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juniorgman187 · 3 years

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Fighting Fire With Fire (Reid Fic)

Summary: Reader must lower her pride after a date goes wrong and the only one who can rescue her is her mortal enemy - Spencer Reid.

A/N: This was a beast of a fic to write. It’s been in my WIP since September, and I managed to go from 11 pages to 22 pages in three days. It is now my longest fic thus far. I am insanely fucking proud of it and I hope it does well. Category: Angst Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: allusions to ‘catfishing,’ allusions to abduction, dub-con to taking provocative photos, alcohol, mentions of bruises, jealousy, carrying hug which implies weight of Reader (lmk if I missed anything) Word Count: 11.7k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

I tried to play nice; I really did, but there was no getting through to him. Everyday started and ended with us fighting fire with fire.

Maybe the reason the two of you butt heads so often is because of how similar you are.

That’s what the team would say when Spencer and I got into one of our daily (sometimes hourly) arguments.

They constantly encouraged us to get to know each other so that we’d finally see the likeness, and until recently, I wasn’t opposed to the idea. I was willing to do whatever it took to get him to like me. However, as previously mentioned, my willingness quickly dissipated in light of recent events.

Voluntarily spending more time than necessary with him would be a recipe for disaster no doubt.

Somehow, in a matter of a month, Reid decided that he simply did not enjoy my presence, which was the nice way of putting it.

To be more crass, he loathed me to no end.

Initially, I was operating under the assumption that he wasn’t fond of change, and with me joining the BAU, the change was too much too fast for him, but after four weeks, his attitude toward me never deviated. Yet again, I made another excuse for him, arguing to myself that people are allowed to not like me. I could respect that, but where he lost my respect was how he made a conscious effort to remind me of how much he despised me. Even when I was at my nicest, he still treated me like a scelerate.

If there was a prize for gaining a mortal enemy in the shortest amount of time, I guess I already won that without even trying. He hated me with a burning passion, for reasons unbeknownst to me, despite the fact that all I’d ever try to do was be his friend.

For far too long, I kept denying the part of me that knew making peace with him outside of work wouldn’t go well and it’d simply go down in history as another failed attempt of mine to form a bond with him, so it was at this point that I decided to face the facts.

He didn’t make it easy for me, either. It was hard having to be kind to someone that was only ever out to get me.

He would constantly correct me but only after I said something incorrectly, just so he could prove me wrong.

“If each police officer patrols a street, we’ll be able to cover the entire comfort zone.”

“Actually, we’d need three more officers if we want to cover the entire comfort zone. There’s still 2.347 miles that are unaccounted for.”

I never understood why he couldn’t just say his piece before me so that I didn’t look like an idiot, but I suppose that was the point.

And he had this infuriating, unwarranted habit of judging my taste in cinema and literature. Anytime I told Emily or Derek about a movie I saw or told Rossi about a book I read, he felt compelled to share his antagonistic opinions as if I asked for them in the first place. Sometimes even spoiling the endings for me!

“Rossi, I just started reading Doctor Sleep!” I was so eager to tell Rossi that, so much so that I’d become blind to one dark cloud’s own eagerness to ruin the fun.

“The hotel burns to the ground, but the ghosts don’t die with it.”

He said it with such monotony and nonchalance, not even bothering to look up from his own book to watch my reaction to his menacing act. He just didn’t care!

The list of reasons not to like him truly did go on and on, so it was almost insulting how people would compare the two of us.

They’d bring up the congruence in intelligence, the same affinity for reading, and closeness in age, but it only made me madder. The last person I wanted to resemble was Reid, except today, I gained another glaring similarity to him.

“Look at you two. Did you plan your outfits or something?” Emily playfully pointed out after I walked into the conference room.

I eyed the doctor sipping at his cup of coffee who swiveled around in his chair to see what everyone else was seeing. Just from a short glance, I spotted his navy blue button-up with white polka dots that was nearly identical to the color and print of my dress.

“Well, looks like one of us has to go home and change.” His lips grew into a mischievous smirk behind the rim of his mug.

Was that a joke? Did Spencer Reid make jokes now?

“Ha ha. Very funny.” I facetiously remarked, taking the only open seat at the table which was next to the jokester himself.

“I’m kidding. You look really nice today.” He alleged without a hint of irony. He was complimenting me now, too? It was so unfamiliar that it felt like uncharted territory, possibly even a trap.

“Why? Because I’m dressed like you?” I wasn’t going to fall for his words now, maybe the version of me who would do anything to gain his approval would have. She would’ve smiled and said ‘thank you,’ but this me was going to challenge him if that was the last thing I ever did. “Bit of a narcissist are we, Dr. Reid?”

“Mmm maybe,” He wagered, tilting his head from side to side as if to contemplate the possibility. “Or maybe I just really think you look nice.”

Without even thinking, my heart skipped a beat. I was utterly repulsed by how I let his words have any effect over me. I couldn’t believe that he’d actually managed to fluster me with mediocre flattery.

It felt like years that I had to sit next to Reid at the round table before Hotch dismissed the team for the flight.

30 minutes later, and we were on the jet. I’d taken one of the seats at the table opposite Derek and Emily, with Spencer beside me.

Little things like this I could handle, but I knew it wouldn’t be long before he started bothering me. Morgan was listening to music and Emily was turned around in her seat, facing the back to talk to Rossi. Reid was playing himself in chess, and it took all of my self-control to not be a total asshole and knock the board and its pieces over and into the aisle. Luckily, I had a good enough distraction.

Grant: can you ft tonight?

Me: we’ll see. i might have to work overtime.

For the months that I had been talking to Grant, I was deliberately ambiguous about my job because I wasn’t exactly keen on telling him that I worked for the FBI and that I might not be able to FaceTime him since I was in the process of investigating a series of homicides. That’d surely scare him away and I was never one to flaunt my government job anyway.

Grant: you look stunning today

Me: you haven’t even seen me today

Grant: don’t need to.

Grant: you’ll always be stunning to me.

“Who keeps texting you?”

I looked up from my screen to see Reid fixated on his game but still engaged in my business.

“No one,” I harshly replied, making a conscious decision to turn my phone on vibrate so he wouldn’t hear the chime of my text notifications.

With one nimble side glance, Reid eyed my screen. I nudged him away with extra force.

“Nosy much?!”

This stunned him. He wasn’t used to my coldness, he probably expected me to smile in a chagrined manner and not confront it - as I would have done - but now I was fighting back, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he liked it.

I knew he could read fast, but how he managed to look at my phone so quickly it was like he never even moved his eyes - I didn’t know. Somehow, though, he managed to capture Grant’s entire username, and I didn’t doubt that he caught my entire conversation with him, too.

“Who’s Grant?” The name rolled off his tongue like he was insulted to even be saying it.

“No one.”

He didn’t respond soon after I said this, which I misinterpreted as a little victory for me since I almost believed he was going to drop the subject, but in true Spencer Know It All Reid fashion, he just kept going.

“‘You look stunning today B-T-W. You haven’t even seen me today. Don’t need to. You’ll always be stunning to me.’ Doesn’t really sound like a ‘no one’ to me.” His recitation of my entire PRIVATE conversation with Grant embarrassed me.

Did I forget to add his eidetic memory and speed-reading ability to the list of reasons not to like him?

“Shut up!” I nudged him, this time using much more force than the last. I was becoming more and more inclined to push over his ridiculous chess game so that he’d finally take me seriously.

“Oh, really clever by the way. Vaguely insinuating that you ‘might not be able to call him because you’re working overtime’ just so you don’t have to disclose the true nature of your job.” Spencer’s sarcasm was thick.

“Are you just jealous because the only date you’ve been on was a fake one with a serial killer and not even your actual girlfriend while she was alive?” My reference to Cat and Maeve caught the attention of the entire jet.

Each member mentally rolled their eyes thinking ‘Here we go again.’ And if that wasn’t their reaction, they were certainly cringing at the fight that was ensuing.

Things had been suspiciously good between the two of us today so it was about time we argued. We were due for our daily quarrel.

“Oh, that’s right! The only girls who like you are victims in our cases.” Now this comment was referring to Lila and Austin. (I had Penelope to thank for filling me in on all of Reid’s ‘entanglements’ after I was first reassigned).

“Really? You wanna go there?” He sassed back, diverting his attention away fully from his chess game now. “Do you know how many people get ‘catfished’ when using online dating websites? Or the statistics on how many people are raped, assaulted, or murdered by said ‘catfish’?”

“I’m not stupid, Reid. He and I have been talking for months. We’ve been on calls and Facetime before, too. We’ve just never met in person. Sound familiar?”

“What Maeve and I had is not at all comparable to what you and this ‘guy’ have. And just because you’ve seen his face before doesn’t mean he’s not a serial killer or operating under an alias.”

I had to scoff. Who was he to label our relationship valid or not?

“What’s it to you anyway? We all know you’d be ecstatic if this guy turned out to be a serial killer or catfish. You’d get to rub it in my face and say ‘I told you so.’”

This touched a nerve. He hated it when I attacked his nice-guy facade.

“Is it so hard to believe I’m actually concerned for your wellbeing?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Fine. If you think I don’t care about you, then don’t come crying to me when you realize he’s not the guy you think he is.”

“Oh, trust me, I won’t! It’s not like you’d be able to protect me anyway, Pretty Boy.” I sneered, using Morgan’s nickname for him as an insult got to him, and I could see it in the way his jaw clenched and his nostrils flared.

Hotch had to interject now. “Alright, (y/l/n), Reid, that’s enough. We need to focus on what’s actually important.”

I settled back down in my seat, facing forward and avoiding eye contact with Reid.

“Have fun on your date,” He muttered under his breath. “Hope you survive it.”

Bastard.

For the rest of the case, I was on edge. Deliberately avoiding him was a much harder task than one might think. I had to wait at least ten minutes for my coffee, so I wouldn’t be at the machine when he was there, and if I had to guess, he probably took longer just to make me wait in agitation. I had to awkwardly squeeze into a new spot beside Rossi and Hotch when we were delivering the profile. I had to ask not to travel in the same SUV as him.

And this exhausting routine went on for days. In fact, I’d managed to almost go the entire case without interacting with him. That was until Hotch sent us both in the field to apprehend the unsub.

“Are you sure?” I asked with clear reluctance.

“Are you questioning me?” Hotch replied sternly.

“No, sir.”

I was already on thin ice being the new recruit, so I knew better than to question any of Hotch’s orders. And as miserable as working with Reid was, I figured he’d at least ease up on the hostility when we needed to be professional. Evidently though, even in the field, he wasn’t willing to work together with me.

It was a quick decision, not careless in the least, however. The unsub had locked himself in his warehouse and refused to leave unless we were brave enough to drag him out of there ourselves. The ultimatum he gave specified that only one of us could do it and we both agreed that I should go in, seeing as he’d underestimate my strength as a woman, and I’d have the upperhand when I inevitably apprehended him.

However, he also explicitly told us that I couldn’t come in with a gun - it had to be an even playing field.

“You are not going in without a gun,” Reid ordered.

“We don’t have time to argue about this - I have a spare on me, okay? There are three hostages in there, two of which are children.” Without giving him a chance to respond, I handed him my gun and holster.

Had I let him waste a single second more of my time, we wouldn’t have been able to save the three hostages and successfully arrest the unsub. I saw this as a victory and I was almost willing to celebrate it with him, but it wasn’t long before he let our enmity tear us apart again.

When we got back to the precinct, I went to the locker room to change, then suddenly, Hotch came in.

“I’ve been informed that you went in unarmed against a fellow agent’s orders. This matter will be discussed in my office when we get back. I should warn you, (y/n), you do not want to make this mistake again.” Hotch left me with those foreboding words, and I knew, I knew immediately that Reid was to blame for this.

If I took a look in the mirror of my locker, I wouldn’t have been surprised if I saw that my face was turning a bright shade of red. I was fuming - bursting at the seams from the anger building within me that was desperately fighting to escape. I could imagine myself as a cartoon character with steam blowing out either of my ears. I was about to go on a rampage, and no one - absolutely no one - could stop me.

The last straw was hearing him come in. This was my opportunity to unleash what was already boiling.

“What the hell, Reid? ‘(y/n) went in unarmed.’ Seriously?!” I undid the velcro on my vest so hastily out of my blind rage that the spiky side of the velcro strip nearly sliced my finger. “Are you trying to get me fired?”

“If that’s what it takes to make you realize how stupid of a choice that was, then yes, I do.” He was so calm and collected in his inflection that it angered me all the more.

“What are you even talking about? What ‘stupid choice’? You knew I had a second gun on me. And even if I didn’t carry it, I still would’ve had my vest on. I wasn’t going in unarmed or unprotected, so why would you tell Hotch that?”

“In the time it would take you to assess the danger, react, and then reach for the gun at your ankle, the unsub would’ve been able to shoot you twice - if not more. That’s going in unprepared, which is going in unarmed.”

I scoffed in disbelief that he was actually reprimanding me. “Are you kidding? This is all based on a technicality? Did your eidetic memory somehow forget about what happened with Maeve? Because my memory didn’t. I know for a fact that you went into that warehouse without a vest or a weapon. And unlike you, I had a spare and my vest. AND I actually apprehended the unsub. Did you stop Diane?”

This crossed a line and I knew it, but it was too late to take it back, and clearly, it was much too late to repair any relationship I had with him. We were far beyond the point of no return.

He was so mad that he didn’t even answer me. The only response I could gauge was from his body language, which by the looks of it, all the signs of anger were plain on his face. He clenched his jaw so hard I could hear his teeth grind. Even his nostrils flared so primitively. His eyes narrowed down at me with a glare that said, ‘I’m the predator and you’re the prey.’

“Yeah, exactly.” I spat when he stayed silent.

I turned around, starting towards the exit, but I was too furious to stop there, so I spun around and unleashed the remainder of my wrath that had been dying to come out.

“Look, I get it. I’m the new kid around here, and it sucks when someone new comes in and changes up the team dynamic, but any mistake I make, or any mistake Hotch thinks I make, could send me packing. You’ve been working in this unit for years, and even if Hotch questions your choices, he won’t reassign you. He won’t even threaten it. He’s willing to overlook your mistakes because he knows that what you have to contribute to the team is too vital to let go, but I haven’t even had my chance to show him what I have to offer. So when I do make a mistake, there is nothing for me to fall back on, nothing to redeem me, and no safety net, but you? You have years of experience on your back to break your fall. So don’t you dare act like you’re doing me a favor by reporting my ‘mistake’ to Hotch. You might be costing me my dream job, and if you think that makes us friends - think again.”

I stormed out of the locker room seeing red.

This war was far from over.

_ _ _

“You’re clenching your fists again,” Emily said under her breath. I was grateful that she said it in a hushed tone, otherwise she might’ve revealed my lingering anger to the whole jet, which wouldn’t have been good.

I immediately unclenched them, opening up my hands to reveal small, dark C shaped imprints on my palms from where my nails had dug into them.

I should’ve expected that she would’ve learned at least one of my tells by now. I did have many after all. Cheek biting, fist-clenching, leg bouncing.

“Something bothering you?” She probed quietly.

She set her book down to give her undivided attention to this conversation. That was enough to tell me that an excuse like, ‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ would not suffice. She wouldn’t be satisfied until I told her the truth, which I surely did not want to tell. So I settled for a half-truth.

“Hotch wants to talk when we get back.”

From my peripherals, I saw her knit her brows together in confusion. “Is . . . is that it?”

“Mhm.” I lied.

“But that’s not enough to warrant the fist clenching. Cheek biting - sure - you do it when you’re anxious, but not fist-clenching. You only do that when you’re angry about something.”

“Oh, so you have figured out all my tells,” I smirked.

“Pfft, I figured them all out the first week you got here, but I won’t tell you the rest, otherwise you might try and hide them from me,” She joked.

I shook my head playfully. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m just worked up about something - it’s nothing you need to worry about though.” Habitually, my eyes looked right up in his direction. I caught a glimpse of him sprawled against the couch, sleeping. He was lucky I wasn’t ranting about the little stunt he pulled earlier to Emily. He should be thankful that I was even trying to protect his reputation to her at all.

“I get it if you don’t want to talk about it, but it does help. Take it from me, someone who really only trusts myself, you shouldn’t hide what you feel.”

What you feel.

I clung onto those words.

What was I really feeling?

Was I upset that instead of receiving praise for the arrest I made, I was scolded like a child? Was I angry that Hotch believed what Reid had to say about my “problematic behavior” instead of believing in me?

Or did I feel betrayed that despite my best efforts to build a bridge, Reid was tearing it apart brick by brick? Burning it to pieces with the fire of his rage?

“Thanks.” I bleakly said to Emily. I would’ve told her the truth, but it didn’t feel necessary at that moment. If anything, it just would’ve reflected badly on me.

Truthfully, she was the closest thing I had to a friend in the BAU, and if I wanted a permanent spot here, I needed to make more of them - and fast.

“Hey, (y/n), we’re all going down to O’Keefs tonight to celebrate. You wanna join us?” Morgan asked, walking up the aisle and crouching down beside my seat to talk to me.

“Oh, I wish I could, but I have to talk with Hotch when we get back,” I explained, smiling politely.

“We can postpone the meeting till first thing Monday morning. I need to go home and be with Jack, anyway,” Hotch added.

I didn’t realize he could hear me from where he was sitting, which made me all the more nervous that he might’ve overheard the entire conversation between me and Emily earlier.

“Looks like I’m free,” I looked back at Morgan. “Does the offer still stand?”

“Anything for you, sweet cheeks.” He winked.

Judging from the lightness of the atmosphere, everyone, except maybe Hotch and Rossi, would be celebrating at O’Keefs - including Spencer.

I think I might’ve actually preferred to be scolded by Hotch tonight, instead of being silently glared at by Spencer, but it was already too late to revoke my confirmation of presence.

Because, if Hotch could hear me from where he was sitting, then Spencer could, too.

He already heard I was coming, and there was no way I was backing down.

_ _ _

In spite of the fact that I could barely hear myself think over the loud chatter and blasting music, I could still feel the rage radiating off of Spencer. You would think with how long his nap was on the jet, he wouldn’t be so cranky, but I guess he just couldn’t sleep off his disdain for me after our minor altercation.

I wondered if the team could see it, too. The way he was burning a hole into me with his fiery stare. The tension was palpable, as it has always been, but remember - I’m not the one who wanted it that way.

He started this. I was only making the feeling mutual.

“So what about you, (y/n)? Are you seeing anyone?”

I tried to hide my growing smirk behind the rim of my beer, but I knew I couldn’t hide much from them. Of course, right across from me, Spencer was glaring at me expectantly, waiting for the answer he already knew.

“Oooh, look at her - she’s blushing! Spill.” Penelope ordered, beating her palm on the table so enthusiastically it shook all the drinks on it.

“Well, there’s this one guy I’ve been seeing for a while,” The second I started speaking, I noticed Spencer rolling his eyes. I figured his apprehension was the only response of its kind that I would receive, but I was very mistaken.

“How did you two meet?” Penelope giddily asked, nearly jumping up and down in her seat.

“A dating app, actually.”

The table went completely silent, and I immediately felt my stomach drop. It was as if I’d just said something very wrong. With just a quick glance in front of me, Spencer was basking in this.

What a dick.

Emily hesitated to ask. “...Have you two met in person before?”

Now it was my turn to hesitate to speak. “No, not yet.”

I took another sip of my drink even though I wasn’t thirsty. I just wanted to hide any part of my face I could to shield myself from the five sets of eyes burning holes into me now, rather than just the one. Trying to make matters better, I spoke all too quickly, nearly sputtering on my beer. “I’m completely safe, though. Nothing sketchy’s going on, I promise.”

“Of course,” JJ agreed. “We totally trust you,” neglecting to attach the cliche, ‘It’s him we don’t trust.’ But if she had, it would’ve spoken everyone’s bubble thoughts right about now.

“Just be careful, mama.” Derek’s response felt the most sincere, and I honestly believed he was happy for me, but it didn’t change how much their judgement initially stung.

For the rest of the night, I didn’t talk. No one noticed.

Except maybe the last person I wanted to notice.

I quietly slipped away somewhere in the night when the conversation was at its highest precisely so they wouldn’t question where I was going or if I was okay. If they had asked, the truthful answer to the former would’ve been ‘just outside to get some air’ and the latter ‘no.’

The cool breeze drifted through the door like rising fog and for the briefest moment in time, I felt suspended in the space around me - I’d finally caught my breath. That feeling wouldn’t last long, though.

I’d intentionally gone outside to compose myself until I came back a person who wasn’t on the verge of tears, but apparently, trying to pull myself only resulted in my falling apart. A ball of yarn unraveling is the closest comparison I can draw to what I must’ve looked like, crying quietly on the street.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

It was the mere sound of someone’s voice that shocked me, but it was the person whose voice it was that led to the frustration that followed.

“What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be inside talking to the team of people who also agree with you about Grant?”

He was too much of a nuisance to warrant exchanging eye contact with so I simply stared forward as I spoke and wiped the tears away that were still pooling on my lower lash line. I hoped he hadn’t actually seen me crying, but from what I could tell, he was probably standing there long before he said something. And if he was truly looking at me as deeply as it felt like right now, then he’d have noticed my bloodshot eyes, flushed cheeks, and unending sniffling.

“Is that why you disappeared back there? Because you’re upset they didn’t exactly like the idea of your relationship?” The pain in the ass really tried, he really tried to get me to look at him by facing me and making these gestures with his hands that should’ve gotten my attention, but instead, I stayed put leaning against the wall, keeping my line of sight straight ahead.

“(Y/n), they weren’t insulting you or judging you -”

“Then why did it feel like it?” For the first time since he’d joined me, I’d looked at him. I didn’t even mean to and I had every intention of denying him that privilege for the entire duration of our conversation, but as soon as I asked him my question, we locked eyes, and I saw it written all over his face.

He felt sorry for me.

Now, he could clearly make out how distraught I was from this unobstructed view of my face that was kindled by the dim, flickering yellow glow of the streetlight beside us. And he kept staring, looking into my eyes to read me just as easily and just as quickly as he read a book.

“All we want is for you to be safe,” His voice crackled momentarily, and it actually touched some part of me for how genuine it sounded. “We weren’t trying to judge you or to insult you, and I’m sorry if it felt that way, but if we want your safety, and you tell us about something that could be potentially harmful, then of course we’re going to be apprehensive about it. That’s how people that care about you should react.”

“So are you saying that I don’t care about myself because I’m engaging in something risky?” Isn’t that the most ironic statement of this year? The definition of our job was risky, and even if this wasn’t the safest relationship on the planet, it was nothing like what we put ourselves through everyday being in the field.

“No, that’s not what I’m saying -”

“So what are you saying?” I dared. He shook his head and sighed like he was about to give up, but I needed an answer. “No, please, do continue. Finish what you were gonna say. Since you apparently know everything, 187. Please go ahead - tell me what you think I should do.”

Tell me what you really came out here to say, I ordered him with my eyes.

“I think I respect you more than you respect yourself, and that’s really saying something. Because if you actually liked yourself as much as I do, then you would realize that subjecting yourself to this nonsensicality of a long-distance relationship is not only dangerous - but insulting to your worth, too. You deserve more than that, (y/n).” He couldn’t have been clearer when he murmured a low and firm, “Much more.”

The world was spinning on its axis too fast for me to process anything he said before snapping back at him. “So what exactly is it you want me to do?”

With utmost clarity in both annunciation and intention, he told me, “Break up with him.”

Not a shadow of a doubt in his words.

Then, like the phantom of the opera himself, he vanished back into the bar, but even if he had stayed, I wouldn’t have had anything to say to him. I was simply rendered speechless.

Circling back to my previous argument, I questioned once more why was it any of his business anyway? I was allowed to do as I pleased and I most certainly did not have to listen to him. And I didn’t.

But I should’ve.

_ _ _

My Monday morning meeting with Hotch wasn’t nearly as fire and brimstone as I thought it would be. It did however feel like the equivalent to an “I’m disappointed in you” parent speech. In some ways, I related to the average teen who was grounded. Except instead of my phone being taken away, it was my freedom. From now on, I could only follow executive orders that had been given to me. At least for the time being.

It was clear that, deep down, some part of Hotch knew what I’d done was the right call, but he couldn’t give me any favors. Not until they were deserved on my end.

Walking onto the jet after our meeting, however, felt more juvenile than the punishment itself. I was a kid again, re-entering my classroom after using the restroom, only to have all eyes on me as I came through the door.

As per usual, the only empty chair was next to Reid. There’d been too many instances of this happening to think it was just a coincidence. At this point, I had to assume it was by design. Whose design however? That I didn’t know.

“Hello, trouble,” He sang when I took my seat.

I could only assume that this new nickname was based on what took place in Hotch’s office - thanks to him, need I remind you - but I didn’t care to know the origin because that would require talking to him, and for several reasons, that was the last thing I wanted to do. The first of which was what happened less than three days ago. An event we both hadn’t mentioned yet, and I hoped we never would.

I took every preventative measure in the book. I changed seats with JJ. I moved to the couch. I even started reading in the little hallway between the kitchenette and bathroom of the jet to avoid sitting beside him, but against all my best efforts, he always found a way to bug me. When there’s a will, there’s a way. After exhausting any real reason he had to talk to me, he had to get creative.

“You’ve been on that same page for four minutes and twenty-seven seconds.” I heard him say when he walked up to the kitchen to reach for the pot of coffee. Almost expecting I’d ask him what he meant, he added the explanation casually. “It never takes you more than three minutes and twelve seconds to move onto the next page. So either you’re not understanding the material or you’re not actually reading.”

It was utterly hilarious of him to imply that either of those things were definitely the answer. “What if I’m just taking my time reading this page, genius? Ever thought of that?”

His eyes turned into slits as he leaned in closer to examine me. “You’re blinking rate just increased, too.”

“Stop!” I screeched childishly, pushing him away by his shoulders in an attempt to get him off my back, but he was far from off my back. No, he was right against it. More specifically, his hand was on the small of it.

Leaning in so close that his lips were practically pressing on the shell of my ear, he whispered, “Come find me when you’re ready to tell me the truth.”

He didn’t need to know his words or actions had any sort of effect on me, so I kept the most stoic facial expression on, and I didn’t say a single thing back. He turned back around to leave with the hand on my back being the last thing to go. His lingering touch caused a shiver to run down my spine while paradoxically burning my body from the friction.

I was disgusted with myself for having let him elicit any sort of reaction from me, even if he wasn’t aware of it.

“Yeah ... well, d-don’t expect that to be anytime soon,” was my poor attempt at a retort to shut him up.

“Whatever you say, trouble.”

_ _ _

Personal space can be a wonderful thing. Much less so when it’s invaded, however.

After what felt like the longest flight ever, all I wanted was to take a shower and go to bed. My wishes were granted when I was able to wash off the stress and exhaustion and slip into a blush pink satin pajama set Grant sent me that I’d been meaning to wear. The plunging neck of the tank top was lined with lace and adorned with the tiniest little bow at the center. To match the shirt, the hem of the shorts were lined with lace that trailed up the small triangular slits on the side of the shorts, where at the vertex of them was the same little bow detail. For such a pure and innocent color as baby pink, you’d think it’d be somewhat less revealing. The longer I started at myself in the mirror while wearing it, the more aware I’d become of the intentions behind why Grant had sent it.

How cute, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Gifts should always be appreciated, if for no other reason than the effort put into it, but this just felt slimy. There was obviously no valiant romantic intent behind the negligee, which spoiled the delight of receiving something out of the blue from him. What’s worse was that I wasn’t even sure how to thank him for something like this.

Me: thank you for the pajamas. they’re so cute!

Lying was easier over text message, in case you were wondering what the perks of a long distance relationship were.

Grant: good, I’m glad you like them. are you wearing them right now?

But sometimes, when you should lie, you don’t. And you regret it later on - take it from me.

Me: yeah, they’re super comfy

Grant: great! i wanna see them on! take a pic

As if to compensate for the indisputable hatred I had for this lingerie and what it stood for in our relationship, I did the only thing I could think that would make him think I really liked them. That I felt good in them.

I took pictures - not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill, Yelp review pictures, though - provocative ones.

In the same breath I went to take them, though, Spencer’s words rang through my head.

You deserve more than that. Much more.

Shaking off the thought of Spencer, I decided against what the little voice in my head that sounded too similar to his would’ve said.

To add to the illusion, I situated myself within the hotel sheets and used the front camera to capture my chest that was very much on display in this top. In the middle of rolling around the bed, trying to find the angles that wouldn’t show my face of dejection, the door opened.

Instantaneously, I clawed at the sheets until they wrapped around me like a towel. I was ashamed to admit they provided more coverage than these ‘pajamas’ did.

My shriek of shock must’ve sounded familiar to the stranger intruding on me because no sooner did I scream than they questioned, “(Y/n)? What are you doing here?”

Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“Spencer, what the hell are you doing in here?” I grumbled, struggling to maintain a tight enough grip on the sheets that would keep them from falling and unveiling a sight I desperately did not want him to see.

“I asked you first.”

Boy, if you only knew how badly I wanted to slap that smirk right off his face. “This is my hotel room obviously. Your turn.”

Returning just the same tone, inflection, and vocals, he imitated me. “This is my hotel room obviously.” Like one of those magic tricks he’d show Henry or Jack, he miraculously flashed a room key between his index and middle finger that wasn’t there before.

“No, that’s impossible.”

“I opened the door, didn’t I?” That damn smirk was still there when he asked this. Maybe, just maybe, if it hadn’t been so condescending, I would’ve thought his sarcasm was ... attractive. Disgusting, I know.

“Well, if you actually plan on staying here, then you’re sleeping on the floor or the couch, got it?”

My question went unanswered until I turned around to follow where he’d traveled in the time that I spent pondering how this happened. Now perched at the window, sitting on the arm of the chair in a way that chairs weren’t meant to be sat on, he continued to stare silently at me.

“What? What is it?” I urged.

“What’s going on with the …” He made a side to side sweeping motion with his key card. “Bed sheets?”

Consciously, I shimmied the fabric further up my body. Seeing as there was virtually no way to escape an honest answer, I confessed. “If you must know ... I’m wearing p-pajamas.” My own body was rejecting the shameful admission causing the word to stumble out of my mouth.

He didn’t need to know any more than that to gather what kind of garments they were. He already figured it out.

“Did Grant give them to you?”

I almost rolled my eyes at the implication. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I know you,” He punctuated every word perfectly. “And I know that you wear big shirts and sweatpants to bed because you don’t see the point of spending money on clothes that are only made for you to sleep in - especially if they’re clothes that make you uncomfortable like these ones clearly do.”

Although, I greatly despised the fact that there was even a little bit of a chance that I might’ve agreed with him, I still defended Grant. “It was a thoughtful gesture.”

“Thoughtful, right,” He scoffed. “And which head was he thinking with?”

I was baffled he had the gall to say such an innuendo. “Spencer!”

How dare he? So what if Grant bought me something provocative because he was physically attracted to me? At least someone was.

Despite the ferocity plain on his face, he chose not to pursue this conversation. Visibly biting back on words he knew would hurt me, Spencer managed to sound remarkably genuine when he promised me, “I won’t look if you don’t want me to.”

I want you to, was my very first thought. Oh, God, that’s so fucked up, was my second.

He underlined his sincerity by turning fully around until he was facing the window. “But we should probably put the sheets back on the bed if you plan on sleeping on it.”

He was so patient as he waited for me to remove the cloth from my body. It almost made me feel guilty. He didn’t grumble or gripe, nor did he pressure me to do it at all. So by rights, there should’ve been no reason for me to take so long to let the barrier fall - he wasn’t looking at me. But I was just so goddamn embarrassed.

This wasn’t me, and even he knew that.

“You can turn around now,” I mumbled quietly once my safety net of a bedsheet had abandoned me. My arms were crossed over my chest and my thighs were pressed so tightly against each other as if to limit the surface area that Spencer could scrutinize.

That never came.

He did look, I could tell that much. But it wasn’t a look I’d ever seen before. It wasn’t rage or annoyance or pity. It was a look of lust.

A look that made me positively weak in the knees. A look far more sensual than even my racy garments.

“I’ll just sleep in Morgan’s room tonight, okay?” He offered once he finally broke out of his incapacitation. Grabbing the two opposite corners of the sheets that I was holding, it was a team effort as we arranged the covers where they belonged. It was probably the longest period of time we’d ever worked together without fighting or talking at all for that matter..

Not a single word was exchanged between us while Spencer gathered his things to leave for Derek’s. The room started to feel dangerously empty in the stillness.

When he slipped past me to make his way out, I caught his upper arm, successfully pulling him back around.

I could’ve been sweet, I should’ve. But that wasn’t our thing. So I settled for what came naturally to us and what would set off the least amount of red flags - I didn’t play nice. “As long as you promise not to hog the entire bed with your behemoth body, we can sleep together -” Catching the words as soon as they came out and what they could’ve implied, I began backtracking. “Sleep in the same bed. Sleep as in rest. Not sleep as in … anything else.”

Then, in one of those rare moments- he laughed. He actually laughed. Like a real, hearty, sudden laugh. “I know what you meant, (y/n).”

I’ll never forget the smile that followed the world’s greatest laugh either.

Oh, God, I’m so fucked up.

_ _ _

Spencer’s POV

Domesticated animals are smarter than we give them credit for. Studies have shown that pets can actually sense time; They know when it’s time for their owner to leave for the day and when they’ll be coming home, too.

Animals aren’t dumb - and neither was I.

Like a dog sniffing out their owner’s imminent absence in the home, I could tell (y/n) was leaving the hotel room for the night. If her current state wasn’t convincing enough, then her behavior throughout the entire day supported that theory just as well.

Whether it was her phone, the clock on the wall, or her watch, she was evidently keeping a close eye on the time. She did it so often, though, that you would think she would just use simple deductions to figure out what time it was by estimating the time it was when she last checked, but nope. She rarely let more than a minute go by without monitoring the clock.

My suspicions didn’t end there. What’s more suggestive was the anxious fidgeting. She had her tells of anxiety - everyone does - but this was a level of stress I’d never seen her exhibit before, not even in the field.

She kept cracking her knuckles, even when she’d exhausting all the popping noises she could from them. Her leg-bobbing was another big tell, too. I tend to sit on tables rather than in the chairs at said table, allowing me to feel the earthquake occurring on the precinct floor. Her leg was bouncing up and down so vigorously it was practically shaking the room.

I would’ve asked her what she was so impatient about, but I feared I already knew the answer.

Grant.

And if I never heard that name roll off her tongue again, it would be too soon.

That didn’t mean I couldn’t ask where she was going, though.

Pretending to read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, I barely let my eyes venture far off the page when I loudly asked from the window seat, “So where are you going tonight, trouble?”

The faintest sound of a chuckle erupted in the bathroom, most likely from the nickname I hadn’t let die yet.

“Nunya,” was her ever-so mature answer.

I didn’t want to give her the chance to say ‘nunya business’ like I knew she would, so I quickly interjected with a monotone, “How clever of you.” If she wanted to be a child about this, then so be it.

“Let’s see. You brought your good heels out of your suitcase, which you only wear on special occasions. And you put on a different perfume than the one you usually use, so I’m assuming it’s new. ... If I didn’t know any better, trouble, I’d say you’re going on a date.”

She peeked her head out of the bathroom doorway to say, “You’re creepy, you know that?”

Seeing the small portion of her face that was embellished with a smile would’ve been enough if only I knew what dress she was hiding in behind that wall. I had yet to see that part of her ensemble, but if I had to guess, it would break my heart.

“Just saying,” I casually lied while clearing my throat.

“Well,” I heard her begin from within the bathroom. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Grant is meeting me tonight.”

Kill me now.

“I thought Grant lived in D.C.” Not that that would change much if he was already here.

“Yes, he does, but he’s driving all the way here to meet me. Seeee,” She drew out the word. “Would a serial killer do that?”

I refrained from giving the obvious answer: Yes.

“Well, I hope you don’t plan on bringing him back here. Otherwise, that’d be terribly awkward, don’t you think?” My allusion to the possibility that Grant would come back here to find me in her bed was borne from the intentions that were a complete contradiction to the words I’d just spoken. It, in fact, wouldn’t be terribly awkward. No, it would be fun. For me at least.

I would have loved to have seen the look on his face, and the worry on hers as she tried to explain who I was and why I had any right to be in (y/n)’s gravity.

The room went silent again while I stayed on the same page of my book and, unbeknownst to her, waited for her to enter the room. How long she was taking was starting to worry me, though.

“Need any help in there?” I called out.

“Nope,” She said through a strained voice that proved she was indeed struggling with something.

“Really?” I asked once more to give her another opportunity to lower her colossal pride. “Cause it sounds like you need help.”

“Nope. I’m good.” Liar.

I knew her too well. I counted down to the exact second when she finally scrambled to ask, “Can you help me zip up my dress?”

“Yyyup.” I’d already resigned to the fact that I would have to help her, bouncing happily off the bed when she finally admitted it and letting myself lose the page I was on as I tossed the book haphazardly behind me.

I was forced to join her in the bathroom for it was already hard for her to humble herself enough to ask me for help, so she certainly couldn’t be expected to lower her pride again and walk out to a place more convenient for me.

The first thing I noticed was that it was a space clearly not made for two. It was so cramped that I ended up right against her in order to fit. The second thing I noticed was how she made no movements to distance herself. She was so close to me that I could actually see the little hairs on the back of her neck standing up from where my breath ghosted on the area. The sterile smell of hotel bathrooms had been replaced by the flowery, aromatic scent of her new perfume, and my heart broke all over again.

Using the back of my fingers, I cast a barely-there caress on her neck to stroke her hair out of the way to clear the path of the zipper. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up again.

She liked that.

“So do I get to know where you’re going?” I reached for the zipper on the small of her back. “For safety purposes, of course.”

“Aww, you looking out for me, Dr. Reid?” She teased in a seductive tone while gathering her hair into a makeshift ponytail that for the shortest second recorded in time might’ve reminded me of a constantly recurring intrusive image.

“Always, trouble.”

The zipper fastened with absolutely no resistance all the way to the top. My eyes flashed to the mirror to catch her expression, which told me everything I needed to know.

What a pretty little liar. She didn’t actually need my help.

Comprehending that the realization dawned on me, she gave me what she knew would shut me up. “We’re going to The Rooftop at Lamont’s.”

How effortlessly she slipped past me without a thank you or a glance in my direction served as a rude awakening.

“Well, you should take an umbrella with you. It looks like there’s gonna be a storm tonight.” This was my small way of coming to terms with the reality of the situation.

“Eh,” She waved my suggestion off with a dismissive hand. “We’ll be fine. Oh, and don’t even think about stalking me!” She warned before exiting the room.

In the blink of an eye, she was gone - my peace of mind having left with her.

_ _ _

The amount of sleep you need varies for each person and is affected by several factors. However, for most adults, 7–9 hours per night is the ideal amount. And I was slowly reducing that optimal quantity, hour by hour, until there was none left.

I would continue to sacrifice my sleep so long as I was awake for her return. If she’d asked why I was still up, I would lie. Though I wouldn’t look half so pretty as she did when she lied.

Losing rest seemed like such a small price to pay to make sure I was fully alert in the event that an emergency happened, even if I would suffer the consequences in the morning. But hey - that’s what caffeine is for, isn’t it? To re-energize oneself after staying up to guarantee one’s enemy’s safety.

Yeah, I’m sure that’s exactly why Kaldi invented coffee in 750 A.D.

Besides the thunderstorm, my mind also made great company for situations like these. Granted, the visions it would project kept me up for a reason - they were all so awful.

There was simply no projected reality where things would turn out alright.

If she had the time of her life on her date, she would come back to throw it in my face that I’d been wrong, and her admiration for Grant would have deepened.

Or if he stood her up, she’d be devastated, but instead of letting me console her, she’d push me away as easily as she always did.

In a more neutral instance, perhaps she would admit it wasn’t as great meeting him as she thought it would be and the relationship would fade out for innocent reasons. Even if that seemed like the most favorable circumstance, she would eventually grow to resent me for planting the seed of doubt in her head in the first place.

But nothing- nothing I could have imagined would be as treacherous as what actually happened.

At exactly 1:09 a.m, my phone started to ring. I can’t explain to you what it was, but I just knew - it was her calling, and it wasn’t even her number.

“(Y/n)? Is everything okay?”

If she said something beforehand, I couldn’t hear her because the storm was too loud and her voice was too quiet. “Did I wake you up?”

I reassured her with a tone I didn’t even recognize. “No, no. I was awake. Why? What’s up?” The line went quiet again, forcing me to prompt her to speak in order to find out if she was still there on the call. “(Y/n)?”

“Spencer ...” She choked out a hoarse sob. “I need you. I need you to come get me, please.”

My eyes clenched shut at the dreadful sound of her sorrow, and I jolted into action. After scrambling to gather the keys to her car that she’d left behind, I fled the room faster than ever before.

“I’m on my way, (y/n). Stay right there. You’re at The Rooftop at Lamont’s right?”

The poor thing took the longest pause in history, either from shame or disorientation. “He threw me in the back of his car and drove me all the way to D.C. I …” Her breath caught on her dry throat again. “I, um, I managed to escape and now I’ve barricaded myself in a payphone booth. I haven’t called the police yet. You were the first person I thought to call. I just, I just needed to hear your voice.”

My knuckles turned an unfamiliar shade of white when I gripped the steering wheel, picturing her caged up in a rectangular box, dialing my number instead of 911 just so she could hear my voice.

“Everything is gonna be okay. I promise you. My ETA is 1:28. That’s in 19 minutes. Are you okay being there for that long or do you want to find somewhere safer?”

I could no longer distinguish the difference between talking to her right now and talking to a victim in distress. I was speaking with the same tone and inflection but feeling a sharp pain in my chest that wasn’t there before.

“I can stay here. Just ... don’t hang up, okay?” The fact that the possibility of me abandoning her over the phone even crossed her mind was more than enough to get me to drive well over the speed limit.

The list of traffic infractions only grew from there because honestly? Screw my safety or anyone else’s. Her’s was the only one that mattered. She was the priority.

She was my priority.

Throughout the entire call, I kept repeating, “You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay. You’re gonna be okay.” Frankly, it was something we both needed to hear.

It was both the fastest and slowest 19 minutes of my life. Time no longer felt real when I finally found the payphone booth that boxed in my troublesome girl. No sooner did I drive up to the sidewalk than I ran out of the car to sprint the short distance to free her from her coop.

“(Y/n)!” I shouted, swinging the door open and throwing caution to the wind in the process. Immediately, she dropped the phone, not even bothering to replace it onto its receiver.

The pouring rain had stripped her of her dignity. Mascara ran down her face in pigmented streams of black. Her curled hair was dampened into strings. But worse of all, it hadn’t washed away the darkening bruises on her skin.

“Oh my god, Spencer!” She cried as she ran into my open arms.

Her body collided with mine in such a gentle manner that I had to wonder how that was possible at all or if it was a figment of my imagination. Was our collision actually that gentle or did it seem that way because of how good it felt to have her arms and legs latch around my entire torso, crossing and connecting somewhere in between?

With one arm under her thighs to hold her up, I pulled her impossibly closer to me by cradling the back of her head with the other hand.

Her small hands found their way into my hair, a new sensation I tried not to indulge in so as not to let my attention stray away from the little life I was holding in my arms.

She was so cold.

Shivering from my warm embrace, her teeth chattered as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, Spencer. You were right I should’ve listened -”

“Shh, it’s okay, (y/n),” I said with the hopes that I could make the pounding heart that was thumping against my shoulder settle down until it reached her standard heart rate of 67 beats per minute.

After a second of just holding her wordlessly, she spoke again.

“I don’t wanna fight.” She surrendered so easily to me that I could hardly believe this was her at all.

“I don’t wanna fight with you either.”

That was entirely true. Fighting with her was the last thing on my mind. The first was getting her into my car.

It was easier that I imagined it would be, but then again, it’s easy to do things when you’re motivated in this way.

Before I loosened my hold on her to shut the passenger door, she squeezed me a little tighter, as if to be absolutely certain this was real and not some cruel dream.

“Thank you,” She hummed into the crook of my neck. From where her shoulder was digging into my throat, I couldn’t exactly respond verbally, so I settled for rubbing my hand up and down her back comfortingly.

“Let’s take you home,” I basically said to myself seeing as it was too quiet to be discernible.

“No,” She shook her head rapidly. “Take me to your apartment.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to go back to the hotel right now. I need to be somewhere I feel safe.”

My apartment is closer than the hotel, I reasoned, pretending it was the logic of it that made my heart swell and not the statement I would fixate on for the entire duration of the ride there.

I need to be somewhere I feel safe.

And that’s wherever I’m with you.

_ _ _

Reader’s POV

Porcelain wall tiles gleamed back at me, mocking my wretched misery. They were much prettier than me, but then again, anything else would be prettier than me right about now.

I certainly wasn’t the belle of the ball in my bare naked state. The fact that I was sitting in a pool of my own washed off dried blood didn’t help either.

I would’ve looked away from the bright white walls, but where else were I to look? Into the pair of eyes that I was deliberately avoiding? The ones that were staring a hole through me right now? No. I couldn’t bear to meet those eyes. So I kept looking forward at the mean walls - those mean, mocking walls.

“Is the water warm enough?” He asked, dipping a finger into the bathwater to test it himself.

I watched as his hand snuck into the tub and swirled around some water, causing soap bubbles to revitalize.

For a reason I didn’t know nor could remember at this given moment, Spencer drove me to his apartment. That memory of why I was here was fuzzy, but the rest following my arrival was more vivid. Perhaps because it was all unfolding right now.

“I think I should go,” I murmured. The bathwater had gone cold, and the silence was too deafening. If I didn’t leave now, then I would be trapped forever.

I leaned forward with my knees still pressed to my chest to protect my modesty while I tugged on the silver drain plug of the tub to release the suction.

“You can’t go home. You’ll be alone again, and who will be there to help you that time?”

“I don’t need anybody’s help.” I responded curtly.

“Then why did you call me tonight?”

“Why did you answer?”

He was stunned by how I didn’t miss a beat with my question, stunned enough to purse his lips in contempt. “Should I have declined your call then? Said ‘no’ instead and let you fend for yourself? You know what - my bad, (y/n). I sincerely apologize that I care about you.”

I scoffed at his factiousness. “No, what you should’ve done is whatever the hell you wanted to do. But clearly, since you said ‘yes’ and came to my rescue like I’m some victim in a case - you wanted to be there. I could chalk that up to you having a hero complex, but I think it’s time for you to admit you just wanted to see me at my worst so you could throw it in my face like you’re doing right now.”

He clenched his jaw in fury, muttering under his breath, “I should’ve left you in that booth.”

This crossed a line, but I was just as ready to cross it, too.

“But I bet you liked saving me. Seeing me as a damsel in distress that you could white knight. You like that, Spence? Does my weakness settle your deep rooted fear of inadequacy in strength?”

Shouldn’t have done that.

For a second there, I was sincerely scared of the response I might’ve just elicited, so I shot up from the tub and grabbed the towel on the rack, quickly wrapping myself in it and avoiding Spencer’s gaze the entire way out of the bathroom.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Judging from the loudness of his voice, he was right on my heels, following me close behind.

“You’re smart. Figure it out.”

“God, why do you have to be such a pain in the ass? I don’t want to leave you like this.” It never failed to amaze me how he could both show disdain and concern for me in the matter of a sentence.

“Well, you’re not leaving me like this - I’m leaving you like this.” My clever remark angered him more.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, Spencer called out from the end of his hallway, “What are you so scared of?”

Reaching the end of my rapidly fraying rope, I spun around to throw my arms out to my side in just the same defensive manner as he did. “Nothing! Maybe I just don’t wanna be stuck in the apartment of the man who hates me! Can you blame me?”

He ran a hasty hand through his hair, pulling at the strands out of pure irritation. “Why do you keep saying I hate you? How can any of what I’ve done for you tonight suggest that?”

He’d chosen his words carefully and for that, he was smart. His inclusivity of the word ‘tonight’ meant I could only reference his actions from the past few hours, which wouldn’t help my case, as opposed to the months and months that he’d given me the cold shoulder, which would have helped my case. But again, he was smart - he had me in a deadlock. I couldn’t accept defeat, but what could I possibly argue against his point?

My body literally shook from the power of the deep groan that tore through my chest. “God, what do you want from me, Spencer?” I wanted nothing more than to be far, far away from him, but my body was resisting all those urges. Lunging forward, I pointed the sternest index finger at him, staring the most unforgiving glare into his soul. “Tell me - tell me what you want! Because when I was nice to you, you-you treated me like shit. And then when I stopped being nice to you, you still treated me like shit. So what -” I had to laugh to alleviate the sheer rage I was feeling. “What the fuck do you want from me? Because it’s like no matter what I do, it’s just not good enough for you!”

His eyebrows had furrowed and his eyes softened. He didn’t look angry whatsoever. No, he looked hurt.

“Not good enough for me?” He leaned down to my level to look right into my eyes. “You are everything … everything to me.”

With one last breath, I cried out in anguish, “Then why? Why do you hate me so much?”

He gulped back the lump in his throat - the last barrier that kept him from telling the truth.

“I ... I never hated you. I just need to be in control of my thoughts and feelings at all times, otherwise, I feel-I feel like I’m going crazy. Like I’m on the verge of a psychotic break that I’m genetically predisposed to have. But when you came around - I lost all my control. You were inhabiting my dreams, you were stealing my sleep, occupying more and more space in my brain until there was no more room left to take. God, I think about you all the time, and I literally cannot physically stop it. I have no control anymore,” and somehow him saying that sounded something like an ‘I love you.’

“The only thing I could control was how I treated you. I thought being awful to you would get you to despise me enough to make me despise you, too, and while it was easier to be angry at you, it was so much worse having you hate me.”

“I never hated you, Spencer.” Never.

“You should have,” He rasped. “I know I don’t deserve you, but I wish to spend every day proving that I want you. Oh, I want you so bad,” He sharply inhaled through gritted teeth, and I unconsciously laughed in return. His pain wasn’t funny in the least. What was amusing was knowing that he had the same excruciating longing for me that I had for him.

“I don’t want control anymore if it means I can’t have you.”

He leaned in so carefully that I almost didn't register the movement at all. Our hearts were pounding to the same synchronized beat. We were the shore and the tide one in the same. Our breaths would draw in and out, in and out, as he held my face so gently. We were still the shore and the tide, but more than anything we were drowning in the ocean of ourselves. The rising waters of his admiration threatened to flood every empty nook and cranny of the room until it swallowed me whole. All I could feel was him, everywhere, filling absolutely everything.

“Wow ... I finally got you speechless,” The cocky bastard hummed happily, letting his words vibrate on the smallest part of my lip.

“Oh, shut up,” I declared through a smirk I needed to fight off before finally closing that nearly imperceptible gap between us.

All the forces in the world couldn’t tear us apart after we connected. They were no match for the force Spencer’s hands had as they pulled me impossibly closer. The pressure might’ve even been unbearable had it not been for the velvety pair of lips giving me back all the oxygen it stole from my lungs just seconds ago. They were so soft, like freshly washed sheets, like biting into cotton candy, like floating for the first time, feeling utterly weightless in water. It’s sweet, it’s so effortlessly sweet.

Not nearly as sweet as the words that followed our parting.

“Not enough for me?” He repeated, recalling my previous claim. “You’ve had me since the day you walked in, trouble.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fingers crossed this fic doesn’t flop!

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years

Text

The Sight of You (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s disturbing dreams about his childhood bring him back to Las Vegas to face two of his childhood’s greatest enemies: his estranged father and his ex best friend.

AN: it’s a friends to enemies to lovers fic! Set in the episode “Memoriam” 4x07

Content Warnings: usual Criminal Minds stuff, mentions of child death, childhood trauma, descriptions of a dead body. Let me know if I missed anything!

Despite seeing Spencer around Pre-k, Y/N did not trot over to talk to him with their brightly coloured rucksack swinging vigorously and violently behind them. They walked faster instead once their parents had dropped them off. Spencer did his best to catch up to Y/N but lost them around the corner in the sea of students seeking their next class. He was meant to be one of them. Adjusting his glasses as they slipped down his nose, Spencer noted that he needed a new prescription before entering his own class and preparing to focus on a subject he was already well-versed in.

It was lunch time when Spencer finally found Y/N. They were sitting at the furthest end of the table in the canteen. But Y/N cowered away from him, his shoulders drawn up defensively.

“Are you OK, Y/N?” Spencer asked before getting to what was more significant to him: “Do you know when you will be free to play again?”

The next sentence out of Y/N’s mouth stung like a nettle. They stood up, their face contorted in their fit, and they pushed Spencer hard on the shoulders.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!” They cried.

They went silent when Spencer was laughed at by those who heard what was said. Just grabbed their lunch and moved away, leaving Spencer spellbound in the middle of the canteen, heartbroken and with a new opening for a potential chess partner. Maybe that man they saw last week at the park would be kind enough to join him again.

But there was no replacement for Y/N, who now never said a word when they caught a glimpse of Spencer being bullied – only dithering about on the spot before fleeing the scene moments before a teacher would show up.

Spencer was hurt; that hurt warped into hatred when he was next out with his mother and father. They were at the shopping mall and had just bought Spencer his new glasses. Going down the escalator, he saw Y/N. They were smiling and skipping between their parents, a new pair of shoes shiny on their feet.

The second they spotted the Reids, Y/N ducked behind their parents. Spencer could still see their face: brow furrowed, eyes squinting, hands shaking now that nothing was holding them. Their parents didn’t seem to notice. They kept talking and walking even as Y/N stopped in time with the Reids stepping off the escalator.

Sudden footsteps running away was what dragged the public’s attention to a suddenly absent child.

“Y/N!” The parents called out as they chased after the four-year-old. They were quick past the Reids, not stopping to say ‘hello’.

Spencer kept his eyes trained after Y/N’s fleeing form, right until his mother’s face came into view. Diana looked saddened; she too was staring after the L/Ns. Turned to his father. William was composed but his eyes were turned down and watering.

For making his parents react like that to their mere presence, Spencer despised Y/N.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The burning hatred from adolescence staled once Spencer reached adulthood. The protective nature that spawned from it for his mother remained.

Which is why, when Diana Reid casually mentioned Y/N when asked about Riley Jenkins, Spencer froze up.

“You remember Y/N?” He said stiffly.

Diana didn’t notice her son’s change in tone, “Of course, you two were opposites but you got on so well. So sad what happened to them.”

The first guess was that she was referring Y/N’s repeated attempts at running away before Reid cut contact with neighbourhood gossip at age fourteen. He didn’t bother with a second attempt to understand what his mother meant.

“I don’t care about Y/N. I want to know if you remember Riley.”

“And I told you: Riley was a boy you made up.”

“No, Mom, he was a real boy who lived in our neighbourhood, and somebody killed him. And, I don't know, I think-- I think that dad might have had something to do with it.”

“He was real?”

“Yes. And...”

“He was on that little league team, too.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The whole case was surreal - “case” being a very loose term.

When they got into his office, Spencer thought that perhaps things might simmer down a little. Unfortunately, as soon as his father spoke about their history of similarity in appearance, Spencer’s usual comfort of statistics and facts on the elderly and pets failed to conceal his abandonment issues.

William Reid was clearly affected by Spencer’s accusations, calling the idea of fitting the profile thus being Riley’s killer “absurd”. Furthermore, he was confrontational when asked for access to his files and demanded a warrant. Coupled with Lou Jenkins’ absolute certainty that William was not involved in Riley’s murder and Penelope asking him “you sure about this?” concerning invading the aforementioned files, Spencer was very close to snapping.

“I really wish people would stop asking me that.”

Then there was the envelope posted beneath his motel room door. Suspicious timing aside, there was a brand-new suspect basically handed over on a silver platter. One Gary Michaels whom Spencer couldn’t remember him but he couldn’t be sure that he didn’t know him. Uncertainty being the feeling he hated the most.

This man could fit the profile; his previous of exposing himself to a minor was a precursor to molestation. But that wasn’t what Spencer wanted to hear from the shady file slipped to direct his attention away from William.

Garcia reported back about his father’s drives, “No kiddie porn, no membership to illicit websites, no dubious emails, no chat room history.”

“What about his finances?”

Hotch joined the conversation, “We went back ten years. No questionable transactions that we can find.”

Spencer sighed while Emily decided to crack a joke: “Well, he did buy a ticket to see Celine Dion six months ago, but I think we can overlook that.”

“He’s smart. Is it possible he kept things under the table?” Spencer persisted.

“Well, of course,” Hotch answered, “But from what we can tell, Reid, he doesn’t fit the profile.”

“We can tell you other things about him, if you want to know.”

A peace offering on behalf of Emily. Clearly she had improved after her night out and subsequent hangover. Spencer gave the go-ahead and Emily listed her profile:

“He's a workaholic, he actually logs more hours than we do. He makes decent money, but he doesn't spend a lot of it. He has a modest house. He drives a hybrid. He doesn't travel much. He stays away from the casinos. Um, and according to his veterinary bills, he has a very sick cat.”

“He appears to spend most of his free time alone,” Hotch added, “He goes to the movies a lot, and he reads. And from his collection of first editions, it seems his favourite author is-”

Spencer interrupted his boss, “Isaac Asimov, I remember that one.” He pressed his lips together. They were right; William Reid did not fit the profile.

Garcia piped up once more, “He does have one other major interest. On his home computer, he's archived, like, a ka-jillion things on one common subject.”

“What?”

“You, kiddo. He's got, like, everything that's been published online. Every article you've been quoted in, pieces you've written for behavioural science journals, He even has a copy of your dissertation.”

“He's keeping tabs on you,” Rossi said, That's saying something.”

But Spencer smoothly dismissed this attempt to make excuses for his father, “Yeah, he googled me. That makes up for everything. I'm going to get some air.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

After getting said air, Spencer went to the local bar and began playing an computerised poker game. His paying attention was only to distract himself, clear his head with something he knew he could control. And thankfully, a chance interaction with a lady at the bar spawned the inspiration for a sporadic hypnosis session.

Doctor Jan Mohikian allowed them a session. Reminded of the limitations that a four-year old’s memory could provide, not including the bias he already had as a son and a profiler, Spencer lay on the couch. His feet hung over the end so that his head could be comfortable in a pillow. There was no time for self-consciousness with Rossi in the room observing. He closed his eyes and felt his hand be placed upon Doctor Mohikian’s body.

She spoke low and calmingly, “I want you to hold my wrist in your left hand. And if you should feel any fear, I want you to squeeze, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go back to the night you were just telling me about. You're at home, in your room. You can't sleep because your parents are arguing.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

His eyes were closed still, but the couch shifted into a bed. His bed. A floor below, the faint shouting between his mother and father was heard. There was someone else there too. A child wailing, and it wasn’t him.

Suddenly his father was at his side, touching his arm, saying, “I know you’re awake. Daddy loves you; you know that?”

Spencer didn’t want to be there, and then it was the following morning.

Putting his glasses, the room fell into focus. His mother was there, she didn’t see him because she was too busy looking out the window. Her body language told him that this was not a meltdown, but what she saw was distressing. She’d been crying. As she walked away into the house, she hid her face as if she knew Spencer was watching and she wanted to hide her reaction from him.

Spencer ran to the window the second Diana had left the room.

His father was in the back garden and burning clothes. A bloody shirt, a tiny cardigan, landed on top of the pile already set alight.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and wake.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

And Spencer was shocked out of the scene, back to the doctor’s couch and gripping her wrist with an iron grip. Rossi was by his side, bringing him back to peace with his voice.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Derek was clearly disturbed that Spencer was very set on his father being a paedophilic murderer as much as he had been that Spencer was taking something that was said after his mother’s fit seriously. He continued however to assist with Rossi in Spencer’s investigation.

As if everything else hadn’t been hard enough, the captain took some time to agree to holding William Reid in custody. Finally, he settled for twenty-four hours. William was as resistant to the questions as he had been upon the initial reunion. All he could say was that he didn’t hurt Riley. Spencer wore him down, getting him to drop the Gary Michaels bomb plus the threat that he “didn’t want to go down that road”.

Garcia’s search of Gary Michaels’ DNA on the databases brought to light that their suspect was dead. Buried across state lines, beat over the head with a pipe or bat, and the body was discovered in 2001.

“Maybe it wasn’t Riley’s blood on the clothes he was burning.” Derek was about to hang up when Garcia began to speak again, a new discovery ready for her team.

“Also, Todd found something in your father’s finances. There was a standing order for a therapist, specifically a child therapist from 1985 to 1995. I thought it was for Spencer, but William left when you were twelve, and these sessions continue irregularly after he left you!”

“Who was the patient?”

“One Y/N L/N. Local to North Vegas, born 1980 to Shelly and Finley L/N.”

Both Rossi and Derek looked away from the phone to Spencer and he knew. He knew he’d have to face another villain from the past – like a knight in one of Y/N’s stories.

“Still alive?”

“Yep, already pulling up an address. There’s a lot of short leases attached to this name. Lucky for you, they keep going back to live with their parents.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure that he could handle two bitter reunions in one day.

“We’ll send off the fingerprint while we visit Y/N. They could have been a potential victim of Michaels before he died. They might know something.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

It was a normal home in a normal neighbourhood. Spencer had never visited Y/N’s house. Their play-dates were always at the park.

“Hello, Mr L/N,” held up their badges, “I’m Agent Derek Morgan, this is Agent David Rossi and Doctor Spencer Reid. May we come in and ask you some questions?”

“Sure. My wife is uh out at work at the moment,” Finley opened the door wider and stepped aside for the trio to enter, “I’m the house husband as it were.”

Looking about the kitchen, Spencer spied several photos of an adult Y/N but very few of them as a toddler and even less as a teenager.

“You have a child, Mr L/N?” Rossi asked.

“All grown up now, Y/N,” Finley smiled with a nod. Then he squinted at Spencer, “You’re not related to William Reid by chance, are you?”

Masking his bitterness, Spencer said shortly, “He’s my father.”

Finley seemed in awe at the prospect, so Derek redirected the conversation back to the matter at hand, “What was Y/N like as a child?”

Nodding still, like a bobble head, Finley looked weary at the notion, “Troubled. They were very young when they withdrew into themselves. Used to run away from home a lot. I don’t know what happened, but Y/N never told us.” He then jumped to protect his child’s reputation at present, “They’re doing better now, went to therapy and they’re doing very well for themselves.”

“I’m glad to hear.” Rossi replied.

Finley continued his defence of Y/N, “They’re a published author, they write fantasy things for kids and young adults. We’re very proud of them.”

“Did Y/N know Riley Jenkins when they were a child?”

“Riley Jenkins, that’s Lou’s kid who died, right?” Finley sought confirmation and, when he had it, he spoke, “Not personally. I think they might have played at the park once or twice. Before he died, Y/N would play with anyone. But you… you know that.” And Finley gestured to Spencer, much to his disgust.

“Is Y/N in the area?” Spencer asked briskly.

“Well, they’re due for a visit in a few hours. They went on holiday.”

“They still live with you?”

“A month ago, they got a new flat in the city. But they’ve got their own room here, for whenever they need it.”

“May we see it?”

The wallpaper was barely visible beneath exam revision notes, posters of Fresh sheets on the bed and the clear space on the floor were the only tidy things about the place. It was a haven of organised clutter.

A chess set caught Spencer’s eye. It sat upon the windowsill, recently dusted. The pieces were not that of a classic set; each was painted prettily but with enough error to indicate it was a personal touch.

“You and Y/N were close then?” Derek was holding up a photo album. Upon inspection, the photograph the page was open on was of Spencer and Y/N dressed up for Halloween as Doctor Frankenstein and the Monster respectively – accurate to the book of course.

“Yeah, ‘were’,” Spencer turned back to the chess set. He didn’t bother to ask when his friends had figured out he knew Y/N.

Rossi decided to further test the waters, “You think that Y/N could have killed Riley?”

“Of course not. A four-year-old couldn’t kidnap, tie up, rape, and kill a boy their own age. No violent history that indicates they would ever do something like this. Do I think that Y/N knows something about what happened and my father is trying to keep them quiet? Yes.”

Rossi moved beside Spencer, picking up the knight. Except it wasn’t a knight. It was a wizard of some kind in purple robes.

“We’ll stay up here for a bit then go down once Y/N’s inside and settled,” He gestured with the knight to the window. Spencer blanched as he spied a cab at the end of the driveway. The trunk was open and someone was retrieving a suitcase from within.

Y/N appeared around the corner, waving off the cab and turning to the house. Mr L/N appeared on the drive and they met in the middle for a hug. Over Mr L/N’s shoulder, Spencer could see that Y/N had grown into their chubby childhood features. They looked genuinely happy.

He would have to go through with it, but he didn’t have to like it. And he couldn’t go hide in the bathroom like with his father.

The trio plodded down the stairs when the sound of the front door closing was replaced with a joyous gathering in the kitchen. It all changed when Y/N went to take off their jacket and caught sight of the three FBI agents standing in the doorway. Taking out his badge, Rossi led the way.

“Hello, Y/N, I’m Agent David Rossi, this is Agent Derek Morgan, and Doctor Spencer Reid. We’re looking into the death of Riley Jenkins, and we were hoping to ask you some questions.”

To the naked eye, very little changed about Y/N’s appearance. To the three profilers, there was a visceral reaction: Y/N’s right hand started trembling, the hard swallow, the dropping of their gaze from Spencer to the floor.

“OK,” They said, a great deal quieter than they had been with their father.

Rossi sat next to Y/N at the dinner table. Derek was beside Rossi; Spencer stayed standing. Mr L/N stayed in the kitchen, at Y/N’s request.

“Can you tell us what you remember about Riley?” Rossi began.

“Not very much, I don’t really remember much about school.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Spencer blurted, “Well, I do.”

Derek glanced back at him with a look that just screamed “shut the hell up”. It seemed to cut down Y/N’s resolve, their jaw quivering.

“Sorry, can you give me a moment?” They stood up quick, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as they walked just as fast to the kitchen. Through the open door, Rossi, Derek, and Spencer watched Y/N grab a glass from the open dishwasher. The water from the tap hit the bottom of the glass harsh, crashing out like a wave of the ocean hitting a cliff. Y/N didn’t seem to care. Their hand dripped water onto the surface as they chugged back some of the drink before returning to the table with a topped-up glass.

“Are you alright?” Rossi inquired, leaning closer to Y/N.

They answered wearily, “Fine, just feeling woozy.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yeah, you’re a writer too. My mom reads your stuff before bed.”

“Bit of an odd nightcap,” Rossi said with a little chuckle.

Y/N shared that smile for the briefest of moments, replying “You’re telling me.”

From their pocket, they pulled out some painkillers, popping them back with a slug of water then speaking again. “I remember Riley was smaller than me. Still figuring out coordination, but he liked to play chase. I know he was killed; I didn’t find out how until I looked into it last year.”

“Why did you look into it?” Rossi gently probed.

Y/N rubbed two fingers back and forth across their head as they spoke, “I was back here, I felt sick so I went for a walk in the park, and I just remembered him tripping over while trying to tag me. No one ever told me what happened, just that he had to go away. I wanted to know what happened to him.”

“Are you sick often?” Derek asked suddenly, his voice soft to match Rossi. Spencer grimaced at the treatment Y/N was receiving but said nothing.

“Headaches and stomach aches mostly.”

“You get them whenever you come home?”

“I do. Figured I was allergic to something but never figured out what.”

That would have to be a very quick response, like a dog allergy. And coincidental, seeing as the symptoms didn’t start until they saw Spencer.

“Y/N?” called their father, “Can you come here a moment please?”

“May I?”

“Of course,” said Derek and Y/N was out of the room. Derek pivoted in his chair to include Spencer in his theory, “I think they know something, but they don’t know they know it. I think they repressed this memory like you did, Spencer. We should take him to the therapist, see if we can jog his memory.”

“You can’t be serious,” Spencer covered his face with his hands, dragging them down with irritation.

Derek was persistent though, “Spencer, like it or not, Y/N’s linked to this investigation. Put aside your differences for a moment, please.”

Spencer all but squawked, “Put aside my differences?”

“You have brought a lot of bias to this case. Let us at least pursue this lead.”

“Sorry,” Y/N interrupted Spencer’s retort, sitting back at the table, “He needed someone to get unhook the loft door. Mom usually does it.”

“That’s alright.” Rossi waved a hand dismissively. Once Y/N accepted that, he moved in with Derek’s suggestion, “You know, some people have strong physical reactions to memories, trauma. Maybe you’re not getting sick. You’re rejecting something.”

“Rejecting?” repeated Y/N. There was no doubt in their voice, more cautious curiosity.

Derek nodded, “A memory, repressing it, and your body has linked the physical responses to your home. We think it has something to do with this case, and we’d like to see if we can retrieve any memories you might have. Would you be alright to come with us?”

“Yeah,” said Y/N, though they didn’t sound too certain, “Yeah sure.”

The resigned, too tired look on their face, and Spencer felt a tug in his chest. A longing to see Y/N smile like they had when they first entered the house. He’d rather hate someone who was happy than someone who suffered the same as him.

Leaving the house, Spencer took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Spencer?”

He ignored Y/N’s voice for a moment, but he couldn’t disregard Y/N standing in front of him and speaking again, “Spencer, can we talk please?”

“I’m busy,” He said, already walking off as he pretended to call someone, “Hey Garcia.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“Hold onto my hand, use it as an anchor, and squeeze when you feel fear.” Doctor Mohikian accepted Y/N’s hand on her wrist and their silence nod as they lay back on the same couch Spencer had been just hours before.

“I want you to think back to your childhood, back to when you were five. You’re at the park, your parents are on a bench watching nearby to keep you safe. What do you see?”

“Spencer Reid.”

Derek and Rossi glanced at Spencer, who did not react. They kept quiet so that Y/N could immerse themselves in the hypnosis.

“What’s he doing?” Doctor Mohikian continued.

“Teaching me chess.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Sat on opposite sides of the table, Spencer and Y/N’s eyes were glued to the chess pieces that were neatly organised between them. Spencer was thinking strategy. He could not say the same for his companion Y/N. They reached a hand out and hovered over the pieces before finally selecting their last knight.

Their tongue clicked as Y/N trotted the piece on the spot.

“What’s this one again?”

“The knight,” Spencer recited, “It moves two spaces up, down, left or right, and another step perpendicular to the first direction.”

“Brave creatures riding into battle,” Y/N narrated before continuing their clip-clopping to its new position, “Pawns in the game of war.”

Spencer didn’t understand how they were coming up with this whilst playing. Well, actually, he did. Because Y/N was clearly not playing to win. They were playing for the best possible story.

“Where do you think this story will end?” Y/N asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” said Y/N, pushing back the sleeves of their white cardigan, “Come on, you can tell me, with your magic powers.”

“It’s not magic. It’s logic.”

“That’s magic to me,”

Narrowing his eyes, Spencer decided that he should give his friend the information they sought: “I see checkmate in fifteen moves.”

“See? Magic! The gift of sight!” crowed Y/N, clapping their hands together. The cardigan sleeves fell back in place as they did so. Spencer felt his cheeks heat up; he dropped his head so he could smile in privacy while Y/N began to decide their next move.

“How’s your mommy today?”

Shrugging, Spencer said, “Better than normal. But that means a bad day is around the corner.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “Do you want another ice cream? I got more birthday money.”

“No thank you.” Spencer moved the piece but was immediately intercepted by Y/N, “You’re getting better.”

“Fank you.”

“You’ll have to wait longer to beat me though.” And he snatched Y/N’s knight away, just as planned and much to Y/N’s dismay.

A new voice from their left spoke, “Hey you’re pretty good.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Y/N’s grip tightened on Doctor Mohikian’s wrist, “Someone’s with us.”

“Who do you see?” Doctor Mohikian asked patiently.

“A man. He’s asking us if he can watch us play, listen to the story.”

“Do you want him to stay?”

“No,” Y/N flinched, “But Spencer keeps talking to him. The man won’t go away.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK, you’re safe, Y/N.”

Y/N flinched again, this time letting out a whimper, “He’s on the floor.”

“Spencer is?”

“No, the man.”

“What’s he doing on the floor?”

“He’s,” Y/N began panting, their face tensing and body jerking, “I can’t get to him. There’s glass in the way and the ground is shaking.”

“Y/N.”

“I can’t look, I’ll be sick! Whenever I see them, sick.”

“OK, you’re going to wake up in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

Their eyes snapped open with the click of the fingers and Y/N leapt out of Doctor Mohikian’s couch. Their head aimed over the bin by the door and they retched. Nothing came up but their stomach continued to squeeze up

Spencer fidgeted in his seat, trying his best not to look at Y/N. The choice words of the session, three in particular, wrapped around his head.

“Floor”.

Y/N had seen Gary Michaels inside, somewhere that wasn’t the park.

“Glass”.

A window, Y/N was watching what Gary Michaels was doing.

“Sick”.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!”

“Them”.

It wasn’t just Michaels in the room alone. They had been a witness to his murder.

Derek’s movement to help Y/N took Spencer out of his analysis. Sweaty, Y/N was led back to the couch, the bin between their legs, head lolling forward. Spencer tried to move beside them for questioning, but Y/N winced and began heaving again. He felt that ache in his chest again. He was causing this and nothing he could do would change that. Not until they both knew what happened to Riley and Y/N got help through it.

“What did you see, Y/N?” Derek asked as he replaced Spencer’s spot beside them.

With watering eyes, Y/N looked at Spencer, “The man we played with, he was on the floor. His head – thank you.” They accepted the water from Doctor Mohikian, gulping some back, “It was smashed in.”

The three agents left the room, Doctor Mohikian following after Y/N left to get some air.

“It’s logical to assume that Y/N tied that sickness, that repulsion because of what they thought they saw your mother be involved with, to you and your family,” Doctor Mohikian evaluated.

Interrupting again, Spencer stammered his way through his analysis, “That’s why they avoided me. They associated me with being ill. It’s probably also why they ran away so much; they had to get away from this horrible feeling they had associated with their home.”

Doctor Mohikian shook her head, “We won’t be able to use this in court, I told you when we started.”

Derek’s phone started to ring. As he answered, Spencer somehow managed to slip away for long enough to find Y/N. They were leaning against the ramp’s railing in front of the practice, their body lifting and slumping with each deep breath they took. Against his better judgement, he moved toward them.

“Y/N? Can I have your number?”

The breathing slowed again.

“I need it to call you with an update on the situation as soon as we get one.”

Without looking up, Y/N pulled out their phone and handed it over to Spencer. He punched his number in a new contact, using this time to gather the courage to maybe say something else. The hurt and pain went beyond him now. Y/N was suffering and had been much longer than he had.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Spencer said quietly, hoping that his didn’t add to the illness, “I hope you feel better soon.”

Their head still down, Y/N croaked, “You too, Spencer.”

“Spencer, get over here! We got a match on a print on Michaels’ body!”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“What makes you think Gary Michaels killed your boy?”

“He admitted it,” Lou Jenkins said, as monotonous as he had been for the last fifteen minutes of the interrogation.

Derek’s quickfire was on Jenkins instantly, “You beat a guy with a baseball bat, he's going to admit to a lot of things. How do you know he was the right guy?”

“I know. He approached another kid in the neighbourhood.”

“And how do you know that?

“I was told by a concerned party.”

“Who? Another parent?”

Jenkins leant back in his chair, “That's all I'm going to say on the subject.”

“Who was it?” Spencer suddenly spoke up.

Caught off guard at his interjection, Jenkins awkwardly parroted himself, “I told you that's all I'm going to say on the sub—"

Reid slammed his hands on the table, getting right up in Lou’s face, “Who was it?”

The door opened, Detective Hyde appeared, “Agent Reid?”

“Do not interfere with this interrogation, detective,” shouted Spencer, “This is not your case anymore!”

Once again, he was cut off. This time, by the arrival of his own mother, Diana, and her admission of guilt: “Spencer, it was me”.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Of all the things this case had brought him, Spencer least expected to be sitting in a room with his mother and father together for the first time in years. To have Diana explain to him how she was involved in a child’s murder was also up there with the unthinkable.

But he stayed quiet and listened to her confession.

The reveal that she had seen Gary Michaels playing chess with him and Y/N, that she and got a feeling that something was wrong before anything had even happened, opened the story. Lou Jenkins’ involvement was next on the menu. Two days after the chess game, he drove Diana to Michaels’ house, disclosed his history of child abuse, and demanded she leave while he went into the house.

Upon reaching the point where she entered the house, Diana struggled with her words. William reached over and took her hand.

She described seeing Lou with the bat, standing over the body, slipping in the pool of blood, finding Y/N standing in the window and their face, their little face as innocent as the white cardigan that covered their shoulders and absorbed the blood from Diana’s hands as she shook their shoulders.

“And the rest... It's all dark after that.”

William continued for her. Diana came home and brought Y/N with her. Eventually he came to understand what had happened and decided that nobody could ever know.

“You were burning her bloody clothes,” Spencer concluded.

His father nodded, “But the knowing, you can't burn that away. It changes everything.”

“You paid for Y/N to go to therapy.”

William didn’t seem surprised that Spencer knew this, going straight into explaining: “They went into a dissociative fugue state after seeing what Lou had done. When Diana brought them home, they were just stiff. I asked them for their home number, to call their parents, but they started screaming and throwing up. We had to take them to the police station.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, “They needed help, but their parents couldn’t afford it. And they didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t drag another person into this, Spencer.”

“Is this why you left?”

“I tried to keep us together, Spencer. I swear to you, but the weight of that knowledge, it was too much.”

“You could have come back. Could have started over.”

“I didn't know how to take care of you anymore. When I lost that confidence, there was no going back. What's done is done.”

“At least now you know the truth,” Diana made an effort to smile at her son

Choking on his words and the overwhelming remorse he felt, Spencer refused to look at his parents any longer, “I was wrong about everything. I'm sorry.”

And William said something that Spencer had been waiting for, for a long time, “I am, too, Spencer.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

All of this was repeated when Spencer walked with Y/N through their old park the following day. Filling the final gaps in the memory would hopefully bring some respite to them both. Or at least maybe something to start the recovery process, easing Y/N’s sickness and Spencer’s pain.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour during this case,” Spencer sniffed, “When you said we made you sick, back when we were four, I thought you had seen my mom during one of her episodes and thought she was a freak, like everyone else.”

That stopped Y/N in their tracks, their hands coming up to cover their mouth, their eyes misty, “Oh Spencer, I’m sorry too, I’m so, so sorry I caused you so much pain.”

Spencer’s hands rushed up as if to create belated damage control, “It’s ok! I hurt you too. I made you sick.”

“That wasn’t your fault though.”

“It wasn’t yours either. We were kids.”

Almost pedantic, stropping, like a child again, Y/N moaned, “It’s all been such a waste. We could have been friends all this time!”

“We can be friends now,” Spencer pushed his hands down into his pockets to stop them flailing about anymore. His sentence was phrased more like a question.

One that Y/N gladly answered, “I would like really that.”

Sitting in the reply for a moment, Spencer followed up on his concerns, “How are you feeling? I mean, are you feeling sick again?”

“A bit, but I can handle it.”

Spencer could not see any changes in their behaviour from the day before. So obviously they were lying about that. But he didn’t protest. The lie meant Y/N wanted to stay with him, which was good - Spencer wanted that too.

They kept walking, only in silence for half a minute before Spencer broke it again, “I read your books last night.”

“Yeah?”

“‘The Siege of the Lost Faiths’ in Rogue’s Mask, that was our first game of chess.”

“It had by far the best narrative,” Y/N dragged their shoe a little on the grass before coming to a stop, “Do you still play?”

“All the time.”

They nodded over to where the old chess tables still stood, “Fancy a game before you go?”

Spencer grinned, “Just promise that this is the only setting where we’ll be on conflicting sides from now on.”

“Promise.”

Brushing the debris from the table, they both took their places opposite each other. From Y/N’s bag was revealed a box, spilling their painted chess pieces across the board. Remembering how they had stood in Y/N’s room, Spencer helped to set up the match. They took their seats opposite one another. Y/N was the green side, Spencer the purple.

Spencer moved first. After a second’s deliberation, Y/n moved their pawn.

“Isn’t there a story with this one?” Spencer said, an implicated teasing in his tone despite his shyness.

With an equally bashful eye roll, Y/N started their new story, “First begins the battle with the royals on both sides sending intrepid messengers to meet and pass along their deeds.”

Spencer took Y/N’s pawn. As he lifted their piece away, he spoke quietly, “One not as intrepid as the other.”

A gasp dropped from Y/N’s smile. He had never joined in the narrative telling before, always too taken up in the match to invest in whatever story they spun.

“He’s not a coward,” They said, still smiling, much to Spencer’s delight, “Prisoner’s dilemma, he just couldn’t trust the other with his life.”

“Did they know each other before this battle?”

“Yes,” Y/N moved a knight across, stealing Spencer’s pawn, “They were brothers who once shared a crib and now they share a grave.”

Throughout the game, Y/N continued the story with Spencer asking questions just to hear them talk more. The maturity of the stories had grown just as Y/N’s voice had. They knuckled their eyes a few times, but they didn’t complain about the headache.

“I know what endings you like,” Spencer moved his rook, “Checkmate in five.”

Y/N didn’t seem to mind that little dig, “This’ll have to be a short story instead then.”

Spencer’s next sentence got away from him, trailing off the closer he got to the end of it, “You could write an anthology series, if we see each other again and play more games.”

Where Spencer’s voice disappeared, Y/N’s returned with invigoration, “That’s not a half bad idea, Spencer.”

The checkmate never came. Y/N diverted the ending into a draw.

“A peace treaty has been forged by the survivors, because too many lives have been lost to justify this violence anymore. If only they realised sooner that no blood had to be shed for peace to rule the lands.” And they smiled at Spencer, clearly chuffed as they leaned back in their chair, “Bit of an upgrade from the horse noises, I’ll say.”

Spencer rotated the purple knight – the illusionist – between his thumb and forefinger, “I liked the horse noises.”

“You should have said during the match! I’d recreate them, for you.”

One by one, the pieces were placed back into their box until the last piece remained in Spencer’s palm: the knight or Soren the Illusionist, distractions and deceptions but he loved the tricks that delighted most of all. Just like Spencer with his magic tricks but a little to the left. The character was always one of Y/N’s favourites. Some solace away from the pain of thinking of who he was based on.

Y/N pushed Spencer’s hand away, closes his fist around it, “Keep him. He was made with you in mind anyway.”

The information sank in and Spencer’s nose wrinkled with the little smile on his face as he cupped the little Illusionist, “I’m Soren?”

Nodding, Y/N confirmed, “You’re Soren.”

“But what about your set though?”

“I can always make and paint another knight,” and Y/N tilted the piece upside down in Spencer’s hand, revealing the signature on the underside, “You and him are the originals, it’s only fair you stay together.”

In a moment of pure instinct and nostalgia, Spencer clicked his tongue as he twisted Soren in time with the noise. Y/N let out a burst of laughter that dragged the air out of Spencer’s chest.

“Hey, do you wanna get dinner tonight?” He said, running out of breath very quickly as a result.

It had a similar effect on Y/N, “I thought you – don’t you have to get back to Virginia?”

“I have time for dinner. For you.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The bookstore was packed but the breath of the patrons was held as one. All eyes were watching the mini stage where a crouching figure lifted their head up slowly. A jump as the tension broke with the figure leaping up to their feet with a bang.

Y/N pushed up the brim of their cap. Snatching a deep green hoodie from the purple trunk – silver constellations painted on the sides – they swung it over their back before picking up the page where they had left off.

“Nasima looked up at Mason and said, ‘Well that was just unnecessary.’”

A burst of laughter shot through the pre-teens in the front row, spreading to the adolescents sitting further back who had grown up with the author’s other works, finally reaching the adults at the back where Spencer was fiddling with his cane. He adjusted the sleeve of his costume absentmindedly. He was just like everyone else in the room: captivated by how Y/N was so immersed in their reading.

They had just mimed kicking down a door, plus sound effects from their mouth. Swapping back and forth between the two conflicting characters arguing with one another, changing between the hoodie and the cap with every other line of dialogue and taking both off for the role of the narrator, it was certainly a workout.

An exaggerated breath was drawn into Y/N’s lungs, flopping over in a melodramatic state, which caused another laugh in the audience.

Spencer’s nose scrunched up as he grinned. He knew this was part of the scene; he’d seen Y/N rehearse this story in their sitting room. It was so much better to share this with an audience, for their reactions to fuel Y/N’s energy.

Y/N finished the short story A Battle of Bent Truths with a flourish, leaving the rest of the anthology for their audience to read in their own time. The kids were up on their feet first. Some of them were jumping up and down as they applauded with the rest of the shop. Y/N gave a big grin as they bowed, sweeping their cap off for extra drama.

There was a book signing and a photographer that followed, and Spencer waited patiently at the end of the queue, thankful that the store allowed him to bring a chair along with him. He was happy to entertain his godson and friends with a few tricks to pass the time.

“Another one please!” Henry jumped up and down when Spencer revealed his card.

A minor commotion arose by the photographer’s backdrop. There was a teenager was crying; she was clutching her copy of Untold Tales of Human Nature. Y/N was holding their shoulders, rubbing gently and speaking softly. Only half paying attention to his next trick, Spencer kept an eye on Y/N as they hugged the teenager, looking near tears themselves.

“Spencer?” J.J tapped him on the shoulder and Spencer realised that Henry was looking a little mad to have lost his godfather’s attention so easily.

“Sorry, Henry, can you pick another card please?”

When they reached the front of the queue, JJ went up first and took Henry and his pals up to see Y/N. They instantly recognised JJ and welcomed her with a tight hug. Henry was delighted to see his favourite babysitter and show them off to his school friends, boasting that they had read to him before today.

“They read me bits for bedtime, Mommy!”

“I know!” JJ tickled his cheek, “I read them to you too.”

“Who do you like better?”

“Mommy,”

Y/N gasped, dropping to their knees which made Spencer wince, “Henry, you wound me!”

Rossi approach next, knowing that once Spencer got to Y/N, they would not be left alone.

“You really know how to captivate an audience,” He kissed them on both cheeks, “Though don’t take offence if I don’t use the same tricks at my readings.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it! Thank you for coming.”

Y/N then caught Spencer’s eye and began meandering over to him with a smile they were desperately trying to stifle. Spencer rose from his chair, meeting Y/N in the middle.

“Hi, Spencer.”

With his free arm, Spencer flaunted his cloak, “Who is Spencer? I’m Soren the Illusionist!”

Giggles from his godson, his godson’s gang, his co-workers and friends, they almost caused Y/N to lose their composure. They held on just long enough to continue the banter.

“Oh, forgive me, you look so much like my boyfriend.”

“Hmmm, he must be very handsome,”

And Y/N burst into peals of laughter, waving their hands about, “OK, stop, stop, stop, I can’t.”

“Hey!” Spencer pretended to take offence, pouting as Y/N brought him into a hug.

“Don’t worry,” They kissed his cheek between giggles, “You are so very handsome.”

“To think you were once sick at the sight of me.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #my writing #r: gender neutral #wc: 5k+

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katytheinspiredworkaholic · 3 years

Text

Correspondence, Chapter 04

Pairing: HotchReid

Summary: An AU where Reid never joined the FBI, but got roped into consulting for the LA field office while working and teaching at Caltech. Hotch gets his email referred from a fellow agent, and they start to work on cases together -- until they start talking on a regular basis. Regular becomes frequent, frequent becomes constant. They know nothing about each other, but they don't really mind.

Rating: Mature/Explicit (eventually)

Chapter CW/notes: Action-y in that there is offscreen violence and peril, injuries, talk of surgery and symptoms/effects of medical grade narcotics (morphine), more on that big ol’ age difference. Side notes: Agent Anderson of the L.A. field office has no relation to Agent Anderson of Quantico, VA, because Agent Anderson of the BAU is a national treasure. (I’m considering going back and renaming the OC, but as of right now this is the last we hear of him for a while). And I know no one really pays attention to them, but the time stamps on the texts match the time zone of the scene setting. Set in season 6, self beta’d.

Word Count: 8893

Masterpost Link

Ao3 Link

Chapter 04

Late September 2010

Spencer Reid wakes up to the early grey morning two weeks later, a perpetual haze shrouding his room long before his alarm was supposed to rouse him. He reaches blindly, blearing eyed and checks his phone for what feels like the hundredth time, only to find no messages waiting for him. A terrible, horrid feeling has been clawing at his chest and throat the longer it gets -- the more time that passes -- and he still hasn’t heard from Hotch.

They’ve been messaging each other near constantly for months now, and it only seemed to get more intense after that fateful talk at the beginning of September. Where Hotch finally revealed he’d thought Spencer was much older than him, and not the other way around. Spencer had set him straight, as much as he could, and even that had been nerve-wracking to say the least. The two men were crossing into a territory neither really wanted to put a label on, and Spencer was both afraid of it and excited by it. Of what it could mean, and how long it could last, but he’d thought he’d had time to figure out a solution to his inadvertent secrecy.

Then, Hotch began working a case in Delaware two days ago.

It seemed like a textbook unsub; maybe a little aggressive with anti-establishment overtones, but nothing they couldn’t handle. Nothing the BAU hasn’t seen before. They’d been closing in on the suspect, no location yet but some prospects that needed checking out, and the last Spencer had heard from Hotch…

It had been lunchtime for him, and midafternoon for the older man. The exchange hadn’t been anything of consequence, just their usual, easy correspondence. Hotch was going to check out that lead they’d spoken of, Spencer had a budget meeting as soon as he was done eating in the middle of his office hours, and they had a plan to play chess online that night. Hotch is still terrible at it, but he keeps coming back no matter how thoroughly Spencer wipes the floor with him. Now, sometimes they just forget about the game entirely after the first few minutes. It makes him smile each and every time, soft and fond and lighting a warmth inside him Spencer has… never felt before.

Then Hotch hadn’t messaged him the rest of the night.

Hadn’t shown up online to play chess.

Hadn’t texted him goodnight, or even sent him an update on the case.

Nothing in their conversations warranted such ostracization, and although Spencer has been ‘ghosted’ before (as his doctoral students would say) he knows Hotch would never do that. Not after everything, the history they’ve built the past months -- leaving nothing but the dread to sink in and spread like a stain.

All night, he imagines the worst.

By morning, he all but expects it.

[]9/22, 18:59[] Are you alright? Did something happen with the case?

[]9/22, 19:10[] If you were that scared of losing at chess, I can also beat you at online poker instead.

[]9/22, 19:30[] I’d suggest scrabble but that’s honestly not fair to you.

[]9/22, 21:55[] Hotch?

[]9/22, 22:30[] I’m assuming that lead panned out, and you caught your unsub and are neck deep in interrogation.

[]9/22, 22:36[] I don’t want to imagine anything else, so that’s what I will picture.

[]9/23, 00:06[] Hotch please answer me.

[]9/23, 05:32[] Please be okay.

Spencer arrives at Caltech looking a little more of a mess than usual. More than most are used to seeing him, at least, and it causes a few second glances from students he passes and other faculty -- but he really can’t find it in himself to care, this morning. His unruly curls, getting longer again, falling into his face and over his ears, are frizzy in their unkemptness. Bags under his eyes, normal, but he’s settled for glasses instead of his contacts. He has a spare pair in his desk, he’ll have to change them before class. His glasses somehow always make him look even younger. A mystery that boggles the mind, because once he had grown into his face a few years ago (around 26 or 27, close enough he had worried he would forever be cursed with a ‘baby face’) Spencer had thought he would finally be getting away from that.

And yet, square jaw and ‘grandpa’ glasses and thin frame towering just over six feet did nothing in the slightest to aid him. Certainly not stopping a man outside the campus coffee shop from shouting “Watch where you’re going, kid!” as he near barrels over him on the sidewalk. Not his sweater vest or half suits, attire straight out of a 1940’s noir film (he’d even sported a vintage inspired undercut with his waves combed over for a while there, too. Way too much upkeep, as nice as it looked). Nothing makes him any more grown up in the eyes of the unsuspecting world, than he’d been without his five doctorates and board of director’s seat. No matter what he tried, it seems.

This has been a subliminal thing for years, something Spencer always said didn’t bother him in the slightest. And for a long time he didn’t care one way or the other, he just kept getting more degrees. All his life Spencer has been ‘too young’, always been ‘kid’ or ‘sport’ or ‘tiger’, even when running quantum physics equations in his head. And it didn’t matter. Not with his credentials and accomplishments and everything he now has to his name.

Until Hotch.

Now, Spencer cares.

Notices, even through his haze of worry and sleeplessness, how on the street it’s “Watch it, kid!” and fifteen yards later it’s “Good morning, Dr. Reid” as he steps into the Physics building where everyone knows him on sight. Knows him, and what he’s capable of.

What if when Hotch met him all he saw was… another kid?

If they ever met.

“Whoa, rough night Dr. Reid?”

“Yes, you could say that,” he mumbles out as he signs in and scans his ID card, taking the stack of mail that the desk attendant hands him. But stops before he gets too far from the desk, backtracking. “Hey, have you watched the news this morning? Did anything show up about New England or Delaware?”

“Not that I saw, Dr. Reid,” she says in confusion, looking up from where she had been texting on her phone. “Just a whole lot of coverage on the shitshow at capital hill, as usual. Oh, and more depressing reports about the earthquake clean-up in New Zealand.”

Of course, why would there be a news story about a killer in Delaware here in California. He’d have to look up everything online himself.

“Thanks anyway, Carla.”

“No problem, Dr. Reid.”

Spencer spends way too long online that morning, searching for anything about the case Hotch and his team are working. He usually prefers paper copies of news media, at first barely knowing where to begin, but he falls into a wormhole of news outlets and local Delaware station websites, reading the thousands of webpages faster than he can scroll and click through them. But he can’t find anything pointing to a disturbance related to the case. There's nothing about a raid, or a shooting, or even an arrest -- which could all just be a part of the ongoing media blackout -- but it also does nothing to stop him from panicking. Spencer gives up after an hour, and diverts to other resources. Ones with a direct line to Hotch.

With a drafted email pulled up to Ms. Penelope Garcia, the BAU's personal tech analyst, he ponders how to... even word this without it sounding too personal. Too much like he and Hotch have more than just a working relationship.

Because they do. They have... something.

Something that gives him fluttering sensations in his stomach, makes him check his phone constantly, and react to even the slightest chime similar to his text tone. Makes him smile when he sees Hotch's name on his notifications, in his email inbox, makes him message the man in the middle of the day at the most random thoughts. Just because he wants to make him laugh.

[]8/21, 15:36[] You're going to get me in trouble.

[]8/21, 15:38[] You didn’t laugh in front of your team, did you? The scandal.

[]8/21, 15:42[] I'm at a crime scene. There's a dead body in front of me.

[]8/21, 15:43[] Then why are you checking your phone?

[]8/21, 15:45[] You know why.

But that’s not something that is shared with the rest of the team, he’s sure. So he should be careful how he words his email, lest Ms. Garcia realize that Spencer isn’t asking purely as a colleague.

Surely they know he has friends, though?

Chewing his lip, Spencer types out a brief email asking if Agent Hotchner is feeling well since he missed an appointment the night before and hasn’t been returning his calls. It’s a phrase he’s used often, so it comes naturally to Spencer as he types it out, and he realizes… he hasn’t called. He’s sent a dozen text messages, but not a phone call. Never a phone call. That was against the rules, the unspoken ones that always kept this friendship easy and free-flowing and evolving into something more.

But this feels like the closest to an emergency they’ve ever encountered before.

He looks to his phone beside him on his desk, and tries to fight back the dueling forms of panic clawing at his chest. Listed in bullet points behind his eyes. Panic that Hotch might not answer, panic what that means for the man he’s been… becoming more and more inclined to than any other person he’s met in so long. Panic if he does answer, breaking that barrier of written words to spoken, and the opportunity to hear Hotch’s voice. But he would also hear Spencer’s, and then there would be no hiding just how… how young he really is. He still didn’t have a plan for that, wracking his overworked brain day and night for a way to incorporate the information into a conversation that wouldn’t stop everything in its tracks.

But his phone is in his hand before he can stop himself, Hotch’s contact pulled up and his thumb hovering over the phone number with baited breath.

Was he really going to do this?

He presses the touch screen and can hear the line connecting, the dial tone ring even before he gets the phone up to his ear and waits. It rings, and rings, and rings a fourth time -- before clicking over to voicemail. And Spencer’s hyper-fast thought processes fail him as he realizes far too late that he’s going to hear Hotch’s voice for the first time, anyway. Frozen in a panic, unsure if he wants to or if that had been something he wanted them to do together that the seconds slip by like water through his fingers and suddenly it’s too late.

“You’ve reached the voicemail box of -- (703)-567-8790 -- this caller is not available. Please leave a message after the tone--”

It’s an automated, female voice that rattles off the numbers and generic call back message, and Spencer hangs up before it can begin recording him. Exhaling a shaky breath, relief a flash flood on his nerves that nothing had been ruined between him and Hotch thanks to an ill-timed phone call.

He keeps the momentum going without much thought, and adjusts his email to Ms. Garcia before sending it.

It feels so understated, and yet over dramatic the more he thinks about it. The more he reads it.

Please let me know of his well-being.

God, no wonder Hotch thought he was in his 60’s.

But Spencer has to keep the façade up, for now, not give away anything he doesn’t want to just because the emotional part of his brain is running rampant over the rational one. There are… many explanations as to why Hotch isn’t answering him. His gut feeling aside, he doesn’t need to be panicking like this. The world is still turning, he still has work to do, so Spencer tries to gather himself into some semblance of order and preps to talk to his doctoral students within the hour.

His morning routine progresses as usual, as if nothing at all is wrong with the world. Dr. Reid has his mandatory round up with his doctoral candidates going over thesis and dissertation parameters, class lecture schedules, updates, the works. Like morning announcements, but he requires them all to be there and to listen, and they all show up. Everyone knows of Spencer’s eidetic memory. He will certainly not forget a single date or schedule change, and he expects his students to not forget as well.

But this morning Spencer is fully distracted, his mind elsewhere, somewhere in the state of Delaware with an agent who may or may not be in danger. Because Spencer cannot shake the feeling that something is wrong. It almost seems more like a fact than a feeling. The juxtaposition of his daily routine and this unfounded worry throws him entirely off kilter, and all of his students seem to know right away.

Then, his distraction reaches its peak when his email pings, right in the middle of his department announcements. A response from Ms. Garcia of Quantico, VA flashing across his laptop screen. Spencer’s eyes skim the preview sentence in the pop-up box, and his voice trails off as his mind… whirls.

Dr. Reid, I’m sorry to tell you I don’t know when Hotch will be available again. There was an incident, and he’s still in surg-

Surgery.

That vice-like grip of worry that has taken hold of him since last night tightens further, to the point Spencer can’t breathe. Hotch is in surgery, Hotch is hurt, and if he hasn’t been answering his phone since last night -- or even late yesterday afternoon -- it was not a minor thing.

Hotch is hurt.

She doesn’t know when he will be--

If he will be --

“Dr. Reid? Are you okay?”

“I--” he’s still looking at the email pop-up box, and is clicking on it before he can stop himself. Immediately disconnecting his laptop from the projector as his email loads there. It takes him a fraction of a second to read the email. “I’m sorry, an emergency just came up. Kimmy, finish reading off the schedule for me?” He doesn’t even wait until she answers him, just picks up his laptop and retreats to his office as fast as his long legs will carry him.

--surgery and we’re still waiting on word. I know you 2 talk on the reg so I’ll keep you posted.

Fret not, genius professor, our fearless leader has been through much worse than this.

She’s using informal speech patterns, which she has never done before. It bleeds her nervousness, and worries Spencer even more. Teetering on the edge of panic. Ms. Garcia also revealed she knows he and Hotch talk, but surprisingly that doesn’t have the effect he thought it would on his already rattled nerves. Instead, any and all reservations fall away as he types out a response much in the same way he and Hotch had started their friendship all those months ago.

Please, is there anything you are allowed to tell me about the case or his condition? We --

Spencer pauses, bites his lip as he considers crossing this boundary into the uncomfortable unknown, and then thinks about Hotch on a hospital operating table three thousand miles away.

“Screw it,” he mutters and continues to type.

--We’ve become good friends and I’m very worried.

The reply is almost immediate.

That makes 2 of us, boy wonder, but I’m already hacked into the hospital records database and Prentiss is in the waiting room for any immediate actions.

I’m sending you the case files and the incident report from last night. Maybe you can see some shiz we can’t b/c the bossman is tough but he’s been in surgery a long time.

Of course, whatever he can do to help. Spencer’s heavy heart-beat triples in his chest as pulls up the files and immediately prints them out so he can read through them faster. Utilizing anything and everything he can do to aid the BAU team, and whatever Hotch has gotten himself into. But then, his mind sticks on something from the email. Boy Wonder. It stalls his hands mid-movement.

Ms. Garcia knows how young he is.

She must have done a background check on him, that would make sense since he’s been consulting so much lately. But why would Garcia know his age, and not Hotch? Wouldn’t she send the files to him directly? Had Hotch really known, all along?

Or did she do it on her own, and not tell him? Assuming her boss already knew everything about him. It’s too many questions and possibilities and they are interfering with what’s most important right now. Best to get it out of the way, no time to be indirect about it.

Ms. Garcia, did you update my dossier with the bureau after you ran my background check?

If you’re referring to why Hotch seems to think you’re rocking the senior discount at restaurants and not still getting carded for beer, then no I didn’t update it. I’m very anti-gov files having every detail of our lives in them, that’s what I’m for, and I figured there was a reason he didn’t know. Your secret is safe with me, sugar bean.

Spencer hadn’t meant for it to be a secret at all, it just happened that way.

The real reason is Agent Anderson of the LA field office is a dick, with a bully streak he never outgrew after high school, and didn’t bother filling out a full file on him the first time Spencer consulted for the FBI. Then, he couldn’t be bothered to update it when his consultations became more than a one time thing.

But that was all in the past now, and Spencer can’t even be upset about it. Because now he has Hotch.

Thank you, Ms. Garcia. I’ll let you know my findings soon.

He skims the file quickly, pulling information out at lightning speed. It appears a very straight-forward case. As straight-forward as a murderous sociopath can be, anyway. Very anti-establishment, like he and Hotch had discussed the previous day, aiming for specified targets that devolved to anyone in a uniform. Anyone who appears too official, or labels as official.

It’s easy to see, now, why the unsub attacked Hotch instead of running from him. He practically served himself up on a silver platter. But there’s something about the kills that’s bothering Spencer. The knife wounds, bludgeoning, even the gunshots during the first murders when the unsub still hesitated -- it’s all overkill. Rage. Every single target has died from massive internal bleeding, M.E. reports all label the knife wounds and beatings as the cause. But the amount of blood left over, measured during autopsy, doesn’t add up. They bled too much. No wounds indicating intentional bleeding occurred, and the tox screens are all clean.

Except, every victim’s hospital records show elevated potassium rates. Spencer’s hands, skimming down each and every page quick as they can, stop on a dime as his gaze zero in on the information.

“Oh, God,” Spencer whispers, quiet and horrified. “--Hotch.”

There’s no time for email.

He picks up his phone, goes to an older email that has full contact details in the footer, and dials Ms. Garcia’s direct line in Quantico.

“Speak, and behold greatness.”

“Ms. Garcia, it’s Dr. Reid,” Spencer says, and his tone and quickened speech patterns gives way to his panic.

“Dr-- Dr. Reid?”

“Yes, quick there’s no time. Do you have Hotch’s hospital records in front of you still?”

“Yes,” Garcia says, her voice a musical thing even in it’s breathless reaction to his heightened state of haste. “Updated every two minutes.”

“Is his potassium elevated?”

Some quick typing of keys that move faster than even he could ever hope to type. “...Yes.”

God. “Okay, okay I need you to call the hospital right now,” Spencer says in a spiel that all sounds like one word. “Whatever you have to do, he needs Sodium Polystyrene Sulfonate as soon as possible, to counteract the chemical imbalance or he’s going to go into kidney failure and bleed out.”

There’s more typing going on and Ms. Garcia’s breathing has gone a little labored.

“Alright, alright I’m getting patched through. What else can you tell me?”

“I think he’s been dosed with something called an XG Compound, either Eastman or Zhao I have to look up the specific components and chemist. But they are a series of banned, experimental military-grade drugs that suffer effects of thinning the blood, that’s why they can’t stop the bleeding around his stab wounds and old scar tissue.” Hotch’s old wounds from Foyet would only exacerbate the condition, once it reached the kidney failure stage, but up until then the intrusions of hardened tissue is the only reason his abdominal cavity hasn’t been flooded with blood and drowned out his other organs.

“Okay, okay I’m through, I’m keeping you on the line. Stand by-- ” then she clicks over and he’s left with a pulsating silence. Nothing remaining but continuing his work, and hoping he’d called in time. Hoping that Hotch will be alright.

Spencer is digging through his floor to ceiling bookshelves for the biology book on airborne pathogens given to him by a visiting Professor two years ago and he is hating himself for never cracking it in that moment. It’s nearly the last book he gets a hand on, because of course it is, and he makes it a third of the way through the book before Garcia is back on the line. The phone on the floor beside him and just barely within reach.

“You literal genius, I could kiss you,” Garcia tells him in what can only be overstated relief, and Spencer snatches up his phone with a very undignified scramble. “They’ve had to do two transfusions on him and are prepping a third, but you were right he’s been dosed with that XG compound.”

“He’s going to be okay?” Spencer asks, still cross-legged on his office floor surrounded by books and holding his phone to his ear like a lifeline.

“Yes, yes my dear he’s going to be alright. They think. He’s not out of the woods yet and the surgery is still going on, but he -- he would have died within the next hour if you hadn’t found out what was wrong.”

Spencer’s heart is in his throat, her words doing the exact opposite of reassuring him. Hotch had been that close to dying, to being forever out of reach, because Spencer had been too scared to pick up the phone.

“I should have called sooner,” he says, so quiet even someone in the room wouldn’t have heard him correctly. “I knew something was wrong.”

“Oh no, sugar don’t think like that. You just saved his life,” she pauses, like she wants to say something else, but diverts to an adjacent topic. “How did you know?”

“Autopsy reports. There wasn’t enough blood left in the bodies, they bled out too quickly. Then I saw the elevated Potassium,” he murmurs it all, rattled off without really thinking about it.

“And you just… knew all of that, without looking anything up?”

“That’s basically what I do. The only reason anyone calls me,” Spencer laughs but it holds no humor. “I know too much, make connections, and drink too much coffee.”

“You drink and know things, oh God I hope you get that reference because you’re getting a coffee mug.”

Spencer laughs a little, despite the situation, and feels… lighter, somehow, even with the worry still plaguing him. Caught up in his chest like a bad cold.

“I’m reading this textbook on airborne pathogens, I have a hunch, and I’ll send you anything I find that can help with the case,” Spencer continues, his voice not so heavy for a moment. “Just… tell me when he’s out of surgery? Keep me posted?”

“Of course, honey, you’ll be my first message,” Ms. Garcia assures him, but then she pauses again -- and he almost hangs up because it feels too anticipatory. “You should tell him, B.T.Dubs.”

Spencer hesitates more than is probably necessary.

“... I don’t know what good that will do,” he admits, quiet and unsure. “I’m not -- I’m not ready for this to be over.”

“You’re not that young, honey. Does he know you like him?”

“Mmhmm,” Spencer makes a nervous, affirmative sound. “And… he likes me, or who he thinks I am.”

“Don’t write him off just yet, Doc, let him speak for himself when he wakes up,” Ms. Garcia all but scolds him, in as gentle a way as possible and Spencer appreciates that, at least.

“--I’ll think about it.”

Not long after Spencer finds what he’s looking for: military grade poisons that were banned for causing adverse effects, listed and categorized by chemist and agency. It is the Eastman compound, originated during the first invasion of Afghanistan. Their unsub has prolonged exposure, Spencer is sure, and that will narrow down the suspect pool immensely.

After he sends the information to Ms. Garcia, Spencer looks to his phone once more, where there is a block of text all from him himself in his correspondence with Hotch. Begging him to be alright, to answer him, and now that he knows that the man has a fighting chance -- or as much of one as he will be able to have, with where advanced medicine resides in the current conjecture of time -- there really isn’t much he can do now. But hope. And wait. And pray.

Except Spencer doesn’t believe in prayer, or God, or anything that might hear him. The only thing he really believes in is science, and facts, and none of that is very helpful to him right now. Except maybe the coincidental balance of the universe, in a theoretical physics sense, and unexplained phenomenon that have an equal and spatial balance to it. Anything with the descriptor ‘unexplained’ always draws him in like a moth to flame, and he knows he can typically find a semblance of comfort in the way his brain constantly connects dots and far off specks of information that not everyone can see at first glance. Constellations in the sky. But only when he has someone to tell it to, that even pretends to listen for a moment, and for a long while now… Hotch has been that someone. Hotch always listens to him.

Before he knows it, he’s typing into the text box once more --

[]9/23, 11:10[] You’re in surgery still, but Ms. Garcia has confirmed the treatments are working and they are able to actually repair the damage instead of treading water like they have been the past ten hours. I’ve had her personally in contact with the doctors and surgical staff, and all they’ve been able to tell us is to let them work and just pray for you.

[]9/23, 11:13[] Which is such an odd thing; men of science telling people to pray like the outcome of a surgery isn’t in their hands, but some theoretical astronomical entity. I know it’s probably just a ‘bedside-manner’ tactic, but it doesn’t help me in the slightest so it just irks me instead.

[]9/23, 11:15[] I don’t believe in prayer -- a shock, I’m sure -- but I do believe in the phenomenon of universal affirmation. It’s an interesting trend in history and spans cultures where if someone has something awaiting them, to live for, even if they are unaware of it… they will fight harder to cling to life.

[]9/23, 11:18[] But I also know you will fight tooth and nail for Jack, and for your team that you treat like family, and maybe even me. I’d like to hope I’m included in that, and no amount of books or IQ points can make me think of something to contribute to help you keep fighting.

[]9/23, 11:19[] Just please keep fighting. Come back. And if I come up with something to entice you… I’ll let you know.

It eases a lot of the tension in his chest, talking to Hotch like this -- even if he’s just talking at him, in a place where he might never know what Spencer has had to say. But he can hope. Hope that Hotch will wake up and have thirty missed messages and see they are all from Spencer and it will make him smile.

Spencer would give anything to see him smile, and he allows himself to hope that one day... he might get to.

He might as well, while he’s sitting there hopelessly hoping for things beyond his control.

Come back to me.

Spencer almost types it out, can see it in the text window though he hasn’t pressed a single letter, and closes his phone before he can. Pressing it to his mouth and closing his eyes and just…

Hoping.

The hours roll over into the afternoon, and there’s still no word.

Spencer has spent the majority of the day messaging Ms. Garcia, who has had no information beyond trivial updates here and there and Spencer has read more about surgical procedures and practices than he has in his entire life. Even raided the biology department’s library, surrounding himself with the comfort of books and files and filled his head with the soothing monotony of medical terms and safety protocols.

But once noon has come and gone he finds himself staring into the bookshelves across from where he sits on the floor, among stacks of textbooks, with an epiphany trying to make itself known to him. Despite his every attempt to ignore it.

His phone is back in his hand, there’s an email correspondence from Ms. Garcia that only briefly says Still nothing. And that makes up Spencer’s mind.

[]9/23, 12:49[] I’ve thought of something.

What he types next makes it hard to breathe, his heart lodged in his throat, and it all comes flowing out of him much like before. His fingers keep moving, his emotional part of his brain steam-rolls over the rational one, and then he’s done and he’s tacked on six extra messages and Spencer has to put his phone away before he rereads it beyond what is deemed healthy or sane.

Because he’s done what he could, and all he can do is believe that will be enough to… subliminally keep Hotch fighting. The day is only half over, and Spencer feels like he hasn’t slept in a week.

It would be hours before he got the message that would send relief through his spine like a shot of Novocain. Just three words from Ms. Garcia, sent in haste in a text instead of an email.

{}9/23, 14:58{} He’s in recovery.

Hotch wakes up just barely the first time, the room spinning and hit with that familiar smell of anesthesia he can always taste as it fills his senses, before he slips back under.

The second time is to a small pencil light being flashed in his eyes, staccato movements meant to test his pupil reactions, and an older woman in nurse’s scrubs saying his name and calling to him. He hums an affirmative, even though he isn’t fully returned to a working state of mind. Instinct, more than clarity.

“Welcome back, Agent Hotchner.”

“About damn time,” he hears Prentiss say from somewhere across the room. Probably leaning the wall, if that faux drone is anything to go by. The nurse gives her a look but his agent isn’t even fazed by it, as far as Hotch can see. It takes him a moment for his eyes to adjust that far. But he knows the look well enough he doesn’t actually have to see it.

“Where is everyone? Is anyone else hurt?” Hotch can feel the words form on his tongue, droned out in a haze, his mind slowly coming back to him.

“Good to see you, too, boss,” Prentiss says in mild exacerbation, coming up to the side of his bed but not taking a seat. She must have been waiting a long time, her whole stance jittery just like after long flights on cases. “Everyone is fine, you’re the only one that got into a knife fight with an unsub who’s into biological warfare.” Hotch blinks at her, trying to make her words make sense without asking it of her. He remembers going to a warehouse to follow a lead, but not much else after that. It’s coming back too slowly to keep up with her. Prentiss just sighs, and repeats herself. “Everyone is fine.”

She regales him with a play by play, his own memories appearing like raindrops on a windshield to accompany her commentary. Slowly beginning to form a picture of what had happened. He’d been stabbed before, more than he cares to think about, and he’s been dosed with military-grade drugs before as well -- but never both at the same time. No wonder he feels like he’s been hit by a truck.

“You’re lucky to be alive, honestly,” she points out, hip resting against the plastic side panels of his hospital bed.

“Yeah, I’m gathering that.”

“And your phone has been blowing up like crazy.”

Hotch is finally able to sit up enough and see straight without his vision swimming, to find that his agent does indeed have his cell phone in her hands.

“What?”

“Yeah, eight missed calls and three voicemails, and--” she squints at the screen before looking at him in astonished confusion, “eighty-seven missed text messages, from a whole bunch of people. I’m not reading through all of them. I didn’t know you were that popular.”

“I’m the Unit Chief, popularity has nothing to do with it,” Hotch deadpans, more himself. Wanting to reach for his phone but his arms are still dealing with pins and needles sensations, sluggish to lift and his fingers uncooperative. “Who called me eight times?”

“Let’s see,” she unlocks his phone -- somehow, god damn it Prentiss -- and scrolls through his notifications. “Two calls from Jessica, one from me, three from Strauss (Jesus), one from Dr. Reid, and one from Garcia. It doesn’t say who the voicemails are from.”

Hotch suddenly feels much more alert, his heart rate monitor picking up but he does his best not to draw attention to it, instead looking up at Prentiss as carefully guarded as he ever is.

“Dr. Reid called?” he tries to keep his voice even, and unaffected, but the aftereffects of the drugs in his system leave a little more hitch in his voice than he would have liked.

“Yeah, he’s been talking to Garcia,” Prentiss says without much comment, still scrolling through his phone and making Hotch a little more than nervous. “Busted the case wide open, and saved your life while he was at it. We never would have known you were dosed with something if he hadn’t figured it out. Think you owe that old man a fruit basket.”

“Can I have my phone back?”

“Don’t think you’re supposed to have it,” she says without looking up, still scrolling through his notifications. “Lots of junk e-mail…”

“One of those voicemails is probably Jack, I should call and let them know I’m alright,” Hotch tries to reason with her.

“He and Jess are already on their way up, they’ll land in an hour,” Prentiss tells him, but looks over her shoulder for that nurse as she makes to hand Hotch his phone anyway. Still hesitant despite her predilections to breaking every rule she can get away with.

“I still want it back,” Hotch insists, regretting saying it as soon as he does.

It catches Prentiss’ attention a little too sharply. “...why?” But at Hotch’s steady stare and solid silence, unwavering like he hadn’t just been in surgery for hours on end, she finally relents and hands it over, still giving him a suspicious look.

“It’s important,” he finally admits, when she doesn’t stop staring for a good couple of minutes. Those perfectly shaped eyebrows raise near to her hairline, the profiler in her connecting more dots than should be humanly possible.

A small smile teases her lips, though not fully forming there. “Now I wish I’d read them.”

Hotch just gives her a reprimanding look of his own, but it’s short lived.

“Thank you, for staying.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Prentiss assures him, her smile going softer. “I’ll leave you to your mystery woman.” A beat, another raised eyebrow. “Person.” A knowing look, but then she exits and Hotch is able to look at his phone at his own discretion.

Hotch goes through the text messages with a brief glance; there’s so many of them. Other agents and agencies, his team in a group chat Garcia had started, Jessica left fifteen before someone got a hold of her, and Jack’s school sending reminders about soccer and parent teacher conferences.

But 39 are from Spencer, and his heart constricts in his chest at the worry he must have caused the man. Aches next to the scars on his chest and the blood that doesn’t belong to him in his veins. And somewhere in the recesses of his mind, it’s coupled with a torturous feeling of longing. Even subtle jealousy, because even half drugged out of his mind Hotch hadn’t missed the precise word choices Prentiss used. Garcia has been talking to Spencer -- talking.

Garcia got to hear him.

She talked to Spencer, when he still hadn’t, because of some unspoken rule Hotch isn’t even sure when they decided upon. He still knew so little about the man, and Spencer’s voice could tell him so much with just a few words. He could fill volumes with what he would learn from just a single message --

Without much further thought, Hotch pulls up his voice mail. Listens to the automated voices and the three messages there. None are from Spencer, although his heart had beat a little harder in anticipation -- enough his heart monitor beeped audibly next to him. Embarrassing as that was, like a lovestruck teenager. He’d glared at it and centered his breathing until his heart rate slowed back down, not wanting to alert the nurses station. Two of the voicemails are from Jessica’s phone, one of her worried out of her mind, and the other of Jack telling him they are coming to see him and he hopes he feels better soon. Just listening to his son speak more strongly than his aunt had or anyone else should in his situation, telling his daddy he loves him while the sounds of a commercial airline filter through the background, makes Hotch want to smile and sob all at once.

The last voicemail is from Garcia, telling him a similar story to what Prentiss had earlier, but with a bit more detail on her end. How ‘Dr. Reid’ called her out of the blue, because there had been no time for his usual emails, and gave them the information that saved his life. He’d been working the case diligently, ever since, and was checking up on him a lot. More than a lot. ‘Let him know you’re okay, when you wake up and get this. The poor guy is worried sick, and my updates only give him so much comfort.’

Spencer had actually called Garcia, when he hasn’t physically spoken to anyone in Quantico the entire time he’s consulted for them, just to save a few precious seconds to relay what he’d found. He’d even broken their rule, probably before hand, and called Hotch -- just to make sure he was okay. Hadn’t stopped working to help, the moment he found out he wasn’t.

It’s a strange thought, that if not for Spencer -- Hotch would be dead. That Jack would be flying up here for a very different reason.

Hotch switches over to the text messages with a lump in his throat. Not at all prepared, emotionally, but needing to know.

The 39 messages start from the night before, when they were supposed to have had their usual online chess date. They range from playful banter, teasing edged in worry, and escalate to panic as the night wears on. Anxious worry bleeding through the single sentences, building and building until that lump in his throat feels like it might block off all air soon.

Please be okay.

God, that alone starts to set a tone -- and reveals something Hotch hadn’t expected to find. Those three words give way to his speech pathology training, and all indicate that Spencer is… very likely younger than he’d originally thought. Some of Hotch’s assumptions might be close, even the teasing ones he’d only said because he’d been sure they were wrong. The other man is obviously beyond worried about him, as well. Petrified, despite knowing the risks of his job. They had become so close the past few months, were most definitely past the flirting stage and into something so tentative and wonderful Hotch can barely believe it some days. But they had never talked about this, about the possibility that Hotch might walk into a situation one day and not walk back out of it.

Spencer’s messages soon give way to him just… talking at Hotch. Relaying what was happening, philosophical rants meant to ease his own mind and Hotch finds himself smiling softly at the man’s constant stream of thought, lectures at genius levels that he still feels so compelled to share with Hotch. Because they are that close. They really, truly, are -- and it brightens the fluttering feeling in his chest all the more. How Spencer is trying, subliminally, to draw Hotch back to the light. Three thousand miles away.

Please come back.

Hotch hears it loud and clear, the come back to me. Even unwritten. And it makes his heart skip a beat, aching as it does.

Then…

[]9/23, 15:49[] I’ve thought of something.

[]9/23, 15:52[] I’m 29.

Hotch doesn’t understand, at first. But then it hits him.

Years.

29 years.

Spencer is 29 years old. Proven, further, by the following messages sent after that.

[]9/23, 15:56[] I’m a certified child prodigy, on a registry and everything. I graduated high school at just twelve years old, and had my first Ph.D. by 15. Youngest in CalTech history.

29.

Jesus Christ, no wonder he hadn’t wanted to tell Hotch his age. 29 is… far younger than he expected.

When Spencer was born, Hotch was getting his driver’s license. 16 years difference in age…

He keeps reading, despite the numb aftermath of a bomb going off inside his head, trying to process it and also hear the younger man out.

Younger. Spencer is 16 years younger than Hotch, and he finds himself scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up further as he reads what Spencer sent.

[]9/23, 15:57[] I turn 30 at the end of October, and I was trying to wait until then to tell you.

[]9/23, 16:00[] I’ve noticed a prominent dynamic shift in perception, between listing my age as in my 20’s and ‘almost 30’. It’s a numerical allusion our brains can’t help. You hear 29, you think 21. It happens with decades, too, once someone is outside the familial range of 10 years. +/- either side.

[]9/23, 16:02[] An age gap doesn’t sound as bad when I’m 30. That’s why I wanted to wait, just a little while longer, but if that universal affirmation phenomenon actually works for us -- I don’t mind dealing with the consequences.

[]9/23, 16:03[] Just please come back.

[]9/23, 16:07[] Please be okay.

[]9/23, 16:10[] I miss you.

His heart is about to be ripped to shreds.

Hotch feels terrible, because Spencer is right. 29 sounds so young, and it keeps repeating in his head over and over. But 29 isn’t the same as 21, he isn’t some college student still stumbling around trying to figure out his life. He has five Ph.D.’s, runs three departments at one of the best universities in the country, is consulted by the FBI and Homeland Security and very obviously has a reputation he upholds to the highest regard. Hotch had guessed Spencer was 32 not so long ago, what was the big difference between that and his actual age? From what little Spencer just shared of his life story, he’s never gotten to be a kid, so who was Hotch to consider him one? What gave him the right to be floored by this, did it actually change what he thought of Spencer? How he felt about him only moments prior to reading that?

I miss you. Come back. Please be okay.

I’m 29.

It could be the recent flirtation with death, the anesthesia or the morphine, even the gratitude that Hotch will get to see his son again and not leave him without both his parents -- there’s so many reasons for him to take pause as he considers the messages in front of him.

But it feels a lot like the months of talking, and the countless late nights spent together, that pile up and up in his chest. A rising pressure that reminds Hotch that he and Spencer have something, and it’s not a normal, regular situation for either of them. Something that precedent, and everything Hotch has ever been told to hold to standard, doesn’t seem to fit. He and Spencer don’t seem to fit, when looked at afar or even on paper -- but they do. They really do. It was never supposed to be something that could be this easy, or normal in any capacity.

But what about their lives ever was?

[]9/23, 18:26[] I’m so sorry I worried you.

[]9/23, 18:26[] I miss you, too.

[]9/23, 18:27[] If I stop answering you, the nurse took my phone away. I hate hospitals.

[]9/23, 18:29[] Hotch, you scared me to death.

[]9/23, 18:30[] I know, I’m sorry.

[]9/23, 18:31[] From what I heard, you saved my life.

[]9/23, 18:33[] I don’t even know how to begin thanking you for that.

[]9/23, 18:36[] Just get better.

[]9/23, 18:38[] Which means resting, don’t glare at your nurses too much. They’re there to help you.

There’s a long stretch of a pause in their correspondence, which picks up so smooth and easy it’s as if they had never stopped. Like the last few days hadn’t happened at all. But they had, they were both looking at the messages to prove that. He does take pause, maybe more than he should, and Hotch knows miles away Spencer is just as nervous. Staring at his phone.

Hotch isn’t wrong. Spencer let out such an exclamation of relief at Hotch’s name on his notifications he about sobbed with it. He never cries, hasn’t in years -- but his eyes sting with relief and worry and… an emotion he doesn’t want to name.

[]9/23, 18:44[] What day is your birthday?

[]9/23, 18:45[] October 28th.

[]9/23, 18:45[] Same week as mine. November 2nd.

Hotch pauses, again, considers his next response… and 3,000 miles away Spencer can barely blink as he stares at his phone with mounting dread.

[]9/23, 18:49[] I understand why you didn’t want to tell me. It’s alright.

[]9/23, 18:51[] Am I correct in assuming you’ve never been in a relationship with this much of an age gap?

It takes Hotch a moment to even gather the courage to type that out and send it. Knows it sounds almost too formal, for them, but Hotch also knows that he and Spencer are balanced on the edge of a knife, here, and… no matter what the outcome, everything is about to change between them.

Spencer licks his lips in nervousness, reading the line over and over although he has no need to. It feels like a tipping point, and he’s still… terrified this will be his last conversation with Hotch outside of case work. Ever.

[]9/23, 18:55[] Never.

[]9/23, 18:57[] I haven’t had many relationships at all. My peer groups have always been older than me, and people my own age never understood me enough to be interested. So it’s just something I was used to, going without.

[]9/23, 18:59[] This has been… the closest thing to what I’ve been told is normal that I’ve ever experienced. I’ve never had the chance to have something like this with someone, or connect in this way. I gave up, for a long while there.

[]9/23, 19:01[] I’ve been in a similar situation before, on an intellectual spectrum.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never--

Hotch pauses, again, putting his thoughts in order. Weighing it all, before taking that final leap. Spencer waiting with baited breath, all the more.

But Hotch doesn’t regret what he sends. Not one bit.

[]9/23, 19:03[] I’ve never dated anyone younger than me like this, before, so we’ll both be on a learning curve.

[]9/23, 19:03[] But we will figure it out. Together.

Spencer’s breath catches, and he can’t seem to release it again. He can’t believe what he’s reading. What Hotch has sent him.

He said ‘dated’.

He thought they were dating. Spencer isn’t quite sure he can trust his own eyes, despite the words being there in stark black and white on his phone screen.

[]9/23, 19:06[] Dating?

Hotch smiles, because he just knows -- from that single word text -- that Spencer has sent it not in admonishment or anything negative of the sort. But in hope. Confident that he recognizes the nuance in Spencer's voice even without ever having heard it, Hotch just knows, and it makes warmth blossom anew in his chest. Sends his heart rate monitor skittering across the machine all over again.

[]9/23, 19:08[] Hate to be the one to tell you, but all of those late nights where we talked for hours instead of playing chess? Those were dates.

Spencer has his hand over his mouth, still in disbelief that he hadn’t… fucked this up beyond repair. That his age hadn’t been the deal breaker he’d feared so vehemently for months now. That everything is still as it was, age difference and life-threatening situation, aside.

They were dating. All this time.

[]9/23, 19:10[] I should have worn nicer clothes.

Hotch laughs at his phone at the same time Spencer laughs at his own, having reread what he’d sent.

3,000 miles away, and their quiet laughter coincides perfectly.

[]9/23, 19:11[] Our next one I’m sure I’ll be in a hospital gown, so I think you’re in the clear.

[]9/23, 19:12[] Sounds like you’re making plans, already.

[]9/23, 19:12[] You still need rest.

[]9/23, 19:14[] Well, I have to thank you somehow. And, I saw something about poker instead of chess? I’m actually not bad at poker.

[]9/23, 19:15[] … you remember I’m from Vegas, right?

[]9/23, 19:16[] We’ll play for fake money.

[]9/23, 19:18[] No such thing.

[]9/23, 19:19[] I do play for favors, though.

[]9/23, 19:19[] Oh?

Hotch feels a wild, youthful thing unfurl in his chest as he types away. Mischievous, almost, in a way he only gets when he and Spencer are hours deep into conversations in the middle of the night. But it’s broad daylight, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling too wide. Getting lost in the thrill of it all. In the officiality of it, now, and another curtain unveiled between them.

[]9/23, 19:20[] Did you have something in mind?

Spencer has to be blushing seven shades of red, right about now, and he hides his face from his phone for a moment before he realizes how ridiculous that is -- Hotch can’t see him. He can stop messaging the man any time he wants to.

Except he doesn’t want to.

[]9/23, 19:24[] I’ll get back to you.

Hotch can’t help it as he grins at his phone. A wry, suggestive thing, but he manages to school it before a passing nurse can see him -- how his eyes are alight with possibility. With elation, just from talking to the younger man that had seemed to capture a part of him he thought wasn’t available to anyone any more, and types out one last -- slightly more flirtatious subtext to put a cap on their conversation. To indicate he’s awaiting more, always wanting a little more of Dr. Spencer Reid.

He can blame it on the morphine, later.

[]9/23, 19:25[] Looking forward to it.

(tbc...)

Tagged List: @spencehotchner @ssa-sarahsunshine @gothamapologist @reidology @marsjareau @dragon-snaps-fandom @emmyraebird @just-an-emo-rat @aaron-hotchner187 @dk18077 @more-heid-pls @fakin-it-til-i-make-it @merpancake

#I legit added like 1500 words while editing this afternoon so I'm hella worried it's convoluted but HERE IT IS #Getting this show on the ROAD #cross your fingers and pray I have this damn tumblr formatting thing figured out #hope you enjoy everyone I love ALL OF YOU #super duper long chapter #Correspondence #HotchReid #Heid #Updates on Saturdays hit me up if you want in on the tag list #katyswriting

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ahopelessromantic · 4 years

Text

Revelations ➳ S. Reid

Pairing: Spencer x Reader

Wordcount: 1,8K

Warnings: None really, slightly suggestive neck kissing, Morgan’s a snitch

Spencer and you like playing games, one of them being hiding your relationship from your team. But, working together with some of the world’s best profilers, things are bound to get found out.

Roses. A big bouquet of red roses, right in the middle of your desk.You hadn’t even properly arrived at work for the day and your team was already pestering you with suggestive smirks. “Red Roses, huh?” Morgan wiggled his eyebrows. “Who’s the guy?” You felt your ears grow hot. “No one.”, you mumbled. Before you could even stop him, he had snatched the card that had come with the flowers from their vase. “You get the food; I get the wine. Signed R. Looks like you and your mystery boyfriend are still going strong.” “Morgan, leave (Y/L/N) alone and get to work.” Hotch called out over the bullpen, but even his lips were curling into a smile. “Right, Morgan, get to work!” You scolded him playfully, taking the card back from him.On your way up to the conference room you could spot Reid’s grin from the corner of your eyes.

“R?” You giggled, carefully straightening his tie. “You’re getting careless.” Spencer lifted your chin with his fingers and pressed a chaste kiss to the corner of your lips. “What’s life without a little risk?” You rolled your eyes, barely able to contain your happiness. “Alright, Romeo, let’s go before you start telling everyone we’re basically living together, too.” It was fun, sneaking around with Spencer like this. Your team consisted of some of the world’s best profilers and yet they didn’t seem to have a clue about who your new boyfriend was.And it wasn’t just that, the secret little dates, the notes placed on each other’s desks while no one was looking, they were all a nice change from being under constant scrutiny otherwise. Additionally, most of your team was going to endlessly tease you once they found out the two of you were dating. So, for now, you were keeping things lowkey. As lowkey as being in a committed, loving relationship with each other could be.

“This doesn’t make sense! Why would she go for the asshole when Darcy is right there?” You laughed, cuddling further into Spencer’s chest. At some point in your relationship you had agreed on banning anything crime related from your lives outside of work, so the movies the two of you watched together were mostly sci-fi or romance, like today.For some reason you hadn’t expected Spencer to be into Bridget Jones as much as you, but there he was, getting heavily invested into your favourite chick flick. “Guess you’ll have to wait until we watch the next part.” You looked up to him from your place on his chest, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ears. “There’s more?” He asked excitedly, already moving to reach the tv remote. “Noo, Reid. I don’t want to watch another movie, I want attention.” You whined. He looked at you in amused confusion. “I give you attention all the time, or do I have to remember you about the huge bouquet of flowers on your desk?” His tone had taken to teasing now and you pouted. This playful side of Spencer was one you had only gotten to know after some months of dating, him only then feeling confident enough in your feelings for him to let down his guards completely. “But I haven’t been properly kissed since this morning and if I don’t get a kiss soon I think I’m going to die.” He looked down at you, an incredulous smile on his face. It didn’t matter that you had already kissed many times, when Spencer looked at you with his warm hazel eyes and the close lipped smile that made his gorgeous cheek bones stand out like that you still felt as excited as you did before your very first kiss. This lanky, highly intelligent man with his sometimes odd mannerisms had bewitched you body and soul, and often you still couldn’t believe that he was yours. “I think we need to change that before you die of lack attention, right?” “Hm.”, you hummed in confirmation, closing your eyes into the kiss. He cupped your face, pulling you impossibly close. “Better now?” He grinned after pulling away. You rolled your eyes and climbed on top of him. “Not yet.” You whispered and kissed him again, allowing yourself to wander from his lips to his neck. You heard him shakily exhaling beneath you, and at that point you were gone.

“Oh shit.” You whispered looking at the alarm clock on Spencer’s nightstand. “No no no, please don’t be right.” You pleaded, now starting to panic. But a look at your phone only confirmed what you had been suspecting: The two of you had overslept. Big time. You had less than ten minutes to get to the office in time. “Spence.” You hissed and shoved at his shoulder, after which he immediately bolted up. “Huh?” He squinted and looked around his bedroom, eyes widening once he saw your stressed expression. “Spence, did you forget to set an alarm?” Instead of answering he got out of bed impossibly fast as well. “Spencer!”, you scolded him, panicking at the prospect of being late. “I- I was distracted, okay?” He stammered in the attempt of defending himself. It was only now in broad daylight that you could see the faint hickeys blooming against the side of his neck. Somehow your anxiousness melted away at the mere sight of your confused, still very much tired boyfriend. You took a deep breath, assessing the situation. “Alright, get dressed, we’ll get breakfast on the way to work. And I’m going to need some of your clothes.” Normally your morning routine was a very different one. You woke up together, had breakfast and then on the way to work made a detour to the other’s apartment so they could get changed out of yesterday’s clothes. This routine had been fool proof and effective for months now, but apparently Spencer had really needed the distraction that was you yesterday.

“You go in first. I’ll go in after a few minutes.” Your boyfriend nodded, getting out of the car before stopping in his tracks. “What?”, you asked softly, afraid he had forgotten something at home. “I forgot something.” He confirmed, making your heart sink into your stomach. But then he leaned over the gearbox through the open car door and pressed a kiss to your lips. “I love you.” You laughed, completely taken by surprise. Then you playfully shoved him away. “Go, Spence! Hotch is going to kill us!” Through the windscreen you saw him get into the garage’s elevator, an uncharacteristic spring in his step and a smile still on his lips. You waited five minutes before taking the elevator up as well, still revelling in your boyfriend’s love. “Morning, (Y/N).” Morgan greeted you before stopping in his tracks for a moment, mustering you up and down. But then he shook his head and continued to walk past you. “Meeting’s in five, we waited for you.” “Thanks.”, you smiled sheepishly, still feeling bad about being late.

“Looks like we’re looking for a sexual sadist.” Emily murmured, taking in the crime scene photos now hanging on the case board. “Could be.”, confirmed Gideon. “JJ, talk to the police, see if there’s anything they’re not telling us. Morgan, Prentiss, go check out the crime scenes. The rest, work on the profile. Meet you all back here in a few hours.” Everyone nodded, going back to work. You loved being paired up with Spencer during work, your fields of expertise always perfectly complimented each other. “What if this book is the only connection between the victims we need?” You asked looking at your laptop’s screen in concentration. Penelope had sent you an online copy of the book that had been found in all the victim’s houses and now you were looking through it. Spencer leaned over where you were sitting at the conference room’s table to get a better look at your laptop as well. You breathed in his scent, immediately feeling less stressed about the case at hand. “But the Unsub didn’t leave any ripped-out pages or quotes at the crime scenes.” He murmured, his breath tickling your neck. You turned to look at him and were about to say something else when Morgan stepped into the room. As if he was hoping that if he moved just slowly enough Morgan wouldn’t see him, Spencer leaned away from you, so your noses weren’t basically touching anymore while working. “Garcia just called, the victims all bought the books in the same store and went to a live reading there.” Clearing your throat you nodded, heartbeat quickening. Morgan turned to go before looking at you again in the same weird fashion from this morning, as if he was trying to decipher something that was right before his eyes. Then, suddenly, the realisation seemed to strike him. “You’re wearing Spencer’s sweater!” He almost yelled, looking as if he couldn’t really believe it himself. “Nuh, it’s mine-“ “I gave it to her on our last case, she-“ Spencer and you tried to lie yourselves out of being caught at the same time. A mean grin spread across Derek’s features. “Oh no, you’re not getting away now. I knew those were hickeys on Reid’s neck!” Spencer shyly rubbed his neck, mumbling something about having sensitive skin. And, as if things couldn’t get any worse, JJ entered the room in that moment. “What’s going on?” She asked confusedly, taking in the situation. Morgan crossed his arms. “Take a really close look at (Y/N)’s sweater, and then look at Reid’s neck. Notice anything?” J’s eyes lit up, the same incredulous look on her face as Morgan. “You’re (Y/N)’s boyfriend? What??” “How long?”< Derek asked teasingly.< “I, uh…” you tried to explain but didn’t know how to. “We kissed for the first time about a year ago.”, Spencer jumped in to help you. “A year?!” Morgan and JJ shrieked at almost the same time. You looked at Spencer only to find his gaze on you as well. He had a slight grin playing around his lips, one that reassured you. The team knew about you two now, so what? You had still been able to fool them for months on end.

A bright smile on your face, you turned to them. “What would you say when I tell you we want to move in together soon as well?” They didn’t say anything, but very much looked like they were about to strangle you both. Spencer hid his face in your hair with a groan. “Not our fault you’re bad profilers!” You teased. With a laugh they left the room, probably to go tell on you with Emily.

“Guess I can wear your clothes more often now, right?” Spencer smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “And I can do this more often now.” You inwardly shrugged. Maybe making things official wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid #spencer x reader #criminal minds #criminology #Matthew gray gubler #Matthew gray gubler x reader

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bellasweetwriting · 4 years

Text

football and foreing films

spencer reid x reader

(not my gif)

masterlist

plot: football is your thing, and since the start of the season you’ve had invited the team to watch the games every Sunday. After being absence a few times due to the reason of not liking sports, Spencer makes his first appearence at your place one night

warnings: football talk, language, kissing, incredibly cute spencer, too much fluff

note: I thought of writing this since it’s the beginning of the football season and I love football so enjoy !!

word count: 4k

Y/N loves football in a way that Spencer couldn't describe as usual for an FBI agent. Screw that, for a person.

As a Kansas City native, your team was obviously the Kansas City Chiefs. And since every member of the BAU had their thing that described him best, you made clear that yours was football.

You would invite the BAU to your small and cosy Virginia apartment to watch the games. Nobody besides JJ liked football as much as you did, and even JJ considered you a die-hard fan because you were. You were a die-hard football fan.

"Hey, Morgan!" You exclaimed opening the door. "Is that beer? 'Gimme!" You yelled, grabbing the cases. If Morgan wasn't fast enough, you would have close the door in his face. "The beer came with Morgan!" You exclaimed, making Hotch and Emily stand up from the couch and grab some. "You could have bought colder ones, though."

"You really get grumpy in football season, Y/N," he mumbled, grabbing one of the cans and jumping into the couch next to Rossi. The elder of the group was sipping from his glass of wine. He was staring at the TV as the fans were filling the stadium. "You don't want a beer, Rossi?"

"No, I don't want beer, Morgan," he replied, making the man laugh. "I don't get why you get all excited by these games, Y/N," he told you as you sat down on the floor, opening the beer and drinking. You were wearing your Chiefs jersey and looking anxiously at the TV.

"Hey, I have to be in your six-hour-long cooking lesson every Friday without having any cooking talent. You can at least hang out with me for three hours on Sunday." Football got you on defensive mode, and you always had to be like that to feel respected in the team.

You've been in the BAU for at least eight months now, and you've become closer to practically everyone. Now, they even give you their Sundays. Hotch sometimes comes with Jack, and he stays playing in your apartment office while you watch the game. The team was your family now... well, everyone except one.

You had nothing in common with the young doctor who's desk was in front of yours. You've had invited him to watch every football game since the beginning of the season with you, but he has never said yes. He is, or busy, or he simply likes to stay home and talk to his online friends about philosophy. You had no idea what Reid fancied to do in his free time, and honestly, you tossed your curiosity aside a long time ago.

The doorbell rang, making you get up from the floor quickly since you didn't want to miss the beginning of the game.

You walk backwards as your sight was focused on the screen. You looked over to your friends and did a headcount to see who was at the door. Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, Hotch and JJ were there, so it could only mean that...

"Beautiful lady," you said as you opened the door to welcome Penelope Garcia as she held a box of cookies. "Are those Chiefs themed cookies?" You questioned as you looked at the cookies with red and yellow decoration. "That is so sweet."

"Anything for an important game. And guess who I found wandering through the hallway looking for your apartment."

That's when Spencer Reid appeared in your door frame. His hair was all messy, letting a single curl bounce against his forehead. He was wearing a shirt and a cardigan, definitely not appropriate football attire. You let a little smile as you saw him, being surprised to even see him there.

Penelope let himself in being welcomed by the rest of the team. While she sat down, you were still staring at the young doctor, who seemed even more surprise to be there than you were.

"Hey," you said softly.

"Hey," he replied in the same tone, giving you a tiny smile.

"You brought wine," you pointed out. Spencer quickly remembered he had a bottle in his hand and gave it to you nervously. "Thanks."

"JJ told me that your team is red, so I tried to match a little," he let you know, showing you his red cardigan. You chuckled. "Can I come in?"

"Huh? Oh sure! Come in." He smiled before entering, being received with a smile from the rest of the team.

"Look who's here!" Exclaimed Emily.

"Pretty boy!" Yelled Morgan. "You'll have to sit on the floor, though."

"It's okay," the doctor murmured as he sat down, turning around to look at you walking towards them.

Suddenly, you felt uncomfortable in your outfit. You felt the need of changing. It wasn't your best look.

You had no idea why you thought of changing into your pretty tight black dress that minute but decided to ignore it and sit down next to Spencer on the floor, on your usual spot.

Not that your usual spot was next to Reid, you always sat in the floor. It was not on purpose.

This is your house, for God's sake, chill out.

"Hey, Rossi, the doctor brought you wine," you said, giving the bottle to Rossi, who smiled.

Spencer whispered to you.

"You don't drink wine? I didn't know."

"Oh no, I do, I love wine. But on football night, we drink beer." You grabbed one bottle and gave it to Spencer with a smile. He just held on to it, not making any movement towards opening it. "Oh my God, the game is starting."

Suddenly, all your mind was on the game. You didn't care that Spencer was too close to you, or that you were the only two one in the floor.

You celebrated every yard your team advanced. Every pass that Patrick Mahomes did you were there to scream and cheer for it, and Spencer didn't get it, so you explained it to him.

"The goal is to get to the other side," you whispered to his ear. "Each team has four tries to move forward ten yards, and the defence of the other team needs to prevent the rival offence team of running the 10 yards in the four attempts because then it is their turn to attack." Spencer nodded. Even though you were terrible at explaining the game due to the alcohol and adrenaline running through your system, he now understood the game more clearly. "When the ball gets to the endzone on the other side of the field, it's called a touchdown, that equivalents to six points. After the touchdown, you can either go for a field goal, that is to kick the ball between the goalposts, or you can go for a two-point conversion, which is riskier."

"Got it," he whispered to you. "And why do you like the game so much?"

"It's so organized." He looked at you strangely. "You can't see it?" He shook his head. "There are at least sixty different offensive formations and plays, each one of them with different outcomes. The players have to move according to the positions of their teammates. You can't see it, but each one of the men that are on the line is crucial to get the ball to the other side. If you remove one of them, all the tactic, all the play, falls apart. There is no one play similar to the other, and they have to be able to change quickly if something doesn't go as planned or if the rival team reads your game. There is no game equal to another. There are thousands of different possibilities."

"Like chess," he said, and you nodded.

"Yeah, something like chess." You pointed out the player number 15 the quarterback. "That is the most valuable player on the board. He is the one in charge to change the play in seconds when something changes. If his left receptor is not in his position or was taken down by the rival, he needs, by any source, to pass the ball. He can't be taken down with the ball in hand because it adds yards."

Spencer was impressed. This was the most long-running conversation you both have ever had since you'd met.

He stared at you as you watched the game. How your expressions would change beneath seconds. The sport was a lot faster than he had expected, but time didn't go quick as he looked at you. It was like slow-motion. He had time to pay attention to the details.

He didn't realize he had been staring for at least five minutes until you stood up screaming.

"That was a clear fault!" You yelled, receiving complainings from your friends as you were blocking the screen. "For God's sake, where the hell is the referee? That was a fault! Get him out of the field!"

"He was lumping anyways," said Emily, receiving an angry look from the rest, including Spencer. "Sorry."

You sat down again, watching the rest of the third quarter in silence, still upset about that obvious fault of the rival team against the left receptor.

Spencer offered you the beer that he hadn't drink since the beginning, surprising you. You gave him a tiny smile, grabbing the bottle and opening it by hitting the cap against the table.

"You get in a whole new personality while watching football," he commented, making you laugh.

The ads gave an end to the third quarter, and you stood up quickly, walking towards the kitchen at fast speed. Spencer watched you as you ran away, being followed by JJ and Garcia.

"So," whispered JJ to you while Garcia took off her red and yellow headband and left it on the counter, "what's up with you and Spence?"

"What do you mean?"

"You didn't think we didn't notice how you've been whispering to his ear sensually all night?" Questioned Garcia, making you open your eyes widely.

"Woah, Woah, sensually?" You asked, finishing to drink your beer. "No, no, I was explaining the game to him."

"Right, right," said JJ slowly, clearly not believing you. "Sure, mhm."

"Guys, nothing is going on between the doctor and me. I'm actually surprised he even showed up."

"What do you mean?" Interrogated Garcia as you place the empty bottle next to the other ones.

"The doctor and I are friends, like us right now. Don't try to read between the lines that don't even exist."

"How come you never call him by his name? Or last name?"

You stared at JJ, confused, as you chew one of Garcia's cookies.

"What?"

"Yeah, that's right," agreed Garcia. "You only call Reid "the doctor" like he was Frankenstein or something. I had never noticed before."

You hadn't either.

"I don't know," you replied. "Some of my middle school Doctor Who obsessed personality is still there, who cares? It means nothing."

"I don't know," said JJ innocently, "sounds to me like a nickname."

"It is not a nickname, it's called a PhD, and he has three of them. Now, I'm gonna continue to watch my game. Please, don't ruin that for me too."

You avoided any of their theories for the rest of the night. You sat down next to Spencer again, but this time, you laid a farther away from him. Not so much as to be noticeable for the rest, but both of you could clearly feel it.

The Chiefs won that night, but you weren't as happy as usual. The voices of JJ and Garcia were still rumbling in your head. Was it possible that you were sensually whispering to his ear?

What on Earth did you just think?

"Bye guys, see you tomorrow," you said to your friends as they started leaving your apartment. "I called you an Uber, Prentiss, please don't drive!" You exclaimed to your friend with a smile. "Bye!"

"A good wine is a kiss to the palate," you heard Rossi explain to Reid. The older of the team was clearly drunk, trying to teach the doctor about wine at 1 am while Spencer was clearly not interested in the talk. "And you, my friend, are a good kisser."

You couldn't help but laugh when you saw the young guy's reaction to that phrase coming from drunk Rossi. The man kissed both of your cheeks, rambled something in Italian and left your apartment, holding the empty bottle of wine that Reid brought.

You two were the only ones left, and it was like it was made on purpose. You questioned if JJ and Garcia said something to your friends, but you were too drunk and tired to be speculating, so you just let it slide.

"It was fun," said Reid, cutting the silence that was left between both of you. "Kinda makes me regret not coming the last three weeks."

"Well, football season is long; you always have time to repair for your absence," you comforted him, walking towards the living room and collecting the empty bottles Morgan and Emily left. "I told you it was fun, doctor."

"Yeah, it was," he agreed, helping you leave the empty plates in the sink.

"Oh, don't worry, I'll do it tomorrow," you said, but he continued. You gave up and let him. "Although you'll have to buy an actual red t-shirt for next time. Weren't you uncomfortable all night with that shirt?"

"Nah, I'm used to it," he replied, smiling a little. "Hey, Y/N." You look at him. "There is this... there's this... there is this representation of The Rules of the Game, next Friday."

"I've never seen it."

"It is a French satirical comedy-drama film" he started to rant, making you smile unconsciously. "It is directed by Jean Renoir. Though this tale of the idle rich in France is technically a country-estate farce, it's far more than a mere satire of upper-crust affectations. Under the guise of mocking the bourgeoisie as they negotiate romantic minefields, he had also delivered a cunning commentary on old-world Europe; a heart cry at the hypocrisy of class pretensions; and finally, a rich, rewarding work of art that's equal parts irony and sympathy. "

"Sounds great," you pointed out, and he nodded, like if that was the whole point of his presentation.

"Exactly. This movie rewrote the rules of cinema entirely." He sounded so excited about it like he was quoting it accurately from the textbook. Well, everything he said seemed like quoted from an article. "It's also in French and made in 1939, so you could guess I'm going alone."

And now, you understood why he was telling you all of these. He wanted you to go with him. He wanted for both of you to go and watch the film with him.

"Well, I can go with you if you want." He immediately smiled after you said those words, "but I don't know any French, so it better have subtitles." He nodded, excited. That reaction made you wonder how many times has he had to go alone to this kind of things.

"If you like it, we can also go to watch M. It's the first serial killer movie where the killer is actually portrayed as a victim. It also makes political references to World War II since it was made at the beginning of the war."

"Okay, doctor, one movie at a time." He noticed he got too excited. "After work on Friday, we will go to see your movie."

"Thanks, Y/N. See you tomorrow at the office."

"See you tomorrow, doc." He stepped outside, and you slowly closed the door, looking at him wave you goodbye.

This wasn't a date. The doctor just watched three hours of football, and you were repaying him with a favour. Not a date.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Are you ready for your nerdy date tonight, pretty lady?" Asked Morgan, making you throw a pen at him. "Don't get violent, princess, save it for the passionate make out."

"Shut up."

Morgan quickly became your best friend in the team, and you know he would take a bullet for you presented the case.

Sometimes you wished the bullet would come quicker.

Like now, when he was making kissing noises in your ear as you tried to finish your paperwork.

"Don't you have work to do!?" You angrily exclaimed while he found it hilarious. "It's impossible that you finished your paperwork already."

"What are you going to wear? A sexy Doctor Who costume? Or a cardigan and no shirt?"

"Have anyone tell you not to mess with a woman that carries a gun?" He laughed. "And it's not a date. He sat down and watched three hours of football for me, I'm repaying the favor by watching one of his films. Have a problem with that?"

"Not at all, princess, but knowing that those movies don't necessarily have a killing audience, you and pretty boy will be all alone in the theatre tonight."

You rolled your eyes, looking for something else on your desk to throw at him, but not finding something sharp enough.

"Hotch confiscated your scissors when you tried to stab me with them two weeks ago," he reminded you as he laughed, making you angrier.

"At least you know I'm capable of doing it," you said to him.

Reid appeared ready at your desk, receiving a tiny smile from your part.

"You ready?" You nodded, grabbing your purse, your badge and gun. You walked away not before giving Morgan a threatening look, leaving to the elevator with the doctor. "Oh, I found out the movie does not have subtitles, but I can translate you most of it. I've been practising my French."

You smiled at him. This was going to be a long night.

You were scared that the only thing that was in your mind was Morgan's lousy comment about the empty theatre.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, so I bought popcorn, sodas and some candy," you said, giving him his stuff, which he grabbed with lack of ability. "Also, this guy sells pins with the poster of the movie on them. I got one for you," you grabbed his shirt and pinned the button to it, making him blush, "and one for me." You pinned the button to your blouse, smiling. "Look, we look like well-prepared film enthusiasts. We rock."

He laughed, walking you towards the entrance of the theatre. You hadn't realized how nervous you were. This wasn't a date, but what if it was? It looked like a date, you were wearing something you would wear on a date. You even grabbed him by the shirt and pinned a button on his shirt.

It didn't sound as sexy as you were making it sound, but it was definitely something.

You both sat down on your seats, looking at the white screen waiting to be projected on. Your palms were a little bit sweaty, and you were envying your company for being so calm.

"So, doctor," you called him, and he raised his eyebrows. " Have you ever brought a girl to watch a foreign movie before?"

Well, what kind of idiotic comment was that? "Have you ever brought a girl...?" What answer were you searching for?

"Uhm, no. You are the first," he said nervously.

That was a valid answer.

Not a date.

"Hey, so, am I expecting you at my place on Sunday?" You watched him as he almost choked on his drink.

"What?"

"Football night. Sunday's game is crucial. Morgan even rambled about the idea of bets, but I don't take chances, you know?" He nodded. "Do you like bets?"

"Not when I can't be sure that I'm going to win." You laughed.

"Right. You always go save, Vegas." He chuckled, but before he said something, the movie started.

You saw him as he accommodated closer to you, and before you could move, you remembered that the movie didn't have subtitles.

He had to whisper the movie to you.

Like you did with the football game.

Garcia's voice as she mentioned the "sensual whisper" came to your mind. Thanks, Garcia, real thanks.

The man on the film started talking, and you could feel Spencer's soft voice near to your ear as he whispered the words in English.

At some point, you didn't even listen to what he was saying, you just worried about the feeling of his soft breathing crashing with your ear and neck. How he sounded so calm, translating each word with delicacy, making regular English sound as poesy in your ears.

After a few minutes of being guided by his voice, you turned around to look at him. Your noses were almost touching each other, and your breaths were crashing onto the other's skin. You liked the feeling.

Ugh, you hated when Morgan was right.

"Spencer..." you murmured his name for the first time. You've never called him like that before, not even in the field. He didn't know how his name sounded in your lips, and now that he knew, it was his favourite sound in the world.

And without saying something else, Spencer Reid leaned in, closing the distance between the two of you and impacting his lips into yours.

If all the striking and fantabulous feelings you've ever experienced in your life would morph together in one action, would be kissing Spencer Reid. Kissing him felt like finishing a book that you read all night or drinking a cup of tea on a cold day. His lips tasted like how eating feels after spending hours of hunger or like strawberries with chocolate under the sun with friends. He smelled like flowers on spring and the fragrance of an antique store in Greece.

You have never been to Greece, but he smelled like that, you just knew.

What you didn't know is for how long you didn't let him go. One second the lights were dark and the sound of a French man's accent is playing loudly, and next, the lights turned on, and the music of the credits filled the theatre, making both of you break apart.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Finally, beer, I've been waiting for you," you said to the cases that were on your best friend's hands. "Damn, you brought Morgan again. You could've left him. He's a big boy, he can take it."

"Would you stop talking to the beer? It's weird," claimed Morgan, giving you a loud kiss on your cheek before entering. "Hey, you never told me how the date went."

"See? This is why I tell the beer not to bring you; you are so annoying." You grabbed one of the bottles and gave it to him, pushing him towards the living room.

The doorbell rang again, making you turn around. You quickly opened the door, looking at JJ, Garcia and the doctor standing outside your apartment. You immediately smiled at the sight of Spencer behind the girls.

"Welcome to the best night of the week, ladies and gentlemen. Cookies and food on the kitchen, the rest of the annoying people are in the living room looking at the TV like zombies," you told with a smile, letting them in.

JJ and Garcia quickly walked towards the kitchen, while Spencer stayed next to you in front of the door.

"Hey," he mumbled to you, making you smile even more.

"Hey," you repeated as he kissed your cheek.

You decided to give it a chance, but for any motive, you were going to tell the team. You determined that it was best to see if it works before hoping the team, especially Garcia and JJ.

"I brought wine again," he said, showing you the bottle, and you smiled, "and I was thinking if we could drink it after the game, you know, both of us."

"That sounds so nice, Doc, but next time tell me because I'm in my third beer." He laughed. "You can drink it with Rossi if you like."

"I really need to get used to football mode."

"Yeah, you should."

You grabbed the bottle of wine after winking at him, walking towards the living room where the rest of the team was.

"The doctor brought wine again, Rossi." The man smiled, grabbing the bottle.

"I hope you listened to my suggestions from last week, Reid," he said, and Spencer nodded.

"You bet I did."

Both of you sat on the floor like last time, and you proceeded to explain the game to him to his ear, even though he already understood it.

#criminal minds #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfic #y/n #reader

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bixcaleen · 3 years

Text

i knew you’d haunt all of my what-ifs

summary: The Fisher King case ends in the worst possible way.

pairing: elle greenaway x the bau team (hints of jelle bc i couldn’t help myself)

word count: 2.5k

a/n: i’m sorry

read on ao3 or below the cut

There's only one really important question: Can you forgive yourself?

***

As soon as Morgan, Hotch, and Reid enter the precinct, their clothes smoky and covered in ash, JJ swiftly approaches them, calling over to Garcia along the way.

“Gideon just called. He said we need to get the hospital right away.”

The five agents pile into the black SUV, Hotch driving, Morgan in the passenger seat, and Reid, Penelope, and JJ squished in the back seat. No one dares to say a word, the fear of the worst hanging over their heads. The ride to the hospital is fairly quick, thanks to Hotch switching on the sirens and driving at least ten miles over the speed limit. Pulling into the parking lot, they all flash their badges, as they rush past the nurses’s desk.

“Gideon,” Hotch calls out to the older agent, who is sitting in the empty waiting room with his head in his hands. “Any updates on Elle?”

Gideon stands up to face the rest of the team, his eyes resigned and brimmed red. “The doctor said by the time they’d found where the root of the damage was and where the bleeding was coming from, she had already lost too much blood,” he informs, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath before breaking the news. “She’s gone.”

Too stunned to say anything, the rest of the team just stares back at Gideon, his words still processing in their minds.

“What?” Penelope is the first to speak, her voice faint and full of disbelief. “No.”

Tears begin to pool in the tech analyst’s eyes, as she collapses into an empty chair.

Although her and Elle hadn’t been that close when the brunette profiler first joined the team, Garcia always had a deep admiration for the other woman. The way Elle held herself in such a confident manner and didn’t take shit from anybody inspired the blonde. Her quick wit and sarcastic remarks also helped, as Penelope began to warm up to her.

As the days turned to weeks and weeks into months, and after several girls’ nights out, the two had formed a close friendship. It certainly wasn’t your most conventional friendship, Garcia being the picture definition of sunshine and Elle presenting this tough exterior; however, this is what Penelope thought was so special about them.

She would always try to brighten the profiler’s day, especially after tough cases, with comforting hugs and handwritten notes, which she’d left on Elle’s desk. At first, Penelope couldn’t tell whether her acts were being well received, and it wasn’t until after the Billie Copeland case that Garcia noticed that they in fact had been. That night, after the team had returned from Delaware, the blonde watched from her bat cave, as Elle picked up the pink post-it, undoubtedly left by Garcia, a hint of a smile appearing on her face, before sticking the note on edge of her computer.

If Penelope thought that hearing Garner’s voice over the phone (“Agent Greenaway did not have to die like that”) was the worst of it all, she was definitely not prepared to hear it be confirmed that Elle had actually died.

Gideon’s words, She’s gone, echo in Garcia’s head. Elle is really gone.

As the news finally sinks in, Penelope lets out a choked sob. How could this happen?

Oh. This is her fault.

Garcia’s thoughts come to a halt and her chest tightens, guilt consuming her body.

What if she hadn’t played that stupid online game? What if she hadn’t let Garner hack into the system and gain access to all their information, to Elle’s information?

What if?

***

Spencer quickly wipes the stray tear that escapes his left eye, as he hangs his head to hide his quiet sniffles.

The words She’s gone hit him like a sucker punch to the gut, and it almost makes him physically double over. Elle is gone, and Reid feels like a piece of him has been ripped away.

All the memories of the older woman run like a film reel in his mind. The time she took him to the firing range to help him with his shooting skills. The time she bragged for hours after beating him in one game of poker. When she corrected his Spanish and then helped him learn some more phrases. When she stayed late that one night to help him with the pile of case files on his desk. The time she listened to his tangent about the origins of corn and why it’s called ‘candy corn’. The time she hugged and thanked him for saving her life on the train in Texas. When she showed him the sights of New York after their case and taught him how to use chopsticks with a bag of jellybeans and skittles on the flight home.

Spencer’s throat tightens, as he attempts to swallow the knot that is beginning to form. He’s unsure how he’s supposed to respond. The wave of different emotions crashing upon him is overwhelming and foreign; it’s numbing.

Elle is— was— his friend, the first friend he’d had that didn’t treat him like some nerdy geek. She didn’t treat him like a burden or like sensitive kid. She treated him someone who could handle the sibling-like teasing she dealt him. She appreciated listening to his quirky facts and statistics. She treated him like a normal person.

With Elle, Spencer felt heard, felt respected. But now she’s gone, and she took her light with her.

Was this his fault? Had he not figured out Garner’s clues fast enough? Elle had always counted on him to put the pieces together, and when she needed him the most, he failed her.

What if he had connected the dots quicker? What if he had figured it out faster that the book Garner was referring to was The Collector?

What if?

***

As soon as JJ hears Gideon tell them that Elle is gone, every part of her freezes. The world around her slows and the pounding of her heart is suddenly all she can hear.

Tears are pouring down her face, but she doesn’t even bother wiping them away; they’re falling too fast for her to catch up anyways.

The beating of her heart is getting louder and louder, and JJ just wants it to stop.

The blood pumping against her eardrums, the silent sobs coming from Garcia, the buzz of the hospital, it’s deafening.

JJ feels her legs start to give way, and the room starts to spin. She barely registers Spencer reaching out to steady her, until she feels his hands on her shoulders, and she shouts, “Stop! Don’t touch me!”

She pays no attention to the doctors and nurses who turn to the commotion of her voice.

Running her hands through her hair, JJ covers her ears, attempting to block out the rest of the world.

All she wants to hear right now is Elle’s heartbeat, Elle’s voice, Elle’s breathing. All she wants is Elle.

JJ releases a guttural scream, sobs wrecking her body, because Elle is gone, her girlfriend is dead, and JJ doesn’t know what to do with herself.

She already misses the warmth of Elle. The warmth of her small laugh when JJ would pout and beg her to watch Breakfast at Tiffany’s for the hundredth time. The warmth of her hand when she’d hold JJ’s after a difficult case, rubbing the blonde’s knuckles comfortingly. The warmth of her body when she’d snuggle closer to JJ on those early Virginia mornings, mumbling into her pillow for another five minutes.

But now, Elle is gone, and JJ feels cold, the fire of her life having been extinguished.

A blinding rage begins to consume the blonde, and she turns to Gideon, all regards for the fact that he’s her superior thrown out the window. “This is all your fault,” JJ accuses, her voice strained from the crying and screaming. “If you hadn’t told me to call a press conference, Garner wouldn’t have shot Elle, and she’d still be here!”

As her own words replay in her mind, her stomach starts to churn, a wave nausea and guilt washing over her, and she rushes to the restroom. She ignores Spencer running after her, her thoughts too occupied on that stupid press conference.

What if she hadn’t called those reporters in for a press conference? What if she hadn’t broken the rules and gone outside the team for help?

What if?

***

Derek watches as his teammates, his friends, break down, his own conflicting emotions boiling up inside.

How can Elle be gone? Not even three days ago, he was with her in Jamaica, sipping tropical drinks on the beach. Derek furrows his brows and tightens his jaw, as he wills away the impending tears.

Elle wasn’t just his co-worker or just his teammate, she was his partner, someone he trusted with his life. She had his back, and he had hers. Except, this time, Derek didn’t.

But beyond being his teammate and partner, Elle was a friend, a confidant, and a damn good wingwoman. Though he would often tease her and give her a hard time, particularly about her love life, Derek respected Elle and cherished the friendship they’d formed.

During the hours spent in car rides and on the jet, the two had discovered they had much more in common than they thought. First, it was superficial surface-level things like both enjoying a really good slice of pizza (though, they did argue over whether Chicago or New York style is better) or both being big fans of baseball (once again, the argument of Cubs vs Mets always came up). But then it developed into actually getting to know more about each other, and building a level of trust that only comes with spending practically every waking hour together and chasing serial killers. They exchanged stories of their fathers and of their childhoods, gaining a better understanding of each other.

Derek tries his best to keep his emotions to himself, especially in front of his team, but when he sees Garcia weeping next to a pile of tissues and hears JJ’s heart-shattering screams, he can’t keep it in any longer.

After the media liaison escapes to the bathroom, Reid following her, Morgan turns to Gideon, unleashing his anguish and anger onto the other agent, “You know she’s right,” he says eerily quietly, as he approaches Gideon, getting in his face, “this never would’ve happened if you hadn’t involved outside help. Elle would still be here, she’d still be a live, you son—“

Before Derek can finish his sentence, Hotch wraps his arms around the younger man, stopping him from doing something he might regret later. As soon as Morgan feels Hotch’s embrace, he collapses into the other man’s arms, the dam bursting and the tears leaking out.

Burying his head into the unit chief’s shoulder, Derek mumbles incoherently to himself, “She can’t be gone…This isn’t possible…It’s all my fault.”

The trip to Jamaica was his idea, he left Elle alone that night, he’s the reason she was so tired she had to be sent home.

What if they’d never gone to Jamaica? What if he’d checked up on her that night?

What if?

***

Aaron tries to mask his distress, putting on a strong front for his team. But with Derek shaking in his arms, Hotch resigns, confronting the devastating news.

Elle was a good profiler and an excellent team member, and sure her position can be easily filled, but Hotch knows that Elle can never be replaced.

Her passion for this job, for helping victims, for putting away the bad guys was hard to come by. But even more so, Hotch knew it was her character that was special. Her sarcastic remarks that made Gideon fondly roll his eyes, her ability to calm Morgan down when a case got particularly frustrating, her genuine interest in Spencer’s random facts and statistics, her snarky banter with Garcia, her tender smile reserved only for JJ, and her sass that made even Hotch smile all completed the team, made them whole.

He is the unit chief, the leader of the team, which means it is his job to ensure the safety of all the members, and he failed. Hotch thought he was doing the right thing, sending Elle home to rest and get some sleep, but he should’ve been clearer with Anderson.

Releasing Morgan, who moves to comfort Garcica, Aaron walks out into the hallway, escaping the suffocating air of the waiting room.

The guilt crushes him, as he slides down the wall, his eyes shut tight and his fists clenched. If anybody were to walk down the hall, they would see the normally collected and reserved Aaron Hotchner disheveled and distraught. Aaron drops his head into his hands in defeat, the sting of his unshed tears adding to the pang in his chest.

What if he hadn’t sent Elle home? What if he had given Anderson better directions?

What if?

***

Gideon watches as the team processes the news he had told them, the news he had been sitting with for the past two hours, the news of Elle’s death.

He remembers meeting Elle on the Slessman-Vogel case up in Seattle. He thought she was overeager and, as her file called her, impatient. But her instincts were true, and as time went on, he saw her true potential shine through and took her under his wing.

Jason remembers Elle calling him ‘dad,’ and him firmly telling her not to call him that again. What he would do to hear her call him ‘dad’ again.

He remains frozen in his seat, as the rest of the team files out of the waiting room, leaving Gideon alone with his torturous thoughts. The older agent slouches deeper into the chair, his heavy heart weighing him down.

He thought he’d done the right thing; he was doing his job.

“I did the right thing. I did my job,” he repeats in his mind over and over, the words haunting him. He told himself Elle would understand, but now she was gone. She was gone, and Gideon would never be able to explain.

Elle wouldn’t understand because she was gone, so maybe he didn’t do the right thing. Rubbing his forehead, Jason tries to relieve the pressure building in his head.

The silence of the waiting room is unbearable, the only sound coming from his thoughts bombarding him. He wants to yell and scream and fill the void Elle left behind.

But, in that moment, all Jason can do is let the guilt tear him apart and accept the fact that Elle’s gone, and she’s never coming back.

What if he hadn’t made the decision to hold a press conference? What if he hadn’t ignored the rules?

What if?

“Guilt is perhaps the most painful companion of death.” — Coco Chanel

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #cm fanfic #cm fanfiction #elle greenaway #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #derek morgan #aaron hotchner #jason gideon #jelle #my writing

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calwrites · 4 years

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The Masked Singer (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: The team has become obsessed with The Masked Singer, an extremely silly singing competition about trying to guess what celebrity is singing behind a mask. Imagine Spencer’s surprise when he hears a familiar voice.

Warnings: none (unless you count bad writing lol)

Word Count: 6.2k

----------------

Spencer wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but it had. The team was obsessed with The Masked Singer. One morning, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia had been talking about it before they had to brief a new case. Apparently they had found the first season online after they had too many glasses of wine and had made it through half the episodes in one night.

“It’s just trying to guess what famous person is singing while wearing a mask?” Morgan had asked. “That doesn’t sound very hard.”

“Yeah it should be obvious, but it’s not and that’s what makes it so addicting. They disguise their voices when they talk and they give you these cryptic clues about who they are.”

Emily nodded along to Penelope’s point. “Plus the judges’ guesses are everywhere, which doesn’t help.”

“Maybe you should watch, Morgan. Put those profiling skills to use,” JJ teased.

Derek was opening his mouth to respond when Hotch walked into the room. “Unfortunately, we have a case that needs our profiling skills.”

Spencer thought that would be the last of it. They spent the next few days tracking down another serial killer, and he was looking forward to relaxing on the jet on the way home. Maybe he’d read for a bit if no one wanted to play chess with him. What he wanted more than anything, though, was to be able to go home to Y/N. But he couldn’t.

His thoughts of you were interrupted by Penelope popping up on a screen. “I have a wonderful surprise for my favorite crime fighters.”

“Well don’t just tease us, baby girl,” Derek prompted when Garcia paused for dramatic effect. Instead of answering, Garcia started playing something on another screen.

“Oh there was a new episode on last night,” Emily said excitedly. “No one looked up who was unmasked, right?” After getting verbal confirmation that no one had looked up who was unmasked the previous night, Emily and JJ gave the rest of the team a short rundown of who had already been sent home.

“And people actually agree to do this?” Rossi asked in disbelief when they were done. The girls ignored him, focusing instead on the show. Rossi and Morgan shrugged at each other, but Spencer could tell that they were both a little curious about the show.

“I know Donny Osmond, and that is definitely Donny Osmond,” Rossi yelled approximately twenty minutes later. “Just look at how he walks.”

“I think it should be cheating for Rossi to guess when he might actually know some of these people,” Derek complained. Emily and JJ both nodded in agreement, so Derek turned to Hotch. “Hotch?”

“It’s cheating.” Hotch was trying to seem like he wasn’t also paying too much attention to the show, but he wasn’t doing a very good job. Rossi threw his hands up and started arguing his case, but JJ shushed him as the clues for the next performer started.

And just like that, the team had a new tradition. Garcia would play any episodes they missed when they were on the jet on the way home from a case. If they were without a case when there was a new episode, they would get together at someone’s house, usually Rossi’s, to watch it as it aired.

Emily and Derek were probably the best at guessing correctly, but Rossi sometimes had the advantage of actually knowing the celebrity behind the mask. Hotch and JJ blamed their incorrect guesses on not having time to stay up to date on celebrities because of their kids. Most of the time, Spencer didn’t even bother guessing. He had no idea who most of the celebrities were, but he enjoyed watching as the rest of the team got into trying to figure it out. Garcia had been banned from guessing after the team found out she was doing her own research. She had tried to argue that if they could use their super profiling powers, she could use her internet sleuthing powers, but the others weren’t having it.

Spencer had mentioned the show to you when you two were on the phone chatting before he went over to Rossi’s for the season 2 premiere. Curious about the show that managed to captivate and puzzle actual FBI profilers, you had decided to start watching on your own. Now, you and Spencer discussed the show whenever you had both watched the new episodes. It was nice having something new besides work to talk about. Of course, you, like Rossi, had the advantage of actually knowing some of the celebrities.

“How did you know it was Sherri Shepherd?” Spencer asked you after he got back from Rossi’s one night. “You said you knew it was her from the first time you heard her sing.”

You laughed at the frustration in your boyfriend’s voice. More than anything, you wanted to be cuddled up with him on the couch. But you were on opposite coasts, so imagining his furrowed brow would have to do. “I’ve met Sherri Shepherd. I’ve been on The View. Or did you not watch that interview?”

You were just teasing him. You knew that Spencer watched every interview you did. He was the most supportive boyfriend ever, even though you knew that some of the answers you had to give in interviews hurt him. Every time you were asked about dating, you had to give an answer like ‘No one special,’ ‘Not looking for anything right now,’ ‘Too busy to start anything.’ Truthfully, you were too busy to start a new relationship. You were constantly filming a new movie, doing press for a new movie, or getting ready for a new movie. Plus, you already had a boyfriend. Why would you want another one?

It was hard being away from Spencer so much, but you both knew that it was what was best for your career right now. You had met Spencer when you were a struggling actor who had just finished filming your first major movie. Now, you were an Oscar winner who was constantly getting offers. Spencer had told you that you needed to take advantage of those offers to really cement your place in Hollywood. You had both decided that the best way to keep each other safe, from both the media and psychopaths with grudges, was not to go public with your relationship.

----------------

It was over three years ago. You had just finished filming in DC. Most of the cast and crew had already gone back to LA or wherever they called home, but you had decided to stay in DC for a few more days to unwind before going back to your empty apartment in New York. It was probably about time to accept the fact that you should move out to LA, but you preferred the East Coast to the West.

You wandered through a park, when a cluster of chess tables caught your eye. More specifically, one man sitting at the chess tables. He looked to be about your age, but what made you watch him was the way he was playing three games at once. And winning them all. When the games were over, his opponents all grumbled as they walked away, leaving the man looking at the boards almost sadly.

You knew how to play chess, but you wouldn’t say that you were great. Still, you had to talk to this guy. So you sat down across from him, startling him as he replaced all of the pieces to their starting positions. He blinked at you in surprise instead of saying anything, so you took the lead, moving a pawn out first.

The two of you played in silence for a few turns. You smiled every time you caught him looking at you, and he blushed every time he was caught. He was cute. You quickly realized that you had no chance of winning, so you abandoned any sort of strategy and began moving pieces at random. You watched as he became more and more confused at your moves.

“It’s going to be a tie,” he said finally. His voice was lovely. “I mean, I could still win, but looking at our moves throughout the game, it seems most likely that it’s going to be a tie.”

“Is there any way I could win?” Truthfully, you hadn’t even been expecting a tie, but you wanted him to keep talking.

He shook his head. “No. You actually had a decent chance of winning until I took your rook four turns ago. If you had moved your queen instead, then I would have had to move my knight, leaving my king open to check.”

You blinked at the man for a moment. “Do you remember every move we made?”

He nodded shyly. “I have an eidetic memory.” You had no idea what that was, but it sounded impressive. At your blank look, he launched into an explanation of an eidetic memory and how it was different from a photographic memory. You weren’t really sure what he was saying, but you liked listening to him.

“So, it’s probably going to be a draw,” he finished shyly, painfully aware that he had just spent way too long explaining something to you that he hadn’t asked him to explain. To his surprise, you grinned at him, taking his breath away.

“Well, I was going to say that if I win you have to tell me your name, and if you win I have to tell you my name. Since it’s a draw, I guess we’ll both have to tell each other our names. I’m Y/N.” You stuck out your hand, but he looked at it awkwardly.

“Considering how many pathogens are passed during a handshake, it’s actually safer to kiss. I’m Spencer,” he continued quickly as a blush spread across your cheeks.

“Well it’s nice to meet you, Spencer. Honestly, I feel a little bit like I cheated. I started moving pieces randomly after about three turns.” Spencer looked shocked at your admission before he started laughing. “To make it up to you, can I buy you dinner tonight?” You were a little shocked at your own confidence, but thankfully Spencer seemed to like it.

“Only if I can buy you a coffee now.” You had agreed, obviously. The two of you spent the rest of the day together, getting to know each other. By dinner, it was like you had known each other forever. You had stayed in touch when you had to go back to New York. Spencer didn’t have a lot of free time, but you didn’t have any jobs at the moment, so you went down to DC whenever possible.

You and Spencer had only been officially dating for two weeks when your movie premiered. You weren’t ready for the media to scrutinize you two, and Spencer wasn’t ready for his coworkers to profile you, so you had agreed to keep your relationship on the down low.

Then you name blew up. The reviews for your movie, and your performance in particular, were glowing. People started suggesting an Oscar nomination for you. You started getting offers for roles your couldn’t refuse. So you packed up your life in New York and moved out to LA. You and Spencer talked all the time. He had even started texting you. Plus, you flew to DC whenever possible to be with him, even if it was just for a few hours. But it was still hard for you two to be apart for so long.

----------------

The season premiere of Masked Singer is tonight. Maybe you guys can watch it on the plane.

Spencer read your message and smiled. You knew it had been a tough case without him even having to say it. Sometimes he thought you could read his mind. You had a way of always knowing what he needed, even when he didn’t know.

A new season of their favorite show was just what the team needed. Spencer sent a quick text to Penelope to ask if it was possible for them to watch the show on the jet as it aired. She had responded not to underestimate her, which worried Spencer slightly.

The team sat in silence for a few minutes, the engine the only sound, until the screens came to life and the opening for The Masked Singer appeared. “I forgot this was coming back tonight,” JJ sighed in relief as the rest of the team smiled at the show. They settled in, ready to start trying to profile the celebrities in wacky costumes.

“And now, our very own royal contestant: The Queen,” the host said as a new clue package began to play. Spencer stiffened as The Queen began to talk. Despite the voice modification, Spencer could recognize the way you spoke. Your word choice. Your cadence. Even the way you walked onto the stage. Everything screamed Y/N. Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the mask you had chosen. It was like the top of the queen chess piece. Not the mention the tight white costume looked great on you. What would really confirm Spencer’s theory was your singing, so he waited with baited breath and hoped no one on the plane would notice his sudden heightened interest.

“If I should stay, I would only be in your way.” Spencer’s breath caught.

“Aww. Whitney,” Derek exclaimed. The rest of the team joined in with similar comments of surprise and joy as the music joined your voice on screen, but Spencer was too focused on you to notice them.

As he watched, it was like the cape on your shoulders turned into the blanket he kept on his couch that you had wrapped around yourself. The microphone became a spatula that you held to you mouth instead of using it to flip the pancakes, belting this very song much to his neighbors’ annoyance. It was a scene he was used to, having seen it many times.

“That was amazing. There’s no way you’re not winning this season. But I have no idea who you are,” one judge said when you were done. The other judges echoed similar thoughts before they all started throwing around some possible names. Spencer smiled to himself as his teammates were similarly confused. No one mentioned your name. And they probably never would.

You were very insecure about your singing voice, though Spencer often told you that you shouldn’t be. However, you never even mentioned singing in any interviews, and you didn’t sing in front of anyone that wasn’t Spencer.

“So what brought you onto The Masked Singer?” one judge asked.

“I’m actually a big fan of the show, but the real reason was because it’s my boyfriend’s favorite show. I wanted to surprise him.” Your voice shook nervously as you spoke. Spencer couldn’t tell if it was because you had stage fright or because you had publicly announced that you had a boyfriend for the first time. Not that anyone knew it was you. You and Spencer had been talking about going public with your relationship for a few months now, but you had both always found reasons to keep putting it off. Spencer knew what you were doing. Once you were unmasked, you would have to acknowledge that you had a boyfriend.

Of course, some part of Spencer’s mind reminded him that all of this was filmed in advance. There were people somewhere who knew that you were The Queen and that you had a boyfriend. Spencer just hoped that the NDAs that they had signed were enough to keep that from getting out before the episode aired. Not that he had time to worry about that. You were still talking to the judges.

“Do you think he’s going to be surprised when you’re unmasked eventually? Not that that’s going to happen any time soon.”

“Definitely not. He probably knew it was me the minute I walked on the stage. Plus, he has to hear me sing all the time when I’m home.” It made Spencer’s heart soar hearing you refer to his little apartment as home. You spent more time in your Beverly Hills house than his apartment, but whenever you talked about going home, Spencer knew you were talking about getting back to DC. Getting back to him.

As the rest of the team continued to discuss guesses about your identity, Spencer pulled out his phone to text you.

The Queen sounded amazing.

Spencer knew that, wherever you were, you would smile when you read that text.

----------------

Pretty soon, the new episodes of The Masked Singer were the highlight of Spencer’s week. He was always antsy when they couldn’t watch an episode when it aired, desperate to make sure that you hadn’t been eliminated yet. He loved watching as your confidence in your voice and you stage presence grew.

Surprisingly, it was after you did a cover of Heart of Glass by Blondie that the switch flipped. Spencer could pinpoint the moment it happened. Your performance became electric and there seemed to be a pull, even in the jet, that drew everyone to you.

Spencer had seen it happen before. About a year after you had started dating, you and Spencer had met up in New York for a weekend. Spencer was in awe of the way you managed to seem completely normal, allowing the eyes of all the tourists to slide right over you, despite the fact that your face was on a billboard in Times Square.

The two of you were eating lunch in a pizza restaurant. Spencer had wanted to do research to find the best place to eat, but you had pulled him into a random place. Although he hated to admit it, the pizza was really good.

It was easy to hear the conversation of the two girls, high school students if Spencer had to guess, in the nearly empty restaurant. Spencer saw the look of joy on your face when you realized that the girls were talking about your movie. You both had to smile that they were now talking about how obsessed they were with you when they had walked past you a minute ago without even realizing it.

You looked at your boyfriend with an unspoken question in your eye. Spencer nodded his head at the girls, letting you know that he didn’t mind if you went over to talk to them. As you stood up, it was like the air around you changed. There was no difference in the way you held yourself. If Spencer believed in things like vibes, he would have said that you just started giving off a different vibe. Suddenly, everyone’s eyes were on you.

You spoke to the girls for a few minutes before taking some pictures with them and returning to your table. You seemed unaware of the effect you had on everyone, but Spencer couldn’t shake a strange feeling. It was like for the first time he had seen Y/N Y/L/N instead of his girlfriend Y/N. When you finally got Spencer to tell you what was bothering him later that night, you had confided in him that you often felt intimidated when he talked about his job.

The two of you had grown past that as your relationship went on, but it was strange seeing the effect that you had on his friends.

The closest he got to spilling your secret was the next week. As you got closer to the finale, the competition began heating up. In an effort to prove that you were more than just a good voice, you had chosen 1,2 Step, complete with your own twist on the iconic, according to you since Spencer didn’t really know, choreography from the music video.

“She has some serious stamina,” Emily commented as you got through the rap flawlessly despite all of the dancing you were doing. Spencer knew all about your stamina.

“And look at how her body moves. She can dance.” Spencer’s fist clenched at Derek’s comment. He knew that Derek didn’t mean anything by it. Your body moved fluidly through the dance. It was easy to see in the tight costume you wore. But something seemed to burn inside Spencer as he watched Derek watch you. He wanted nothing more than to tell Derek that last weekend he had used his stamina to keep you up until the early hours of the morning.

But Spencer stopped himself. You had said that you had a plan for telling people about your relationship. He just had to wait for you to put that plan into motion.

The judges were still clueless about your true identity, though Spencer still thought that all of the clues should have made it extremely obvious. Still, it was amusing listening to their guesses.

“I think-no, I know who this is.” Spencer settled in, ready to hear Ken Jeong’s latest wild guess. Last week he had been sure that you were Leona Lewis and the week before it was Mariah Carey. “This is Y/N Y/L/N.”

Spencer tried not to react as everyone in the jet, and on the screen, shook their heads at Ken’s guess.

“Y/N doesn’t sing,” one judge told Ken as another said, “Y/N’s not a singer. No way.”

“But Y/N won an Oscar for her role as a queen. Plus, and stay with me here, in the clue package we’ve seen things about agents. She has an agent, who gets her roles and probably got her on this show, so welcome to the show Y/N Y/L/N.”

“The Queen is in a long term relationship, and Y/N isn’t dating anyone,” one judge pointed out. The other two judges nodded along, so Ken gave up his fight. Spencer realized that, if anything, Ken guessing it was you would convince people that it couldn’t possibly be you.

“Hey, Spence, didn’t you have a little celebrity crush on Y/N Y/L/N?” JJ asked as the commercials started. The rest of the team turned to look at him. Spencer tried to hide his blush, but the smirk on Derek’s face told him it wasn’t working.

“Yeah,” Emily continued, “You go to see all of her movies. Multiple times.”

Spencer tried to shrug nonchalantly. “I just think Y/N is a good actor.” Luckily, the team soon lost interest in teasing Spencer, so he could focus on texting you about your performance.

----------------

“Thank goodness we finished in time to catch it.” Everyone nodded in agreement to Emily’s statement. They had just finished another case earlier that day and had made it to the jet in time to watch the finale as it aired. The team settled into their seats and quickly began sorting out their bets about who was who and who would win.

“Reid, you want in?” Rossi asked. So far, Spencer had abstained from all of the betting about the show they did. But now he wanted to have a little fun with his team.

“I think The Queen will win.” Most people nodded. That was a popular opinion. “And I think The Queen is Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Oh c’mon, kid. You’re just as bad as Ken,” Derek complained, but he was smiling. Spencer felt slightly guilty. He knew that he was at least partially right. He had been tempted to ask you whether you win, but held himself back. There was no doubt that you signed some NDAs, so you really weren’t supposed to tell him.

Spencer had a hard time caring about the other performances. He was looking forward to hearing you again and to seeing the faces of his friends when he was right about your identity. Finally, the other two finalists had gone and it was your turn. Unsurprisingly, your performance was amazing. The best of the night in Spencer’s slightly biased opinion.

Spencer was so relieved when third place was announced and it wasn’t you. Some celebrity he didn’t know took their mask off. There was some exchanging of money among his friends. But then it was time to announce the winner.

“And so, the winner of this season of The Masked Singer, who will go home today with The Golden Mask trophy is,” the host paused for dramatic effect. Spencer had to remind himself to breathe. “The Queen!”

Spencer breathed a sigh of relief as he watched you jump up and down onstage before being ushered to a throne where you would watch the runner up take off their mask. It was another celebrity Spencer didn’t know and didn’t care about.

“I guessed Miley Cyrus when you sang Jolene a few episodes ago. I don’t think that’s right, but it’s the best guess I have, so I’ll go with Miley,” one judge said when it was time for their final guesses. This was it. You were about to be unmasked. Spencer wasn’t quite sure why he was so nervous. You had won! And he already knew that it was you under the mask.

The other three judges threw out their final guesses, but no one was very sure of themselves. Except Ken, who confidently said, “It’s gotta be Michelle Obama,” earning lots of laughs from everyone watching.

“Well, let’s see who it is. Take it off. Take it off.” The host started the chant, which the audience and judges quickly took off as you pretended to struggle to take off your mask. Spencer found himself joining in with the rest of the team as they chanted too.

And finally, you removed your mask and Spencer could see your beautiful face. As great as you looked standing on the stage with your hair and makeup perfectly done, Spencer couldn’t wait until you were back home in a week and he could see you huddled on the couch wearing pajamas.

Chaos erupted, both on the screen and on the plane. It seemed like no one could believe that it was you. The rest of the team was too busy yelling in shock that they didn’t notice the look of absolute adoration Spencer was giving you.

“This might have been the most shocking reveal in Masked Singer history,” the host said into his microphone as the judges and audience began to calm down. “I mean, no one even knew you sing, Y/N. Why did you decide to come on The Masked Singer?”

You laughed uneasily into the microphone. Spencer could tell that you were feeling equal amounts of joy and nervousness. It was understandable, he thought. You had just won a singing competition despite having never sang in public before.

“I’ve always loved to sing, but I’ve never had much confidence in my voice. I’d love more than anything to be in a big movie musical. I guess I was hoping that this would be a good place to build my confidence.”

“You have an absolutely amazing voice,” one judge said. You ducked your head shyly, smiling slightly at the ground before looking back up at the judges. “I think after people see your performances you’ll have no problem doing a musical. I mean, you tackled so many different genres, and you sounded amazing doing all of them.”

You thanked the judge before turning to the others. A smile remained on your lips as they all congratulated you, but Spencer could tell from the way you kept shifting your weight that you were uncomfortable with all of the attention.

“Wait so you said that one reason you did this show was that it’s your boyfriend’s favorite show?” Spencer’s heart fluttered as he watched your smile grow at the mention of him. “That really threw me. I didn’t know you were dating anyone.” The other judges agreed.

“Yeah my boyfriend and I have been together for over two years. We’ve just kept it a secret.”

“Well the secret is out now.”

“You still don’t know who he is though,” you pointed out. The judges laughed and agreed.

“Whoever is dating her is a lucky man,” Rossi commented as the show wrapped up. Spencer tried not to let his heart skip a beat. What would his team think when they found out about you two?

----------------

“I still can’t believe that The Queen was Y/N Y/L/N,” JJ sighed. The team was in the elevator on the way up to their floor. They all needed to drop some stuff off, but Hotch had told them that no one was allowed to stay late tonight. They needed to get home and relax.

“I can’t believe she managed to have a secret boyfriend for over two years without the media finding out,” Emily added. “You know Garcia is probably already trying to uncover the mystery man.”

The team laughed as the elevator doors opened. Spencer made a mental note to warn you about Garcia. He had already texted you to congratulate you, but he missed you. You were supposed to finish filming in a few days and then you’d be back home in about a week. Still, Spencer was a little bummed that you would miss your third anniversary, which was actually tomorrow.

“Hey, Pretty Boy, who’s at your desk?” Derek asked.

It took Spencer a moment to really understand what he was seeing. It didn’t quite make sense in his brain. Every time you got home, you would immediately shower (to wash off the airplane germs), throw on one of Spencer’s old sweaters and some leggings, and curl up on the couch with whatever book Spencer had left laying around until he got home. And now here you were, wet hair and all, sitting at his desk. He barely had time to admire the look of concentration on your face as you tapped at your phone, probably texting your agent.

“Wait, is that-” But Spencer didn’t let Emily finish.

“Y/N!” he called as he pushed through the doors into the bullpen.

Your head shot up at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice, a huge smile growing on your face. You dropped your phone onto the desk (your agent could wait) and rushed over to him. Completely ignoring the fact that his team was a few steps behind him, you threw your arms around Spencer, wrapping your legs around him too when he picked you up. He began to spin you around, causing you to shriek in glee.

Finally, he put you down. You started to move away, but he surprised you by putting his hands on either side of your face and connecting your lips. You smiled into the kiss, so happy to finally be back with your boyfriend.

“Does anyone else feel like they’re missing something?” You two broke apart at the sound his coworker’s voice. You smiled shyly at the man who had just spoke, Rossi you assumed, based on Spencer’s stories about his team.

“Everyone, I’d like you meet Y/N. My girlfriend.” The team looked between Spencer, who was looking at you like you were the only thing that mattered, and you. You could feel the blush on your face, but that didn’t stop your own goofy love-struck grin.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you guys,” you finally said. “I’ve heard so much about you all.”

“We can’t say the same,” the blonde, JJ, slowly replied. You could feel Spencer shift uncomfortably beside you, before he pulled you even closer to his side.

“That’s my fault,” you said before Spencer could say anything. “I wanted to keep our relationship a secret so it didn’t get out to the media.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Spencer corrected you quickly. “I wanted to make sure that Y/N didn’t get targeted by anyone because of my job. She didn’t want anyone targeting me because of her job. It was a mutual decision.”

“And you couldn’t even tell us?” JJ asked. You could tell, even without knowing her, that she was hurt. You knew that she was Spencer’s best friend, so it was understandable. In fact, every face was looking at the two of you with some mixture of confusion, surprise, and hurt.

“I didn’t want to risk it,” Spencer said uncomfortably. “I figured that the more people who knew, the more likely it would be to get out. Y/N already had to tell some people, so I didn’t want to add to the list.”

“I only told my agent, my assistant, and my security team. And I only told my security team because they thought they caught Spencer trying to break into my house one day.”

Spencer’s face went bright red as he remembered that failed surprise. “I think we need to hear that story sometime.” The rest of the team quickly agreed with Prentiss. It seemed, for now at least, they would let the whole secret thing go.

“What are you doing here?” Spencer asked suddenly. “Not that I’m not happy to see you. I am. You’re supposed to be in LA filming.”

You grinned mischievously at him. “I managed to get the filming schedule rearranged a bit, so I could finish early. I shot my last scene this morning, then went straight to the airport. I wanted to surprise you, so we could finally spend an anniversary together.”

“When do you leave again?” The softness of Spencer’s voice broke your heart. He was preparing himself for you usual answer. You’d be here for a week or two and then have to leave again. But not this time.

“Not for months.” A smile of disbelief spread across Spencer’s face. “I’ll have to go to LA and New York for a few days here and there, but nothing long term. I want to be here with you.”

The two of you had, once again, forgotten that Spencer’s team was standing in front of you. It was so easy to get wrapped up in one another when you were both used to being alone together.

“Did I hear something about an anniversary?” Rossi asked, shaking the two of you out of your little bubble.

“It’ll be three years tomorrow.” You grinned up at your boyfriend. It was the first anniversary you would get to spend together.

“Let me host a dinner for you,” Rossi offered. “I’ll make one of my famous meals. We can break out some nice wine that I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”

Spencer began to shake his head, but you grabbed his arm and gasped. “Spencer please,” you begged. “You know I’ve always wanted to go to a dinner at Rossi’s place. You only talk about them all the time. Please. Please. Please.” Spencer finally gave in to your pleading, nodding reluctantly.

You hugged him in excitement before moving to properly introduce yourself to his friends. As you chatted with them, you could hear the clicking of approaching heels.

“My favorite crime fighters will be unhappy to know that I haven’t been able to find anything about Y/N Y/L/N’s secret boyfriend.” You looked up at the brightly dressed woman, definitely Garcia, who had just walked into the bullpen.

“Actually, baby girl, I think we figured that one out ourselves.” Garcia looked up from her phone at Derek’s words. Her eyes widened as she saw you standing among her coworkers.

“Wha-? Who? How? What?” she stammered. In response, you grabbed Spencer’s hand, pulling him closer to you. He wrapped an arm around you, grinning apologetically at Garcia. “Spencer Reid, I would be so mad at you if I wasn’t so happy about meeting Y/N.” Without wasting another second, she rushed over and hugged you. You laughed at the look of jealously on Spencer’s face as you were taken from his arms. This would take some getting used to.

----------------

You smiled happily, watching Spencer’s friends laugh at a story you had just finished. “I think this was a much better anniversary than burning dinner and then ordering takeout would have been,” you whispered to your boyfriend. Rossi’s food had not disappointed. Nor had his wine. You were feeling comfortably warm as you cuddled up with your boyfriend.

“It’s what we would have done after dinner that I was looking forward to.” You tried not to shiver at Spencer’s words.

“There will be plenty of time for that,” you reminded him. “I’m glad I’m getting to know your friends. They’re so important to you.”

“I’m glad they’re getting to know you. I think you all will be friends. That might not be good for me though.” You laughed at the embarrassed look on your boyfriend’s face. His friends had plenty of embarrassing stories about him, so you had been swapping stories all night.

It was easy for the team to see how absolutely in love the two of you were. Even if they hadn’t been profilers, the looks you two shared were so obvious. What had surprised them was how open Spencer was to your touch. In fact, he was the one initiating most your contact. You had been prepared to control yourself for the sake of Spencer’s professionalism, but he didn’t seem to have the same thought. Any time he could, he would grab your hand or wrap his arms around you.

That was how you had gotten to be cuddled up next to him. After dinner, the party had moved outside. You had been heading for a seat in between Emily and Penelope when Spencer’s hand had reached out and grabbed yours, pulling you onto the outdoor sofa beside him. Not that you were complaining. So you had stayed like that the rest of the night, leaning comfortably into your boyfriend’s side.

A couple weeks later, you posted a picture that Penelope had taken of the two of like that onto your social medias. It was time to introduce the world to your boyfriend.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #matthew gray gubler #mgg #mgg fic #spencer reid x you #calwrites #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction

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itsmyblogandillreblogifiwantto · 4 years

Text

Happy Birthday Pretty Boy.

A/N: Hi everyone, the fic is literally as the title says, so enjoy! Triggers: Shooting, blood and stabbing references, swearing, drinking, implied sex, nudity.

It’s one week until Spencer’s 30th birthday, and you can’t wait to spoil your boyfriend. He always says he doesn’t want anything as he has everything he needs, but every year you always exceed his expectations. Last year you managed to get him a vintage book collection he’d looked everywhere for, in second-hand bookstores, and asking you to look online. For your 26th birthday this year, Spencer got you some adorable earrings, and a necklace to match. You never ask him for anything, but when he saw those earrings on route to watching a basketball game with Morgan, Hotch and Rossi, he just had to get them for you, even if it did make him 15 minutes late to the game, it was worth it to see the smile on your face.

Last year, you moved in with Spencer and you both couldn’t be happier, despite the horrors that you see working at the FBI. Some days were more challenging than others, such as the time you got stabbed and shot, where you lost a lot of blood but there was also some really good days, such as the time you and Spencer worked on a case and ended up saving a family from an un-sub and the day Spencer and you announced to the team you were dating and after 3 years, you moved in together.

And now… “I don’t know Penelope… I don’t think Spencer likes the idea of a holiday abroad in case anything happens to his Mum and he can’t get there quickly.” You say, sipping your coffee and catching up with her in her lair after a much-needed weekend off, which Hotch insisted you all took. “I know cinnamon bun.” Penelope said, “But she knows me, so I can take the call until you get back and look after her.” She insisted, You nod as J.J comes in, “We got a case,” causing you and Penelope to groan. “Can’t un-subs take fucking annual leave or something?!” You sigh, rubbing your eyes, a little hungover from you and Spencer getting drunk last night and playing strip poker. You don’t suffer from hangovers, you normally just get a minor headache and it’s gone by midday. “Don’t make me hurt you.” J.J laughed, “At least you’re chatty when you’re hungover, and generally nice. Spencer has not given me a statistic on something for the past 10 sentences he spoke to me.” “Well, on average when he’s hungover, it’ll be 15 sentences before he gives you a statistic.” You say working out the odds in your head, which plays to your favour for poker nights. “It’s too bright in here.” Spencer winces at the light as you all enter the conference room. “Here pretty boy.” Morgan says giving him a coffee which Spencer gladly accepts. “Shitting hell Morgan, where’s the sugar in this?!” Spencer says spitting out the coffee, a bit landing on Rossi’s shoes. “Reid.” Hotch says in a stern voice as you hand Spencer an oat bar knowing he needs a form of sugar. “Where are we with the case?” Rossi asks J.J goes through the case as Penelope hands out new tablets to everyone. “We’ve gone paperless?” Spencer asks worried. “Fear not Doctor of the dark ages.” Penelope says handing him a paper file, and you a tablet as well as a paper file as she knows you make more case notes than anyone, even Spencer. Out of the whole team, and the FBI in general you have the best arrest record for an agent under 30 since the FBI was founded in 1908, something you are getting an award for in a month. “Thanks Penelope.” You say and click your pen already starting to make notes. “Wheels up in an hour.” Hotch says once the case has been discussed. “Y/N a word please.” He says to you, as you look confused, as far as you’re aware, you haven’t pissed anyone off recently apart from Morgan when you put salt in his coffee as revenge for him for replacing your coffee with de-caff last week. “Sure. Your office?” You ask “Here is fine.” Hotch says waiting for everyone to leave. “Penelope told me about your plan to take Spencer on holiday and..” Hotch began “Hotch. It’s okay if we can’t go, I haven’t booked anything yet.” You say “I was going to say, take a whole week. Spencer needs the time off, and God knows the 26 year old with the best arrest record in FBI history does.” Hotch said. You nod. “Thank you Hotch.” You smile as Hotch pats your shoulder. “See you on the plane.” He says and goes to get his bag from his office, and you go downstairs to do the same. “What was that about?” Spencer asked adjusting his satchel. “Oh I missed a page out of my last report, so I just need to print it off and hand it in when we get back from Texas.” You say, adjusting the photo of you and Spencer on your desk, it was of when Spencer and you were out with the team and Penelope got the most adorable picture of you two laughing and smiling in each other’s company. “You ready?” You ask Spencer who nods coming to your desk taking your go bag for you and holding your hand. “God you are hungover today pretty boy.” Morgan laughed. “Shut up.” Spencer says through gritted teeth. “How much did you drink?” Rossi asked, a bit hungover himself from a night in with his current wife. “Ooh numbers. My favourite. So, one beer.. Two tequila shots..” You begin adding up the numbers. “So, 4 times over the drink drive limit everywhere in the world.” “I love you.” Is all that Spencer manages to say before he kisses your cheek. You laugh, and hold the door for everyone, hating gender stereotypes. “I love you too pretty boy.”

The team arrives into Texas, Spencer spends most of it asleep in your arms and you book the holiday. “Wake up lover boy. We’re here.” You say, kissing his neck to wake him up like you do every morning. “Y/N, either give me some of that or hurry the fuck up.” Derek laughs. “Come here then.” You say, as Derek looks at you blankly, not expecting you to answer. “I’m up.” Spencer says moving slowly as you all get off the plane and into the car that the Texas police sent for you. “How’s your head Reid?” Hotch asks, smiling getting in the drivers seat. “Fine. Statistics show a hangover lasts between…” Spencer began with a few statistics. “Interesting but next time leave some fun statistics for Y/N.” Emily laughs.

At the police station, you get settled into the conference room and look at what the Police have so far. All the victims have been rich men, either CEO’s or executives in pharmaceuticals. “Interesting.” You say, looking at the photos. “What’s interesting?” Hotch asks. “A statistic is coming… Now.” Derek said timing it. “A recent study found that left handed men on average are 15% richer than right handed men for those who attended University, or as you folk say, college, and 26% richer if they graduated, so maybe the un-sub attended University, or college, but they didn’t graduate. We should see if the victims were all left handed.” You say. “Is this what you read to help you sleep?” JJ asked “No, I do complex algebra and work out the odds of situations happening to a profile of a person that Spencer gives to me.” You say like it is a completely normal thing as Penelope texts to say she’s sorted your accommodation for your holiday and smile at your phone and put it away again. “And how do you relax?” The chief of the Texas police asks “I’m researching the links between two very old Mathematics theories compared to breakthroughs in the last 10 years for my next PHD in Mathematics.” You shrug. “How old are you?” The chief asks. “I’m 26 as of last month. Can I go to the last two crime scenes now please?” You ask “Sure. I see you brought your own calculator.” The chief says to Rossi and Hotch. “I prefer Dr Y/N Y/S/N.” You say smiling. “Reid, Rossi, go with Y/N.” Hotch says and you all go to the crime scenes. “What was her first PHD in?” The chief asks Spencer. “Psychological and Behavioural Science.” Spencer smiles at you with adoring eyes. “Are they a thing?” The chief asks opening the door of the car for you to get in. “Thanks, and yes. 3 years.” You say as Spencer joins you in the back holding your hand as Rossi gets in the front.

In the car, you go over your theory with Rossi and Spencer who have similar theories to you, and you go back to the police station to deliver a profile.

“And if you have any information please call the tip line on the number below. Thank you.” You say, “We will not be taking questions at this time.” “Agent Y/S/N. Quick question.” One reporter said, as Spencer took over, hating the press ignoring what you and the team just delivered, “If you had listened, it’s Dr Y/S/N, not agent. No questions.” Spencer said as the team went back inside. “You okay Dr Y/N Y/S/N?” He asks softly as you nod. “Yes thank you Dr Reid.” You smile. After a few hours. “Everyone go to the hotel and get some sleep, back in at 9.” Hotch said as you all nod and walk to the hotel down the road. “Spencer, Y/N here’s your key, Derek and Emily to share, J.J with Rossi and myself.” He said, once you all checked in. “See you in the morning guys.” You yawn. Spencer opens the room door and walks in with you. “I’m going for a shower.” You say and start taking your clothes off as Spencer turns away. “Spence, you’ve seen me naked plenty of times. We aren’t children.” You giggle taking off your bra as Spencer turns back as he takes his shirt off. “Sorry, this hotel reminds me of the first time we shared a room before we started dating and had to share a bed.” He laughs putting his hands over your now naked body and keeping his hands on your boobs, squeezing them gently. “You’re an idiot, but I love you.” You say slipping your hands down his boxers and slipping them down before running in the shower. “That’s it!” He exclaims running after you and joining you in the shower. “Oh hello.” You giggle as you start to wash yourself. After your shower, you and Spencer have sex in bed, and cuddle for the rest of the evening. “Morning boo.” Spencer smiles kissing your nose, it’s 7.30AM. “I ordered room service.” “Ooh, can we claim expenses this trip?” You asked. “I don’t know, it’s only coffee and a bagel each.” Spencer shrugged and kissed you all over. “Last night was amazing.” You say, and start to get ready, “Well apart from the case shit, I enjoyed the sex.” Spencer nods in agreement, putting on one pink and one orange sock. “Do you want birthday sex next week pretty boy?” You ask walking over to him, sitting on his lap just wearing your bra and panties. “If we aren’t working.” Spencer smirked, “But I’ll take it even if we are working.” He said “Your wish is my command.” You said and got off his lap, and he pulled you back. “I wish we could have sex tonight.” He winked. “Deal.” You smile and kiss his cheek and go to brush your teeth. At the police station “Coffee Y/N?” Spencer asks offering you a cup which you take with a smile. “Thanks Spence.” You smile, taking it off him and work on the timeline of the last victim. “Guys, we got another victim.” Derek says. After 5 days, you and the team catch the un-sub after you went undercover posing as one of the CEO’s assistants to get more information on how he un-sub knew all of the CEO’s schedules, and it was found out he was going dressed as a cleaner, and then killed his victims when he got access to the floor he needed. He was in the same class as all of his victims and dropped out of University as his Dad went to prison, for drug trafficking and he went downhill from there. “So, what do you have planned for your birthday pretty Ricky?” Derek asked Spencer, as he placed down a card at the table. “I don’t know, Y/N will probably get me a vintage book and she’ll cook me pancakes.” Spencer shrugged. You were reading next to them, but were also working out the statistics of who would win what, depending on what cards they had, which you told Rossi and did a side bet of how long it would take Emily to realise that she has the winning hand if Derek doesn’t pick up an ace on his next card pick, you predicted 30 seconds and Rossi predicted a minute. “What do you have planned then for Dr Reid, Dr Y/S/N?” Emily asked as she placed down a card as Derek picked up a card. “We’re going to have sex and I’m dressing up as a sexy nurse.” You say bluntly, even though you know Spencer knows you are being sarcastic as you hate dressing up for sex. Emily spits out her water realising she has the winning hand, as Derek lets out a quiet groan. “Pay up.” You whisper to Rossi as Emily flashes you her winning hand. Rossi sighs handing you $30., muttering a few swear words in Italian. “You realise I speak fluent Italian?” You smirk at Rossi knowing exactly what he said. “You fuckers LOSE.” Emily said taking her winnings. Back at the FBI the following day You quickly go to Penelope’s lair, and take the plane tickets off her and the accommodation details before summoning Spencer to the conference room where everyone has got him a present. “I thought there wasn’t a case today..” Spencer mumbled “There is. Sorry genius.” J.J said as she and Spencer walked in seeing the banner and presents all for him. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” You all cheer. Spencer opens all of his presents, thanking everyone and leaving yours until last. “Oh my God, Doctor Who Q&A?! And vintage books galore, a new satchel… You’re the best Y/N.” Spencer said kissing you softly. “And where is that Doctor Who Q&A Spencer?” Penelope asked, knowing Spencer has always wanted to go to England, where you are from. “England?! But Y/N… My Mum…” Spencer said biting his lip at the plane tickets. “As of tomorrow, I’m on speed dial for a week, so I’ll look after her until you can get back.” Penelope smiled as Spencer hugged her. “Thank you, Penelope.” He whispered. “You are welcome boy wonder.” She whispered back as you smile to yourself. “I love you Y/N. I don’t deserve you.” Spencer said putting his arm around your waist. “You deserve everything good in the world Spencer, I love you too.” You smile. “Now go on holiday, and don’t come back for a week. That’s an order.” Hotch said “Yes sir.” You and Spencer say, taking his presents and head to your flat. “I think I may want that birthday sex when we get back to our place.” Spencer said in the lift. “Yes Dr.” You smile squeezing his hand and put your head on his shoulder. - - - - -

Taglist: @pumpkin-goob, @jpegjade , @andiebeaword , @hotchsbabygirl , @hopebaker , @hercleverboy , @cupcake525 , @gubetube , @aperrywilliams , @cosmic-psychickitty , @marleyhotchner

#Criminal Minds #spencer reid #spencer x reader #spencer reid fluff #my fics

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imagineaworlds · 4 years

Text

I Love You (Part Twelve) -- Aaron Hotchner

Written By: @desperately-bisexual

Request: None.

Warnings: Murder. Kidnapping. Literally everything Criminal Minds.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Greenaway!Reader

Word Count: 9160

Timeline: Season 2 Episode 15. Morning after part eleven.

In the morning, Hotch opened the trunk to the car and crawled back in beside me to start coaxing me awake. I wasn’t sure of when he had left in the night, or if he stayed to sleep with me but got an early start, and I hadn’t even realized that he closed the trunk while I was asleep so as to ensure that no one disturbed me. He was dressed in a new suit, though, and his hair was combed back, so he had clearly been up for some time. The sun was out, and it seemed like it had been for hours. I couldn’t believe that he let me sleep for that long. He promised that it would only be a few hours and then he’d wake me up and we would get back to work. But it was already late morning and I was just being told that it was time to start working.

I hurried out of the SUV’s trunk and scrambled to my feet. I patted down my hair to get rid of the frizz and adjusted my clothes as well as I could. Hotch crawled back out of the car to tell me what was going on since I clearly had no clue. There was another black SUV parked in front of Tobias Hankle’s house now, along with the Sheriff’s Department. When I asked if the new car was for Garcia, he told me that she was already inside with Morgan, trying to see what they could get off the computer.

Hotch slammed the trunk shut as I stormed back up towards the house. Inside, JJ and Emily were just waking up in the living room, too. They were both sitting upright, but neither of them looked alive enough to have been working for hours on end like Hotch had been. Garcia was sitting in the computer room with Morgan hovering over her shoulder, just like Hotch told me. I walked further into the house and found Gideon sitting at the kitchen table, going through some papers and books he found laying around in the house. He must have had the same thought I did last night that there was something in one of the thousands of papers scattered about where Tobias might have taken Reid.

“What did you guys find?” I heard Hotch ask back down the hall in the computer room.

I retraced my steps back into that room to find Hotch leaning over Garcia’s other shoulder as she started presenting everything she found.

“Well, if I’m being honest, we’re looking at a pretty smart kiddo who got his hands on some very expensive hardware. This setup is absolutely brilliant, but everything on the computers relates to kids shows, online shopping for toys, pictures of cute dogs, and so on. I didn’t find a single hint of evidence that this guy had been watching anything concerning— even the video games he plays are the cutsie ones, not the murder ones you would expect.”

“It would make sense if Tobias’s submissive personality is the one who is tech savvy,” Hotch put the pieces together. I guessed that he had told the team about my suspicions of Tobias’s first personality being a child because everyone nodded like they knew what he was talking about. “But it doesn’t explain how his other personalities can be so violent. Garcia, keep digging. Look for any kind of conflicting searches or odd times when he’s not at his computer. Just keep digging. There has to be something there.”

“There’s not, Hotch,” she insisted. “There’s nothing. Not even the videos he posted to the internet.”

We all furrowed our brows and tilted our heads slightly in confusion. “That doesn’t make sense,” I said. “He would have kept them for Raphael and his third personality. They would have wanted to watch them over and over again to relive their suffering.”

“Well, sugar cakes, I don’t know what to tell you. This guy is completely clean.”

“He must have another computer hiding somewhere. Y/N, take Prentiss with you upstairs to go through all of the bedrooms, see if you can find anything else,” Hotch said to me.

I nodded and headed back to the living room. Emily was on her feet finally, but JJ was still sitting down, staring at the wall opposite her. I wondered if it was really the best idea to keep her at the house and not just send her back to the hotel, but it was Hotch’s choice to keep her on the case. If she wanted to stay and he was letting her, there wasn’t much I could do beyond worry. Emily saw me standing in the doorway, though, and when I made a gesture towards the stairs down the hallway, she caught the hint and joined me.

“Hotch wants us to go through everything upstairs,” I told her on our way up.

“Everything?” she questioned.

“Everything. If we find another computer, we’ve hit the jackpot.”

“Garcia couldn’t find anything on the computers downstairs?”

I shook my head. “Nothing. He has to have everything stored somewhere… It’s just a question of where.”

We started with Tobias’s bedroom, the very same room I had gone into last night to start looking around before Hotch made me go to bed. Emily confirmed my suspicions of Hotch telling the team about what I discovered about Tobias’s submissive personality when she went through the list of things I found in order to find her bearings. I listened as she ran through it all in her own mind while simultaneously walking circles around the room to see if anything would catch my eye suddenly. I walked over to his bookshelf and ran my index finger over all of the different spines while reading through the different titles. He had a lot of what you would expect a middle schooler to have in his bedroom, whether it be from an assignment at school or general interest in reading. What stood out the most, however, was all of the journals on the bottom shelf. They weren’t clearly marked in any way, but as I pulled one out to investigate further, I realized that each of the journals was from a different year of his life. Every single day, every single detail, every little thought he ever had was in those journals.

Emily walked over to the bedside table as a thought occurred to her while in the midst of running through my own evidence with me. She pulled the drawer open and started digging through whatever was in there. I put the journal back where I found it and started circling the room again.

“Hey, look at this,” she told me.

I walked over and looked over her shoulder. She held up a list of Narcotics Anonymous groups in the area. So Mr. Hankle was an addict. It would explain the mental stability and how the different personalities were constantly fighting for power rather than being controlled by the abuser. There was a name, phone number, and an address on the piece of paper— likely a sponsor if Tobias ever ended up taking his NA meeting seriously. The list looked old, though, and Emily seemed to notice it, too. I backed away and scanned the room with my eyes.

“We’ll take any lead we can at this point, though, right?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Something’s always better than nothing. Maybe the man listed on there will know something about how to find Tobias and Spencer.”

“I’ll go visit him later, then.” Emily set the paper down on the table so that we could keep it for evidence when we would leave the room. “I think I’ll take JJ… I think she needs to get out of this house.”

“That’s a good idea.”

Emily knelt down on her knees next to the bed and lifted up the comforter to see if there was anything hiding under the bed. I approached the bedroom wall opposite the bed and started at the art work. The art was just drawings of cars, planes, and trains— similar to Jack’s bedroom wall. If Tobias’s first personality was a kid, then the wallpaper made sense, but there was something off about it. The seam between where the wallpaper started and ended around the room was dirty and worn out, like someone had been constantly touching it and picking at it. I stepped forward and started peeling at the top corner. It came off the wall easily, no pull or stick to it.

“Emily,” I called her attention over. She pushed herself up to her feet and gasped when she saw what I saw. “Honora Patrum Tuum…” I didn’t know what that meant, but Emily was the linguist of our team, and she was standing right there. “Do you recognize it?”

She walked up to my side to get a better look with me. The wall beneath the wallpaper had been covered with the words: Honora Patrum Tuum hundreds of times, all in steady cursive— not like you would see from a kid. Someone else wrote it. Either Raphael or the abuser personality did this. Perhaps the translation would tell us which of the two did it.

Emily handed me something that she found under the bed before pressing her palm to the way. “Honor thy father.”

I looked down at what she had handed me. It was a full pill bottle with Tobias’s name Sharpied onto it. I spun it around to look to look at the label. It was certainly for Tobias Hankle, but that wasn’t what caught my attention. It was medicine to help him with his mental health and to help control the voices in his head. Since it was full, it made sense that he had flown so far off the handles. Not to mention, the expiration date was almost as old as the NA list we found. If he started going to NA, he probably realized that pills just weren’t for him, so rather than find a way to stop abusing them, he just stopped altogether, which was how Raphael and the abuser took over.

“There’s still no computer,” Emily sighed, stepping away from the wall. “Maybe in the father’s room?”

I shrugged again. Our best bet was the father's room, because if there was nothing in there, then we were screwed. We would have to start from square one. The computer wasn’t downstairs, that much we knew, and after just tearing apart Tobias’s extremely clean room and coming up empty handed there too, there was only one lasat place to look and pray to find answers.

I set the pill bottle on top of the NA list on the bedside table then followed Emily into the father’s room. Tobias and his father’s rooms were polar opposites.While Tobias’s room was perfect and neat in every way, his father’s room was a wreck. It looked like a hoarder threw up in there at least three times. Nothing was organized, papers and books were scattered everywhere, and his bed wasn’t made. If there was a computer or any other clue in that room, it would take forever to look. There was really no time to waste, so we got to it.

Most of the junk lying around was meaningless. There were dozens of old newspapers, food wrappers, old and broken computer keyboards, and so on. What was of interest was the bibles stacked neatly on the bookshelf, but there were torn pages and passages scattered all around, just like we had found at both of the crime scenes. For a second I stopped to think about how that could be, and came to the conclusion that one of Tobias’s personalities must have been picking up these pages and passages from the bedroom and picking the ones that made sense for each sin and took them to the crime scenes. Raphael was the archangel personality, he was most likely to do so .

There was no computer, unfortunately. We probably combed through that entire room twice over the span of four hours, and nothing of use actually turned up. Just as I predicted, we were going to be starting back at square one, which just meant that we were much further from finding Reid than any of us would have cared to admit.

“What now?” Emily asked in defeat.

“Take JJ with you and figure out if that name on the NA list is worth anything,” I recommended.

There was a knock at the door. “Find anything?” Hotch asked us, peeking into the room.

Emily and I turned to him. “No computer,” I answered, “but Emily has a lead and wants to take JJ to go take a look.”

“Alright.”

“There’s a bunch of journals in Tobias’s room, and even more in here. It might be worth looking through them to see if we can find anything out about his favorite spots around town, see if there’s anywhere that we could check for Spencer.”

“We’ll start going through those with you while Emily and JJ head out, I guess.”

I nodded. Emily and I filed out of the room after Hotch and followed him down the hall. She went back downstairs to go talk to JJ, meanwhile Hotch and I started collecting all of the journals in Tobias’s room. I carried as many as I could and he grabbed the rest before grabbing a few more from the father’s room. We headed downstairs together and dropped everything on the table in the kitchen where Gideon had just given up on his task of looking through the loose papers laying around the house. I guessed that he didn’t find anything of use, and I was just hoping that wouldn’t be the case with these journals.

I sat down next to Gideon and Hotch headed back into the hallway to grab more journals from upstairs, but we were all stopped in our tracks when we heard Morgan yelling Hotch’s name outside like he found something of interest. Hotch turned around and headed for the front door. Gideon and I stood from the table and chased after to see what was going on.

Both Morgan and Hotch had their guns already out and pointed down at a cellar door that was half covered by leaves. Morgan looked to Hotch for a silent signal, and Hotch gave a small nod up. Morga opened the cellar door and took a step in with his weapon raised and his finger on the trigger. Gideon and I watched from the side, my fingers crossed behind my back that we would find Spencer down there alive. I knew that it sounded far fetched and entirely possible, but I just had to hold out hope, right?

“Tobias Hankle! FBI!” Morgan warned, moving further into the cellar, Hotch close on his tail. “Tobias!”

“They won’t find him down there,” Gideon said to me, already turning back to go into the house.

I didn’t budge, though. I stood my ground and watched the cellar to see who would emerge. There was movement again on the ladder in the cellar, and Hotch came up. Morgan followed shortly after, but there was no Tobias and no Spencer. Just empty hands and defeated faces. I asked them what was down there, and Morgan told me that they found Tobias’s dead father, which wasn’t very helpful to our case. Hotch stepped off to the side to call the sheriff and the coroner so that they could clear the scene down below. I sighed and walked back into the house. Gideon was right, and he knew it, telling by the look on his face that said: “I know I’m right, but I wish I wasn’t.”

Morgan and I sat down with him in the kitchen and each picked up a journal. A few minutes later, Hotch came back in to tell us that the sheriff was on his way with the coroner, but we should start looking through the journals for any clues. He sat down next to Morgan, across from me, and we all started skimming. A thought occurred to me as we were all reading that if Spencer were with us, he would’ve read all of the journals in under two hours and had the whole case solved even before that.

Square one was just as shit as I thought it would be. Tobias and his father had written hundreds of journals, each depicting every hour of every day for years. I was taking notes on anything I found slightly interesting, but for the most part, it was all religious ramblings; and for Tobias, there were many entries about his father’s “punishments”, and each of them were described in graphic detail. I couldn’t believe that anyone would do those things to their own children… One would have to be the worst kind of deranged monster to think that any of those “punishments” were alright.

While we were all reading, the coroner was in the cellar, taking a look at the body. We knew that it wasn’t ideal for him to look at the body down there, but we needed answers fast, and we couldn’t afford to wait around for them to drive an hour into the city just to tell us the time of death. It, unfortunately, had to be then and there. Few hours later, the sheriff came into the house with his hat off to tell us what the coroner found before leaving to finish up some more examinations and tests.

Tobias Hankle’s father had been dead for about six months when Morgan and Hotch found him. Something about that time frame struck me as odd and I started sifting through my notes to find what I was looking for. Six months ago, in Tobias’s journal, he went for two weeks without writing anything. And then suddenly it started back up again. Something happened during those two weeks. Tobias’s stressor was his father’s death, and his father abused him, and Raphael always wrote for Tobias when he was the forward personality, and—

“I’ve got it,” Hotch said with a eureka-moment-like tone. He started reading from one of Tobias’s journals, “‘Father is sick. He wants me to put him down, but I say that the bible tells us we shall not kill, and he tells me to honor thy father. I don’t know what to do.’ That was on December 6th. Two months ago. Tobias’s father had already been dead for four months according to what the sheriff just told us.”

The bedrooms, the journals, the behaviors, and the crime scenes all pointed to one thing: Tobias’s abuser personality was keeping him in check. Outside of his delusions, Tobias was actually abused by his father, and now Hotch was claiming that two months ago, Tobias was still writing about his father as if he never left. And maybe that was the case… technically. Tobias’s father died, but lived on as Tobias’s third personality: the abuser. Tobias was the submissive, Raphael was the dominant, and Tobias’s father was the abuser. That was why they were so scared of him— That was why he took over the commentary in the first video. And that was why he could make Tobias do all of those horrible things.

“Garcia!” I called, scrambling to my feet. I nearly tripped over the journals we had laying on the floor as I ran out of the kitchen and across the hall into the computer room. She spun around in her chair, putting down her nail filer before I could catch her using it. “Try logging into the computers as Tobias’s father— Charles Hankle.”

She scrunched her brows, “Didn’t the killings just start, and he’s been dead for six months?”

“I know. I know. I just have a hunch about something. Humor me?”

She shrugged, figuring that there was no harm in trying. “Sure thing, buttercup.”

Originally, we thought that there had to be another computer somewhere in the house that would have all of the videos and concerning evidence on it, because Tobias’s computers didn’t seem to have anything bad on them— but that was because Tobias didn’t like those things. His father did. His father was the psychopath, he was the reason they were killing, and he was the one who would want to watch the videos again. If there wasn’t another computer, it was because they would just log into different accounts.

“Y/N?” Hotch questioned as the three men came into the computer room. “What is it?”

I turned to them, excitement coursing through my veins. “Charles Hankle is the abuser personality. Think about it, Tobias’s room upstairs is in tip-top shape because his father would beat him if anything were out of place— but the Latin on the wall was written by an adult, telling by the handwriting and the use of cursive, and also the fact that Tobias wouldn’t have done that. His father did it. His walls say “Honor thy father” in Latin, and that was Charles’s argument when he wanted Tobias to kill himself, taking all three personalities down with him. When Tobias finally refused, that’s when the stalkings started, and later the killings.”

“I got it,” Garcia cheered quietly. We all changed our focus to the computers, which were all playing different videos of murder, rape, bombings, Church sermons, and so on. “Holy moly.”

“We need to start profiling Charles. He’s likely the one who decided where they took Reid,” Hotch said.

“We’ve got a problem,” the sheriff told us, walking into the room while still pocketing his phone. “I just got a call from the station. A local electronics store was robbed last night. The suspect took one camera, one tripod, couple of SD cards, four computers, and a satellite.”

“Sounds like everything this guy would need to start up his operation again.” Garcia commented, shutting of all of the horrific videos playing on the computers. “Wait—” The screens went entirely black, and I figured that she had just shut them off, but when she seemed shocked, I knew something was wrong. “Oh, my god…” she whispered under her breath as the computers all turned back on remotely and started playing one video.

I gasped as I saw Spencer sitting in front of a camera, tied to a chair, his face all bloodied and beaten. He looked tired and defeated, his head hanging low and his shoulder drooping. His wrists were bound together, his feet tied to the chair beneath him, and his mouth gagged by a cloth. Garcia started typing as fast as she could, knowing that we would want answers just as much as she did.

“Garcia, can you track this?” Hotch asked calmly, but he was keeping his fingers close to his lips, which was a telltale sign that he was silently panicking.

She shook her head, “He’s streaming this from his home computer. It’s just for us. I won’t be able to find him.”

Spencer raised his head as someone walked into the room with him. Tobias stepped in front of the camera and pulled the gag from Reid’s mouth. “Your friends are watching,” Tobias told Reid, pointing to the camera. Reid made eye contact with the lense, which was virtually us, though he didn’t know it. “See those vermin?” he pointed to something behind the camera. Reid nodded shortly. “Choose one of them to die.” Reid shook his head this time. “Do it,” Tobias violently pinched Reid’s face in his hand. “Do it, boy!”

“That’s Charles,” I whispered, pointing at the screen. “Neither Tobias nor Raphael would lash out like that.”

“I won’t choose who gets slaughtered and have you leave their remains behind like a poacher,” Reid hissed bravely in Charles’s face.

Charles let go of Reid, “Choose one to die or they all die.”

“I’ll… I’ll choose who lives,” Reid compromised. He swallowed hard and looked at the camera again before looking at whatever was behind. “Far… Far right screen…”

Charles grinned, knowing he had won this round. “Marilyn David. 4913 Walnut Creek Road.”

Garcia was typing a mile a minute to pull up information about Marilyn David. Gideon pulled out his phone and started dialing the number Garcia found for Ms. David. “Marilyn David. This is Agent Jason Gideon with the FBI. If there’s a computer open near you, I need you to close it right now— Please, ma’am, just do it. We’ll be sending another agent over to make sure you’re alright.” He hung up as fast as he could without bothering to give her any answers as to what was going on.

“You’ve done your part for now,” Charles said, moving towards the camera. “Now it’s my turn.” And the stream cut out.

“So now what?” the sheriff shrugged. “Wait for a 911 call and hope we get there in time?”

Morgan huffed, spun around on his heels, and stormed out of the room. He hit the wall with a closed fist on his way out of the room, and I chased after him to make sure that he was alright. He kicked one of the wooden chairs in the living room, sending it over onto its side, and then he just kept kicking at it. I ran over to him, grabbed his shoulders, and pulled him away from the chair. He stumbled back before trying to catch his balance and push off of me.

“You can’t do this right now,” I told him, my eyes following him as he went to kick the chair out of the way one last time, then sat down on the couch angrily. “You need to keep a cool head if we’re going to find Spencer.”

His foot was tapping against the wood floor as anxiety coursed through him. “They shouldn’t’ve split up,” he finally admitted. “They knew better… If they knew Hankle was the Unsub, they should have stayed together.”

“No one could have known. This isn’t anyone’s fault, Morgan, just like we told Hotch yesterday. We can’t keep blaming ourselves when it’s not going to help anything.”

“Reid is out there right now, being held against his will and tortured, and you want to talk to me about calming down? How am I supposed to do that when one of us is out there, waiting for our help?!”

“It’s valid to worry,” I told him as I sat down beside him. “We’re all worried, and we’re all doing the best we can to find him. But if we lose our minds, who’s going to help him, huh?”

“We should be out there right now, knocking on every door.”

“That won’t help and you know that.”

“We have to do something! We can’t just sit around and wait for something bad to happen—”

“We just got the 911 call,” Hotch informed us from the doorway. “Someone has to stay with Garcia and the journals. There has to be something else of use in them.”

“We’ll stay,” I offered. Morgan looked at me with his jaw practically on the floor. “You’re not thinking clearly enough to go out there,” I whispered to him. “Do you trust me?” He nodded. “We’ll stay here with JJ,” I turned back to Hotch. JJ wasn’t going anywhere either. She needed to get out of the house, and she did with Emily for a bit, but she didn’t need to go to another crime scene quite yet; not after what happened in the barn last night, at least. Hotch nodded and left to go meet Gideon and Emily in the car. “Let’s see if Garcia can get back into Charles’s computer,” I patted Morgan’s knee before pushing myself off the couch. I held my hand out for him and he stared at me for a fleeting moment before taking my offer. I pulled him to his feet. “Reid’s a smart kid. He can handle himself. I promise.”

“I’ll believe you when I see it for myself.”

Garcia, Morgan, and I were all sitting in the computer room together while she worked on searching the rest of Charles’s computer and we read through more journals. The rest of the team had been gone for hours at the crime scene, and the sun was already down, bringing another day without Reid to an end. Reid’s chances of survival fell significantly as the sun set and the moon rose. We all knew it, JJ most of all as she worked quietly on her own in another room. She was still beating herself up for not being with Reid, and I wished that there was something I could have done to ease her conscience, but I also knew that she just wouldn’t get over it until this was done and we were all home safe.

Around hour four of sitting uncomfortable in that stuffy computer room, Morgan accidentally let out a yawn. He hadn’t slept in days, and even though I was worried about him and I wanted to tell him to get some rest, I knew that he wouldn’t listen. Even if I begged and pleaded, or even decided to drag him onto the couch myself, he’d find a reason to not go to sleep. It wasn’t worth wasting my time to try and argue with him. And even though we had all heard him yawn and we were all reminded of how tired everyone was, he dodged Garcia’s attempt to send him to bed by saying that he was going to make some coffee, and offered us some. Garcia quietly passed on his offer, but I took him up on it before returning my gaze to the journal in my lap.

A few minutes later, Morgan came back and handed me my coffee before silently turning to leave again. When I asked where he was going, he told me that he needed some air and some time alone to think. JJ came in a few minutes after that. She looked upset, and I pieced together that they must have had an argument of some sort in order to shake both of them like that. We didn’t like fighting amongst each other. We all loved one another like family, and we knew that fighting like children was just a waste of time when we could always be spending that energy on solving the cases. But whenever emotions were high and we didn’t get enough sleep, tension always seemed to build in the team. Morgan had been trying to put blame on different people all day because he was so stressed about Spencer, and JJ had been blaming herself anyhow. It wouldn’t have surprised me if one of them told me that their argument was about who to blame and why.

JJ sat in Morgan's seat, “I want to watch the newest video.”

Garcia and I turned to her. We hadn’t even watched it yet. We were waiting to hear from the team about the crime scene before watching it— but also because Garcia wasn’t sure if she wanted to watch it yet, and Morgan was still battling with the fact that Reid had to make the choice of who had to live and who had to die. That shouldn’t have had to happen in the first place, but watching the video was just going to be the nail in the coffin for everyone’s already shitty moods. But JJ wanted to see it for some reason, and I deduced that it had to do with whatever she and Morgan talked about.

“If I can’t watch this video and stomach it, then I have no right to be in the field,” JJ admitted.

“It’s not a competition, JJ,” Garcia said.

“I know. I just need to see it. Please.”

Garcia brought up the video, but she didn’t play it yet. She stepped away before she could start it because she knew she didn’t want to watch with us. If JJ wanted to, and I was willing to stay, then that was our choice. But she wasn’t going to stick around, and I couldn’t blame her, honestly.

I pressed the spacebar and the video began. There was a couple sitting on their couch in their home. From what I could tell, the computer was sitting on a table in the corner, just out of their field of view. The man stood and left to get something off camera while the woman got more comfortable on the couch. After a minute or so, the man returned with a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. The woman smiled at him as he sat down beside her. Tobias snuck into the living, wearing all black, and covering his head with a hood. He approached the back of the couch and immediately slashed the man’s throat. The woman screamed and tried to get away, but Tobias grabbed her arm and forced her back on the couch.

Headlights from the road outside of Tobias’s home turned towards the room we were sitting in as the team came back from the new crime scene. I could hear Morgan outside asking Hotch about what they found after the car turned off, but my gaze didn’t pull away from the computer screens. Tobias grabbed the female victim by her hair and started dragging her over to the computer in her living room. She sobbed and slapped his hands in an attempt to make him release his grip, but he didn’t let up. He commanded her to stare into the camera. The front door of Tobias’s home opened just as he slit the female victim’s throat in the video.

JJ and I jumped in our seats before turning to the hallway behind us. Hotch and Morgan walked past while discussing the new evidence. Gideon came into the computer room to see what progress we had made over the past five hours or so. There wasn’t much to tell, though, besides the fact that Tobias had posted the video to the internet. To everyone’s disappointment, we hadn’t made much practice since Tobias originally took Reid, and it was clearly starting to annoy everyone.

Gideon asked me to play the video for him after I told him about it, and I obliged. JJ stiffened in her seat as the video started over. She had to know that she didn’t have to watch it again, right? I didn’t understand why she was trying to push herself and challenge everyone, even though we didn’t think any less of her like she only assumed. Watching it a second time wasn’t going to prove anything, and it certainly wasn’t any easier to watch.

As Tobias sliced the male victim’s throat open, the video cut out. Gideon asked what happened and I insisted that I wasn’t sure. I stood and hurried to the living room in search of Gideon’s technical aid. As I started to explain to her that the video turned off half way through Gideon’s examination of it, we heard JJ yell for the rest of the team in a panic. Everyone ran to the computer room. Gideon was sitting in my seat, JJ in hers, and Garcia hurried to her own right in front of the keyboard. I stumbled a few steps in the room as I realized what JJ had called us in for. The video of the murders had cut out because Tobias took control of the computers again, and now he was streaming live footage of Reid again.

“Confess your sins,” Charles said. I knew it was him and not Tobias or Raphael because of the voice. Charles was more baritone and Southern, like how a stereotypical Southern priest would sound.

“I haven’t done anything,” Reid responded calmly. Charles raised his fist into the air before landing a punch of Spener’s jaw. Reid moved with the punch to avoid more damage and pain. Smart kid. “I haven’t done anything!” he yelled more desperately this time. Charles punched him again. “Please… Tobias, help me…”

“He can’t help you. He’s weak.”

Garcia was shaking at the keyboard, trying to find a new way to hack into Tobias’s set up. I believed in her. I knew she could do it, even when she was panicking like we all were. She just needed some more time.

Charles slapped Reid around a few more times before grabbing his long hair and pulling on it to make him sit up straight. “Confess. Your. Sins.”

When Reid refused again, Charles punched him straight in the nose, so hard that it sent Reid and his chair flying backwards. With Reid’s wrists tied together, he couldn’t protect his body from the impact, so he had the wind knocked out of him. He gasped for air desperately, but he couldn’t get enough oxygen in the short breaths that he could manage. He started convulsing on the ground and foaming at the mouth. What had Tobias been doing to him when the camera was off? We were missing something crucial.

“He’s killing him,” Garcia cried, taking her hands off the keyboard after failing to find them again.

Spencer suddenly stopped moving and breathing. Charles grinned widely before stepping out of the room they were in. The video didn’t end, though. We just had to watch as Reid laid… unconscious… or dead? I don’t think any of us were sure. Either way, if he wasn’t dead yet, he would be unless someone helped him soon. Even if we wanted to, we wouldn’t be able to save him on time while he was like that. If, by some miracle, we happened to find them at that exact moment, by the time we got to wherever they were hiding, it would be too late. Charles wanted us to know that, and we wanted us to watch our friend die.

JJ turned away from the computers and hid her face in her hands, Morgan punched the wall as hard as he could again, Garcia cried harder as Gideon put a comforting hand on her shoulder, and Emily, Hotch, and I just watched in shock. It was going to end soon if it hadn’t already. The son of a bitch had won.

Charles suddenly hurried back into the room and crouched beside Reid. He put his ear up against Reid’s chest to listen for a heartbeat before sitting back up and putting his hands on Reid to start performing CPR. I mumbled to myself the question of what the hell Charles was doing. Why would he want to punish and kill Reid, only to come back moments later to help him? Because it wasn’t Charles… It had to have been Raphael or Tobias. They would have been the only ones who would care enough to help Reid. And then I remembered how Reid begged for Tobias’s help… Tobias had been helping Reid while the camera was off. They had befriended each other. That was why he was trying to resuscitate him.

Reid gasped for air and woke back up. Garcia gasped and sighed with relief. Everyone else released the tension in their shoulders, too— myself included.

“Wait,” Emily said. We all turned our ears to her, but kept watching the stream. “When were the last murders called in by Tobias?”

“9:04,” Hotch answered.

“And when was the video of the murders posted?”

Garcia typed away at the computers for a moment. “9:23.”

“That’s only a nineteen minute difference,” I said. “Garcia how long would it take to upload that video?”

“Two to three minutes, maybe.”

“Let’s call it two,” Morgan said. “That means that, even if you’re going approximately 60 miles per hour, Tobias would have to be within a 19 mile radius of the crime scene.”

“Garcia, pull it up on a map,” Hotch ordered. She pulled up a map of the area, then narrowed it down to the nineteen mile radius. “JJ, call the sheriff and tell him to put roadblocks surrounding that area.”

JJ nodded and ran out of the room to go call the Sheriff's Department.

“Look,” Gideon pointed back to the stream of Spencer.

Tobias was helping Spencer back up into the chair. Reid coughed and wiped the spit around his mouth away with his sleeve. “Thank you, Tobias,” he whispered breathlessly.

“You came back to life…” It wasn’t Tobias’s young, child-like voice that spoke, nor was it Charles’s deep, commanding Southern accent. It was something more proper.

“Raphael…” Reid identified him. “Thank you.”

“I didn’t do anything. Someone brought you back from the dead. Something brought you back.”

“It was CPR. Science. Just science, Raphael. Nothing else—”

“How many members are on your field team?”

Excluding Garcia, since she hardly ever came out into the field with us, our team included: Hotch, Gideon, Morgan, JJ, Emily, Reid, and me. Seven of us. Seven archangels— including Raphael— vs the seven angels of death. Raphael was one of the archangels, he would know that we weren’t angels, but his delusion made him believe that we were the seven angels of death, and that was how Reid was brought back to life.

“Tell me who you serve,” Raphael demanded.

“I serve you,” Reid answered, calm again.

“Then choose one to die.”

“What?”

“Your team members. Choose one to die.”

My eyes raced between the entire team to see what they were thinking. They all just looked shocked. None of them seemed to be thinking of ways to help… And neither was I, I supposed. What else were we supposed to do?

“Kill me. I choose me.”

“No. You’ve proven to me that you can’t die. Satan favors you. Choose one of the others. Now.”

“No.”

Raphael pulled out a pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Reid’s forehead. Everyone was tense again. Charles wanted Reid to suffer when he originally tried to kill him, but Raphael was only trying to do one thing: prove that the archangels were better than the angels of death. In his mind, it didn’t matter if he shot Reid, because he would come back to life and they would start over. But from where we stood, we knew that wasn’t the case. If Raphael were to have shot Reid, he’d die immediately.

“Choose one of them.”

“No,” Reid answered again.

Raphael pressed on the trigger, and I jumped in response, but nothing fired from the weapon. My brows furrowed in confusion. Raphael pulled the hammer of the pistol back with his thumb and demanded once again that Reid choose. When Reid refused again, Raphael tried to shoot again, but nothing happened. They were playing Russian Roulette. Reid was one of the smartest people on the planet. He knew nearly everything about the world— but had a proclivity for science and math. Russian Roulette was technically a game of chance, yes, but Reid knew the odds and statistics of the game. He knew how to push his luck. So when Raphael asked again and Reid denied again, I didn’t jump when Raphael pulled the trigger again.

“Alright, fine,” Reid gave in. He found it. “I’ll choose.” He lowered his head in defeat, “I choose… Aaron Hotchner.”

I let out the breath that had been building in my chest and instinctively grabbed Hotch’s hand from his side. Hotch squeezed my hand reassuringly. Why Hotch? Why? They had been through so much together. He could have picked me. We weren’t close. He had no reason to like me— In fact, he actually disliked that I challenged him so often since he was Mr. Know-It-All and always had to be right. He could have picked me, but he chose Hotch… Why…

“He’s a classic narcissistic,” Reid began explaining, “he thinks that he’s better than everyone else, and he treats Y/N better than everyone else on the team, which puts us all in danger. Genesis 23:4— ‘Let him not deceive himself and trust in emptiness, vanity, falseness, and futility, for these shall be his recompense.’ That’s why I choose him.”

Hotch let go of my hand and stormed out of the room. Everyone watched him leave, but I was the only one who chased after him. “Aaron, you can’t take what he said to heart. He’s just doing what he has to do to survive.”

Hotch turned away from the bookshelf in the family room in order to face me. He was holding a bible in his hands, skimming through a few pages. “I don’t care about that,” he insisted to me. “I know that he had to give an answer.”

“You’ll be fine here with all of us. Nothing’s going to happen—”

Hotch looked up from the bible as the rest of the team came in. “I’m not a narcissist.”

“We know, Hotch,” Gideon responded. “He’s not in his right mind—”

“No. Stop. Listen. Alright, everybody, right now, what’s my worst quality?”

We all glanced at each other silently. Did he really want to know? And why? It would just hurt his feelings. Spencer had already hit the nail on the head just a minute ago, why would Hotch be searching for more answers?

When no one answered his question, Hotch spoke up again, “Fine, I’ll start. I have no sense of humor.”

Only sometimes, I thought to myself. But that was because I knew him better than anyone else on the team. He liked to smile around me and we liked to have fun together, but our home life was very different from our work personalities.

Everyone took Hotch’s first words as their chance to speak up about what they disliked about him. JJ said that he was always too bossy and he felt like a bully, Morgan said that he acted like a drill sergeant, Emily said that he never trusted women as much as men— which… good on her for bringing it up.

“Right. So I’m all of those things, but none of you said that I ever put myself before the team, because I don’t. There was a time when Reid and I argued about the definition of classic narcissism, and he knew that I would remember that. Genesis 23:4— ‘I am a stranger and a sojourner with you. Give me property, forbear a place among you that I may bury my dead out of my sight.’ He wouldn’t get it wrong unless it was on purpose.”

Reid quoted something about how narcissism was a sin in the eyes of God, knowing that it would blind Raphael and catch Hotch’s attention. The real quote, however, was about cemeteries and how to properly dispose of the dead because they’re impure. Reid was telling us that he was being held in a cemetery. I should have seen it sooner. Earlier, during the first stream, Spencer said something that I should’ve caught. He said that he wouldn’t choose one of the four potential victims Charles had been eyeing to be slaughtered and have their remains left behind. His voice had fluctuated on the words “slaughtered” and “remains”. Originally, I just thought that it was because he was nervous, but I realized that he was trying to tell us before and we didn’t notice.

“Garcia!” I called, running back towards the computer room. “Look for slaughterhouses inside that radius.”

When Emily and I first met with the coroner to examine the first two victims, we all noticed that they had been killed in a way similar to animals in slaughterhouses, and we really thought that it was a dead end because there were so many possibilities, it would have been impossible to narrow it down to one slaughterhouse in Georgia where Tobias had been before. But now we had a smaller area to search, and we had something else: the cemetery. It had to be a family property if there was a cemetery on the farm grounds.

“Found it. Marshall Perish,” Garcia said.

“Tobias said something in his journals about staying clean and keeping away from Marshall,” Morgan said. “That has to be it.”

We all hurried to the cars outside while Garcia sent us the address of the plantation. With six of us going there, and seven of us coming back, we needed two cars. Gideon drove on with JJ and Emily riding with him, and Hotch drove me and Morgan. Hotch led the way, speeding down the dirt road and for the highway. It was dark out, but the headlights and the flashing police lights lit the way.

Hotch was quiet during the drive, and Morgan cleared his throat and shifted in the back seat uncomfortably. He had asked them all to tell him the truth about himself, and they did just to help him prove his point, but now everyone seemed on edge because of it. It isn’t easy to look your friends in the eyes and tell them what their worst qualities are, then move on like nothing happened. I hoped that Hotch knew that he wasn’t really those things all of the time. Just because the work personality he had built for himself painted this image of him being a constant hardass, it didn’t mean that was who he was. I knew that he liked to smile, laugh, joke around, tease, have fun. He liked to hold my hand, kiss me, hold me, tell me how much he loved me every chance he could get. I knew that he was a good dad who would do anything to give Jack the best childhood he could possibly have. He liked to tell me not to give Jack too much attention or gifts, but he liked it even more when I would do it anyhow. It made him happy that I was happy, and that Jack liked me. That was who Hotch really was.

The plantation was practically abandoned when we arrived. There was a farmhouse on the front of the property where the family lived, but everything beyond that had been neglected by them, including the slaughterhouse out in the woods. We sped up to the decaying building and all jumped out of the cars.

I adjusted my vest slightly by pulling it down from my neck before following Hotch and Morgan inside. Reid wasn’t there. The chair that he had been tied to, the camera that was recording him, and all of the computers Tobias stole were all there, but not Dr. Spencer Reid. I cursed under my breath and lowered my weapon.

Hotch told us that there was no time to waste, that they had to be hiding out in the woods somewhere, and we needed to go looking for them. Morgan and I broke off together to head towards the left, Gideon and Hotch paired up to go towards the middle path, and JJ and Emily went towards the side. The cemetery was just out in front of us, where Hotch and Gideon would likely end up meeting Morgan and I. We decided to start there, to see if they were trying to hide behind the gravestones or the trees that guarded the cemetery.

Suddenly, a gunshot echoed throughout the woods, sending the wild animals nearby into a frenzy. Morgan dashed before I could towards the sound of the gunshot. I was hot on his heels, trying to keep my flashlight up for him so that he wouldn’t trip on something while running. Hotch called Reid’s name from just right of where we were running, and I knew that they were all close to us.

We found the cemetery. Morgan jumped the gate after noticing that Hotch was struggling to get the gate open. Just as the rest of us were about to jump it, too, Hotch kicked the gate open forcefully, and we all filed into the cemetery with our weapons and flashlights raised.

“There they are!” Hotch yelled, aiming his flashlight at the opposite end of the gated area. “Reid!” Hotch hopped over a short gravestone before holstering his weapon. Spencer was crouched over Tobias’s dead body. “Reid,” Hotch repeated with relief. He helped Spencer to his feet. “You okay?”

“I knew you’d understand,” Reid croaked before throwing his arms around Hotch.

Hotch patted Spencer’s back, “Of course I would. You did the smart thing, kid.”

They parted and before anything else could happen, Morgan grabbed Reid’s shoulder and turned him around before engulfing him in a hug. We all watched as they swayed slightly, Morgan holding Reid as closely as he could without breaking him. Hotch bowed his head and silently made his way out of the cemetery and towards the cars. My eyes followed him as JJ went to hug Reid now. I caught Gideon watching me and he stared at me like he was daring me to not go after Hotch, but I couldn’t help myself.

Hotch was leaning against the grill of the car, his arms crossed over his chest, and a frown glued to his face. I walked over to him silently and leaned against the car, too. “You know that I love you, right?” I asked him, both of us staring straight ahead. He hummed a “yes” while nodding slightly. “You’re not a bully.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted.

I wanted to tell him everything that I loved about him, everything I had thought about in the car, but finding the right words to tell him seemed impossible. There was so much I wanted to say, and there weren’t enough words or ways to go about it. It didn’t matter if he had the toughest skin on planet Earth, he couldn’t actually stand there and tell me that his team telling him that he treats them like shit didn’t bother him. I knew him better than that. But I was failing to find the right words to make it clear to him that he was the best person I had ever met in my life. There was no way I could have ever loved him if he weren’t the amazing, kind, funny, and perfect man I knew. He was a great leader, partner, father, and person overall. The entire team respected him, and they knew that he always meant well when he was being too much of a hard ass. But I knew that wouldn’t ease the feeling of slight betrayal that was grabbing a hold of his heart as we leaned against the car together.

I reached out to grab one of his hands and uncrossed his arms. There was one way to tell him everything I meant. One way that would stick and actually matter. One thing that would only matter most to him. One way to make him forget about what the team said and just focus on the positive. One thing that I was always dying to tell him during every second of every day.

I grabbed his chin between my fingers like he always did for me when he wanted my attention, “I love you more than anything.”

His eyes softened, his shoulders relaxed, and his frown faded before turning into the slightest of smiles. “I love you, too.”

#criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds imagines #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #aaron hotchner #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotch hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner imagines

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fanfics4all · 4 years

Text

Painless

Request: Yes / No

Requests are closed <3 Have a nice day/night

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Word count: 3200

Warnings: SCHOOL BOMBING, CURSING, it’s criminal minds so read at your own risk!

Y/N: Your Name

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Masterlist

(Not my photo, credit to whoever made it!)

Another day at work. Another day of someone dead. I thought as I walked into the office. I saw everyone was already in the round table room and sighed. Another case. I put my stuff down at my desk and walked into the room. I took my seat next to my boyfriend Spencer and gave a smile at everyone.

“Does anyone remember this picture?” Garcia asked, bringing up a picture of a man and a girl looking distressed.

“Hotch and I were there. That’s Principal Doug Gavens. We had to drag him to safety.” Rossi said, making everyone look at him.

“High school bombing in Boise, right?” Emily asked.

“School shooter and school bomber.” JJ said and it triggered my memory.

“A kid named Randy Slade shot three students and then set off an I.E.D. in the cafeteria via cell phone, killing himself and thirteen kids total, but not before posting all his plans online.” I said and Garcia nodded.

“It was one of those “Where were you?” events. My whole campus was glued to the T.V..” JJ said.

“Last night, Principal Givens was killed by a bomb modeled exactly like the old one.” Garcia said.

“It feels like the unsub wants to attack the man who kept the school together after the bombing. It’s a pretty symbolic target.” Morgan said.

“And this week is the tenth anniversary of the massacre.” Hotch said.

“And today is the first day of a four day event to commemorate the bombing at the school.” Garcia said.

“Except commemorating it isn’t enough for this unsub.” Emily said.

“No. He wants to relive it.” Hotch said. We gathered our things and got on the plane. We were all sitting down and going over the case files.

“Perpetrators of school violence are often sophisticated with their weapons. Randy Slade carried his bomb in his backpack. This guy hid his in Givens’ clock radio.” Spencer said.

“Yeah, and progressive. Each one tries to top the body count of the one previous.”

“And they’re loners by default, not by choice. They try to join various social groups, but they get shut out.” JJ said.

“Randy Slade wasn’t a loner at all.” Hotch said.

“The family cooperated fully with us. He was a high-functioning psychopath, straight-A student, varsity wrestler, lots of girlfriends.” Rossi said.

“With an above-average intelligence that made him incredibly resourceful. His explosive of choice was Semtex.” I said looking at the files.

“It’s found at demolition sites, but it’s held under lock and key.” Spencer said.

“Which made us consider the possibility of a partner. Never found one.” Rossi said.

“Slade was too much of a narcissist to share credit. But he was also an impulsive teen, which is what bothers me about this unsub.” Hotch said.

“His sense of control?” Emily asked.

“And the end game that he’s working toward.” Hotch answered with a nod.

“Slade’s pathology revolved around the big kill. This unsub could have done the same if he’d waited for the candlelight vigil.” Hotch added.

“Which means there’s no blaze of glory fantasy here. This unsub has more bombs made, and he’s savoring the anticipation of his next attack.” Rossi said. After we talked everyone moved to their own spots to think and relax before we had the hard work to do. I sat next to Spencer and smiled at him.

“This poor town.” I said and he sighed.

“I know, but the odds are against them in this situation.” He said and I nodded.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean it sucks any less.” I said and he nodded.

“It’s a hard thing to deal with.” He said.

“Yeah…” I sighed. We tried to keep our minds on things that would help us, instead of how much people were hurting right now.

As soon as we landed we dropped our stuff off at our hotel then split up. Hotch and Rossi went to the station with Emily and Morgan. Spencer, JJ and I went to the crime scene. We walked inside and it was a mess, not shocking though considering what happened.

“Okay, so the unsub has to be tied to the school somehow, right?” JJ asked.

“Current student, alumni, family member who lost someone…” I listed off.

“It could be Slade groupies celebrating his hero. He taped nails to the exterior of the bomb, specifically to rip open flesh. That’s a sadistic detail of Slade’s the unsub copied.” Spencer said.

“Except he tricked Givens into blowing himself up. A groupie probably wouldn’t show that much self-control.” JJ said.

“But someone with an ax to grind against the principal would. Maybe he’s a surrogate for the tomenters in high school he can’t punish.” Spencer said.

“Who were yours?” He asked us.

“I don’t even remember.” JJ answered.

“You don’t even remember? Wait, were you one of those mean girls?” Spencer questioned.

“No.” JJ said.

“Valedictorian, soccer scholarship, corn-fed, but still a size zero. I think that you might have been a mean girl.” Spencer said.

“Spence.” I said.

“I was actually one of the nice girls, even to guys like you.” JJ answered and I shook my head. There was no stopping this now.

“Guys like me? I’ll have you know that my social standing increased once I started winning at basketball.” Spencer said, I always forget that he coached basketball.

“Oh yeah? You played basketball?” JJ asked.

“Actually he coached it.” I answered.

“You coached it?” She asked.

“Yeah, I broke down the opposing team’s shooting strategy.” He said.

“Is that why Morgan kicked you two out of the pool last week?” She asked.

“Yeah, it took him three rounds to realize we were hustling him.” I answered with a laugh.

“Huh.” She said and we went back to looking at the crime scene. As soon as we were done looking we got a call about another murder. So we made our way there. The three of us looked around and JJ decided to call Hotch and tell him.

“You’re on speaker JJ.” Hotch answered.

“So, we might have another one.” She said.

“Might?” He asked.

“One of the North Valley alumni was killed in her motel room.” She answered.

“No bomb or gun this time. Looks like he used his bare hands.” I added.

“You got a name?” Hotch asked.

“Chelsea Grant.” Spencer answered.

The next day Spencer and I returned to the crime scene with Hotch. It was good to come back and look at it with fresh eyes.

“The unsub crushed Chelsea’s throat so she couldn’t scream, then he pulverized her ribs, sending fragments of bone into her heart.” Spencer said.

“Principal Givens was high-profile. Chelsea wasn’t. Right now the only thing connecting them is they’re both on the kill list.” Hotch said.

“A list that Brandon kept secret for ten years, but he was in custody when this happened. So the question is, how did the unsub get the exact same list?” I asked.

“Well, we ruled out a partner, but not conclusively.” Hotch said.

“Slade made every part of his plan public. It doesn’t make sense that he would hide a partner.” Spencer said.

“He didn’t want to share the credit. And this weekend is the partner’s best chance to claim it.” Hotch said.

“Let’s go back to the station, we have a profile to deliver.” He said and we followed him.

When we got back to the station we gathered everyone up and we were ready to deliver the profile.

“Partners of dominant psychopaths are usually submissive, but that doesn’t mean that they can’t be intelligent or that they’re physically weak.” Hotch said.

“This unsub laid low after the bombing and successfully evaded police and FBI. That took cunning and patience, which he’s exhibiting now with his current murders.” Morgan said.

“We think he fits the loner profile Slade debunked. He grew up in an abusive home, which kept him from forming the normal social bonds in high school.” JJ said.

“We interviewed all the outcasts from back then. How did this guy slip through?” Chief Cole asked.

“Even outcasts eventually form friendships. But this unsub was the outcast the outcasts rejected.” Spencer said.

“Exactly, he won’t stand out in any capacity, and as a matter of fact, most of his fellow students probably won’t even remember graduating with him.” I said.

“And that invisibility is what made him attractive to Slade. This partner wouldn’t steal the spotlight.” Rossi said.

“Slade targeted the cafeteria because most of the names on his list ate there together during fifth period.” Spencer said.

“So his hatred festered when the names on the list emerged from the cafeteria as media heroes. And now he wants to finish the job that Randy started.” Morgan said.

“Emotionally, this weekend is more a high school reunion to him than a memorial. We go to reunions to show who we grew up to be. Often that means changing everything about who we were.” Rossi said.

“Consciously or not, Randy Slade revealed clues as to his partner’s identity when he detonated his bomb. Agent Prentiss will be conducting cognitive interviews to see what the survivors might remember.” Hotch said. We answered a few questions the cops had then went on to try and work out who this guy could be. Emily was with the survivors now working on them.

“So, as you can see from your board there, this kill list is weirdly similar to high school.

“Group on is like the popular kids, prom court, football team, dean’s list. The Heathers, if you will.” Garcia said.

“Kids in Slade’s social circle.” Hotch said.

“What about number two?” JJ asked.

“Uh, mmhmm, that would be the kids from the other side of the tracks, 180-degree difference, kids this close to getting kicked out, Stoners, burnouts, mental cases. Chelsea Grant is on this list.” Garcia said.

“Maybe Slade targeted them because they disgusted him?” JJ asked while Spencer’s phone was ringing. We have been doing a lot of that since we got here.

“But they didn’t threaten Slade’s sense of superiority. He wouldn’t have even cared about them.” Hotch said as we ignored Spencer’s phone.

“So maybe the partner put them on the list. They’d be closer to his social status than Slade’s.” I said as Spencer’s phone stopped ringing.

“Why would the-” Spencer was cut off by his phone ringing again.

“I’m so sorry.” He said, taking his phone out and hung up.

“Why would the unsub list kids that he fit in with?” Spencer asked, putting his phone away again.

“Apparently that’s how this clique worked. The kids in it were meaner to each other than kids on the outside. Garcia, separate out all the kids who got into trouble regularly. Then eliminate the names that the partner put on the list. Now, who’s left that came to the memorial?” Hotch asked.

“Right. Whoever made the list wouldn’t put their name on it. Uh… sir, I think- I think I’ve got him. His name is Lewis Ramsey.” Garcia said.

“Where is he?” Hotch asked.

“Uhh… According to his cell phone he’s at a local bar.” She answered.

“Send it to Morgan’s phone.” Hotch ordered and called him. Morgan brought him in and him and Hotch started interviewing him. Once they were done they told the rest of us.

“You buy it?” Emily asked.

“He fits the profile, and the evidence points to him, but he seems sincere.” Hotch said.

“He’s not the unsub. He was the partner, but look at how Slade added “All the losers in this Godforsaken school.” This capitalization isn’t an accident. Look.” Spencer said and wrote it on the white board.

“L-S-R, Lewis Stuart Ramsey.” He said.

“So Slade named his own partner.” I said.

“Ironically, Lewis’ marijuana addiction saved his life.” He said with a nod.

“Well, that puts us back to our original problem. If the unsub isn’t the partner, how did he get his hands on a list that Slade and Lewis kept to themselves?” I asked.

“The only answer is that part of the profile is wrong. The unsub’s vendetta has nothing to do with the list. Did you get anything from Jerry Holtz?” Hotch asked Emily.

“Only that he mixed up the cell phones that Slade used. It felt like he was making the story up, but I only had a hunch.” Emily said.

“We need to find him now. There’s a connection to the victimology that we’re missing. Whatever he’s holding back might be the key.” Hotch said. We found Jerry, but he was dead. He was killed at the school. We made our way there and Emily met us there.

“Jerry Holtz? How long?” She asked.

“Less than an hour. Security guard heard the commotion, but the unsub was already gone.” JJ answered.

“The only people who knew we were doing the cognitive interviews were the other survivors. The unsub must be part of that group.” Emily said.

“Well, we don’t know that for a fact. He could have been lying in wait.” I said.

“Look, Hotch wants me to go through the victims’ lives and find the overlaps. We can compare their histories with the unsub’s.” JJ said.

“What else do we have to go on?” Emily asked, looking at Spencer and I.

“Spence said the unsub would have broken his hand beating Chelsea to death. Did you notice anyone with a cast on their hand, someone who seemed hurt?” JJ asked.

“No.” Emily shook her head.

“I might know why.” Spencer said and we all looked at him.

“This unsub doesn’t feel pain.” He said.

“You mean he has pain asymbolia?” I asked and he nodded.

“We need to get back to the station. Spencer told them about his theorie and no one understood what he was saying.

“In english for the other people in the room.” Morgan asked.

“There’s a medical condition called pain asymbolia, where patients register harmful stimuli without being bothered by it. They’ve been documented holding their hand over an open flame because their brain doesn’t send pain signals to the central nervous system.” Spencer explained.

“Sounds pretty rare. You sure the unsub has it?” Rossi asked.

“The crime scenes prove it. Once Spencer said it, everything clicked. He displayed an unusual level of savagery towards his victims. And consider this, he smashed through a glass display case, but there were no cuts on Jerry. That means he most likely punched through it as a show of force.” I said.

“Now, the only way the human body could withstand that level of pain is if he couldn’t feel it at all.” Spencer added.

“It must take a major toll on someone’s emotional development.” Rossi said and Spencer’s phone rang… again.

“A significant contributor to our sense of empathy is the way we personally experience pain.” Morgan said and Spencer silenced his phone again.

“And the unsub didn’t develop his sense of empathy because it was cut off. Does every person with Asymbolia have this?” Hotch asked.

“Actually, most feel empathy just fine, which makes me think the rest of our profile is still accurate. Loner, invisible, outcast, boiling rage- Son of a bitch!” Spencer said, pulling out his ringing cell phone and answered it. I notice Morgan trying to hide a smirk.

“Hi! This is Dr. Spencer Reid. I actually can come to the phone right now with a very special message that your mother is-”

“Reid.” Hotch cut him off and he hung up.

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what got into me. Where were we?” He asked, putting his phone away.

“I’m going to have Garcia check medical records. Uh, what causes Asymbolia?” Hotch asked.

“Ssss- Severe trauma produces lesions on the insular cortex, usually after a stroke but this unsub’s so young, it’s most likely caused by an external factor.” Spencer said looking at Morgan the whole time.

“Like a bomb going off next to him?” Rossi asked.

“Yeah, like a bomb going off next to him.” He repeated at Morgan. Morgan just smirked and Hotch walked off to talk to Garcia.

“I will crush you.” Spencer whispered.

“What?” Morgan asked.

“What?” Spencer repeated and walked off. I looked at Rossi and shook my head with a smirk.

“You two are seriously pranking each other while on a case?” I asked and Morgan just smiled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said and I shook my head again. I swear these two…

JJ and Emily came by a little later with some new information. JJ was rearranging some pictures on the board. We looked on with confusion.

“Recognize the top ten?” JJ asked.

“No.” Hotch answered.

“They were the students that went in front of the cameras after the bombing.” She answered.

“I thought all the surviving students were interviewed?” I asked.

“After the initial aftermath, yes, but these are the kids that went on talk shows, traveled to other schools. My guess is that they didn’t self-select who made the cut.” JJ said.

“Principal Givens did.” Hotch said.

“That’s why the unsub killed him first. He was an outcast who wanted to fit in. Being a survivor should have been his golden ticket.” She said.

“But he was excluded again, and that’s why he’s killing them.” I said.

“Yeah. The rules of high school never changed, not even after a tragedy.” JJ said. Hotch’s phone rang and he put it on speaker.

“Go ahead, Garcia.” He said.

“Hey, listen up. I crossed-referenced student files with medical records. Now, there were six kids that were knocked unconscious in that blast, but only one fit the outcast profile. His name is Robert Adams, and he just used his credit card at a local restaurant, the address of which I just sent you right now.” She said.

“I’m on my way.” Hotch said looking at us. Hotch gathered everyone up and JJ and I stayed back. When they came back Robert wasn’t with them. Hotch had to shoot him, there was no other way this was going to end. Once we got everything sorted we got on the plane to go home. I was sitting next to Spencer, who was resting his head on my shoulder while I read a book. We were sitting across from Morgan and Emily, Morgan was listening to music and Emily was reading a paper. He took his headphones off and we heard Spencer screaming from them.

“Okay, kid, that was cute. But that’s all you got?” Morgan asked him, he was very clearly pretending to be asleep. Morgan’s cell ran and he answered it.

“Hey baby girl-” He was cut off by Spencer screaming coming through his phone. Spencer had a smile on his face and Rossi held up a white napkin.

“Uh-uh. Alright, Reid, it’s on. Just know that paybacks are a bitch.” Morgan said. Spencer just responded with snoring. I shook my head at the two of them.

“You started this Morgan, it’s your own fault.” I said with a slight laugh.

“Of course you’re taking his side, Y/N.” He rolled his eyes.

“Well I am dating him, so yes I’m taking his side.” I said and Rossi chuckled.

Tag list: @les-bio-lie @tashy-bear @ashwarren32 @hollie-blogs @schisbro87 @lover-of-books-and-teas @nerdygaloresposts @teenwolfbitches2 @genius2050 @drw0301bieber @softgamerking @lady-of-lies @simonsbluee @ravenmoore14 @maynardqueen101 @pettyjayy @reidssmile @currentfangirl-futuremedexaminer

#Criminal Minds #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer x reader #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer x fem!reader #fanfic #criminal minds bingo 2020 #painless

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juniorgman187 · 4 years

Text

2 Truths & a Lie (Spencer Reid Imagine)

Summary: A game of “Strip 2 Truths and a Lie” helps heats things up between SSA Reader and Spencer.

Prompt: “Ladies first.” Couple: Spencer Reid x Female Reader Category: Fluff Content Warning: Alcohol consumption, stripping Word count: 3.5k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“Strip poker!” Garcia slurred. “Let’s play! Let’s play! Let’s play!”

You had to interject. “No way! If Reid’s playing - I’m not. That’s so unfair.”

Morgan agreed with you. “Yeah, I’m with Hot Stuff over here. He’s banned from three casinos for a reason.”

All eyes turned to the aforementioned man, whose smug smile reached from ear to ear. “Fair enough. What can we play then?” He asked.

It was your turn to scream like a giddy Garcia. “Two truths and a lie!” You jumped up from your seat on the floor. “It’s totally fair cause we’re all profilers here. So it’ll either show how good of a liar you are or show how good of a profiler you are.”

“Excuse me, Girl Goddess. Need I remind you - I’m not a profiler.” Garcia butted in.

JJ made a disapproving noise against the brim of her red solo cup. “Hey, hey, hey - you’re like the first to tell when someone’s hiding something.”

Garcia simply smiled at this. “Ah, you’re right, Jayje.”

So it was settled. You and the BAU were gonna play “Strip 2 Truths and a Lie.”

But to make things a little more interesting, you changed up the rules.

The order the players would take turns went in a clockwise circle. Garcia, Morgan, Reid, you, Prentiss, and JJ. (Hotch and Rossi bailed last minute. Apparently, being invited to Garcia’s wasn’t an offer they couldn’t refuse.)

Instead of players guessing what the lie was and stopping once someone guessed correctly, you were all going to guess at the same time. Garcia took the liberty of handing each of your sticky notes and once the player said their two truths and one lie, you would write your guess on your post-it and put it in a pile for the “liar” to read.

Then the “liar” would declare who was stripping based on who guessed incorrectly. And just for some more fun - the “liar” wouldn’t explicitly tell what the real lie was. You profilers would just have to use context clues to do that.

Since each player was guessing on post-its, Garcia gave you each a different color to distinguish who guessed what. Granted, it was Garcia, so she had every shade of the rainbow. She gave herself the red, Reid got the orange, you got yellow, Prentiss - green, Morgan got blue. And JJ - purple.

“I’m first!” Garcia sing-songily said. “Alright - I had a guinea pig named Cerulean when I was little . . . my mom knew how to juggle, andddd, OH! I lost my virginity to a guy I met online with the gamer tag ‘FastAndFurious79.”

Morgan almost spat out the drink he was nursing from his shock at the last one. “Babygirl, you did what?!” The pitch of his voice sent the rest of you into a frenzy as you each wrote your guesses on your sticky note pads.

You guessed the lie was the guinea pig. And using your peripherals, you saw that Prentiss thought the same. You folded your yellow sticky note and placed it in the center. Eventually, when the rainbow was complete, Garcia began reading them. “I hate you guys! It’s no fun being friends with profilers.” She pouted.

“You lost your virginity to a guy with the gamertag ‘fast and furious?!” Morgan screeched. You and the team laughed so hard, your stomach started hurting.

The game continued for an entire round until it was Morgan’s second turn.

“Alright, growing up my favorite movie was Kindergarten Cop . . . um, I used to be a lifeguard, and my body count is higher than my age.”

Reid was quick to jot down his answer, but you took a little time with yours.

“What’s the problem, Hot Stuff?” Morgan teased.

“Mmm, I dunno. You’ve genuinely got me stumped on this one.” You admitted. Morgan just shot you that infomercial worthy grin as a response.

Hesitantly, you finally wrote down that he was lying about his favorite moving being Kindergarten Cop. Your sticky note was the last to go in the pile, so you just handed yours to Morgan to speed up the process. He chuckled while going through most of them and looked back up at all of you with that same smug look Reid had earlier.

“Looks like Pretty Boy and Hot Stuff are the first to strip tonight!” He declared, making you roll your eyes.

“Your body count isn’t higher than your age?!” Reid squeaked. Morgan laughed and shook his head no. Now that - that was shocking.

“Alright, what can I take off that counts?” You clarified.

“Any piece of clothing that covers your legs, arms, and torso.” Morgan happily informed.

It wasn’t fair. On a normal workday, you would have a blazer, pants, or sometimes a skirt, and a blouse or shirt underneath, but today was collectively your guys’ day off - so you only had on a fitted tee and jeans. Whereas the genius to the right of you wore a sweater vest, button-up, tie, belt, and his pants. Before, you would make fun of him for wearing so much on a day off, but now you were envious.

“Not fair! He’s got like 80 pieces of clothing on.” You whined. The rest of the group, including Reid, laughed at you. Not a single one of them offered mercy. Looks like you were just gonna have to strip off what little clothes you were wearing.

“Ladies first.”

Reid teased as if he was being a gentleman by saying this. His voice made it sound so subtly seductive that your cheeks heat up. He even said it with the side of his mouth, making his plump lips form a smirk.

You raised your brows at his cockiness. You wanted to make him eat his words, so you stood up - first, unbuttoning your jeans painfully slow. All eyes were on you as you stuck your thumbs inside the waistband and wiggled your hips, while simultaneously pulling your jeans down. You made a little show out of it, milking the situation. You dragged the denim down while arching your back to flaunt your butt as it was unhurriedly revealed. And just for fun, you angled yourself, where Reid could get the full view. When your jeans dropped to your ankles, you stepped out of them, bent over to retrieve them, and for a finishing touch - you dropped them right onto Reid’s lap.

“They don’t call me Hot Stuff for nothing.” You flirtatiously remarked.

“WOO-HOO-HOO! That was sexy, Mamas!” Morgan cheered. The girls all had faces of admiration or surprise on them - mainly admiration. Whereas Reid appeared like he’d just discovered porn or something - like a whole world of possibilities opened up.

“Hello? Earth to Dr. Reid?” You joked, sitting back down beside him.

When you felt the floor’s rug against your thong, it shocked you a little, so you moaned at the feeling. Not loud enough for everyone to hear over their laughs and cheers but just loud enough for Reid to. And he most certainly did. Because you caught his tongue sweeping over his lips while his eyes looked at yours. If you weren’t in a group setting, you would’ve straddled him right then and there and kissed him, but you weren’t gonna lose control like that. The question was - would he? And secretly - you were hoping he would.

“Wow, Y/N. You’ve rendered him speechless. I don’t think that’s ever happened before,” Prentiss quipped. “You should do that more often.” Everyone erupted into another fit of laughter.

Reid shook his head as if to re-enter reality. “I, uh, I - I’m just gonna take off my belt.” He concluded, fiddling nervously with the buckle.

“Need some help there?” Before you even finished the question, you put your small fingers around the clasp, making him shiver.

“N-no!” He whimpered, grabbing your wrists in one hand and moving them away from his groin. He continued to unbuckle it and neatly place it behind him.

The game continued on for many more minutes with Morgan losing his shirt and consequently, Garcia losing her shit (which was understandable because Morgan was RIPPED.) JJ removed her belt, while Garcia took off her cropped cardigan. Prentiss was the only one left who was fully clothed, while you and Reid still hadn’t lost any more articles of clothing since the initial time you did.

“Alright, alright! Me again!” Garcia giggled, while she downed the rest of whatever was in that red solo cup. “Let’s see. Oh, I got it! Okay, my hair has been dyed every color except for green, I’m the president of a secret club for people that love sea otters, and I’ve had sex more times on the floor than in the bed.” She squealed.

You weren’t buying that she’s never dyed her hair green, and after a quick side glance to the right, you saw that Reid didn’t buy it either. You folded the paper over your answer and placed it confidently in the center - waiting patiently for the verdict. Garcia zealously scooped up all the post its and scrutinized them. “Uh oh, I think Boy Wonder and Girl Goddess might be out of a job once Sir Hotch finds out how bad they are at detecting lies!” Garcia got so excited she started jumping up and down. You pouted and faked sobs once you heard this.

“Take it off! Take it off! Take it off!” The group started cheering.

Just to be the center of attention once more, you stood up and put your right hand under the hem of the left side of your shirt, and you put your left hand under the hem of the right side of your shirt, making your arms cross over your tummy. You pulled the shirt up (sucking in your gut once it was uncovered) all the way until it was finally over your head. You were left in your maroon push up bra and your black lacy thong - a set that didn’t match, but when you looked down at yourself, looked decently good together.

The “crowd” gasped at your figure in its entirety. Encouraging words were spewed at you, making you smile.

“Alright, your turn.” You nudged Reid. He simply slipped off his sweater vest, quite ungracefully might you add. But little did you know that he lost all coordination after seeing you so bare.

“Here.” He whispered, removing his tie from his collar. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt, which you didn’t understand why, until he shrugged it off of himself and helped you into it. You weren’t surprised in the least when you saw that underneath his white button-up was a cotton tee. Of course, he had even more layers than you previously thought.

“Aww, look at that.” Prentiss said with awe at Reid’s actions.

While Reid rolled up the long sleeves until he saw your hands peek through, all you could manage to do was look at him. He bit his lip while he did this, showing how focused he was on the task. He was absolutely adorable.

“Do you want me to button it for you?” He quietly asked. You shook your head no. “It’s okay. Thank you.” If you could’ve seen yourself, you would’ve seen that your eyes had hearts in them. You were the epitome of lovesick.

“Yeah, of course.”

When he stopped helping you dress, you couldn’t help but notice the outfit he was left to wear. It was a plain white tee with gray dress pants and his classic black converse. How he managed to look so good in such a simple outfit was beyond you. It was quite unfair actually. You thought his normal quirky attire suit him pretty well but this outfit made you feel something you’d never felt before. Your eyes drifted up to his hair, which since he cut it last year, was growing out again but was still short. It was the perfect length and had a little curl and unruliness to it - just the way you liked. It looked so soft that you were overcome with a sudden overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it, but you willed yourself not to.

“I think someone’s in love over there.” Morgan pointed to you, making you snap out of your trance.

“What? NO!” You shrieked.

“Oh my god, you totally are.” Prentiss giggled.

“Somebody likes Reid.” JJ sing-songily teased before sipping at her drink and looking away.

“OK, enough with the crazy talk. We’re all a little too drunk to be making such claims.” You concluded. “I think maybe it’s time to go home.” You hastily said, trying to change the topic.

“Mmm-mmm,” Morgan disapprovingly shook his head. “None of us should be driving right now. Even Reid.” Reid looked slightly offended at the comment, but he couldn’t deny it. He’d only had one drink, but everyone knew Reid was a lightweight.

“Why don’t you guys just crash here?” Garcia slurred. No one objected, so the sleeping arrangement was made. Morgan and Garcia would sleep in Garcia’s bed. JJ on the beanbag. Prentiss on the loveseat. And you and Reid on the couch.

“Me and Reid?” You asked Garcia.

“Uh-huh,” She nodded rapidly. “You’ll fit. Just spoon!” She said with joyful elation.

“Uh ohh, Reid and Y/N sittin’ in a tree. C-U-D-D-L-I-N-G.” Morgan jested.

“Shut up!” Reid chucked a pillow at Morgan’s face - which he caught before it even touched his head. “Don’t worry, I’ll just sleep on the floor.” Reid told you.

“No, don’t be silly. We share the couch on the jet all the time.” You told him. Covertly, you were hoping he wouldn’t argue against it. There were certainly worse things you could do than cuddle with Reid. Just as you wanted, he didn’t contend.

“Here.” He handed you your jeans and t-shirt, which you took but didn’t put back on.

“Do you mind if I stay in this? There’s no way I can fall asleep in my jeans,” He blinked hard as if to process what you were saying but didn’t dispute. “I’ll be back.” You disclosed while walking to Garcia’s bathroom to put on your shirt and take off your bra. You came back out, feeling a cold breeze. Unbeknownst to you, the cold air hardened your nipples, but this was not lost on Reid. He let himself get a glimpse of the sight while he laid on the couch, waiting for you to join him.

“You’re really gonna sleep in your pants?” You asked him, not even trying to imply anything sexual.

“Would you mind if I took them off?” He shyly questioned.

You shook your head as if to say, “No, not at all.”

He slid them down before you took your spot on the couch. While Reid’s back was against the backrest, your back was right up against his chest. This was the position you’d normally be in if you were on the jet. Something that surprisingly - the team never teased you for. It was as if everyone just accepted it as something normal. Something totally natural.

Except in this instance, Garcia’s couch was surprisingly not as wide as the jet’s, so you had to scoot back a little to fit. However, you didn’t anticipate how close Reid already was to you. So when you backed up, (for lack of a better term) you made ass-to-dick contact.

“Oh my God! I’m so sorry!” You nervously blurted. Reid uncomfortably laughed it off.

“No, no. You’re fine.” He reassured you. It was enough to convince you to settle back down and cuddle up to Reid again.

Despite doing this countless amounts of times before, there was something about this time that made you feel differently. You thought that your heart might sooner beat out of your chest. The rhythm vibrated through your entire body, and you honestly worried that the beat was so loud that Reid could hear it. After 30 minutes of this, the whole house was knocked out - except for you. You harbored too much nervous energy to fall asleep.

“Are you feeling okay? You’re breathing really hard.” Reid murmured, his quiet voice shocking you. Damn it, he wasn’t asleep either? Leave it to him to pick up on your unnatural breathing patterns. You told Reid it was nothing, but he didn’t leave it alone. “How can I help you sleep?”Once more, you told him you were just fine. “Can I just try something? My mom used to do this for me when I couldn’t fall asleep,” You reluctantly agreed. “Turn around.” He softly commanded.

You did as asked, turning towards him. Now that you were face-to-face, Reid took his arm that was by his side before and put it over your body, with his hand on your back. You felt his warm touch move from between your shoulder blades, down your spine, all the way to the small of your back. He moved up and down repeatedly, sometimes adding pressure along the way. Your eyes closed at the pleasure.

“Does that feel good?” He asked sweetly, but even then, you couldn’t help but imagine him asking that same question in a very different scenario.

You couldn’t be bothered to speak real words, so you hummed in tranquility.

He kept doing this until he noticed your breathing started to slow down. It was working.

The last thought you had before falling asleep completely was of how you never wanted this moment to end.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

“How long should we wait until we wake them?” You heard JJ ask. Her voice seemed so distant for some reason. “Mmm, I give it five more minutes.” Morgan’s voice chirped. Now his voice seemed to be closer.

“Should I take another picture?” Garcia asked. Wait a minute - her voice was louder now too.

You groggily opened your eyes, wincing at the brightness of your surroundings.

“Oh, I think Hot Stuff’s awake.” Morgan’s words sobered you up enough to lift your head and examine your surroundings.

Reid’s face was buried into your chest, while your hand was in his hair. Your leg wrapped around Reid’s lower body, with his hand hooked on the back of your knee, hiking it up even further and keeping your leg in its place. You began realizing just how provocative the scene was, so you startled yourself out of it. Like the clumsy goof you are, you rolled out of Reid’s embrace, but with no extra space to roll over onto, you tumbled to the floor gracelessly. This woke up Reid and made the four viewers hovering over the couch die laughing.

“Not funny.” You groaned, clutching your side in pain after collapsing onto the floor.

“What happened?” Reid yawned.

“What happened was you and Hot Stuff got pretty comfortable on Garcia’s sofa.” Morgan sounded way too happy to tell Reid this.

You looked back at Reid with a frown, noticing how he looked like he was a child that had just been caught doing something bad.

“Maybe next time we play Strip 2 Truths and a Lie, they’ll finally admit they like each other.” Prentiss giggled, mentioning you and Reid as if you weren’t in their presence.

“Be quiet!” You and Reid simultaneously yelped.

You buried your face into a throw pillow that had been discarded on the floor, probably from where you and Reid took up all the space on the couch. As you hid your face in embarrassment, you heard the quartet move away from the scene and into the kitchen, leaving you and Reid to your devices.

“Sorry about them.” He finally said. His voice was all raspy from where he’d just woken up and all you could think was - YOU’RE KILLING ME. How did he make everything he did so sexy?

“Me, too.” You uttered, removing the pillow from your face to hug it in your arms like a child hugging their toy. From behind you, Reid sat up and swung his legs to the front of the couch to stand up and help you up from your sitting position on the floor.

“For what it’s worth, I don’t regret anything,” He told you when you’d risen to eye level with him. You smiled to suggest that you felt the same way. “You know, maybe we could do this again . . . without the audience.” He cocked his head backward to gesture to the rest of the group.

“Only if you promise to give me back rubs again.” You beamed.

The look on Reid’s face was priceless. It was as if he’d just been told he won the lottery. You walked away from him with the same stupid grin on your face that he had on his.

“Hey, wait I’m gonna need that shirt back!” He called out from behind you as you moved swiftly into Garcia’s bathroom to change.

“I guess you’ll have to come pick it up from my apartment tonight.” You yelled back to him, lingering in the doorway. His smile was your answer.

Well - looks like you have plans tonight.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds imagine #spencer reid x reader #one shot #mgg #matthew gray gubler

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there-must-be-a-lock · 3 years

Text

Breakfast and Bus Rides

Criminal Minds/Supernatural crossover ft. Harry Styles

Word Count: ~3030

Warnings: Egregious amounts of fluff, one gratuitous kitten, and a couple stoned rockstars. Lots of discussion of coming out and some other LGBT-adjacent issues.

A/N: A wild Plot appears! I was having some feels about coming out/honesty (hm wonder why, is a mystery) and foisted those feelings on JJ and Dean.

Thanks to @stunudo for a pre-read, endless encouragement, and the kitten scene idea.

This is part of the Rockstar AU. It picks up right where Wake-Up Calls and Watermelon leaves off.

Dean exchanges a glance with Sam, and they both hang back as the others start to gather in the kitchenette. Penelope keeps shooting wide-eyed, starstruck looks at Harry, and it’s making Dean nervous.

“You okay with this?” Dean asks quietly. “You think she’ll keep her mouth shut?”

Sam shrugs. “I can talk to her.”

“And Schroeder? I mean, love the kid to death, but holy hell does he babble.”

“Spencer’s known since the first night of tour.”

“How?”

Sam chuckles. “Kinda a funny story… tell you later. I honestly think he might’ve forgotten, though.”

“What about the rest of ‘em?” Dean asks. “I mean, I like ‘em well enough, but…”

“I want to tell them,” Sam says, without hesitating. “I’m just gonna bite the bullet and invite them all over for breakfast.”

Dean sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You sure?”

“I trust them.”

“Okay. Just don’t want you to get hurt, Sammy.”

“What a shock,” Sam deadpans. “Dean’s pulling the protective big brother card? Alert the press.”

Dean purses his lips and gives Sam a light punch on the arm. “Bitch.”

“Don’t let Emily hear you saying that,” Sam chuckles. “Shoulda heard the lecture I got the other day about the way misogyny is perpetuated through language. Honestly, though. What do you really think is going to happen? It’s not like they’ve outed you and Cas, they’ve all been awesome about it.”

“This is different, though,” Dean says, with a grimace. “I mean, like it or not, it’d be news. The gossip rags would pay serious fuckin’ money for a picture of the two of you.”

“It’s not like we’re gonna walk around, like, fused at the mouth,” Sam laughs. “No PDA required. But… I want him to meet some of my friends. Y’know?”

“Yeah.”

“Stop worrying so much, Dean.” Sam’s expression is soft and fond, and he claps Dean on the shoulder before heading for the coffee maker and Harry.

Harry wraps himself around Sam like a giant squid, if a giant squid wore Gucci, and Dean’s chest feels tight with anxiety. The two of them are looking at each other with these stupid googly-eyed dimpled smiles. It doesn’t even count as PDA, not really, except that Sam is so godawful at hiding his feelings that he might as well be wearing a neon sign.

Then Harry starts feeding him a strawberry, and that definitely counts as PDA, if not public indecency. Gross.

If someone did take a picture of them like this, with their sleepy-eyed smiles and interlaced fingers, it’d be worth thousands of dollars. That’s a hell of an incentive. Dean’s had people fuck him over for much less.

Dean’s learned his lesson over the years. The only people you can really trust are your family.

Cas emerges from their room, blinking blearily around at everyone before coming over to Dean and leaning in for a kiss.

“Morning breath, fuck,” Dean grumbles, making a face, but he grabs Cas and pulls him in anyway.

A cheer goes up around them, and Dean sees Jack coming out of his room, clothed now, but still blushing red and shamefaced.

“What’d I miss?” Cas says, scowling, and Dean grins gleefully before launching into the story.

* * *

“I guess I just don’t see why it’s such a big deal,” Spencer says, contemplating his hand of cards. “Aside from a very vocal minority, there’s widespread support for LGBT rights, statistically, and the music industry is more progressive than most. If you look at David Bowie, for example —”

“I pass the turn,” Charlie interrupts, cutting him off before he can launch into full-on textbook mode. “It’s not really about that, though.”

Charlie forgets about the conversation for a minute as he attacks her planeswalker. She used to own her local Friday Night Magic tournaments, and she’s more than a little pissed that this skinny fucker in a sweater vest has won three of their last four games. Spencer is sneaky. Charlie can respect that, but it’s infuriating.

“Why, then?”

“Hmm? Oh, that. It’s more to do with… privacy, I guess. That’s a hell of a lot of public attention for Sam. He doesn’t want people to sing Happy Birthday to him, you know?”

“Doesn’t everybody hate being sung to?” Spencer asks pensively.

“Well, yeah. But Harry’s the sort of famous where people get totally invasive and weird about his personal life. Like, starting rumors, tabloid shit, and it extends to anyone he gets involved with.”

“Really?” Spencer downs the last of his coffee. It’s his third cup, but he hasn’t touched the plate of pancakes that’s been going cold on the table.

“Yeah. I don’t know if Sam realizes the full level of crazy at work, but Dean and I looked online, one night, after Harry brought it up. The shit people have said about his exes… about his friends, even. They’re vicious about it. Analyzing every facial expression in every picture, making up stories…”

Spencer’s forehead creases in a frown. “I play Grasp of Darkness on your Primordial Hydra and swing with all my zombies.”

“Motherfucker,” Charlie mutters. “Rematch?”

Spencer’s staring intently down at the table, lost in thought, and he doesn’t seem to hear her for a second. She chucks one of her D-20s at his face and he starts when it bounces off his forehead.

“Sorry.”

“Where’d you go?”

He hesitates before mumbling, “I had a stalker.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, she — Cat. I told her I didn’t want to sleep with her, and she didn’t like that very much.” He pauses, brow furrowed. “She learned everything about me, and I mean everything. Tried to manipulate me, tried to manipulate my friends…”

“Yikes. What happened?”

“She went to jail for a little while. She showed up when she got out, one night in Boston—” Spencer brightens. “—but Derek tackled her and threw her into the Charles River.”

“For real?”

Spencer nods and smiles in a way that makes Charlie think she’s not getting the full story. “It was a weird night.”

“So she hasn’t showed up since then?”

“No. But… I just felt like I couldn’t hide anything, like every part of me, every shitty thing I’d ever done, was under a microscope. It was awful. I’m all for being honest, you know? That’s great, in theory, but... everybody deserves the right to hide if they want to. You should be the one to decide what parts of yourself you want to share.”

Charlie thinks about the friend who outed her in high school, and how naked she felt.

“Agreed.”

* * *

Dean sits down next to Derek at the kitchen bar as he’s sealing the third joint.

“Rolling for the road?” he asks, around a mouthful of bacon. “Nicely done.”

“The key is the crutch,” Derek tells him. “Ditalini.”

“No shit? Huh.”

Derek keeps working, watching Dean, who’s watching Sam.

“Nothing to worry about here,” Derek points out gently. “You know that, right?”

Dean lets out a little self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. Fuck. Habit, y’know? He’s my brother.”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Derek says ruefully, glancing over at Spencer.

“Every person he tells is another person that could hurt him,” Dean says fiercely. “I fuckin’ hate that.”

“Worrying doesn’t help, though.”

Dean scowls at that, thinking for a moment as he chews, before saying, “I just wish there was a way I could help.”

“A while ago, there was this guy who went after Emily,” Derek says slowly, twisting the next joint closed. “And he didn’t hurt her bad, or anything. Spencer and JJ jumped in, and Spencer took the worst of it, because… Spencer.”

“Can’t see him being handy in a fight.”

“Try telling him that when he’s pissed. Point is, though… nobody got hurt, but I was pretty shaken up about it. Beat myself up for not being there to protect them, until my girl Penelope talked some sense into me. She said, ‘It’s not your job to keep them safe all the time. The most important thing is to make sure they know they’re safe with you.’ I think about that a lot.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to just… ignore the risk?”

“No,” Derek says patiently. “But it’s his risk to take. You being afraid isn’t going to make the world any less scary, but knowing that you’re there, that you’re proud of him, that you’ve got his back no matter what? That helps.”

Dean mulls that over. There’s a mulish set to his jaw that reminds Derek of Emily; it’s the face she makes when she knows he’s right and doesn’t want to admit it. He tries to hide his smile as he finishes rolling the last joint and offers it to Dean.

“Thanks,” Dean says gruffly.

“Any time.”

* * *

When JJ opens the bus door, she’s greeted by a cloud of weed smoke. She can see Hotch stretched out on the couch with a half-smoked joint in one hand and a battered copy of Slaughterhouse-Five in the other. He’s reading out loud, and for a moment JJ can’t figure out who he’s reading to; then she notices Pearl curled up on his chest, rubbing her tiny fuzzy head against his cheek.

It’s so goddamn cute JJ doesn’t know what to do with herself. She settles for whipping out her phone and taking a quick picture.

As she walks up the bus steps, Hotch holds out the lit joint without pausing, and she takes it happily.

JJ’s exhaling smoke, finally feeling the weird tension under her skin start to evaporate, when Rossi opens the door.

“All set,” Rossi says, giving the driver a thumbs-up.

“Did you triple-check your head count?” Hotch asks, deadpan.

“Sure did.”

“Everybody present and accounted for?” JJ adds innocently. “Spencer?”

“He’s showing off his new toy on the Winchesters’ bus.”

“Penelope?”

“Playing Sega with Charlie.”

“And Morgan?”

“Already in the back, taking a nap.”

“Emily?” Hotch presses.

“She’s in the batcave to — oh. I see.” Rossi glowers. “Very funny.”

“Are you sure you didn’t forget Spencer again?” JJ asks, giggling hoarsely around another lungful of smoke.

“It was one time,” Rossi protests, flipping them off. “You try keeping track of the kid. He’s like a squirrel. A squirrel on LSD.”

“Pretty sure it was mushrooms that day,” JJ points out.

Rossi sits down and asks thoughtfully, “Did anybody see that coming?”

“Sam? Honestly, no,” Hotch answers, frowning. “Not that it’s any of our business, but…”

“Me neither,” JJ admits.

She’s still rattled by the whole thing, for reasons she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s not about Sam, or whatever bullshit constructs of masculinity that would make people assume he’s straight just because he has muscles and dresses like a lumberjack. She’s not shocked by the label, or whatever.

“There’s someone I want you guys to meet,” Sam had told them. He tucked his hair behind his ears as he said it; it’s his tell, his nervous tic, and JJ has the poker winnings to prove it. She had wondered, for a moment, what would make him smile like that in spite of his obvious anxiety.

Dean had been glaring from the other side of the room, gauging their reactions, his arms folded and his fear written all over his face in the guise of a scowl, like a feral dog who’d been backed into a corner. JJ could understand the fear. Sam, though… Sam just looked relieved.

Hotch and Rossi are staring at her, she realizes abruptly.

“Hm?”

“I said, anything you want to do in L.A.? Plenty of time for sightseeing.”

JJ shrugs. “Not really.”

“You okay?” Rossi asks, looking at her closely.

“Yeah, just… tired. I’m gonna take that nap now.” She gives them a bright smile, passing the joint to Rossi, and gets up before they can question it.

JJ feels a little better once she’s in a spare bunk with the curtain closed. It’s easier to examine the knot in her chest like this, now that she’s alone in the dark, safe and hidden.

She keeps coming back to the smile on Sam’s face.

There was a moment, earlier, when JJ noticed Sam and Harry from across the room as they talked to Emily and Hotch. Harry had been leaning against Sam’s side. Sam’s arm was draped casually over his shoulder, and he started playing idly with Harry’s hair, combing his fingers through the messy curls at his temple as Harry tilted his head into the touch.

There was a peaceful possessiveness in it—the sort of cozy familiarity that had been worn soft by time like overwashed cotton—an unspoken claim: mine.

How long has it been since JJ felt that with someone, like their closeness was a second skin that she could wear in public?

Not since Emily. Even then it had always been tainted by fear, an overwhelming desire to hide whenever she could feel someone watching.

She and Emily are loudly affectionate with each other in public, of course: drunk and dancing, or clinging to each other as they stagger home, or kissing with an exaggerated smacking sound when anyone mutters disapprovingly in their direction. But that’s brash and performative and platonic, the sort of thing JJ could do just as comfortably with Penelope or Spencer. That’s different.

Anybody who’d seen Sam and Harry would’ve known immediately; that sort of intimacy is unmistakable, and Sam didn’t seem to care. He was smiling like he was proud to show it off.

JJ has seen it in Dean and Cas, too, but never quite so clearly. Maybe it’s because they’ve never had to hide around the Business As Usual crowd, so the contrast hasn’t drawn her attention, or maybe it’s just that they’re not demonstratively tactile in the same way. You have to know him well (and you have to be paying attention) to catch glimpses of the tenderness that Dean masks so well. He doesn’t wear his emotions on his face for everyone to see. JJ can relate.

But Sam wasn’t hiding, that morning; he was just sweet and vulnerable and proud of it and JJ realizes suddenly that she’s jealous. That’s envy squirming around in her belly.

She wants that sort of love: fearless, or maybe in spite of fear. She gets sick of hiding, sometimes.

JJ puts a pin in that thought and tells herself she can deal with it later, when she’s not quite so stoned and maudlin. Right now, it’s naptime.

* * *

Dean intended to nap all the way to Sacramento, but he only manages to doze for a half hour or so. There’s too much on his mind. He pushes groggily through the door and thinks a silent thank you at whoever got the coffee machine going.

Spencer and Jack are sitting on one couch, playing with something that Dean recognizes as a theremin. Sam’s on the other couch, and Harry and Cas are sitting at the table.

“What do you think?” Cas asks, when he notices Dean watching. He holds up two bottles of nail polish.

“Black is punk rock. Pastels are for the Easter bunny’s little sister,” Dean opines.

“Love you too, Dean Bean.” Harry shoots him a cheerful pastel-green-painted middle finger. Dean ruffles his hair affectionately on his way to sit next to Sam.

Dean’s first instinct was to scoff, to snark, to dismiss nail polish as girly, but he knows the instinct is just a vestigial memory of his dad’s stern voice. He’s been getting better at recognizing that voice, in the last few years; for a while he thought he was done with it, figuring that if he could admit he was in love with a guy, he must be over that sort of learned bullshit. Can’t be phobic if you’re one of the homos, right? So… fuck off, Dad.

Then Harry showed up, with his totally fuckin’ zen attitude about annihilating gendered fashion norms, and Dean found himself wincing, sometimes, or looking around furtively to make sure nobody was staring. Even at Bonnaroo, when Harry went around hiding behind wigs and glasses—when the entire point was for him to pass as a girl—Dean’s immediate knee-jerk reaction was to cringe. It’s taken awhile, but he’s getting better at ignoring the fear when it kicks up in his gut.

Dean’s distracted by a drawn-out melancholy squeal.

“Someone turned a taxidermied badger into a theremin one time,” Spencer says happily, as Jack waves his hand over it again. “They called it a badgermin.”

Dean snorts. “Sounds like a violin that needs an exorcism.”

“Or a Barred Owl on barbiturates,” Sam offers.

“Worn-Out-Brake-Pad flavored La Croix.”

“A whale that got so stoned it forgot how to talk.”

“One of the mermaids from Harry Potter having a wet dream,” Spencer suggests, and Cas laughs so hard he almost knocks over the bottle of nail polish.

“Get your shit together, Castiel,” Harry scolds, but he’s giggling too. It’s like being scolded by a very happy sloth. “You’re done, mate. Who’s next, hmm?”

He points at Jack, who shakes his head.

“I need to get some sleep,” he says, and the last word cracks on a yawn.

Sam grins. “Yeah, I’m guessing you didn’t get much rest last night.”

“Sweet dreams, Mr. Grey,” Dean teases, and wolf-whistles as Jack retreats. Cas relocates to the couch, giving Dean a peck on the cheek before sitting back and admiring his manicure.

Harry waves the bottle at Spencer, who doesn’t notice; he’s focused intently on the instrument, coaxing out something that actually sounds like music, in a vague, freaky kind of way.

“Yeah, okay,” Dean says, rolling his eyes and settling at the table across from a delighted Harry.

“How about a nice hot pink?” he asks.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“Wasn’t one of those used in the Doctor Who theme?” Harry asks Spencer. Spencer brightens like a big geeky Christmas tree that’s strung with lights made of useless trivia.

“Now you’ve done it,” Dean says under his breath.

“Actually, that’s a common misconception,” Spencer announces. “The original composition used—”

Dean must be going soft, because he’s actually kind of enjoying this, both the lecture and the manicure.

Then again, he thinks, Sam is enthralled, and Cas is smiling, and maybe Dean’s just really enjoying his life right now.

Fuck off, Dad, he thinks, admiring his pastel green nails.

#criminal minds fic #supernatural fic #harry styles fic #criminal minds #supernatural

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