From the tip of your fingers to your chest, and now to your stomach.
And, if you focus long enough, his cheek is still pressed to yours. His larger thumb is still wiping away tears, and the beat of his palm is still against yours.
In the wake a memory pulls you in deeper, Spine throbbing love-(as you have called it before)
The whole family was together, watching a movie in your grandmother's living room. That was when you started making a mental note of what you wanted from life, from love.
As deep as it could get for a nine-year old.
Then your tiny heart exploded seeing your parents kiss and say "I love you." This is the most you've allowed yourself to reminisce the water of your past as you watch from ashore.
You've allowed yourself tonight, to be blue through your tears.
Here Hotch is next to you, his shoulder anchors your head while you dry yourself of your tears.
Now he's holding your hand on the way back to the hotel, only letting go once you tuck yourself into bed. He gently draped his coat over the suite chair, then right as he is about to big you goodbye you reach out to him.
You look up at him, blinking in his soft features against the dimmed suite lighting before you can stop yourself you call out for him.
"Can you stay until I fall asleep?"
You don't look at him as you ask only focusing on the moon reflected through your windows. Right as you're about to point out the full moon, Hotch sits down next to the bed.
"How are you feeling?" He asks
You respond, tucking your cold hands under the pillow. "Better....I think. No one else on the team knows and I don't talk about my parents much...Talking helped."
Hotch nods, flexing his arms against the back of his head. "Talking helps."
You go to sleep that night, replaying it one by one. You close your eyes as if wanting to imprint flesh against flesh.
I hope u have a beautiful day love xx, the fic u just posted was amazing… i love reading alternatives to the maeve storyline (forever hater for that storyline)
aww thank you! i'm so late in seeing this and posting my second chapter! i wanted to do something different but also something that is intrinsically spencer reid!
Spencer goes into work the next day, trying not to idealize you too much.
What did you look like?
How long had you been writing?
He had spent most of the night before going through your blog, like a treasure he had found after being lost at sea for so long.
You mainly talked about your day, with some snippets about family, but it was your writing that drew him in.
You often wrote about interpersonal relationships, the identities you cultivated around people. You talked about being single in your 20s, and suddenly, Spencer felt so out of reach.
You were only in your 20s? He felt so much older.
Like life was passing him by, he thought. And through your words, he could embrace it.
Slowly, his reverie is broken, his mind forced onto the case in front of him.
The case goes by, like any other. He keeps himself detached, mainly due to Emily’s death. The work they do often feels like pouring into an empty cup.
What’s the point if they can’t save the ones they love the most?
“Earth to Reid.”
Morgan’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Spencer blinks, realizing the entire team is staring at him.
“You good?” JJ asks, her brows furrowed in concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” he replies almost instantly.
On the way to the jet, he walks through the halls and can almost see Emily, almost hear her laughter.
Being a man of science, he doesn’t believe in God. But if there were one, he wonders—how much more suffering can he take?
He takes the furthest seat on the jet, closing his eyes and remembering your words:
"The start of my twenties were wasted, wondering when love would find me. Now all I want to do is embrace all that I have. I might not have a lover, but I have friends who will wipe my tears for me. I have a sister who will take my hand in hers, holding my heart so dearly. And despite everything, I find myself eternally thankful for the love that’s never left."
That was the last passage Spencer read from your blog.
Your words itch at the deepest part of his brain, and despite being an abstract concept, he will gladly make a mural of them.
He wants to remember them forever.
He spends a few days on the sidelines before he finally reaches out to you.
With shaky hands, he types your Outlook email into the recipient field.
What should he say?
Pushing the thought aside, he types:
"Hi there, I hope this finds you well. I stumbled across your writings, and now your blog. I wanted to let you know you’re an amazing writer. I’ve read a lot of my own thoughts being brought to life by your words."
He pauses. It feels too formal, too clinical. He hesitates, then adds:
"I know we don’t know each other, but I wanted to reach out because your writing resonated with me. Thank you for sharing your thoughts."
He stares at the screen, fingers hovering over the send button.
Then, in one swift motion, before he can second-guess himself—he clicks.
And immediately regrets it.
Spencer leans back, heart pounding.
What if you don’t respond? What if you do? What if you think he’s strange for reaching out?
He groans, pressing his hands to his face. He shouldn’t have sent it. He should have just left it alone.
But then, an hour later, just as he’s about to force himself to sleep—
In which Spencer falls in love with your words before he falls in love with you as a person
It’s 2:30 a.m., and all Spencer can do is stare at the ceiling, his migraine making him feel restless.
He’s only ever told Emily about the migraines, who now is gone.
Of course, he thinks blue light makes it worse, but he can’t help himself.
He’s been re-reading your research paper.
You’re a medical student, just starting to dip your toes into the ocean of research.
When he found yours, he’d been deep on the web, scrolling through articles. It only had around fifty reads—probably because it still needed refining and had only been published two hours ago.
The paper centered on the dismissal of female patients in medicine.
He knows he is not the target audience for your research paper, yet he can relate to your words.
His migraines have often been waved off, reduced to psychosomatic symptoms, or trivialized as “nothing serious.”
“I just want to feel safe going to the doctor,” you’d written.
He knows it’s odd to be so fixated on an article—and by extension, on you.
Your full name, along with your email, was listed at the bottom. Public information; perfectly reasonable for him to reach out, yet he resists, settling instead for reading every word you’ve written, as though someone finally understands him.
His thoughts seem to echo from your words.
“Our health is seen as us overreacting. We could be bleeding abnormally, clearly in pain—pain that’s beyond anything comparable. Yet, it will be dismissed as period pains. Cramps. ‘Just tough it out.’ It’s no accident that the word hysteria originates from the Greek word for uterus.”
"Doctors and nurses—the very people you’re supposed to trust with your life"
.Spencer reads the passage over and over, wanting to etch it into his memory.
He loves the way you write—assertive yet curious, optimistic yet grounded in reality."
He finds himself frowning reaching the bottom of your paper.
There must be more, he thinks. Do you only write research papers?
Are you a reader, too?
Feeling like a bit of a creep, he types your name into a search engine. His smile widens when he finds your blog. The page features the same painting you used for your article profile—another piece of you for him to explore.
in which spencer wants your anniversary to be perfect, but everyday is perfect with you.
word count: 2.1k
cw: purple scarf cameo, idiots in love, fluff, happy ending, established relationship.
(english isn't my first language, minimal proofread!)
pt1 what if all i need is you (can be read as standalone)
Spencer closed the tab on his computer, a frustrated scowl forming on his lips. For days, he’d been scouring the internet, spending sleepless nights hunched over his desk, searching for the perfect anniversary gift for you. It was your first year together, and everything had to be perfect.
But nothing felt right. Every idea he considered was quickly dismissed. He shut his eyes, trying to quiet his overthinking mind.
You two met at his favorite coffee place, he noticed you right away when he realized you stole his seat.
You had yourself perched against the chair nuzzled against the rest of the wall.
And after a week of ogling you across the room he finally got enough courage to start a conversation over a book you were reading. Then with shaky fingers and some mumbling he finally had the courage to ask you out, suggesting a tour of the city since you just moved.
Spencer knew his demanding work schedule wasn’t easy on you. You were so patient, understanding, and kind—perhaps too kind, he often thought. Canceled dinner dates, postponed trips, missed laughs, and missed love were all too common. Yet despite it all, you always met him with a reassuring smile.
“I know you’re busy saving lives,” You had told him once, as the two of you cuddled in bed after the third missed date in a row. He hadn’t had anything better to offer than a string of apologies, and he feared one day it wouldn't be enough.
“Hey pretty boy, what’s got you so upset?” Morgan asked, his voice pulling Spencer out of his thoughts.
Spencer took a moment to collect himself before turning to Morgan. “I’m trying to figure out a good anniversary gift for her.”
In a room full of profilers he didn’t think they’d be so keen on his social cues, but of course they noticed him constantly fidgeting and sneaking quick glances at his phone.
Emily was the first to find out about you.
The teasing lasted months.
Penelope was rushing toward his desk with her tea in one hand and Morgan’s coffee in the other.
“You have to go all out!” Garcia exclaimed, barely containing her excitement. “Chocolates, flowers—oh, please tell me you’ve got the whole day planned!”
“Calm down, baby girl,” Morgan laughed, taking his coffee. “I’m sure our genius over here has something in mind.”
Spencer sighed. “I want to make it special since it’s our first anniversary, but I just don’t know what she’d like.”
“Well, what are her love languages?” Penelope asked, ready to unleash her vast knowledge of relationships.
“I think it’s quality time,” Spencer replied, a small smile playing on his lips as he thought about you. “She’s always engaged in our conversations, making strong eye contact, putting her phone away, asking questions. She also lingers after dates.”
He paused, recalling the moments you’d linger on your doorstep after he drove you home, the way you’d breathe him in after a kiss, your forehead resting against his. “She never seems in a rush to leave, like she values every moment we spend together.”
Morgan grinned, leaning back in his chair with a knowing look. “There you go, pretty boy. Think about what she loves, what makes her happy. That’s the key.”
Spencer nodded picked up his phone, scrolling through the list he’d made of all your favorite things.
He stopped on a picture of you smiling back at him from the screen, a photo he’d taken during one of your many picnics. Your hair had been flowing in the wind, your eyes crinkled with your smile as you explained the meaning behind one of your favorite songs. It was the same photo that graced both his phone and laptop backgrounds.
“She loves almost every kind of art,” he whispered, his heart swelling with affection. “Renaissance literature, realism paintings, classic books. And she’s really outdoorsy too.” He whispered, his heart expanding, pumping. thump, thump- laced with love.
He thought about the countless picnic dates, the times you’d coaxed him out of bed for a run or a hike. His mind wandered to what you might be doing right now—your second class of the day had likely started, and he imagined you taking notes, doodling in the margins.
Penelope and Morgan exchanged amused glances, their lips quivering with smiles as they listened to Spencer’s lovesick ramblings.
“Looks like Reid’s got it bad,” Morgan whispered to Garcia, who stifled a giggle behind her hand.
“He really does,” she agreed, her voice barely above a whisper.
Spencer hadn’t seen you in two weeks, four days, twenty-three minutes, and fourteen seconds—far too long. He didn’t want to waste another moment as he approached your door, your favorite flowers in hand. Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait another second, as you opened the door before he could even knock.
Spencer’s breath caught in his throat at the sight of you. Every day, he found himself falling for you more and more. You gave him a shy smile, stepping out to wrap your arms around his taller frame. He hugged you back immediately, burying his head in the crook of your neck. When you finally pulled apart, he took a proper look at you, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sunlight. In that moment, and in every other, you were the epitome of beauty—a vision that left him utterly mesmerized.
“These are for you,” Spencer said softly, offering you the peonies. He realized they paled in comparison to you, but nonetheless, he held them out.
“You never forget them, Spence,” you said, your voice equally soft. Spencer chuckled, half-offended that you’d think he ever could—eidetic memory or not.
“I’m glad you like them,” he replied, taking your hand as he led you to his car, opening the door for you. “I have the whole day planned.”
“Yeah?” Your head rises of its own accord against the car seat.
"I really want it to be perfect."
It’s already perfect because how much better can it get you thought? You're in his car, your favorite songs playing in the background and his hand never leaves your side.
“It already is.” You say grazing your thumb over his knuckles.
You finally reach the place away from everyone else. “There’s a trail nearby and a perfect place for a picnic.” Spencer whispers, slipping his hand into yours again.
It fits so perfectly.
You smile, squeezing his hand “Lead the way.”
In a field of daisies Spencer pulls out a blanket, carefully placing his gifts as he pats the spot next to him. You nestle against his taller frame, he smells like sandalwood, coffee, and home.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask him, he smiles down at you playing with your hair absentmindedly.
“You. Always you.” You get the familiar, but nevertheless oh-so welcome kick in your stomach every time he smiles at you.
“What about you?” He asks in return, and you shrug, not able to convey all your emotions.
“I'm thinking that I want my gifts.” You say slightly pouting.
With a shy smile, Spencer untangled himself from you and reached for the presents. He handed you a beautifully wrapped package and a small painting, both wrapped with care.
“I hope you like them,” he said, his voice tinged with nervousness.
Your eyes lit up as you unwrapped the gifts, revealing a limited edition of Sylvia Plath’s work—a book you’d mentioned offhandedly that you’d been searching for. Your gaze met his, overflowing with emotions you hadn’t known were possible. You always believed in love, but this? This was beyond anything you’d imagined. It made all the heartbreaks of the past worth it because they led you to him.
You abandoned the gifts, flinging yourself into his arms. He laughed, catching you as you both tumbled onto the grass. Spencer buried his face in the crook of your neck, holding you close.
“They’re perfect,” you whispered. “Thank you so much.”
Spencer’s cheeks flushed. “I’m glad you like them,” he replied, still holding you.
“How did you even find it?” you asked, marveling at the book.
“Brittney Johnson—remember the missing persons case we solved? Her dad’s a book collector. He was really grateful and said if we ever needed a favor, he’d be happy to help.”
You smiled, touched by his thoughtfulness. You’d spent so long building walls around yourself, convincing yourself you didn’t need a relationship. But with Spencer, those walls crumbled before you even had a chance to put them up.
“I also wrote you a card, my handwriting isn't the best, but I know you like words of affirmation” Spencer said, reaching into his bag. But before he could present it, dark clouds gathered overhead, and raindrops began to fall, dampening the ground.
“Seriously?” Spencer groaned, quickly sheltering you with his jacket. The chocolate and sandwiches were ruined, along with your clothes. The two of you hurried to the car, making sure the gifts were safe, and finally found shelter inside.
“I’m sorry our picnic was ruined, angel,” Spencer said, helping you fix your hair.
“It’s not ruined, Spence. We can have a night in, order some Chinese, and finish a new episode?” you suggested, trying to cheer him up.
“Yeah, sure,” he agreed, though he couldn’t hide his disappointment as he started the car.
𐙚 ✱ ❤︎ ࿐ ۫ .
Back at your apartment, the two of you hurried inside, drenched from the rain. You kicked off your shoes and quickly disappeared into your bedroom, returning with dry clothes for both of you. You handed Spencer his sweater, the one you’d “borrowed” long ago, and couldn’t help but smile as he accepted it.
“Hey, I was looking for this,” he said, pulling on the warm sweater.
“Sorry I stole it,” You replied, not the least bit apologetic.
He shook his head, following you to the kitchen, where you were setting up takeout containers on the counter. The sweater smells like you and he thinks he should let you keep it. It smells like cherries, winter warmth and like the love of his life.
“I love that you did. I feel closer to you whenever I wear it.”
You blushed, grateful he couldn’t see your flushed cheeks as you turned to grab plates. Spencer wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“This isn’t how I planned our anniversary,” he admitted, his voice soft. “I wanted everything to be perfect.”
You turned in his arms, cupping his cheek as you gazed into his warm eyes. “Spence, it was perfect. It’s not about the flowers or the gifts or the picnic. It’s about being with you.”
Before Spencer could respond, you gently stepped out of his embrace, suddenly remembering you still had his gift to give.
“I have a surprise for you,” you said with a smile, rummaging through the gift bag. You walked back to him, holding up a beautifully knitted purple scarf.
“My mom’s been teaching me how to knit, and this is the first thing I made. It’s for you. I know you get colds easily, and keeping your neck and chest warm can help reduce the shock of inhaling cold, dry air, which irritates your respiratory tract. I even stitched my name on the end, so a part of me is always with you.”
Spencer’s face lit up as he accepted the scarf, immediately noticing how it carried your familiar scent.
“This is so thoughtful,” he said, his eyes soft with appreciation. “I don’t think anyone’s ever been this concerned about my colds. Although, just so you know, wearing a scarf alone won’t prevent you from catching a cold. Colds are caused by viruses, usually spread through respiratory droplets or by touching contaminated surfaces.”
You smiled at his rambling, finding comfort in the way his mind worked—it was like a love language all its own. Chuckling softly, you wrapped the scarf around his neck, adjusting it just right.
“It’s the thought that counts, angel,” he said sincerely, his voice filled with warmth. “It’s already my favorite scarf.” He then brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to them.
It's in the quiet, messy, beautifully imperfect moments like this, spencer thinks: where love is felt in every heartbeat, every glance, and every shared breath.
"and if i can give you the moon
i would give you the moon."
-moon song, phoebe bridgers
You've had to grieve her longer than you've known her. Everything from her smile to the way she wore her hair is still engraved in the back of your mind, a haunting echo of what once was.
You were driving to the grave back in Virginia, the road stretching out in front of you like a somber ribbon.
“Do you think we’re missing much at dinner?” You ask, breaking the silence that’s settled between you and Hotch, the weight of your thoughts too heavy to carry alone.
Hotch looks at you for a second before returning his eyes to the road. “Hopefully nothing too significant. The unsub wouldn’t risk being caught by doing something reckless.”
You nod, but another thought nags at you. “One question—how would he blend in if it’s a couples retreat? Wouldn’t it be strange to show up alone?”
Hotch’s brow furrows slightly as he considers your question. “That’s a good point. We might be looking for a couple, which would explain how the murders happen so frequently without raising suspicion.”
“But the hatred for women? We profiled him as a sexual sadist—antisocial, misogynistic. Would he really be able to work with a female partner?” You ask, your voice tinged with doubt.
Before Hotch can respond, his phone rings. He picks it up, and you can tell from his expression that it’s Strauss on the other end.
“Unfortunately, there was an emergency, and we needed the jet,” Hotch says into the phone, his tone steady. “Yes, she’s alright. I’ll explain everything in detail when we get back.”
As he speaks, your thoughts drift back to your first boyfriend in college. He wouldn’t even drive twenty minutes to see you, claiming it was too far.
You spent two years waiting for him to change, only to leave when you finally realized he never would. After that, you wasted countless nights hoping to meet someone who would treat you better, someone who would make the effort.
And now, you’ve found him. But he’s your boss—your boss who is risking the state of a high-profile case just so you can be close to your mother.
He doesn’t even love you, yet here he is, trying to give you the moon.
Hotch’s call with Strauss is brief, and as he hangs up, you can’t help but worry about the fallout. “Do you think Strauss will go on a rampage after missing the night?”
“Don’t worry too much,” Hotch replies, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “This isn’t the first time the team has gone behind her back. She’ll be fine.”
You manage to suppress your own smile, but it feels good to see him relax, even if just a little. The silence that follows is peaceful, and you find comfort in the quiet presence of the man beside you. The moon, a waxing crescent, casts a gentle glow over the road, guiding you both towards the gravesite.
“I wasn’t close with my father,” Hotch says, breaking the silence once more. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something deeper—something he rarely lets show.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you reply softly, knowing how difficult it is for him to open up. He seldom shares anything about himself, and the little you know feels like precious fragments.
Hotch nods, his eyes fixed on the road. “It’s hard, losing someone so important at a young age. But you learn to carry their memory with you. It shapes who you are.”
“I didn’t know mine that well either,” you admit, your voice tinged with regret. “He was amazing, but he worked a lot. Seven days a week sometimes, just to put food on the table. I wish we’d had more time together. There are so many things I never got to ask, never got to say.”
“I know,” Hotch says quietly. “But being here, visiting their grave, it’s a way to honor them. To keep their memory alive.”
You press your palms to your heart, holding onto his words. As you see the familiar trees surrounding the cemetery, memories of your grandmother flood your mind. She used to bring you here, her presence making the pain bearable. She was your anchor.
“How are you feeling?” Hotch asks as he parks the car, his hand lifting slightly before falling back to his side, as if unsure whether to reach out to you.
You offer him a small smile, stepping out of the car and walking through the gates. “It’s always a nine.”
“A nine?” Hotch echoes
“When my grandmother passed away, I went to counseling. Every day, the therapist would ask me about my pain scale. I always said nine, and it’s been a constant nine since then. I know it could be worse, but I’m saving the ten for when it does get worse.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t,” Hotch says quietly, his hand brushing against yours as you walk toward the headstone.
You stand over it, reading the inscription: In loving memory of Kajol, wife, mother, daughter. The sight of it tugs at your heart, but you manage to hold back the tears as you place the flowers—jasmine, her favorite—on the grave.
“Hi, Ammi,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I have a really important case with my team. I didn’t think I’d ever get this opportunity. My team… remember when I told you about them? They’re helping me through it. I hope one day I can come see you with someone close to me, maybe even my own family. I wish you were still here.”
Hotch’s hand rests on your shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into his touch, finding comfort in the warmth he offers.
“She would be really proud, you know? Your father and grandmother too. You’re a brilliant agent,” he says softly, his voice full of sincerity.
The tears you’ve fought so hard to hold back finally spill over, blurring your vision. His hand leaves your shoulder, but before you are able to mourn the loss he sits down next to you, wrapping his arm around you.
You can hear the beat of his heart all the way from there.
You turn to face him, his beautiful eyes locking onto yours, holding you in place. He gently cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb.
“I’ve never met anyone as brave as you. You have so much resilience, and I know my apology is a little late, but forgive me for being an ass earlier.”
You shake your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s okay. I know we have a lot to lose with the case. But I can do it. Let me prove myself.”
Hotch nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “I trust you. Completely.”
So regardless of consequences, you move closer to him and rest your head against his shoulder. Your breathing syncs together as if your hearts have recognized each other. Yours start and his finish, both of them intertwined at this point.
You might try to keep your cards close to your chest and arm your heart to protect yourself. But, you're blocking off both love and rejection in equal measure. You remain like way until the gravity is too much.
you never believed in fate, you thought the idea was only a luxury to very few.
but, there are moments when you find yourself reading some of your grandmother's stories
because you miss her cooking and the way she would braid your hair.
and clinging to the words she used to tell you.
"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance."
what if all i need is you? (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🌺
2 times the universe conspired against spencer, and the 1 time it didn't.
how did it end? (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🍒🕰️
"he took me out of my box, stole my tortured heart. left all these broken parts."
or
4 times spencer runs and 1 time he doesn't
gold rush (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🌺
In which Spencer Reid believes meeting you could only be explained by something bigger under the works.
percy jackson 🌷
🍒🕰️right where you left me (1/?)
Ink dries up as it clings to paper, writings on pages fade, and people you've held close to your heart become distant memories.
Silhouettes of a person.
But, no one really leaves; their remnants will always be there. Tiny fragments of them floating around. But never all of them, as nobody really leaves.
What's more painful than that she thinks. You're never able to completely erase them from your life.
The memories will still paralyze you, and you'll be left standing there, gasping for air, remembering every little detail.
"and if i can give you the moon
i would give you the moon."
-moon song, phoebe bridgers
You've had to grieve her longer than you've known her. Everything from her smile to the way she wore her hair is still engraved in the back of your mind, a haunting echo of what once was.
You were driving to the grave back in Virginia, the road stretching out in front of you like a somber ribbon.
“Do you think we’re missing much at dinner?” You ask, breaking the silence that’s settled between you and Hotch, the weight of your thoughts too heavy to carry alone.
Hotch looks at you for a second before returning his eyes to the road. “Hopefully nothing too significant. The unsub wouldn’t risk being caught by doing something reckless.”
You nod, but another thought nags at you. “One question—how would he blend in if it’s a couples retreat? Wouldn’t it be strange to show up alone?”
Hotch’s brow furrows slightly as he considers your question. “That’s a good point. We might be looking for a couple, which would explain how the murders happen so frequently without raising suspicion.”
“But the hatred for women? We profiled him as a sexual sadist—antisocial, misogynistic. Would he really be able to work with a female partner?” You ask, your voice tinged with doubt.
Before Hotch can respond, his phone rings. He picks it up, and you can tell from his expression that it’s Strauss on the other end.
“Unfortunately, there was an emergency, and we needed the jet,” Hotch says into the phone, his tone steady. “Yes, she’s alright. I’ll explain everything in detail when we get back.”
As he speaks, your thoughts drift back to your first boyfriend in college. He wouldn’t even drive twenty minutes to see you, claiming it was too far.
You spent two years waiting for him to change, only to leave when you finally realized he never would. After that, you wasted countless nights hoping to meet someone who would treat you better, someone who would make the effort.
And now, you’ve found him. But he’s your boss—your boss who is risking the state of a high-profile case just so you can be close to your mother.
He doesn’t even love you, yet here he is, trying to give you the moon.
Hotch’s call with Strauss is brief, and as he hangs up, you can’t help but worry about the fallout. “Do you think Strauss will go on a rampage after missing the night?”
“Don’t worry too much,” Hotch replies, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “This isn’t the first time the team has gone behind her back. She’ll be fine.”
You manage to suppress your own smile, but it feels good to see him relax, even if just a little. The silence that follows is peaceful, and you find comfort in the quiet presence of the man beside you. The moon, a waxing crescent, casts a gentle glow over the road, guiding you both towards the gravesite.
“I wasn’t close with my father,” Hotch says, breaking the silence once more. His voice is calm, but there’s a hint of something deeper—something he rarely lets show.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” you reply softly, knowing how difficult it is for him to open up. He seldom shares anything about himself, and the little you know feels like precious fragments.
Hotch nods, his eyes fixed on the road. “It’s hard, losing someone so important at a young age. But you learn to carry their memory with you. It shapes who you are.”
“I didn’t know mine that well either,” you admit, your voice tinged with regret. “He was amazing, but he worked a lot. Seven days a week sometimes, just to put food on the table. I wish we’d had more time together. There are so many things I never got to ask, never got to say.”
“I know,” Hotch says quietly. “But being here, visiting their grave, it’s a way to honor them. To keep their memory alive.”
You press your palms to your heart, holding onto his words. As you see the familiar trees surrounding the cemetery, memories of your grandmother flood your mind. She used to bring you here, her presence making the pain bearable. She was your anchor.
“How are you feeling?” Hotch asks as he parks the car, his hand lifting slightly before falling back to his side, as if unsure whether to reach out to you.
You offer him a small smile, stepping out of the car and walking through the gates. “It’s always a nine.”
“A nine?” Hotch echoes
“When my grandmother passed away, I went to counseling. Every day, the therapist would ask me about my pain scale. I always said nine, and it’s been a constant nine since then. I know it could be worse, but I’m saving the ten for when it does get worse.”
“Hopefully it doesn’t,” Hotch says quietly, his hand brushing against yours as you walk toward the headstone.
You stand over it, reading the inscription: In loving memory of Kajol, wife, mother, daughter. The sight of it tugs at your heart, but you manage to hold back the tears as you place the flowers—jasmine, her favorite—on the grave.
“Hi, Ammi,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I have a really important case with my team. I didn’t think I’d ever get this opportunity. My team… remember when I told you about them? They’re helping me through it. I hope one day I can come see you with someone close to me, maybe even my own family. I wish you were still here.”
Hotch’s hand rests on your shoulder, and for a moment, you let yourself lean into his touch, finding comfort in the warmth he offers.
“She would be really proud, you know? Your father and grandmother too. You’re a brilliant agent,” he says softly, his voice full of sincerity.
The tears you’ve fought so hard to hold back finally spill over, blurring your vision. His hand leaves your shoulder, but before you are able to mourn the loss he sits down next to you, wrapping his arm around you.
You can hear the beat of his heart all the way from there.
You turn to face him, his beautiful eyes locking onto yours, holding you in place. He gently cups your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb.
“I’ve never met anyone as brave as you. You have so much resilience, and I know my apology is a little late, but forgive me for being an ass earlier.”
You shake your head lightly, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “It’s okay. I know we have a lot to lose with the case. But I can do it. Let me prove myself.”
Hotch nods slowly, his gaze unwavering. “I trust you. Completely.”
So regardless of consequences, you move closer to him and rest your head against his shoulder. Your breathing syncs together as if your hearts have recognized each other. Yours start and his finish, both of them intertwined at this point.
You might try to keep your cards close to your chest and arm your heart to protect yourself. But, you're blocking off both love and rejection in equal measure. You remain like way until the gravity is too much.
"he took me out my box, stole my tortured heart.
left all these broken parts."
or
4 times spencer runs and 1 time he doesn't
“hey ang-uhm..you know i really like you. as you know i really struggle to open up with others as i haven’t found anyone to bond with in awhile. but i-i just don’t think this is it for me and i’m so sorry. i feel like we are on different paths in our life and i really need someone who has their life together. not necessarily figured out. but together. i wish i didn't waste your time like this, and i know what i'm saying is hurtful, but i wanted to be honest with you. i’m so sorry for wasting your time. i’ll miss you. bye”
you’re barely able to make it through the first minute, shaky hands hold your phone as you hover over his contact.
a picture of him kissing your cheek faces back at you.
it’s like a slap in the face.
“can we talk about this properly.” you manage to type through your blurry vision and shaky fingers.
white dots stare back at you, but they disappear as soon as they appear.
a series of gut wrenching shallow breaths overtake you as you crumble onto the floor, glad that no one is here to see you fall apart.
you pray this is a nightmare. this isn’t like him, not at all.
the memory of the other night suffocates you—the tender touches, the lingering warmth, the whispered you're beautiful, the stolen kisses—only for him to turn around and tell you you’re better off.
and after what feels like an eternity, a chime finally interrupts your thoughts
“of course” spencer echoes back only for the words to plunge a knife deeper into your wound.
another chime. it was the one you had only for him.
“i would have liked to do that in person.”
then why didn’t you? you want to say back.
only streams of your confusion talk back though.
“who just has sex with a girl? only to dump her a day later?” you type back.
you’re waiting again, this is not funny you whisper to yourself.
“i wish it wasn’t right after. and i wish there was a way for me to prove sex wasn’t all i was after. if you want honesty then the sex didn’t help. what should i have done? waited to end things after? that’s even more evil to do in my opinion. i should have driven to see you, but i knew i wouldn't be able to say it once i saw you."
would've could've should've
and all you can ask yourself is,
‘did you really think it would be different this time?’
‘did you really think the prophecy wouldn’t come true?’
as if you forgot your faith was sealed, a curse meant for you to endure.
you want to beg, beg him to change his mind.
get on your knees like an infant, curse him or plead with the universe, even to god, anyone willing to listen.
because this can’t be happening.
“please don’t do this” you type out.
delete.
“let’s talk about it.”
delete.
“i thought it would be different this time.”
delete.
despite your pleas you know you can't force love.
the love that's meant for you isn't earned it's given. so with what little vision you have, you start typing back.
"i can say millions of things, i can tell you not to prepare for the end of something you haven't given a fair chance to. i can say let's talk it out and find a solution. i can ask you to find some perspective and to not give up on us. but with everything i can't make you love me. love isn't earned. whatever happens i know it's for the better."
send.
you already know what your friends are going to tell you.
"he didn't deserve you"
"his loss"
rather than reassurance it's a mirror staring back. a reflection of all you've lost. you're so used to things ending you know exactly what to say.
your friends are so used it ending "his loss" is now etched between your group. a swirl of repetition, of being put back on your shelf.
like a toy they return when the tricks don't work anymore.
"it gets better." your mom tells you. "everything happens for a reason, forget about him."
but he was my best friend you want to say.
just when you think things will last, that people will stay, the universe shows you once again that all love does, at least for you, is break and burn.
Bookmarked on page fifteen, the last page of chapter three, the closed book in your hands stand still against your heavy heart. You were waiting to read chapter four together with her. The story of Rapunzel was your favorite princess story. One of a long lost princess with beautiful long hair who fought to live the life she wanted. And she was able to fall in love in the midst of it all.
It was a staple bedtime story; you went to sleep hanging onto the words.
Sometimes when you see your mom in your dreams; you can hear her sweet voice reading you the stories, and you can feel her gentle kisses even now. A beautiful yet haunting reminder of her.
You never got to read chapter four, and you haven't been able to move the handmade bookmark since your mom stopped on chapter three seventeen years ago. It's her birthday today, seventeen years of missed laughter, hugs, and love. Maybe it would have been bearable if you had someone to share the burden with, someone who knew her just as intensely.
But the only two other people were dead along with her.
"Alright, let's go over our story one more time," Hotch says, his voice low as he walks into your honeymoon suite.
It had been a few days since you two checked in, it was a beautiful suite overlooking the sea. You loved the sea and the feeling of sand between your toes, but just like many of the things you loved - it was just out of your grasp.
You were spending the days discussing specifics of stories, anniversaries, birthdays, and first kisses. All set to disappear into an imagined world and meet him in a love story that was not yours. You two weren't hopelessly in love on your honeymoon, and Maya wasn't you. That story was only saved for last, hidden deep within your heart under-heading the section labeled grief.
Because where else can one store unspent love.
You've never even held him, but your feelings for Hotch are nothing short of love. You've never held him, and yet you have memorized every dimple, freckle, and crease by his eyes.
He has never touched you, and yet has touched every fiber of your being.
And so many sleepless you stayed up, next to him, feeling his heartbeat you wondered what it would be like to press yourself against his larger body. To tuck yourself underneath his arm and lay your head against chest as if you belonged there all along.
You resisted of course.
“We met at one of the galleries I was showing; you bought all of my paintings and asked me out to dinner later that night,” You respond quietly, your hand still ghosting over the peeking bookmark. Feeling the lines of the book's spine, it was a small but thick paperback book. Not worth much, but to you, it was priceless, one of your most prized possessions.
You manage to catch the last of his question, all your focus on your self-inflicted sorrow. "Ages?"
"Um," You start, trying to piece the story together; it's buried somewhere deep in your head, this past week has just been so hard. You always visit your mom on her birthday, but now you know it won't be possible.
Your pain was always such an imposition.
"If we're going to do this, I need your undivided attention,” Hotch’s voice breaks through your head. You turn to face him, his eyes focused on the case file, not even sparing you a glance.
"Sorry, sir. It’s just a lot to think about.”
“I told you it would be. If you’re not ready for this, Agent.” You wish he would stop calling you Agent, it's an unnecessary boundary he's creating to distance himself from you.
“I am,” You cut through his words, swallowing the dryness forming in your throat. "Of course, I am." You repeat back, standing up straighter this time, trying not to let the indifference in his words bother you.
He passes you his notes, filled with Maya and James's life. Their story, their family. They're respectively twenty-six and forty, so a little off here and there. James has a big family that Maya is able to fall into, two brothers and a sister. No kids yet, they're just enjoying life with the two of them.
It would be perfect if it was yours to truly live in.
Perfect, just not yours. Always yours to love, but never to keep.
"This case is one of the most important the team has had in a long time. Everyone is counting on us; memorize the notes. We should take this opportunity to meet other couples tonight at the welcome dinner." He pauses for a second, surveying and noticing the book in your hands. You defensively put the book away, shielding your memories from his judgmental eyes, ripping yourself away from any judgment, away from a job that punishes you for caring.
"I can't do my job successfully if I'm always watching over my shoulder, babysitting a capable agent," he says, as he walks out of the room, selfishly avoiding your eyes so he can shield himself from the pain he's inflicted. The door shuts quietly, but no thoughts seem to take over, and you suddenly feel small. Like a child who's been abandoned, left alone, and to fend for herself.
༺༻
You sit there, staring at the closed door, trying to steady your breathing. The silence in the room grows louder, as if it were taunting you, reminding you of your isolation. You clutch the book tighter, as if it could anchor you to some semblance of stability.
Minutes pass, maybe hours. Time blurs as your mind drifts between memories of your mother and the pressing reality of the case. The sun slowly sets, casting long shadows across the room.
And you wish you could just sit there and wallow in your misery but the reality of the case pulls you out, your feelings will just have to wait.
As the orange from the evening sky peaks through the curtains, you hear the door open again. Hotch steps back into the room, his expression softer yet determined. "Strauss wanted to have a conference call with the director. She thinks the welcome dinner is a good approach."
You look up from the case notes, the soft glow of the bedside lamp casting a warm light over the room. "When should we start heading there?"
"In about an hour, we should get there early to take in the environment. The Unsub could be anyone." You nod as he finishes the last of his sentence, the tension is still there letting you loose only to suffocate you once again.
"Just give me a few minutes to shower." You say not meeting his eyes.
Making your way to the shared bathroom you let the warm shower engulf you. Wishing to wash away your insecurities and the weight of the day. You close your eyes and visualize the tension fading with every drop of water, but it doesn't last nearly as long as you would like it to. Reluctantly, you walk out of the shower as your obligations drag you back.
Thinking of these small things makes you believe she is an actual person, not just someone you and the team invented. The details bring her to life, giving her a heartbeat within your imagination.
You rarely had time to dress up since work took most of your time and energy. You take the time to do your hair and for a second you get to engage in something fun, a constant which was sperate from the rest of the world. Reaching instinctively to play with your bracelet, you sigh.
It was an evil eye bracelet, or as your family called it, nazar. It was a gift from your Nani (grandmother); she said it would keep you safe from everything evil. You smile to yourself, thinking about her words and the warmth they still bring you.
If only there was someone else who loved you just as much now.
Hotch's knock on your bathroom door pulls you out of your trance, "Just a second!" You say adjusting your dress.
Taking one more look in the mirror, you open the door, surprised by how good he looks. He always wore suits, but before you stands a man in a dark gray shirt, tucked into his trousers, his usually neat hair now slightly tousled, framing his face.
You smile at him, for a second forgetting that you're upset at him.
"I didn't know you had curly hair," he says, looking at you with a small smile on his lips. You mirror him briefly, putting on your earrings.
"It's hard to maintain, especially at work, so I just straighten it a lot." You had your hair moved to the side; you can't remember the last time he had looked at you for so long.
"It suits you."
"I get it from my mom. Everyone told me I look like my dad growing up, but the one thing I got from her is the hair," you say, looking for your shoes. Hotch is standing behind you, hands in his pockets.
"You don't talk about them much," he says, his tone softer now, more curious than probing.
"Once I start, I can't stop."
"I was the same way with Haley, especially around Jack. But there are people who care about you here, including me." You don't know when he came so close to you, his face now merely inches away, his presence suddenly more comforting than intimidating.
Suddenly, your perfectly guarded emotions come undone. "I have so many memories of her; it's an overflow sometimes."
"Then let's start small. What is your favorite memory?"
You let out a small smile, walking towards the dresser and pulling out the book to show him.
"Rapunzel?" he asks with amusement. "I didn't know you liked fairytales."
"My mother did. She used to read me a ton of them, but this one was my favorite."
Recognition flashes in his eyes as if he suddenly remembers something. "I'm sorry, it's not hard when people we love leave." He knows grief better than most people. Although you weren't there when Beth died, you can still see remnants of who he used to be underneath.
A man torn between the love for his wife and duty.
"I think you're wonderful despite everything you've gone through. I know it's easy to feel responsible for what happened, but it wasn't your fault," you say softly, still holding onto your book.
Hotch nods, taking his hands out of his pockets and resting them on your shoulders. It's hesitant, as if he's unsure, but you don't mind.
"I was mad at them for coming home so late," you whisper, meeting his eyes.
"My dad promised to watch a new movie with me. I waited by the door all night. But they never came. Today is her birthday, and I'm missing it."
"This is why you always take this week off?" He asks.
Nodding, you tighten your grip on the book. "I always visit her grave, and since they're buried together, I visit my dad's too."
Before you can take in what's happening, Hotch lets his hands fall from your shoulders with a look of determination. And before you can ask him about the welcome dinner he starts walking towards his keys.
"Tell me where."
"W-What about the dinner?" You ask barely able to register the man in front of you.
"We will have other opportunities. Right now, you should be with your mom on her birthday. I spent too long letting this job keep me from the people I love. I can't see it happen to you."
"It's all the way back home."
"That's alright. I can probably call in some favors and have the jet get us there in a few hours," he says earnestly.
You look at him, taken aback by his determination. "Are you sure? What about Strauss?"
Hotch nods opening the door for you. "You're honoring your mother. I'll explain the situation, don't worry about her."
"you're not sure if getting swept up is a choice. you might try to keep your cards close to your chest and arm your heart to protect yourself. but, you're blocking off both love and rejection in equal measure.
so you take his hand nonetheless. placing it over your heart stabilizing its beat for you both.
you remain like way until the gravity is too much."
With a smile directed at your friends, you follow Hotch outside. Through the hallways, the two of you find an empty conference room. Shutting the door behind you, Hotch fixes his gaze onto you.
Taking a step closer, his arms crossed tightly against his rigid chest, he sighs. You notice the corners of his mouth forming a frown, realizing you've probably memorized every detail about him by now. His gaze flickers away from yours, his hands fidgeting with the cuffs of his sleeves.
You've noticed him doing that a lot around you.
"I need you to understand the severity of this situation, Agent," he says, still keeping his distance from you. You wonder what it would be like to be pressed against his chest, to have his lips pressed to your ear. To take his bigger hand in yours, put it over your heart, and let him hear the secrets you've kept close.
"Sir, I get it. I've never been undercover before, but I really believe I have a unique perspective on this."
"Resembling the victims? I know you want to help, but this unsub is sadistic, methodical, and the worst of all, he is patient. It's extremely difficult to predict his next move. You’re great with geo profiles, and it would also be really helpful to have extra hands." You tune out the rest of the words, already knowing all the alternatives.
You don’t miss the way his eyebrows quirk up after every suggestion he gives you, as if hopeful that you'll cave and agree to stay back.
"I appreciate your concern, I really do. But this is something I have to do. We can't let fear dictate our actions, especially when lives are at stake." You finish, and he's looking anywhere but your eyes.
Not knowing what overcame you, you suddenly cross the boundary he’d set in front of you, placing a hand on his shoulder. And just for a second, you feel him relaxing under your touch.
You call out his name, once more urging him to look at you, and everything else fades into the background as he meets your eyes. “I promise,” you say once again, reassuring him with your gaze.
He nods, sighing.
His eyes meet yours briefly as he allows himself to be comforted by the weight on his shoulder. The edge is razor-thin, right in the middle of something so insignificant and everything you’ve ever wanted.
Between being numb and feeling everything.
And just before you’re able to linger, before Hotch is able to lean into your touch, before the two of you are able to completely change the trajectory of everything, a knock interrupts you two. You quickly scramble apart, not knowing what to do with your hands.
A series of what-ifs hang around every time you find yourself alone with him.
Everything from hesitance to apprehension flickering in the depths of your conversations. You can feel his reluctance to let go, his crestfallen gaze fixed on the ground as if weighed down by the burden of his shattered expectations.
"Hotch, Captain and his team would like a briefing on the profile,” Rossi cuts through the tension in the room, and if he noticed, he doesn’t say anything.
Hotch nods, preparing to leave the office. You catch his eye, showing a profound amount of unease. His usually composed demeanor is slightly off-kilter, his movements hesitant and guarded. He walks out, the weight of your hand still lingering on his shoulder, and for a brief moment, he can pretend you're still holding onto him.
༺༻
“Everything okay?” Spencer asks as you sit down next to him. Hotch and Rossi were briefing the rest of the team on the profile. There wasn’t much yet, bits and pieces of his personality scattered around the board.
You nod, smiling at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“What did Hotch talk to you about?”
“Oh, you know, he wanted to make sure I didn’t feel pressured by Strauss to do this, and I feel like he’s a little scared but won’t admit it.”
“He tends to do that a lot. I’m just worried about you two,” Spencer offers a small smile, shaking his head. “I know you’re a strong person, Naina, but it’s okay if you’re scared.”
“I’m scared all the time,” you admit. It was true. Every day you looked over your shoulder, you’ve never said it, but you can’t picture anything past thirty. Spencer meets your eyes, opens his mouth, but quickly closes it, as if not knowing what to say.
He goes to squeeze your hand instead. “Me too. Just promise you’re going to be careful.” You know he’s not just talking about the case as he lifts his eyebrows near Hotch’s direction.
"Promise."
The weeks leading up to it go by in a blur as you and Hotch slowly get into character. Your team and the police department were having a briefing about the case before it was time to head to the resort. Only a few hours until you were near the calming waves and sunny skies, the only problem was putting yourself as bait for a serial killer.
Maya and James Astor met at a charity gala in New York City. Maya is an art curator, and it was easy for you to get into Maya's world as she seemed to mirror you.
Researching art, finding new books, and creating a vision or story for the art she collected were Maya's passions. She was an only child, her parents who died young, leaving her with her grandmother. You didn't know whether to be thankful you didn't have to memorize a completely different life than yours, or to be devastated having to relive the people you've lost.
But you push it down; your feelings just had to wait until this case was over.
Hotch passed the file towards you. James liked buying expensive art, traveled around the world, and ran his own business. Him and Maya met, fell in love, and got married within a year of dating.
"You wear a lot of gold, I thought you might like the gold touches," Hotch whispers, passing you an engagement ring along with a matching wedding band. Your ring was a simple cut Oval gold ring with pear and round diamonds surrounding it along either side. You never had a dream ring or thought much about it, but looking at the diamond and seeing it fit your finger so snug, you think this would have been your dream ring.
Something about the way Hotch's soft voice makes you want to pretend you two are actually a married couple.
A couple madly in love waiting to start their life together.
But all you can do is smile as you look over to your boss, "It's beautiful. If I had a dream ring, I think it would look like this." His eyes light up just a little under the dim lighting as he finds a smile overtaking him.
The meeting comes to an end, and soon it's just your team in the conference room getting ready. Morgan and Rossi were at the resort trying to get information about their security footage.
Emily and JJ hug you in turns, Garcia and Reid quietly going over the details while sparing you occasional glances across the room.
"Be safe, Naina. You're family, and we don't lose family," Emily mutters, tightening her arms around your shoulder. You sniffle just so lightly, emotions and feelings you didn't know possible overtaking you. For once since you lost your grandma, you had someone to lose, people waiting for you at the end of the day.
"Please don't worry about me, guys. I'm not going in alone. I have all of you watching over me."
JJ offers you a weak smile, squeezing your hand she had been holding onto. "You're going to do great. We're all rooting for you, honey."
The low hum of the engine came to life as you found your seat on the plane.
"So, let's go over what we know. The unsub targets honeymooning couples, but the question is, how does he manage to catch them off guard?" Hotch asked
He was seated across from you, and you pretended not to notice his eyes occasionally drowning into yours.
You flipped around your case file, while your other hand was clutching onto your favorite book.
You know it inside out: it was your grandmother's favorite, and apparently your mother's as well.
Some of the pages still smell like the incense she used, and her hair oil.
It’s a relic, or time capsule you think. One of bedtime stories, sleepless nights, and memories just out of reach.
"Given the lack of signs of struggle at the crime scenes, it's possible that the unsub is either surprising them or has some form of control that keeps them compliant." Reid chimed in sitting next to you.
You two got along really well, he was the first one to strike a conversation with you since joining the team. Few days into your reassignment to the team he approached your desk.
You were reading: And then there were none.
He complimented your taste and went on to analyze it himself. "You know, one of the most intriguing aspects of the book is how it delves into the psychology of guilt and remorse. Each character in the story is haunted by their past actions, and their guilt ultimately becomes their downfall."
And just like that he became one of your best friends.
Emily offered you and Spencer some coffee as she took the seat across from you. You smiled at her; all of them were like family to you. Emily and Penelope, the sisters you never had.
And JJ like to the mother always wanted.
Sometimes you look around and can’t believe you have people around you, who love you, and want to spend time with you.
It was nice, everyone on the team was really welcoming.
Even Hotch, well as welcoming as he can be.
At first you would get a brief nod from him, and sometimes when you delivered a profile correctly, a slight raise of his eyebrows and some stolen glances which you kept close to your heart.
Recently though you’ve been getting occasional smiles, few compliments, and brief moments of laughter. But quick as they come, quicker they disappear.
Morgan leaned forward from his seat next to Hotch, "But how does he target his victims in the first place? I mean, we're talking about well-prepared honeymooners, not easy targets."
"He could be monitoring their activities before attacking. The unsub might be studying them, learning their routines, and finding the perfect moment without raising suspicion." You said, it felt almost scary to you, the way you're able to dissect their behaviors, putting yourself in the mind of a serial killer, profiling, and going over the most heartbreaking cases.
You hunt, just like they did.
And the patterns he left on the women are still stuck in the back of your head. He hates women.
(That much is clear)
"This type of power play, especially if it were done post-mortem, suggests a level of sadism." You continued. "These women most likely represent a source of his resentment."
“So we're dealing with an unsub who targets couples, targets the women specifically, and is able to go into their rooms undetected." Emily said, "Should be easy enough."
“Emily and I can go to the resort, ask for their security footage. There’s gotta be something we can find out.” Morgan said.
“Since you have experience with sexual assault cases you and Reid go see autopsy results. See if these marks were post-mortem." Hotch said, looking over at you and Reid.
You were relieved you weren't paired with him, you overthought every decision around him.
And you could barely look him in the eye, your words often died out at the tip of your throat: impossible to convey words of much intelligence.
The air in the coroner's office was thick.
Of course temperature wise it was cool, and airy. Detached and void of anything warm. the victims bodies told so many stories.
"These markings: they're deep stab wounds. They were also done post-mortem," Dr. Fields stated. "They are precise, not hesitation wounds—he knew what he was doing from the beginning."
"He seems to be targeting their femininity. This stems from a deep hatred for women," Spencer muttered.
"Or a woman," You interjected.
"You think these victims are surrogates for someone else in his life?"
"The time and effort it takes someone to inflict these wounds takes determination. This sort is indicative of someone affected by past trauma."
"What can we know about husbands?" Spencer asked, redirecting the focus to the examiner.
"Whereas the women died from strangulation, the men were drowned, and it's assumed they were drowned in their hotel bathtub," Dr. Fields responded
"So he takes his time with the women, gets it over with with the men?" Spencer asked.
"The time of death for the male victims was hours earlier than their wives. Maybe he wanted to eliminate the competition, wanted to enjoy his time alone with them?" You suggested.
ʚ ═══･୨ ꕤ ୧･═══ ɞ
"Strauss wants a briefing on this case." Hotch announced walking into the makeshift briefing room. It was a tiny station in a small town in Florida.
Emily snorted, "So she can question everything we have so far about the profile?"
"I'm not sure, but it sounded urgent that she wants to talk to the whole team." Hotch replied by opening the laptop and starting the call to Quantico.
"Hello agents." Strauss said as the call came to life, holding up the case files. "The director called, he wants to consider you going undercover. Due to the high popularity of this resort, and the timing in which these murders are being committed-"
"We might need to understand his patterns from within the environment he operates in." Hotch finished for her,
A collective pause filled the room, and their words hung in the air, an uneasy silence passed through the team.
The team hadn't gone undercover in years.
"Undercover?" Morgan broke the silence, "This team hasn't gone undercover for years, Hotch and I are the one of the only ones who's gone undercover, but never as a team."
"Going undercover as a honeymooning couple could give us an advantage. It might put us right where the unsub is likely to strike." Emily responded
"It could help us observe the surroundings, identify any potential patterns or anomalies that we might miss from an investigative standpoint." Reid said, agreeing with Emily.
"This only calls for a couple since the unsub is targeting couples. We need two agents to pose as husband and wife." Strauss said
You sucked in a breath, the thought of going undercover sent shivers down your spine, you've done stimulations before, but the real thing? You push the feeling down as soon as it bubbles up.
You only joined a year ago surely they would want someone more experienced, someone who's shown themselves proved themselves to the team more.
But before your mind could fall deeper into your thoughts the sound of Hotch's name coming from Strauss stopped you. "Based on your experience and being Unit Chief the director wants you at the forefront of it." Hotch nodded, looking at the rest of the team.
"I would like to take Agent Prentiss since she has experience with Doyle-“
"Actually Agent, I believe it would be better if someone else went in with you."
And suddenly you were the only one in the room, a pair of uneasy green eyes met yours, Hotch raising his eyebrows ever so slightly.
And if you were crazy enough you would think he looked worried.
"With all due respect Ma'am I don't think she had enough field experience for this."
"I am concerned about that, however it has been brought to my attention that our unsub has a type and they all have a resemblance to-“
"To me" You finished for her. trying to sit up straighter and slow the beatings of your heart as you meet hotch's eyes. "If we can use my cover as bait, I would know what to say and how to be careful around him-"
Hotch looked over at you, calling out your name. "This is very risky, and dangerous not to mention doing a covert mission like this won't be easy."
“I understand Sir, but-"
“I don’t want any of my agents going in a bait, the profile isn’t complete yet. We don’t know what we’re looking for.” Hotch responded, eyes still boring into yours.
“Agent Hotchner we can’t wait until there are more victims, I’m sorry but it's the director's orders.” Strauss said, “We’ll send over the alias needed and with the information you have now it should be a simple task." And with that Strauss signed off, leaving only you and the team looking uneasy.
"This could work, Aaron,” Rossi said, sitting off to the side scribbling absentmindedly on his notepad. “While you two are undercover we can gather more pieces to the profile with your insight."
"Let's go over the victims, affluent couples honeymooning, madly in love, never leaving each other's sides."
You only caught snippets of the rest of the conversation. You were too busy wondering why for the first time Hotch was avoiding you, his eyes were glued to the board not sparing you a second glance.
requests are open! plz ask me to write something for you.. i would love to <33
🍒🌺🕰️who am i, darling to you?
you never believed in fate, you thought the idea was only a luxury to very few.
but, there are moments when you find yourself reading some of your grandmother's stories
because you miss her cooking and the way she would braid your hair.
and clinging to the words she used to tell you.
"An invisible red thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance."
what if all i need is you? (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🌺
2 times the universe conspired against spencer, and the 1 time it didn't.
how did it end? (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🍒🕰️
"he took me out of my box, stole my tortured heart. left all these broken parts."
or
4 times spencer runs and 1 time he doesn't
got love struck (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🌺
in which spencer wants your anniversary to be perfect, but everyday is perfect with you.
gold rush (spencer reid x fem!reader) 🌺
In which Spencer Reid believes meeting you could only be explained by something bigger under the works.
percy jackson 🌷
🍒🕰️right where you left me (1/?)
Ink dries up as it clings to paper, writings on pages fade, and people you've held close to your heart become distant memories.
Silhouettes of a person.
But, no one really leaves; their remnants will always be there. Tiny fragments of them floating around. But never all of them, as nobody really leaves.
What's more painful than that she thinks. You're never able to completely erase them from your life.
The memories will still paralyze you, and you'll be left standing there, gasping for air, remembering every little detail.
