Chapter Text
HIGHWAY - MARYLAND - LATE AT NIGHT
A long stretch of two-lane road. Woods on both sides. No lights, no traffic. Just darkness. A beat-up sedan cruises along, music low, two friends inside — Jess and Marcus.
Marcus bops along to the radio, clearly fairly bored as Jess drives and looks exhausted. “Ugh, next time I’m not picking you up. You owe me fries. Two orders, matter of fact. Maybe even a milkshake after that horrible shift” she mutters “I bought you fries last week J!” Marcus responds. “Okay, one order doesn't count, especially not unsalted and lukewarm fries”. The two continue to bicker back and forth until suddenly:
Their windshield explodes inward with a spiderweb shatter. Jess screams and slams on the brakes. The car skids sideways, tires screeching until it comes to a shaky stop on the shoulder. Marcus is already unbuckling. “What the hell was that? A deer? A rock? A turkey?” as he fumbles with the belt, hands shaking. But Jess just stays still, face white, as she looks at the road in front of them, seeing a large streak of red on the road. Marcus opens his door, steps out with his phone’s flashlight. “Stay in the car Jess” she ignores him and steps out regardless, trembling, still staring at the windshield. Marcus’s flashlight pans across the asphalt—and stops. His breath catches.
Scattered across the road are pieces. Not roadkill. Not animal remains. Human. A radius. A partial mandible. Vertebrae. A shattered humerus. All cleaned unnaturally. All marked by neat, straight cut lines. Though Jess and Marcus would not know the significance of what they've just stumbled upon.
Jess begins tearing up “oh god” she whispers. Marcus kneels, still shining the light. “Jess what even is this? This doesn't look like a deer?” “Call 911. Marcus, call—” Jess begins to stutter out, but then she stops as something crunches under her shoe. She lifts her foot and beneath it lays a partial piece of a human skull, unmistakable. She looks up and sees the rope from which the body had been suspended, hanging from a tree over the road.
INT. BAU – BRIEFING ROOM – MORNING
Garcia taps on her tablet as the team settles in. The screen behind her shows the bloodied-fractured-windshield photo. “Okay, my fine feathered friends, welcome to your morning horror show. This is what happens when human remains decide to audition for Fast & Furious.” she begins. Morgan squints at the cracked windshield. “That’s a bone fragment?”
“Yep! Right parietal bone. And before you ask— no, it did not jump through on its own. Something propelled it with enough force to go full Kool-Aid Man. And by something, I mean this:” Garcia adds as she flicks to the next photo, this one displaying the rope that the body had been suspended from in the tree line. Reid leans forward, eyes narrowing with interest. “Thats a huge spread for remains, they couldn't have all been dispersed by this one moment right? I mean a vehicle would need to be traveling at-” Garcia raises her hand to pause him. “Hold that math thought, Doctor Numbers. Because we’re just getting started.” She clicks to the next slide: the road scattered with cleaned bone fragments. “Local units found thirty-two pieces spread over a quarter-mile. No soft tissue. No clothing. And the ME said — and this is a direct quote — “This looks like the work of someone who knows their way around a skeleton.” Which is crazy in my mind.”
Rossi crosses his arms. “Meaning what?” Garcia zooms in on the phalanx with carved markings. “Meaning whoever did this cleaned the bones using enzymatic maceration, which is extremely specialized. And then they carved teeny tiny little measurement glyphs into them.” “So the unsub is cataloguing..” JJ adds. Reid’s interest spikes.
“These marks aren’t decorative. They’re data. He’s analyzing bone structure.” he quips. Garcia beams at him. “Oh, I’m SO glad you said that, Dr. Reid, because this brings us to today’s special guest star!” She taps rapidly.
“Local ME recommended calling in a specialist — someone who knows bone analysis like you know… everything.” Reid tilts his head. “A forensic anthropologist” Garcia gestures dramatically like she’s revealing a magician’s assistant. “Not just a forensic anthropologist. THE forensic anthropologist. Dr. Y/N Y/L/N.” Reid freezes mid-blink, still looking rather confused.
Garcia grins wider, enjoying this far too much. “I’m happy you asked because I think you’ll find the two of you are what the kids call kindred spirits.” Morgan snorts “Oh boy.” Garcia keeps going — delighted, breathless. Garcia swipes. A professional headshot appears — lab coat, museum badge. “PhD in forensic anthropology by twenty-six.
MD with dual-board certification in forensic pathology and internal medicine. Medical Examiner for two counties, consulting ME for four more. Runs the Smithsonian’s osteology research wing. Published in nine journals. Teaches advanced trauma reconstruction at Quantico. Invited speaker for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences three years running.” Reid’s eyebrows lift, he blinks again. Hard. “That’s… impressive.” he mutters, the gears in his head clearly already turning. “Oh, honey. That’s just her academic resume. Her field work record is its own novella!” She quips. Rossi smirks, “Sounds like someone we need.” Garcia swipes to a photo of the crime scene with three figures working it. “She also comes with a mini Avengers squad. Andrea Santos — imaging and 3D facial reconstruction. And Dr. Malcolm Wade — trace and environmental evidence. A package deal.”
Morgan raises an eyebrow. “A whole team? They any good?” Garcia puffs up proudly. “They’re terrifying, Morgan. In the best possible way. Practically the Avengers of the forensics world! Local PDs call them ‘The Triad’” Hotch nods once “Pack up your things. We meet them at the scene, leaving in 20.” Morgan pats Reid’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, pretty boy. Try not to get overshadowed.” Reid frowns, flustered. “I’m not— worried.”
CRIME SCENE - HIGHWAY
The fog on the Maryland highway is thick enough to swallow sound.
It hangs low over the asphalt, stretching in pale, ghostly ribbons as the BAU vehicles pull up behind a row of parked patrol cars. Morning light diffuses weakly through it, dulling everything to muted grey. It’s quiet in that uncanny way only early crime scenes are — too still, too expectant. But even from a distance, it’s clear something unusual is happening.
Hotch steps under the police tape first, and the rest of the team follows.
But they all slow almost immediately. Because the scene is already occupied. Three figures in matching charcoal-grey crime-scene jumpsuits move around the bone spread with eerie synchronicity. Not chaotic. Not frantic. Almost choreographed in how they work around each other without speaking. And you’re the center of it.
Kneeling over a meticulously arranged tarp, you work with the quiet, unshakable calm of someone who knows exactly where every piece belongs. Your gloved hands move with deliberate ease, turning a fragment of femur toward the light as if coaxing a story out of it. Your hair is pulled back. There’s a faint smear of bone dust on your knee from where you knelt too fast. Your posture is upright, steady. You don’t look at the BAU. Not yet.
To your right, Dre circles with her camera strapped across her chest, her curls half-tamed by a headband. She moves around the scene like a creative whirlwind: crouching, standing, pivoting, muttering to herself about angles and light profiles. A uniformed officer is holding a reflector board at her command, looking like he’s reconsidering life choices. To your left, Malcolm is crouched so low to the ground he looks like he’s about to merge with it. He scoops soil into vials with the care of someone tucking a child into bed. His goggles are slightly crooked. His smile is too wide for the early hour. Morgan slows to a stop. “…Hotch?”
Hotch doesn’t answer. He’s watching. Rossi murmurs, “They’re coordinated. This isn’t their first scene.” Emily crosses her arms, watching Malcolm talk to the dirt. “Definitely not.” And Reid—Reid is staring at you. Not in the way Morgan glances at crime-scene chaos. Not in the way Rossi studies new players. Not in the way Hotch assesses competence.
Reid looks at you the way someone stares at a complex theorem they suddenly want to solve. He’s struck silent by the precision of your movements… by how your attention is laser-focused on the bone fragment in your hand… by how gently you cradle it, like whatever story it carries is fragile and being trusted to only you.
His mind starts working instantly—faster than he can consciously track.
Those are controlled movements.
No wasted energy.
Fine motor skills consistent with surgical training.
She’s not guessing. She’s confirming.
She knows exactly what she’s looking at.
His pulse jumps in that way it does when he meets another mind that runs hot and fast. His thoughts pile up:
I know that posture.
No— I envy that posture.
She’s younger than expected.
Why didn’t I know about her?
How is it possible I’ve never met someone with dual anthropology and pathology certification?
How old is she?
How many years did she skip?
How many papers did she write?
Why does she look— calm.
How is she calm?
It spirals faster than he can stop it. Then he sees the neat row of bone fragments you’ve arranged, perfectly ordered as if you’ve already reconstructed half a skeleton in your head.
Oh.
She’s brilliant.
It hits him like a physical thing.
Hotch steps forward, forcing the moment to break. “Dr. Y/L/N?” You don’t answer. Not immediately. Instead, you finish your caliper measurement, mark it down on your clipboard, and only then move to your feet — slow, controlled, deliberate. You turn toward the BAU with a composed professionalism that borders on intimidating. “Just a moment,” you say quietly. “I needed to finish the measurement.”
That’s the first thing Reid hears from you. Not an introduction. Not a hello. Not even a look. A boundary. A priority check. He feels something in his chest shift. You straighten fully, adjusting a glove with a precise snap. Hotch tries again. “Dr. Y/N Y/L/N?”
This time, you nod. “Yes. Medical Examiner for Montgomery and Prince George’s counties. Forensic anthropology consultant. You must be the BAU.” Dre bounds over cheerfully. “Andrea Santos! I do photography, imaging, digital reconstructions, and general emotional damage control.” Malcolm practically teleports in behind her, clutching vials like priceless artifacts. “Dr. Malcolm Wade. Environmental and trace. I’ve already named three of the samples.” “Malcolm,” you warn mildly, not even looking. He nods, chastened. “I haven’t labeled them as such. Yet.” Morgan mutters, “Oh, this is gonna be fun.” Reid tries — tries — to look anywhere but directly at you. But when you return to the bone fragments, he can’t tear himself away.
You speak without theatrics. Without ego. Just certainty. “The cuts are postmortem. No saw marks — too clean. Too controlled. The suspect is using a surgical instrument, likely modified.” Reid steps closer. He can’t help it. “And the trajectory of the bone fragments that breached the windshield?” he asks softly. You glance at him for the first time. Your eyes lock. Reid’s breath stops.
You hold the moment for one heartbeat — maybe two — assessing him just as clinically as you assessed the bones. Then you answer: “The force was induced after cleaning. That fragment didn’t fall. It flew. And not by accident.” Reid swallows. Morgan nudges him. “You okay there, Pretty Boy?” Reid ignores him completely.
You continue walking them through the analysis, pointing out stress lines, cut bevels, heat-cleaned surfaces. Every time you speak, Reid hears intelligence layered under precision layered under exhaustion layered under something else: something careful and guarded.
And every few sentences, he finishes your thought in his head before the words leave your mouth. He can barely keep up with the velocity of his own mind.
She thinks the way I think.
No — faster.
No — sharper.
Hotch asks about transport. You answer with crisp clarity. “We’re taking the remains to my lab. We’ll start reconstruction immediately. You’re welcome to join.” Reid’s heart jumps. Morgan doesn’t miss it.
Dre and Malcolm begin packing equipment, moving as seamlessly as they arrived. You oversee every piece, hands steady, expression unreadable. You lift one more bone into its padded case, seal it, and straighten. “We’ll be at the Smithsonian in twenty minutes.” Rossi murmurs, “Efficient.” Morgan grins. “She runs this place.”
Reid doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He’s still staring at you — and for the first time in a very long time, his mind isn’t the sharpest thing at the scene. It’s yours. And he knows it. Something inside him hums with recognition. Hotch gives the final nod. “We’ll meet you there, Doctor.” You give one short, precise nod back.
Then you turn away, leading your team toward your van — the three of you moving like a single organism, practiced and unshakeable. Reid watches until the fog swallows you whole. Only when you’re gone does he exhale. Rossi smirks at him. “Kid,” he says softly, barely audible, “you’re in trouble.”