into the elevator, and he manages to catch a glimpse of you holding your side as you lean against the wall just before the metal doors close.
More peeved than he’d like to be, Spencer rummages through your bag until he finds your medication and then fills a water bottle to take outside with him. He even manages to find a granola bar. Armed with his rather lacklustre array of olive branches, Spencer opts to take the stairs instead- he doesn’t want to wait for the next elevator, and he’s kind of hoping that the movement in his legs will somehow bring fresh oxygen to his brain so that it might result in an epiphany. He’s not counting on it.
He finds you in that very same spot you’d been sitting on all those months ago, following the first time you’d pulled an all-nighter at the BAU. He remembers how nervous he’d been, sitting on that half-wall with you, pulling your head onto his shoulder so you could sleep. How aware he’d been of every little thing. He can still recall the clumps of mascara that had stuck to your cheeks afterwards, the way his cardigan peeked out from underneath your coat, and the crease in your temple from the seam of his jacket. It’s memories like those that have him eternally grateful for his eidetic memory.
“You’re going to get cold,” he says as he leans against the wall beside you, neglecting to mention he’s not wearing a jacket either, and places the water bottle beside him.
“Ain’t that a bitch,” you mutter bitterly. He presses his lips together, trying to keep down a smile at your words. You glance over and quirk an eyebrow at the sight. A second passes. Then you burst into laughter at the same time.
All the frustrations, hard-headedness and irritations flow away quicker than Spencer can blink, replaced by the sound of simple hilarity and easy forgiveness. It ends with your forehead on his shoulder, your body still shaking with laughter as Spencer grins into your hair, trying and failing to keep in his own snorts of amusement.
“I’m serious, you know,” he says, grin widening as you fall back into laughter. “You’re going to get cold.”
“Part of my martyrdom, I’m afraid,” you say, giving him a small shove as you sit back up, eyes still bright with glee. Spencer can see the pain you’re in, though, the way your body is still bracing against it, probably only worsened by your laughter.
“I’m sorry,” he says softly, reaching up to trace his thumb over your cheek. “That was way out of line.”
You shrug and lean into his touch, which has his heart swelling with affection. “Nah, it’s fine. I think you’re kind of right. Besides, I need someone to call me out on my bullshit. Just- don’t do it in front of my boss, next time, eh?”
Spencer scoffs and feels his cheeks darken with embarrassment. “Yeah, roger that.”
With a small smile, you tilt your head so you can kiss his palm. Normally, he’d have fallen into a tangent about all the bacteria you’re exposing yourself to by doing that, but today, the words escape him. He watches you closely, the warmth of your gesture still lingering against his skin. He finds himself thinking you’re beautiful, even if the bruises and barely-healed cuts fight to shatter the image.
“You’re staring,” you murmur, lifting a hand to grab the one he’s still pressing against your cheek. “You’ll end up making me nervous.”
“Just can’t help it, you’re mesmerising,” Spencer says, enjoying the way your cheeks tinge a light pink.
“Flirt.”
“Better a flirt than a martyr.”
“Oh, ha-ha,” you deadpan, giving him an eyeroll even as the corners of your mouth tug up in amusement. It has him smiling too.
The feeling of the pill bottle digging into his thigh reminds him of the whole reason he came out here in the first place, and his eyes absentmindedly track over your face, looking for the hurt he knows you’re trying to hide. He swallows hard, trying to find the right words—something that won’t sound patronising, something that won't make you shut down.
“You need to take your meds,” he says gently, hoping it won’t shatter the moment too dramatically. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a quiet plea.
You hesitate, watching as he takes the pills from his pocket, the medicine rattling against the orange plastic. There's a tension in you that he's learned to recognise—the constant battle between self-preservation and self-sacrifice. “They make me tired,” you eventually say, although there’s less fight in your voice than there had been in the conference room.
“I know,” Spencer says, trying to empathise with your reluctance. “But you can’t force yourself to be in pain the entire time. Sleeping for a couple hours will only make it easier to find Bennett in the long run.”
With a sigh, you begin to nod. “Fine,” you mumble, holding out your palm. “But I’m not happy about this, just so you know.”
“Oh, I know,” Spencer says, grinning when you shove your elbow in his side. He watches carefully as you place a pill on your tongue, tipping the bottle of water back and swallowing swiftly.
“There,” you say, lowering the bottle and offering him a strained smile. “Happy?”
“Thrilled.”
“You better be.”
Just as he takes a sip from the bottle as well, you lower your head back onto his shoulder, nestling the top of your head into the crook of his neck. “Thanks for taking care of me,” you say softly. From the corner of his eye, he notices you scratching your nose. “Or trying to, at least.”
“I’ll always try,” Spencer says, placing a hand on your thigh and squeezing affectionately. “There’s not a day that I won’t.”
“But how can I be a martyr if you’re always there to take care of me?”
“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”
“Nope.”
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
Hotch raises his eyebrows at you the moment you walk back into the conference room, Spencer following closely behind you. Before he can say anything, you quickly hold up two hands in faux-defence. “They take twenty minutes to kick in,” you say, explaining why you’re not currently lying down on a couch. “Won’t be able to sleep before then anyway.”
With narrowed eyes, Hotch begins to nod. “Fine. Twenty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” you say, lowering yourself into the nearest chair with a small grunt. “Made any progress while we were gone?”
“I wish,” Morgan mutters from where he’s hunched over a file, opting not to sit down this time. He and JJ are back once more, having succeeded in getting some fresh air, the conference room now once again filled to maximum capacity. Even Garcia is awake again, staring at her laptop screen with bleary eyes and smudged mascara.
Before anyone can respond, a ringtone suddenly breaks the atmosphere. All eyes turn to you when your phone proves to the be the one responsible, and your brows furrow together when you take it out from your pocket. “Anonymous,” you say, looking around the room with a meaningful look.
It takes barely a second for everyone to realise who might be the one calling. “Put it on speakerphone,” Hotch orders, turning to Garcia next. “Can you—”
“Already ahead of you, sir,” she says without looking up from her laptop, typing furiously. Once she gives you a nod, you pick up on the last ring and place your phone on the table.
“That you, Jax?” You say quietly, as everyone arounds you holds their breath in anticipation. The phone crackles on the other side and for a few seconds, there’s no response. Spencer’s heart pounds in his chest, nerves and anger mixing together into a toxic heap that has him glaring at the phone like he can somehow set Bennett on fire just by staring at it.
“Good to hear your voice, sunshine.”
Even though you scoff at his words, Spencer notices the way your entire body tenses at the sound of Bennett’s voice. His hand finds your upper back, nestling between your shoulder blades and rubbing small, encouraging circles. “That so? Figured you’d be disappointed, finding out I’m still alive after you tried to blow me up.”
“You and I both know you never would’ve died in there.”
“Do we?”
“You’re better than that.”
You grit your teeth and look away from the phone, searching for something to say that will prolong the conversation. Long enough for Garcia to hopefully locate him. “How’d you get my number, Jax?”
“You don’t care about that,” Bennett says, voice low. “You want to know where I am. You’ve been looking for me, I know you have.”
“So why don’t you tell me where you are?” You say, one of your hands clenched into a fist while the other reaches up to touch your necklace. “We can talk face-to-face. Figure this whole thing out.”
Bennet’s dry laugh is loud and sarcastic in response. “You think I’m making it that easy on you, sunshine? That I’m just going to tell you and your little friends where I am? You think I don’t know you’ve got the blonde one working on my location right now?”
Garcia freezes beside you, her eyes widening as she glances between her laptop and the phone. When she looks at Hotch, he motions at her to continue working, and there’s a slight tremble in her fingers as she does. Hotch looks over to you and nods to the phone, silently urging you to keep talking.
“Can you blame us?” You ask, releasing your fist and rubbing your palm over your leg. “After what you did, there’s a lot of people very eager to find you.”
“Well, they won’t have to worry. They’ll find us soon enough.”
Spencer feels you tense under his touch. “Us?”
“I’ll make this real simple for you, Echo. I know as well as the next person that it’s not a matter of if, but when you’re going to find me. But I ain’t going down without a fight. I’m taking them all down with me.”
“Them? Who’s them, Jax?” You hurriedly ask, concern mounting in your voice in the same way it’s mounting in the room. “Please, just tell me where you are.”
“I’m where it all started,” Bennett cryptically says, a vague hint of disdain in his voice. “Where everything started. And once I’m down, it’ll be all over the news tomorrow morning. Everyone will know about us- about Jericho. I’m ending this the way it was always supposed to end.”
“Jax, I don’t—”
The phone clicks off before you can finish your sentence. As soon as it does, Garcia lets out a cry of frustration, hands slamming down on the table. “I lost him!”
Everyone instantly deflates, all hopeful tension replaced by exasperation and defeat, verbalised in tired groans and deep sighs. Spencer slides his hand over your back and to your shoulder, trying to comfort you as best as he can. You’re completely frozen beneath him, still staring at the phone, and when he crouches down to meet your eyes, he notices the fact that all the blood seems to have been drained from your face.
It takes him barely a second to put two and two together. “That meant something to you, didn’t it? What he said?” He asks, rediverting the team’s attention back to you.
Your wide eyes slowly meet his and you bite your lower lip, hesitating to respond. “I… I think so.”
“What is it?” Morgan asks hastily, resting his hands on the table so he can lean forward to see your face. “What did he tell you?”
You swallow thickly and your eyes return to the phone. “Where it all started…”
Letting go of your shoulder, Spencer grabs your hand instead. You’re turning distant and he’s got a feeling it has something to do with your medication, quickly tiring you out with every minute that passes. “What does it mean?” He asks softly, squeezing your hand when you don’t immediately answer.
Slowly, your eyes lift to your colleagues. An unreadable expression flashes over your face, hidden too late for Spencer not to notice, but gone too quickly to make out what it means. Finally, you speak. “The Marine Reserve in Lynchberg, off Route 501,” you say, voice quiet, like you’ve lost all the fight. “It’s where we had the first meeting. We got called to the Reserve after they decided to go ahead with Project Jericho.”
Hotch steps forward, brows furrowed together, carefully considering your words. “You think that’s where he’s heading?” He asks, studying your face about as closely as Spencer is. “Why?”
“Because that’s where it all started,” you say numbly, hand going a little slack in Spencer’s. It’s a worrying development, but Spencer reminds himself that you’re just getting tired from your medication. You’re not losing the fight, not really, he knows that. “Besides—taking out a whole reserve battalion? That’s a sure way to make the news.”
It makes sense. Taking out the ‘them’ Bennett mentioned could very well be a battalion of Marines. He was, as you said, stuck in a conspiracy about the military and Jericho already. There was every reason to believe he’d take down as many people he deemed responsible or complicit as he could.
A moment of silence passes and the tension increases with every second. “How sure are you about this?” Hotch asks, a small twitch in his eyebrow accidentally revealing his stress.
You close your eyes and exhale quietly. Your shoulders sag. “I’m willing to bet my life on it, sir.”
Not wasting another second, Hotch immediately starts to order everyone into moving. There’s an explosion of movement all around you and Spencer as each agent rushes to find the necessary items for departure, getting ready to go after Jagger Bennet once and for all.
In the midst of the chaos and the rush, Spencer helps you make your way over to Rossi’s so you can lie down in peace. You’re suspiciously quiet the entire time but Spencer doesn’t try to read too far into it as he closes the door to the office behind him, watching you lean against Rossi’s desk with a small sigh.
“I know you don’t like this,” he says softly, making his way over so he can stand directly in front of you, his hands in his pockets. “But it’s for the best.”
You look up into his eyes, clearly unconvinced, but nod nonetheless. “Yeah, I know. It’s just not right, doing it like this.”
“I can call you, once we’ve apprehended him?” Spencer says, giving you a small, sympathetic smile he hopes can convince you. “So you stay in the loop?”
“I’ll probably be asleep,” you say, eyes flickering over the couch. “But thanks, Spence.”
Suddenly, a rapid knock on the door interrupts the silence and a muffled voice belonging to Morgan calls out to Spencer, telling him to hurry up so they can get on the road. With an apologetic smile, Spencer turns back to you, trying to quell his guilt at leaving you behind. “I’m sorry, this isn’t how it should be.”
“It’s fine,” you say, shaking your head dismissively. “Be careful out there, okay?”
“I will,” Spencer says, allowing one of his hands to trail over your cheek. “Get some sleep. This’ll all be over soon.”
A look reminiscent to the one in the conference room once more flashes over your face, like his words have touched a very specific part inside of you he can’t quite see with his own eyes. Your lips part and you look you’re about to say something. If Spencer didn’t know any better, he could’ve sworn he saw guilt in your eyes, poorly hidden behind the concern for his safety.
Without warning, you suddenly grab the front of his shirt and pull him toward you, roughly connecting your lips with his. Spencer’s breath hitches, your lips meeting his with a desperate intensity that nearly knocks the air from his lungs. The force of it presses you both against the desk behind you, the sharp edge biting into the small of your back, but neither of you care. There’s a wildness to it, an urgency that drowns out everything else—the ticking clock, the murmurs beyond the office door, the impending hunt.
His hands find your waist, steadying you, though it feels more like he’s steadying himself. There’s a split second where he hesitates, confusion sparking behind his closed eyes. You’re supposed to be resting. You’re supposed to be too tired for this. But then his mind blanks beneath the pressure of your mouth, the warmth of your body. He lets himself get swept up in it, matching your fervour though he stumbles behind it. Like you’re already two steps ahead of him. Like you know something he doesn’t.
When you finally break apart, your breaths are uneven, shared in the close space between you. Spencer leans his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s grounding himself.
“I love you,” you whisper, and your voice is soft, almost trembling, though it carries more weight than he can understand.
Spencer’s heart thuds, his eyes fluttering open to meet yours. There’s something about the way you say it. Something final. But his mind is too sluggish from the kiss to really make something out of it and he allows himself to slip into the haze of your rich perfume and sweet touch. “I love you too,” he says, voice low but sure.
“You have to be careful out there,” you say, one of your hands cupping his cheek while the other slides down the front of his chest. “I can’t see you getting hurt. I need you to make it out alive, okay?”
Your words drip with concern, intermingled with something he can’t quite identify, and he nods like he can understand them fully. His hands linger at your waist, his thumb tracing light, absentminded circles through the fabric of your shirt. His gaze searches yours, soft with affection, but shadowed by confusion. "I will," he promises, though his voice trembles slightly, caught between certainty and something he can’t name.
You offer a soft smile, though it barely reaches your eyes. Your hand moves slowly, sliding lower along his stomach until you find his hip, fingertips brushing the fabric where his pocket rests. The movement is natural, easy, though deliberate. "Promise me," you say, and there's something about the way your voice breaks on the last word that has Spencer's heart stalling. "Promise me you'll come back. That you'll survive this."
Spencer nods, eager, his brow furrowing in concern. "I promise," he says, though the words feel inadequate, like they’re missing something. Like there’s something you’re trying to tell him that he can’t quite grasp. "But it’s going to be okay. We’ll find him. We’ll stop him."
Your smile flickers, faltering for the briefest moment. "I know you will. I have faith in you."
You step back, slow and reluctant, as if letting him go is the last thing you want to do. Spencer's eyes linger on you, like he’s memorizing you, though he doesn’t understand why the moment feels so heavy. So final. "Get some rest," he says, his smile tight. He doesn’t like leaving you behind. Doesn’t like the vulnerability in your eyes. "We’ll be back soon."
With a nod, you grasp the edge of the desk. "I know."
There’s a pause, weighted and silent. Then Morgan’s voice calls again from outside the door, urging Spencer to move. Spencer hesitates, his eyes on you for a beat longer, like there’s something he’s missing, something just beyond his reach. But then he steps back, offering you one last glance, one last soft smile, and turns for the door.
He can’t place why it feels like he’s leaving something behind, something he should’ve never lost sight of in the first place.
━━━━ ◈ ━━━━
The car is silent as it speeds down the highway, its sirens muffled beyond the windows. Every once in a while, Spencer’s walkie-talkie beeps, crackly voices on the other side audible through the static, relaying their positions and what is currently happening on site. It would only be another half hour before the BAU would arrive at the Reserve base, while local Military Police had already been alerted, along with local police and a SWAT team.
Beside Spencer is Morgan, who’s gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles are white from the pressure. They haven’t talked in over an hour, both of them too tense to find the words. Besides- what was there to talk about? Their equal hate for Jagger Bennett? Their desire to catch him and end this once and for all? Their shared concerns for you? They already knew that about each other, it came with a years-long friendship and unique bond forged in the many cases worked together.
“84 Adam to Central, 10-84 at 314 Graves Mill Road. Awaiting further instructions.”
Spencer’s eyes slip shut and he sighs. He’s heard that code over five times now, police unit after police unit arriving at the address of the Marine Reserve. He was getting sick of hearing it but didn’t move to turn off his radio—he had to hear all of it. That was his job.
“Central to 84 Adam, 10-04. Standby.”
Slipping down further in his seat, Spencer tries to ignore the nerves flittering around in his stomach and shoves his hands into his pockets. The moment he does, his fingertips graze on something cold and metallic, its shape yielding to his touch. Confused, he grasps what feels like a thin chain and pulls it from his pocket. The moment he sees what’s now dangling from his fingers, his heart drops out of his chest.
It’s your necklace.
The one he had given to you for Christmas. Why was it in his pocket? How? Had you done this on purpose? You had to have, right? This couldn’t just be an accident. But why? What were you trying to tell him?
“What’s that?” Morgan asks with a frown, gaze flickering between the road ahead and the jewellery. “A necklace?”
“I gave it to her on Christmas,” Spencer mumbles, more to himself than in response to Morgan’s question. He drowns out the question that follows, whether you were the ‘her’ he’s referring to, and closes his eyes, allowing his mind to return to that moment.
Like a film reel, he replays the kiss in Rossi’s office. He rewinds to before you pulled him in and searches the image, finding the necklace still around your neck. Then he skips through the kiss, still able to feel the press of your lips against his, and when he gets to the moment where you part from him, he searches the image once more. The necklace is gone. He can feel one of your hands slipping down his chest before it reaches his hip, where it skims along his pocket. There.
That’s when you snuck it to him without him ever noticing. Why?
He rewinds again until he gets to your words and finds himself mumbling them aloud, eyes still closed, brows furrowed together as he forces his memory and mind to work to its perfect capacity. I can’t see you getting hurt. I need you to make it out alive, okay? The unreadable look in your eyes. The strange finality to your tone. And now the necklace.
You’d been saying goodbye.
And not the type where you were just wishing him well before he went out into the field. No, this was the type of goodbye where you don’t expect to see the other person again. This was one used when you were expecting to die.
“She’s going after Jagger.”
Spencer’s eyes fly open as the words escape him, finding Morgan watching him with a look of confusion and shock. “Reid, what the hell are—”
“She’s going after him,” Spencer repeats, shoving the necklace back into his pocket. “We have to turn around, we have to—”
“Reid! Why do you think she’s going after him?” Morgan practically yells, gabbing Spencer’s wrist just before it can reach the radio, preventing him from contacting anyone. “What the hell’s going on?!”
“She gave me the necklace as a goodbye,” Spencer says, trying to tug his wrist free. “You didn’t—you didn’t hear what she said, okay? She was saying goodbye. She was talking like she was going to die.”
“Maybe it was her meds, man! Maybe they were making her loopy! She probably didn’t even know what she was saying.”
In an instant, Spencer is back outside the BAU. He watches you put the pull in your mouth, watches you swallow the water swiftly. Shit—too swiftly. No flinch as the pill made its way down, no shudder from the taste. How had he missed it? He sorts through the memory and remembers the way you’d nestled against him—a sweet gesture, he’d assumed at the time, but now he realises that you’d been hiding your face from him. Why? Because that nose-scratch, that inconspicuous movement out of the corner of his eye, had been you spitting the pill back out into your palm.
You hadn’t been tired at all. It had all been an act. Everything had been an act.
“She never took her medication,” Spencer says, voice turning quiet as the betrayal begins to sink in. “She spit it out and I didn’t even—how did I miss that?”
Morgan balks at his words, blinking a few times as he tries to come up with a response, his hand finally letting go of Spencer’s wrist. “But, why… why would she do that?”
“She never wanted to take the pills in the first place,” Spencer says, taking the necklace back out so he can stare at it. “She was always planning on going after him alone, she just didn’t know when, but she couldn’t risk being under the influence of her medication once she got the chance.”
“But where is she going, then?” Morgan asks, his frown deepening as he glances at the GPS. “There’s no way she’s going to get there before we do.”
The realisation sinks in like a poison, overtaking every inch of Spencer’s nervous system and making his hands feel jittery. “She gave us the wrong address,” he says, sitting up in his seat. “She sent us into the wrong direction.”
He remembers that look in your eyes, the one he hadn’t been able to identify. That had been you lying. That was he couldn’t recognise it: he’d never seen you lie before.
“So what’s the right direction?”
Spencer closes his eyes again and goes back to the phone call with Jagger. The words replay like a tape, hateful tone of voice and scratchy background and all. I’m where it all started. Where everything started. And once I’m down, it’ll be all over the news tomorrow morning. Everyone will know about us- about Jericho.
Where everything started… where was that?
His brain moved quickly, almost too quickly for him to keep up with, assaulting him with distinct memories to help figure out the puzzle. First, there was the Jericho file, the notes on the final mission and on Carver: ‘developer Project Jericho’. And then, your words on the tape, the one with your therapist: “News?” – “It’s what we called our Sergeant, William Carver – Guess that’s why he came up with Jericho…”
Carver was where everything started. He was the one who had come up with Jericho. His nickname was News—that was what your unit had called him. When Jagger mentioned the news, he hadn’t been talking about getting publicity at all: it had been a hint, one only you were supposed to understand.
Spencer’s eyes shoot open when the answer finally materialises on his tongue, and he nearly chokes in his haste to get the words out.
“Bill Carver’s house—that’s where she’s going!”
Notes:
I'm so sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger
(am i tho)Do you hate me yet???? <3
Chapter 22: Ashes of Eurydice
Notes:
Second to last chapter!!! And then we're done!! Ahhh!!
Also, I'm so sorry for not updating recently or for not replying to comments. I've been on holiday and am simultaneously doing a ton of logistics as I have to move out of my flat at the end of the month. My bf and I found a place together but things are so hectic I've had a perpetual headache for weeks now.
Thank you for still being here :)
Chapter Text
January 22nd, 2010, 18:52 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 4 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit
The house is exactly as you remember it to be. Older, perhaps, with the yellowed white paint now peeling along the outside of the house, the front door painted red instead of the brown you remember and the porch sagging in the corners. The American flag flying from the pole in the front yard has clearly been up there for years, fraying at the edges. The Corps banner below it isn’t doing much better. The forty year old red pick-up truck you’d come to appreciate over the years sits in the driveway, looking worse for wear. Behind it is a car you don’t recognise.
You feel like you’re staring at a memory. In your recollection, the memory is more… yellow, in a way. The sun is brighter, the grass more lush, and the house feels like an inviting home, instead of the haunted dwelling it now resembles. When you close your eyes, you swear you can still hear Annie’s footsteps behind you, mixed in with those stupid windchimes she’d bought for News. Somewhere to your left, you can hear Carlos’ barking laugh as he watches Rudy try, and fail, to do a handstand. The barbecue sizzles when Carver and Joey put the burgers on the grill and old country music plays from the truck’s speakers. Two hours ago, you’d been told about your recruitment into Jericho, and now, you were all celebrating the future ahead.
Your eyes open again and the memory vanishes right in front of your eyes. The house no longer lives. It just stands, sad and alone, between the trees, overlooking the massive reservoir like the view can somehow save its remembrance.
The gravel crunches under your feet as you pass the faded red pick-up and the car you don’t recognise—Jax's, probably. One he stole. The front door sways gently back and forth in the breeze, already open, like its been waiting for you. The hinges creak when you push it further open, echoing through the house, announcing your arrival. You don’t mind the noise: he knows you’re coming, there’s no use in trying to sneak up on him. Besides, you’re out of shape—and he isn’t. He’s still been soldiering on during all these years, while you’d been sitting behind a desk, pushing papers like it could fill the void.
In the entryway, the floor is littered with shoes, coats and a broken vase. Signs of a struggle. Your grip tightens on your gun, finger already on the trigger, ready to fire. There’s a chance Jax has already killed Carver, you know that. You’re not really sure what scene is waiting for you beyond the door that leads to the living room. Nowadays, you don’t have much room in your heart for Carver anymore, but that doesn’t mean you want to see the man dead. Nostalgia prevents you from wishing for that.
The doorhandle is cold under your touch and the floorboards creak beneath your feet as you move to open the next door. With your gun raised, you peek into the room. There’s not much that immediately stands out to you- mostly that the room is pretty much identical to how you remember it to be.
You take a slow step inside and quickly turn to your right to look into the corner you couldn’t see from the hall, and find your heart stuttering at the sight you’re met with. There, bound and gagged in a chair, is the man responsible for your pain himself: Bill Carver. Blood stains the side of his face, steadily leaking from a massive gash on his forehead, and a piece of fabric that has been tied around his head prevents him from talking. His cheeks and the corners of his mouth are already turning purple from the pressure.
He's awake. His eyes are wide when they see you, flittering up and down your form like they’re seeing a ghost. You keep your gun aimed at him, not daring to move, waiting for what’ll happen next. There’s an entrance to the kitchen right beside News, and you’ve got a feeling you’ll find Jax there. With that knowledge, you nudge your gun toward the doorframe and quirk an eyebrow, and your old master sergeant nods.
The moment you take a step forward, he makes a loud noise of disapproval and begins to shake his head frantically. For a second, you look down, expecting to find a tripwire you’d missed the first time, but that’s not what Carver means: he nods to the front of the house and keeps giving small grunts, trying to tell you that which he’s not allowed to say out loud. He wants you to leave. To get out of here, to save yourself.
“Sorry, News,” you whisper, taking another step closer. “But I don't take orders from you anymore.”
Before you can take another step, a voice rings out from, indeed, the kitchen. “I see you caught on to my message, sunshine.”
Like a ghost, Jagger appears from the doorway and instinctively, you take a few steps back. Your breath hitches in surprise at seeing him so suddenly and you flinch when a sharp pain shoots through the side of your ribcage. You try your best to ignore it and keep your weapon pointed at Jax, who looks less than impressed by it.
“Put that thing down, sunshine,” he says, a hint of disgust in his voice. “We both know you’re not going to use it.”
“Do we?”
“You didn’t use it when I looked you up, remember? You had the chance but you let me get to you.”
You can still feel the shock in your bones from seeing him behind your front door. On instinct, your hand had reached for your gun, but something within you had stopped you from putting a bullet in his chest right then and there. That’s when he had overpowered you, making use of the shock of his sudden appearance. If only you’d just pulled the trigger.
“Just let him go, Jax,” you say, opting to ignore his words instead of entertaining them, directing your words to Carver instead. “This is between you and me.”
“It’s not,” Jagger simply says, glancing back to look at Carver, turning his back to your gun like he’s got it on good authority that you won’t shoot him. The worst part? You think you might agree with him. “He started all of this. He should be here for the end.”
“And how’s that going to look like, then?” You ask, eyes flickering around the room like you can somehow find out his plan just by looking. “The end?”
“He know you’re here? Your little boyfriend?” Jagger asks, turning back around and completely ignoring your question. His eyes unsettle you, purely on the basis that you no longer recognise them. They used to be beautiful- especially during the sunsets. The light would catch the brown and turn it into something akin to gold, and they would be filled with friendship, and love, and perhaps even hope.
These eyes were cold. Lifeless. They no longer brought you the comfort you so selfishly sought in the past. Now, they speak a language you’ve forgotten, one that has been wiped from your mind by gentle hands and kind smiles. No longer did you feel like you were looking into a mirror, meeting a soul like-minded to your own. These eyes belonged in the past.
“No one knows we’re here, Jax,” you say lowly, hating that he’s mentioning Spencer. It feels wrong, hearing your past talk about your present. “But he’s smart. He’ll figure it out. Won’t take him very long, I reckon.”
Jagger scoffs dryly and motions to your gun. “Put that fuckin’ thing down, Echo.”
“Why?”
“You look pathetic,” Jagger practically spits, his tone venomous. “You always solved it from a distance. Never got your hands dirty—always hiding behind that fuckin’ scope. About time you got down in the dirt with the rest of us, eh?”
Even though you hate to admit it, his words cut through you like a knife. Towards the end of Jericho, that had become a point of contentment. Not just from Jagger: from everyone. The team had been falling apart for a while and tensions had been rising. Everyone had carried guilt and had needed to put the blame somewhere—you had done the same.
“My hands are stained with just as much blood as yours, Jax,” you say, but you lower your gun anyways, arm going limp. “I did my part, you did yours, and now we pay the price.”
“No, we didn’t—they did,” Jagger says, taking a step forward and pointing out the window, like he’s physically pointing to your old unit somewhere still out in the world. “They paid the price. You and me? We’re still cashing in our chips.”
“Is that why you killed all those people?” You say, raising your voice as you also take a step forward. “You were just ‘cashing in your chips’?”
Jax scoffs again, shaking his head as if there’s something funny about that. “They send me overseas with the order to kill people and I get a medal,” he says, more to himself than to you. “But when I kill them without an order, they want to arrest me. Lock me up. How’s that work, eh? What’s the difference?”
“The difference is that you killed innocent people.”
“Nobody’s innocent!” Jax suddenly roars and you nearly flinch from the sudden increase in volume. “None of them! None of them were innocent! They betrayed us! They made us into who we are and then they sent us to die!”
There’s a million things you want to say to that. How you disagree, how you don’t care, how it all doesn’t matter anymore. But there’s no power in you left for that. You’ve put all of it behind you. It doesn’t have the same hold over you as it used to, and most certainly not like it does over Jax.
“None of that matters anymore,” you say, voice weaker than you would’ve expected. “It’s over, Jax.”
Jagger shakes his head. “No- I figured it out, Echo. I know who the leak was.”
“I don’t care,” you say softly. “It’s over. It’s been over for years.”
“Don’t pretend like it doesn’t matter,” Jax says, pointing back toward Carver. “He did this to us. We deserve the truth.”
Glancing down at your gun, you weigh your options. You could shoot him, if you wanted to. Kill him. It would be just one more body. Lord knows your list was long enough for it not to matter anymore, one more or one less. Your heart wouldn’t win against the feather regardless, should Anubis be waiting for you.
The gun slips out of your hand and clatters to the floor, heavy and loud. “It’s over,” you mumble to yourself, allowing the realisation to sink in. The fight was done and had been done for years now. You weren’t going to kill him. The best you could do was buy time, fight him like he wants to, and hope for your team to arrive in time. Perhaps he’ll kill you, but it’s not an ending you find yourself despising. It could be a sort of cosmic justice, to have him end your life after all this time, after everything that happened. You just hope it won’t be Spencer who finds your body.
You look up and meet Jagger’s frantic eyes. Mentally, he’s still there, out in the desert. You can tell. You used to be as well. “Come on, then,” you say, kicking your gun aside and listening to it slide back out into the hallway. “Let’s end it. Like you said.”
Jagger tilts his head, eyes flickering over your form. Over the stitches on your arms, over the bruises on your face. The fact that you’re breathing strangely to keep your ribs from hurting too much. “You won’t win, sunshine,” he says, voice rough. The nickname feels like a punch every time you hear it. “I’m stronger than you. Always have been.”
“I’m quicker,” you say, eyes flickering over to Carver, who’s eyes are wide as he shakes his head, trying to stop the fight from happening. “Right, News? Agility triumphs against brute force, something like that?”
Your eyes meet Jagger’s again. “Come on, Jax, you and me. Like it’s always been.”
With that, your fist connects with his cheek.
July 2003. 6 years, 7 months, [?] days before [REDACTED] joined the Behavioural Analysis Unit. <Rutba, Iraq>
“All I’m saying is, it wouldn’t kill them to get us better sunglasses!”
“The fuck do you need sunglasses for? It’s four in the morning.”
“It’s the principle of the thing, Red! They only give us tactical gear. Echo, come on, back me up on this.”
You lean your head back against the metal wall of the cargo plane, quirking an eyebrow at Rudy. “Sunglasses are like, ten dollars. I think you’ll be fine, Lego.”
Rudy groans dramatically, sliding further down on the floor of the cargo hold. “You step on a Lego one time…”
Chuckles scatter across the plane, the rest of the team watching with amused glances. Beside you, Annie is fast asleep, using her helmet as a pillow, her hands folded over her stomach like she’s been laid out in a coffin. On your other side is Carlos, painstakingly rolling a cigarette he won’t smoke. He’d quit smoking over two years ago, but still rolled his cigarettes: something about how it was meditative for him. He taught you, and now you could roll them too. A skill you didn’t think you’d ever have much use for.
“T-Minus 20 minutes till landing, y’all,” Joey calls out from the back of the plane, clicking his portable radio off after receiving word from the pilot in the front. “Better wake up Flatline, before we have to deal with her grumpy ass all night.”
With a small scoff, you nudge Annie a little too roughly until she groans dramatically, pulled from her deep sleep. The nickname Flatline didn’t come from nowhere. “Fuck, I’m awake. Jesus Christ.”
“Better take the Lord’s name out your mouth,” Erica says from where she’s sitting across from you, watching with a grin as Annie groans while sitting up. “Before Carlos starts reading the bible to us again. Ain’t that right, Sabbath?”
“I should, with your blasphemous behaviour,” Carlos mutters, licking the paper and folding the cigarette shut. “Especially you, Red. I’ll pray the gay away.”
“Asshole,” Erica says, sending him the finger when he gives her a wide grin.
The door to the cockpit suddenly opens, revealing Jax behind the door. Unconsciously, you begin to smile at the sight of him, watching as he walks further into the cargo hold. “Got word from News,” he says as he crouches down in the middle of the group, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. “Thermal imaging shows fifteen people inside the compound, five outside, so twenty total.”
“We takin’ ‘em all out?” Joey asks, getting up so he can be closer to the short briefing.
“We always do, Kangaroo,” Jax says with a small shrug, his eyes meeting yours and softening for a second. “We’ll be dropped off about two miles from the compound. Everyone got their nightshades?”
“Lego would rather wear sunglasses,” Annie says with a playful grin, earning a loud groan from Rudy.
“I’m not talking to any of you about anything ever again,” he says, making everyone laugh.
“Who the hell am I going to flirt with over the radio, then?” Joey says with a dramatic pout, clutching his chest like he’s been physically wounded.
Rudy waves his concerns off, barely fazed. “You know I ain’t talking about you, handsome. We both know I can’t go two seconds without your sexy ass voice.”
“Sugar, I’m getting crazy hard right now.”
“You want to get out of here?”
Erica makes a loud noise of disgust. “And you want to pray my gay away?” she says pointedly to Carlos, who shrugs as he stuffs his perfectly rolled cigarette into a pocket on his chest.
“They’re beyond saving,” he says, before narrowing his eyes at Joey. “And one of ‘em is married. To a woman.”
“What, now a man can’t have a work husband anymore?” Rudy says, putting on a look of complete and utter outrage, overplaying it in that way only he can. “Got me fucked up, Sabbath!”
“Can we get back to the mission at hand, please?” Jax cuts in, squeezing the bridge of his nose with a frustrated look. “Let’s all make sure we get home safe, alright?”
“Fifteen inside, five outside, drop site two miles out,” you say, nodding to yourself as you repeat the information given earlier. “Sounds easy enough.”
From beside you, Annie chuckles and nudges your shoulder. “I was waiting for the echo.”
“Echo echoes and all is right in the world,” Joey says, wiping his forehead like he’s just ran a marathon, taking most of the sweat that has accumulated there. “The day I don’t hear that echo, y’all need to shoot me dead, alright? ‘Cause I gotta see hell frozen over for myself.”
“I’ll send you there myself, you wanker,” you say with a playful glare, laughing when he pretends to pass out, purposely aiming for Rudy’s lap, making the latter grunt from the sudden impact.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing at the edge of the cargo hold, staring down at the dark expanse of the desert below. You can’t even see the dunes, the moon covered by thick clouds. It’s a good thing, it gives you more coverage once you’re jumping out, but that doesn’t mean you like it. Jumping out of planes has never been your strong suit.
“You good, sunshine?” A voice asks from beside you. When you look up, you find Jax standing there, eyes soft as they stare down at you. You’re not surprised to see him after hearing that nickname. He’s the only one who calls you that. Had it been up to him, it would’ve probably become your callsign. “Nervous?”
“Never am, you know that,” you say, giving him a playful nudge in his side. “You?”
“Knowing I got you watching my back? Not a chance,” Jax says, a grin making its way onto his features.
“Guess it’s a good thing I’m coming down with you, then,” you say, once more glancing down at the dark abyss below. “See you on the other side, Reaper.”
Jax’s grin abruptly disappears and his expressions turns into that of pure disapproval. “For the last time, please stop calling me that. It makes me sound like a serial killer.”
“Like mine’s so much better?” Annie says, suddenly joining your side. She gives you a wide grin and places her hand on your shoulder. “Bet I can get to the ground before you?”
“I’d like to see you try.”
And with that, you jump out of the plane, your teammates following shortly, soaring through the dark night sky.
January 22nd, 2010, 19:32 P.M.. 1 year, 0 months, 4 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit
With a mighty crash, your back connects with the coffee table, instantly destroying the cheap wood and the ceramic fruit bowl atop. You cry out from the pain, feeling your ribs scream and burn from the impact as they stab into your lungs now emptied from their air. There’s no time to deal with it, though- you’ll just have to fight without breathing for a few seconds.
Scrambling to get back to your feet, your hands wrap around what used to be one of the legs holding up the coffee table. You first swing an empty fist toward Jagger’s head, which he dodges easily, but before he can anticipate your next move you slam the wooden leg into the side of his head. Unfortunately, the wood is cheap and old, shattering on impact and causing little damage to the man in front of you, but at least it stuns him for just enough time for you to kick into his chest.
Before he’s even hit the ground, one of his legs sweeps out your own from under you, sending you flying to the floor once more. You just barely manage to catch yourself, but that only keeps your hands busy enough for Jagger to slam his fist into the side of your face. Blood spurts from your nose and a sharp pain shoots through your skull.
You cough and splutter against the blood suddenly flowing into your mouth, blinking rapidly to get rid of the blind spots in your vision. Behind you, you can hear Jagger get back to his feet, ready to pounce once more. Before your dulled mind can figure out a way to get him before he gets you, you’re being turned onto your back. Your eyes find Jagger’s bloodstained and bruised face, his eyes feral, but he once more connects his fist to your face before you can so much as get a word out.
Another cry of pain escapes you, the barely-healed cut through your eyebrow ripping open from the force of the punch, and blood sprays onto the hardwood floor. For a second, Jagger falters, as if your cries have deterred him, and you use the opportunity to blindly look for a weapon again. Your hands flitter across the floor until your fingers graze upon a shard of ceramic. It cuts into your palm when you grip it tightly but the pain barely registers as you swing your hand toward your attacker.
In one swift move, you cut into his cheek, slicing through the flesh like butter. It’s now Jagger’s turn to cry out and he instinctively grabs his cheek, leaving his chest vulnerable enough so you can use the shard to stab him once more. Unfortunately, he’s not too distracted to where he doesn’t see it coming, and manages to move back just as the shard pierces his skin. You don’t even get it half an inch into his stomach, but every little injury counts, right?
You have no idea how long the two of you have been at this. Your entire body throbs, covered in fresh new bruises and cuts. Blood seeps from your nose into your mouth and from your eyebrow into your eye, while your ribs feel worse than they ever have, making it so that you’re wheezing instead of breathing. The thing is, you can’t breathe normally anymore: for some reason, your lungs can’t fill with air- not fully, at least.
You manage to sit up on your knees, heaving and wheezing as you try to catch your breath. Jagger climbs to his feet, taking his hand from his cheek and revealing a massive gash that bleeds steadily, staining his neck and the collar of his shirt.
“You surprise me, sunshine,” he says, wiping at his mouth before just spitting out whatever he’s trying to wipe away. A glob of spit so dark red you’re tempted to say it’s just blood hits the hardwood floor just beside Carver’s feet. “You still got it after all these years.”
With a small grunt, you toss the ceramic shard to the floor, barely keeping yourself from flinching when it momentarily sticks to the deep cut now running across your palm. “Yeah, you’re pretty shit,” you say, making Jagger grin. His teeth are stained red and it makes him look even more insane than he already does.
“How about we end this, huh?” he says, suddenly stumbling over to the kitchen. When he comes back out, he’s holding a massive kitchen knife.
“Don’t be stupid,” you grit out, trying to keep the panic mounting in your chest to a minimum. You’re okay with dying, but your survival instinct calls for an entirely different response. “Calling me pathetic for using my gun, and now you’re using a knife? Pretty fuckin’ hypocritical, Jax.”
Jagger practically snarls. “Guess you’re still a fucking echo after all, eh?” he says, clearly not appreciative of you using his words against him.
Then, before you can say anything in response, he shoves the knife into Carver’s thigh. The man yells into the gag still wrapped around his mouth, his eyes widening as he watches the knife get pulled out. Within seconds, his jeans are stained a dark red. If he nicked a major artery, Carver will only have minutes before he’ll bleed to death.
“No!” You scream out, scrambling to back to your feet, trying to get to your old Master Sergeant in the hopes of saving his life.
Jagger doesn’t let you get that far, though. He swings the knife at you so wildly, it’s like he’s forgotten all his previous training. There’s no thought behind it, no finesse, just pure, unbridled aggression. It gives you enough of an upper hand to where you manage to shove him back, straight into a dresser that slams into the wall, the decoration on top toppling over the edge from the impact. You reach for the knife, hoping to take it from Jagger’s grasp, but he ducks and swings once more, this time taking aim at your stomach, and you try to jump to the side.
You don’t feel anything, at first. So little, in fact, you think you’ve actually managed to dodge his attack. Then, a wet heat begins to trickle down your side, soaking your shirt and jeans. When you look down, you’re met with a giant red stain that covers most of your left side, growing and growing relentlessly in circumference. It’s only when you press your hand to the wound still hidden even behind the tear in your shirt that the pain begins to register. Your brain catches up to your eyes and your nerve endings receive the message.
Remarkably quickly, strength begins to leave your body and you stumble back, pressing a hand to your side and watching as the blood gushes past your fingers. A sound awfully close to a whimper falls from your lips as a white hot pain shoots through your body, and panic begins to set in.
“I’m sorry, sunshine,” you hear Jax say as he pushes himself off the now crooked dresser. “This is just how it had to be.”
His hand suddenly grabs your shoulder and your wide eyes meet his distant, sorrowful eyes. When he talks, his voice is rough, like he’s holding back a mountain of emotion. The knife in his hands catches the light of the lamp above, the blade flickering like it’s trying to warn you. “It’ll be over soon,” he says, like it’s a comfort. “I’ll make it quick for you.”
He presses the tip of the blade against the front of your stomach and begins to push it in. A survival instinct you didn’t even know you still possessed acts for you and you slam an elbow into Jagger’s face. He stumbles back, clearly surprised by your sudden move: it’s as if he had really expected you to just… give up, like that.
You thought you had. You though you came here to die. So what’s keeping you going now?
Surprise morphs into fury right in front of your very eyes and with a roar, Jagger rushes at you once more. With the power leaving your body quicker than you can keep up with, you’re no longer a match for him. It takes barely a minute for him to get you to the ground, slamming your head into the floor and leaving you dazed. Faintly, you register the knife clattering to the floor. Then two hands wrap around your throat and begin to squeeze.
Instinctively, your hands claw at those now squeezing the life out of you, desperate for air you can no longer reach. Through the haze in your vision, worsened by the blood that leaks straight into your eyes from the wound in your eyebrow, you can see Jagger. His expression is cool, calculated, a stark difference to his brown eyes, which appear to be filled with regret and sorrow.
When trying to get his hands off your throat fails to work, your try to scratch at his face instead. He moves far back enough to where you can’t reach him, however, and hope begins to wane. Spots begin to swim in your vision, your head pounding from the lack of oxygen. Blood rushes through your ears so loudly you feel like waves are crashing against your eardrums. The glare of the lamp above you turns into the sun, suddenly scorching hot, burning your exposed skin. The pain is palpable in your very bones, every nerve ending begging for a release.
You begin to slip out of consciousness even as you fight to stay awake. The pain perseveres, both physically and emotionally. It makes pinpointing what is real and what is not nearly impossible, hallucinations fusing with reality as effortless as dye fuses to cloth. You can hear Annie’s laughter and Jax’s sweet nothings whispered under the guise of the night, before it all morphs into Spencer’s smile and gentle touch and loving words. You’re in an endless state, somewhere between the heavens and the earth, in a cocoon of suffering. All you’re left with is the faces of those you destroyed.
Your eyes slip shut and trying to open them feels like a futile effort. The last bit of air begins to dissipate and something wet drops on your cheek, like the rain has found you inside the house, and trails down until it hits your lips, where you taste salt. You hear Carver’s voice, his words during training, the call to keep going, to take just one more step towards survival. Today, it’s no longer enough to save you.
Mortem Occumbere Pro Patria, a voice whispers. A voice that sounds suspiciously much like your own.
Suddenly, something wet and hot sprays over your face. The grip on your throat loosens and air floods your lungs. In an instant, you return to the world, overcome with coughs that wrack through your body—your broken ribs turn it into torture and you heave and cry from the pain. The blind spots dissolve and you find Jax still above you, only this time, he’s not fighting anymore.
A hole the size of a quarter in the middle of his chest is the first thing you notice. Blood pours from the wound, which is surrounded by jagged flesh and torn fabric. Jax stares at the wound as if it’s not quite registering with him yet, his eyes wide, his hand lifting up to touch his chest. It never reaches its destination. He suddenly slumps forward, toppling off your body like he’s nothing but a mannequin being pushed off its display.
It's only then that you can see the entryway and there, in the doorway, you find Spencer, his gun raised, his face filled with terror. For you, you realise. Behind him is Morgan. For a moment, no one moves.
You speak before you realise your even capable of doing so. “Carver,” you whisper hoarsely, barely able to force out a sound. Your eyes shift to your old Sergeant now slumped over in his chair, a pool of blood under his chair. “Help- help him.”
When you attempt to sit up, pain so forceful and intense crashes through your body and you nearly scream. It’s suddenly everywhere, in your side, your head, your chest- it’s relentless and unforgiving, worse than anything you’ve ever felt, and the world begins to swim. You can hear voices but they don’t reach your ears anymore and you feel yourself start to slip away again.
Just as your head is about to hit the floor, a hand catches it and you’re being pulled into someone’s arms. Instinctively, you know that it’s Spencer. You would recognise those hands, that touch, everywhere, on the brink of death or otherwise. He talks but it doesn’t register anymore—actually, you’re not sure if he is talking. It could just be your own mind making it up as it goes, trying to make the last few minutes as pleasant as it can.
Your head is too heavy to hold up and it lolls back into Spencer’s arms. It allows for your eyes to find Jagger’s lifeless body beside you. A massive pool of blood spreads underneath his body, the side of his face pressed against the floor, his empty eyes staring straight at you. A tear leaks from them slowly, like they haven’t quite caught up yet.
A sob escapes you at the sight of him, dead and motionless. With your last bit of strength, your hand reaches for his where it’s beside his head, like he tried to cushion his fall. No, your mind screams as the last bit of your past dies in front of your very eyes—perhaps the word manages to make it past your lips, you’re not sure. Your fingers graze over the back of Jax’s hand and for a small second, you’re staring into soft brown eyes and listen to a voice that whispers ‘sunshine’ like it’s worth more than your name. The hand never reaches back.
And the world slips away.
Chapter 23: Epilogue
Notes:
We're here, this is it! One more time baby, let's go!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
February 7th, 2010. 1 year, 0 months, 20 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit. 17 days since the death of: Jagger ‘Reaper’ Bennett.
The sky hangs low with thick, grey clouds, the kind that press down against the earth, heavy with unspoken grief. The rain has held off—for now—but the air smells like a storm is coming. A breeze rustles through the cemetery, stirring the figures wearing dark uniforms and solemn faces as the casket is lowered into the ground. Spencer keeps his hands beside him, fingers digging into the damp fabric of his suit. His chest is tight, the weight of the moment pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe. Someone sniffles softly beside him. Another person shifts their weight, boots crunching against the freshly turned earth. The chaplain’s voice is low and steady, reciting the final words, but they feel hollow in Spencer’s ears. He exhales slowly, trying to ground himself. This should feel like closure.
It doesn’t.
The first shot of the three-volley salute shatters the silence, cutting through the overcast sky. Spencer flinches despite himself. Two more shots ring out and he watches as the rifles lower, now done with the salute. A respectful gesture that now just feels flat. Something sour burns in the back of his throat.
A hand slips into his, trembling ever so slightly, a little cold from the cool temperature outside. Spencer turns slightly and he offers you a small, encouraging smile, giving your hand a supportive squeeze. The bruises on your face and neck are now only faint against your skin, your makeup doing its best to conceal them, and a thin scar curves through your eyebrow. Clutched in your other hand is a folded American flag, given to you because there was no one else to receive it in your stead. No family, no partner. No one.
Jagger Bennett is laid to rest with full military honours.
You had insisted on that when they’d come to see you in the hospital. Military officials of all sorts, who’d come with papers to sign and questions to be answered, and a very simple message: never to talk about this ever again. As far as the world knew, Jagger Bennett died in 2006, overseas, on duty. It was around that point that you’d insisted on a proper funeral, the same one given to the rest of your unit. When they had resisted, you’d threatened to go to the press, somehow intimidating even while lying back in a hospital bed with a voice barely audible from your near-death experience, a throat and face covered in dark blue and purple bruises.
Spencer doesn’t like returning to that moment. The entirety of the last two weeks, to be fair. He still wakes up in the middle of the night, freed from the nightmare of holding you in his arms as you bled out from a massive wound in your side, how your chest struggled to fill with air now that two ribs had pierced through your lung. How you kept trying to say the word ‘no’ even as blood stained your teeth, your hand reaching for Jagger Bennet’s corpse.
The days in the hospital afterwards were excruciating. From sitting by your side for two days straight with the chance of never seeing you wake up again, to having to watch Military officials try to intimidate you after everything you’d done for them.
Watching you heal was easier. With every day that passed, you were a little less injured, and even though progress was slow, there was at least progress. Physically, that is. Spencer can’t say anything about the mental state of either you or him. Not yet. As soon as the funeral ended today, the healing would start. So, for right now, Spencer held your hand and listened to the basic, vague speech from the chaplain that meant nothing to anyone currently at the funeral.
“You okay?” Spencer softly asks you once everything has ended. Your eyes linger on the grave, now ready to be filled up, to cover the casket with dirt and allow grass to grow where a man has been laid to rest.
“I think so,” you say, offering him a flat smile, very clearly unconvinced of your own response. Your eyes drift over to the rest of the attendees. There aren’t that many: a few Military officials—Spencer hopes never to see one ever again after this—and various vaguely important-looking people. Carver is there, too, further off to the side, leaning on his crutches, dressed in his official Blue Dress Uniform. On his chest are more medals and stripes than Spencer can count.
Most of the people attending the funeral were only there to make sure Jagger Bennett really was dead. A formality, more than anything. No one was here to mourn the loss of a young life. You seemed to be the only exception on that front, apart from perhaps Carver.
“You want to talk to anyone?” Spencer asks, noticing the way your eyes study each individual face hidden under blue uniforms.
“Not really,” you say, your hand tightening around his. “Fuck these people, you know?”
The corners of Spencer’s mouth twitch up at your words, and he finds himself nodding. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then your eyes find Carver. Something flashes in them, something like nostalgia and sorrow and perhaps the sting of a long-lost friendship, and Spencer knows. “Go,” he says quietly, giving you a small nudge. Your face morphs into one of surprise and then hesitation.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Spencer urges, letting go of your hand and gently taking the folded flag from your hold. “Go get your closure.”
Carver seems surprised when you approach him, as if he’d expected you to just ignore him. From a distance, Spencer notices the way your body slips back into old instinct. Your shoulders straighten until you’re pin straight, your chin in the air, and your hands linger by your side like you’re tempted to clasp them behind your back. For a few minutes, you converse with your old Sergeant—Spencer doesn’t catch a word of it, but that’s fine. He’s not so sure it’s his place to hear what’s being said.
Towards the end of the conversation, you hold out your hand to Carver. He seems relieved, in some ways, when he shakes your hand. When your hand slips from his, it doesn’t return to your side. Instead, you lift it to the side of your head, and your body effortlessly falls into a perfect salute. Carver copies your movement, and only when he lowers his hand back down do you lower your own.
“Come on,” you say to Spencer once you return to his side. “There are some people I want to introduce you to.”
Side by side, Spencer follows you further down the cemetery. You pass row after row of stark white headstones, tiny American flags fluttering in the wind between the stones. Finally, you stop toward the end of a row, directly in front of a gravestone decorated with a familiar picture of a redheaded girl and a wilted bouquet of wildflowers.
Angelina Maria Thompson
Medal of Honor
U.S. Marine Corps
Apr 26, 1982 - Sep 4, 2006
Beloved daughter, treasured friend
Purple heart
Spencer watches, a bit taken aback by the intimate reveal, as you crouch down in front of the headstone and brush away a few stray leaves. “Hiya, Annie,” he hears you whisper. “Been a while. I brought someone. He’s my boyfriend, believe it or not. Someone actually chose me. Imagine that, eh?”
A smile grows on Spencer’s face at your words, and he finds his chest filling with a certain warmth he’s only ever really felt around you. Are your words a bit self-deprecating? Yes, perhaps a bit. Is this the time to correct you on it? Absolutely not. Does he also know that despite your choice of words, this is your way of allowing yourself even a sliver of happiness? Of course he does.
“That’s Annie,” you say as you stand beside Spencer again, giving him a careful smile. “We used to call her Flatline, cos she’d always sleep like the dead. It could take ages to wake her up. She once slept through a bugle call. We never let her live that one down. She hated it.”
“I can imagine,” Spencer says with a smile, his eyes lingering on the gravestone. “I’ll be honest, when I heard Flatline… I was thinking of something else.”
“Most people do,” you say with a small shrug. “The nicknames we get—or the callsigns, I guess—are always stupid in what they mean.”
You point to the next grave over, and a smile tugs on your lips. “That’s Rudy. We called him Lego. Once, he stepped on a Lego and screamed so loudly that one of our Officers heard it. After that, we put a Lego in his boots every year for his birthday. He fell for it every time.”
One by one, you introduce Spencer to your old unit. Carlos Guerrero, whom you used to call Sabbath, because he always carried a pocket bible with him wherever he went. Joey, who was called Kangaroo (because joeys were baby kangaroos—clever, arguably). Erica, who was nicknamed Red because she suffered from nosebleeds, once getting one in the middle of the night during training, leaving your Drill Sergeant to find her in her bed the following morning, covered in blood. And finally, Jagger.
“…Reaper. He hated it, always insisted on us calling him something else,” you say, your smile faltering on your face. “I get it now, I guess. Now it’s just… a name for a serial killer. Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, almost.”
Spencer slips his hand in yours and gives it a squeeze. “How did he get it?”
A small scoff escapes you and you shake your head. “Stupidest thing, really. He couldn’t keep a plant alive for the life of him. Took out an entire flowerbed once because he overwatered it so badly.”
That makes Spencer chuckle. It spurs you on to do the same and it feels very juxtaposed, laughing at a cemetery in front of the graves of your old friends, but it doesn’t feel wrong. If anything, it feels like a long time coming. In a way, Spencer even feels like your old unit is laughing along with you, partaking in the recollection of memories from a life past.
“What about you?” he asks once the silence returns, his thumb drawing circles over the back of your hand. “Where does Echo come from?”
“I used to do this annoying thing,” you say, rubbing an awkward hand over the back of your neck. “I used to repeat everything we were told. Orders, intel, all of it. Made it easier for me to remember everything. Didn’t take very long for the nickname to stick.”
“You don’t do that anymore,” Spencer comments thoughtfully, mind going over every case he’s ever worked with you this past year.
“I left a lot behind,” you say, voice turning quiet. “Parts of myself I thought would remind me of the past. Those parts included a lot more than I originally thought.”
Not sure what to respond to that, Spencer leans over and presses a kiss to your temple. A small, ever-so-slightly tense smile flickers over your face and you return the kiss to his cheek. For a little while, the two of you stare at the graves, the wind playing with your hair and the air turning more and more humid as a storm approaches in the distance.
“They aren’t really here, you know.”
Spencer’s eyebrows shoot up, and he glances over in surprise. “What?”
“Their- their bodies. They’re not really here. They were never retrieved. Too dangerous, I was told. Bullshit, but… what can you do, right?”
Even though you try to play it off, Spencer can taste the bitterness in your voice. The more he learns, the more justified he feels in his anger towards your old superiors. This only strengthens his resolve, intensified by the clear disapproval you seem to carry as well.
“I’m sorry,” he eventually says, a stark difference from what he’s feeling. “They deserved better.”
“Yeah, they did,” you whisper, eyes turning distant. A silence stretches and Spencer waits patiently. Finally, you take a deep breath and straighten up, tightening your hold on his hand. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I need a drink.”
Hands clasped together, you and Spencer make your way out of the cemetery. You don’t look back as you pass Jagger’s open grave.
April 8th, 2010. 1 year, 2 months, 23 days since [REDACTED] joined Behavioural Analysis Unit
The morning sun filters through the gauzy curtains, spilling golden light across the bed. It stretches over tangled sheets, the soft dips and rises of two bodies at rest. Spencer blinks awake against the warm light, rubbing a hand over his face as his consciousness rouses. For a moment, he listens to the distant rustling of the trees, the faint chirp of birds greeting the dawn, and the slow and steady rhythm of your breathing beside him.
You’re curled up, hair splayed across the pillow, one arm tucked beneath, the other draped lazily across his stomach. The sheets pool at your waist, revealing your naked torso squished into the mattress. Your shoulders rise with each slow, deep breath, the scars across your skin stretching with the movement, whispers of battles past. There’s not a bruise or unhealed cut to be found. Apart from the light pink scar that stretches from your stomach to your side, your body is physically healed from the brutality it had endured two months ago.
Spencer watches for a while, like he does every morning, drinking in the peace on your face, the way sleep smooths away the ghosts that sometimes linger behind your eyes. Nowadays, you sleep for far longer than he does. It’s as if your body has finally found the space to rest, and is now making up for years of lost sleep. Sometimes, you sleep for over twelve hours straight, only waking up because Spencer decides you can’t stay comatose the entire day, for your own sake.
On good days, you wake up after ten hours of sleep and join him wherever he is- whether that be outside on the porch swing, or by the breakfast table or the couch by the TV. On less good days, he has to wake you. On bad days, you don’t get out of bed.
Those days are the quietest. You stay curled up under the sheets, distant eyes focused on something that doesn’t exist, and you don’t talk. Getting you to eat is nearly impossible. On those days, Spencer sits beside you in bed and reads a book or does a crossword puzzle, or he listens to music with his headphones on. Sometimes, he does none of that and simply lies beside you, trailing patterns into your skin and listening to your steady breaths. You cling to him, and sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you turn your back and move away as far as you can, and he lets you.
Spencer never knows what day is waiting for him when he wakes up, but he’s prepared for all of them. He’s also proud to say that the bad days are becoming less and less prevalent as time passes.
Carefully, he peels himself away, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple before slipping out of bed. The wooden floor is cool beneath his feet as he tugs on a pair of sweats, grabbing his notebook and pencil from the nightstand before making his way outside. The cabin porch creaks slightly as he steps onto it, the early morning air crisp against his skin. The lake stretches out before him, its surface shimmering under the rising sun. A breeze rustles through the trees, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. Spencer sinks onto the porch swing, flipping open his notebook. Numbers spill across the page—measurements, calculations, the rough beginnings of a plan.
It's been about two months since the funeral. A week after you’d watched Jagger’s casket get lowered into the ground, you and Spencer had gone on extended leave from the BAU. You won’t be returning for well over another month, at the very least. You needed time to heal and Spencer needed to be there with you, every step of the way. With the hefty payment from the Military after the debacle with Bennett, you had more than enough money to spend on a well-needed vacation (even if you hadn’t been all that thrilled about taking the hush money).
There’s a chance you won’t return to the BAU- or the entire FBI, for that matter. It’s a conversation still left untouched, but not ignored: you’d been the one to bring it up, actually. How it might be for the best, considering your mental state and your past. All in due time, however. For now, Spencer kept you focused on healing. The future of your career could wait.
You and Spencer spend your days as calmly as you can. You take hikes through nature, drive out to local towns when you feel like seeing people, and sit by the lake to read. At night, you huddle up beside a campfire and watch the stars. You go to bed early and sleep late, and try not to think about work or anything even slightly pertaining to the FBI. Card games, Scrabble, music and literature fill your days, sometimes interrupted by journalling or even sketching. And when all else fails? You find refuge under the sheets, with clothes strewn over the floor and heated bodies pressed together.
That was an upside to renting a cabin in the middle of nowhere: you didn’t have to worry about the noise. Nor proper clothes. Spencer’s even lost count of the number of times he’s had you falling apart under him on the blanket beside the lake in clear daylight. He never wants to live in a city again.
The good days aren’t all smooth sailing, however. More often than not, Spencer finds you sitting or standing somewhere, entirely frozen to the spot, a distant look in your eyes as your hands faintly tremble. He’s learned not to interrupt those moments and to just allow them to pass on their own. You always return to the land of the living, slowly but surely, and sometimes, you talk about it. About whatever memory resurfaced, the meaning of it all, its effects. And sometimes, you don’t. You just press your face in the crook of Spencer’s neck while he holds you, and that’s okay, too. He doesn’t need to know about all of it. It’s like you said, once, a long time ago: you have to leave some of it behind. If you don’t, it destroys you.
A soft creak behind him pulls his attention away from his notebook. He turns just in time to see you step onto the porch, bare feet padding against the wood, his shirt hanging loosely off your frame. Around your neck, the gemstones in your necklace refract the light. You’re still shaking off sleep, rubbing a hand over your face before blinking at him with lazy amusement.
“You’re seriously doing maths right now?” Your voice is husky with sleep, teasing as you cross your arms over your chest.
Today will be a good day, then, Spencer thinks.
He smiles and closes his notebook. “It’s important math,” he says, watching as you pad over and sink down on the swing beside him, humming at his response.
“Important enough to leave me all alone in bed?” you say, drawing your legs and laying them over Spencer’s lap.
His hands find your shin and massage over the skin, fingers trailing the softness and the lingering heat from the bed. The morning light catches in your eyes, and Spencer thinks he could spend a lifetime looking at you like this—soft, unguarded. At peace. “Would you rather I figure out the wallpaper now or while we’re actually putting it up?”
You roll your eyes but don’t argue, shuffling closer until you can rest your head against his shoulder. “Tell me about it, then,” you murmur, taking one of his hands into your own.
He does, voice warm as he outlines the vision he has for your new place, your joined future. And when you laugh at his insistence on maximising shelf space or playfully argue over colour schemes, he can’t help but fall a little more in love with the idea of forever with you.
“We are not keeping the chair, Spencer,” you say, laughing and shaking your head as Spencer’s look of outrage intensifies.
“It’s a perfectly good chair!”
“It’s an ugly chair.”
“That’s subjective.”
Your eyes twinkle with mischief and you lean in to nudge your nose against his. “If you let me get rid of the chair, I’ll let you install a mirror on the ceiling of our bedroom.”
It’s a very enticing offer indeed. “I don’t think our lease will allow that,” Spencer says, cupping your jaw and pressing a kiss to your nose. “But let’s put a pin in that idea.”
A sweet chuckle falls from your lips and you nod, nestling your head back into the crook of his neck. “What about you, then? Any furniture of mine you’d rather leave behind?”
It’s inviting to point out that, considering the complete lack of decoration in your apartment, all the furniture could be lost to a fire and he really wouldn’t care less, but his mind finds something else instead. “I don’t know about leaving anything behind, but I know something I’d like to take with us.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
“The painting, the one in your bedroom.”
You lift your head, a look of surprise on your features. For a moment, you study him, as if trying to figure out whether he’s joking or not. “Really? I thought you didn’t like it?”
“I thought so, too,” Spencer says, voice turning soft and thoughtful as his mind retrieves the painting from the archives, clearer than any picture he could ever take. “I used to think it was lonely, that it represented this… existential solitude. It made me feel sad just looking at it, thinking about how you might recognise yourself in that figure in the painting. But now, I… I think it’s peaceful. The man in the painting is experiencing a moment of clarity and serenity rather than despair. I understand it better, now, more so than I did before.”
Slowly, a smile grows on your face and you cup his face with both hands, your eyes filling with a gentle look. “I love you, Spencer Reid,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth.
Even after everything, his heart still jumps and his cheeks still fill with colour. He whispers your name back, your real name, and it only widens your smile. “I love you, too.”
Your fingers begin to toy with the hair at the nape of his neck. It’s short, now: he had it cut a few weeks ago. It now spilled over his forehead in messy bangs, a more youthful look compared to what he had before, and he knows he’ll get a few teasing remarks about it the moment he sets foot back in the office.
“You know,” you muse, shifting just enough so your lips brush against his jaw, “it’s a bit chilly out here, and I’m naked under all these clothes. Imagine that.”
“Imagine that,” Spencer says, huffing a quiet laugh. He turns to you, hands finding your waist, and in one swift movement, lifts you into his arms. You squeal in surprise and instinctively wrap your legs around him, laughing as he carries you back inside and toward the bed, the morning slipping into something softer, something tangled in sheets and whispered promises.
Healing isn’t linear. The past doesn’t disappear overnight. But here, in the golden quiet of the retreat, Spencer knows, this is where it begins. Somewhere, in the quiet spaces between memory and forgetting, he would always be waiting.
And in your eyes, the fire roared.
LOG COMPLETE
LOGIN USERNAME: NomenTuum
LOGIN PASSWORD: ***************
FILE NAME: PROJECT JERICHO/SUBJECT ECHO
DELETE FILE: [YES] / [NO]
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DELETE THIS FILE?
FILE DELETED
Notes:
So.... that was it??
I can't believe it's over now, absolutely mental. Loved writing this, loved hearing your responses even more! I hope this was as fun for you as it was for me. Thank you so much for all the support, it was such an honour getting to read all of it.
I hope to be back one day with a new Spencer Reid fanfic, but in the meantime, I hope life works out for all of us :)
Love you loads <3
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Last Edited Sun 22 Dec 2024 12:30AM UTC
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