- def not healthy attachment (either disorganized or anxious)
- represses autistic traits so hard it results in internalized ableism (post-prison)
- dissociates alot.
- identity issues, especially since he’s beginning to see the comparisons between himself, Hotchner, and Gideon.
- struggles to accept that s1 him was actually him for a time in his life.
- if he wasn’t American he’d be British
- is not a dog nor cat person. They stress him out 😭✌️
- TRIPLE text-er (just to make sure you don’t misunderstand what he’s trying to say.)
- spends the first 10 minutes of his day js staring at the ceiling.
EMILY PRENTISS:
- Avoidant attachment 1000x
- Noticed Reid’s addiction so early on because of her own (cigarettes)
- does that thing where she forgets a word in English so she awkwardly gestures what she’s trying to communicate.
- would be an insanely scary professor (sometimes on complete accident) who doesn’t tolerate nonsense at ALL. 💔💔 because in her experience if ur not ready for the job you’d get yourself and others killed.
- stutters when nervous. Mostly when apologizing
- if she weren’t American she’d be from the Middle East. Not sure from where tho I’m not the best w geography
- has a ‘nerd closet’ in her house she allows herself to indulge in once-in-awhile. Will atomize anyone who finds it. (Penelope found it. They made a deal not to talk about it.)
- still likes goth culture (js doesn’t dress in it anymore) and has really good makeup tips + music recommendations!
JASON GIDEON:
- Autistic n never acknowledged it
- was also hired into the BAU around Reid’s age, continued the cycle sadly.
- Dissociates alot 😕
- if he trusts you he’d sit in silence beside you and silently partake in his own activities (dare i say parallel play.) otherwise, he sits away from the group to self-reflect.
- leaves people on read if he doesn’t care to reply
- difficulty forming deep connections and uses cognitive empathy alot more than he’s willing to admit (im projecting a little bit leave me alone)
- affection is expressed through attention to detail. He’s really good at picking out gifts that his team actually likes— even if they don’t admit they do.
- chronic nightmares 👎👎
AARON HOTCHNER:
- if he wasn’t American he’d be German.
- cat person
- forgets to respond to messages sometimes and it seems like he’s leaving people on read on purpose
every week his health is played with like it's a toy. can't his mother even be comfortable for ONE WEEK that her child will have what he needs? NO, because it's the FINAL DAY AGAIN
ammar is an infant in gaza who desperately needs regular injections each week to survive. if he misses one?
HE WILL DIE.
THIS IS NOT A GAME.
THIS CANNOT BE DELAYED.
I HAVE WATCHED HIS HEALTH DETERIORATE OVER THE PAST YEAR AND A HALF BECAUSE THERE'S NO MONEY FOR THE MEDICAL PROCEDURES HE NEEDS AND NO MONEY TO EVACUATE.
MY FRIENDS AND I HAVE HAD TO PERSONALLY PAY FOR HIS INJECTIONS MULTIPLE TIMES.
WE ARE TAPPED OUT. WE DO NOT HAVE MORE MONEY. HE NEEDS SUPPORT, OR HE WILL DIE.
TW - Suicide ideation + plan + S/H (YES this is self indulgent ✌️😂)
It’s rare for someone like you to stick out. Laid-back, carefree, borderline lazy— pretty much the average person in their 20’s. You were the BAU’s Cheshire Cat, never putting in the effort until they needed you most. Not that it was a problem or anything, because— as stated before— you got things done (albeit without much cheer for it.)
What stuck out to Reid was between the lines.
The subtle frown that graces your face for a second when the team recovers from a joke of yours. Your tendency to have a drink too many when the team heads out to the bar. Most of all, that perpetually blank look in your eye no matter how you’re feeling. You could smile as big as a rainbow, and not even a sliver of a glint would cross your features.
It worried him.
Worried him enough to stick around and get you home.
“Hey, hey,” you dragged out, giggling quietly about nothing in particular. “Don’t gotta carry me, I can walk.”
Ignoring the potent smell of tequila on your lips, he repositioned you on his shoulder.
“You couldn’t tell me the time.” Reid countered gently, without any real firmness. “I doubt that you could take more than 5 consistent steps without stumbling.”
Rolling your eyes, you push off of the man. In a matter of seconds, you prove him completely right, tumbling to the floor without much of a grunt. Your name escapes him quickly, only sharp out of shock as he scrambled to pick you back up again.
“Please— stop moving.” He sighed, looking around for nothing in particular. “We’re almost to your house.”
What’s really worrying him is the fact you’re not talking. Even drunk, you would average about 140 words a minute. At your worst, you’d crack a joke or two.
You’re silent. Radio silent. Eyes downcast, a weakened shield protecting the vulnerability in your eyes.
“‘Kay.” You mumble, seemingly unaware of your surroundings as the two of you reached your apartment.
As always, the key is under the welcome mat.
Do you.. not watch movies?
Opening the door, Reid maneuvers you inside before shutting the door behind him with a gentle click.
Sitting you on the couch, helping you out of your jacket, and so forth was easy. What was harder was making it hard to notice his lingering eye.
Too hard.
“Got a staring problem.” You mumbled, lying down and burying your head into the sofa. “Stop.”
Okay. He’s really thrown off guard. You’re so uncharacteristically serious and he’s fighting the urge to sweat.
“Are you..” he began, hesitant to even speak.
Like clockwork you huff without humor, waving your hand in general dismissal. “Yup. Just tired. Like, what, 80% of drunk people?”
“High amounts of alcohol decrease sleep quality by 39.2%” he corrected quietly.
Your hand shifts to a thumbs up, before promptly plopping to your side.
…No. He can’t just let this go. He should’ve noticed this longer ago— well, to be more accurate, said something about what he noticed awhile ago.
“I don’t think you are.” He countered, this time with confidence, his gaze hardening— not at you, but at what you’re going through.
Your head shifts toward him, eyes narrowing.
“Reid—“
“—You never open up to anyone about how you’re feeling,” he started, beginning to pace to-and-fro. “Even when we notice how it’d gotten to you— if we noticed that. Hotch has noticed your lack of care for yourself in the field, JJ’s seen how tired you look, Penelope is worried about you—“
But they can’t prove it. None of them can. They know as much as they don’t, and you keep it that way. You’re frustratingly good at telling and hiding. Revealing and concealing.
“—I’m worried about you.” He finished, a whisper.
A beat passed, before you slowly sat up.
And maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe the exhaustion— you hadn’t slept well in a couple of days— honestly it may have been how gently he handled you, but your jaw loosened.
“Was supposed to kill myself at 18, yknow.” You slurred bluntly, stilling Reid in his tracks.
The shock doesn’t last long, though, replaced with hidden heartbreak.
You continued. “Living wasn’t worth it anymore. Woke up, went to school, felt s’upid, came home, felt worse, went to sleep, repeat. Sufferin’ was meaningless, and nothing was worth enough to keep it going.”
Your mouth pulls to a thin line, as if discussing a minor annoyance rather than what would’ve been your death.
“But I de’ided to call the hotline before I left. Speak to someone who’d atleast pretend to care.”
What came next was hesitant, the pace of your confession bringing you down to reality for a second. Were you really sitting here and dumping all of this on him? Then you look up, and see those stupid puppy-dog eyes of his, and the dam breaks loose.
“This— this guy picked up. My dad’s age. His voice was all,” you once more wave your hand aimlessly, as if it demonstrated your point. “Father-like. As if he knew me. As if he knew exactly why I was callin’. Called me ‘sweetheart’ as I sobbed my eyes out on the floor ‘nd whatnot. Didn’t wanna hang up. Was too scared to come back t’reality.”
The wall was always your safe space. When conversations got hard. When life got too much, you’d stare for what seemed like hours at the roof. It was almost like a life-line. Plus, it saved you a few times from letting tears fall, so that’s a plus.
“How’d it end?” He whispered, finding you again. Grounding you again.
You cracked a smile. “He told me he’d check on me t’morrow. That I should get some sleep. He knew I wasn’t gonna d’it.”
To keep the story sweet, you don’t tell him you didn’t pick up when the hotline called again tomorrow. You don’t tell him how you cut up your thighs the next day. You don’t tell him any of it—
“Were you going to kill yourself tonight?”
Was what why you’ve been so distant? Patting him on the shoulder more than usual, celebrating more often— drinking more often? Was this your last hurrah, decorated with alcohol and mindlessness?
It’s quiet. You’re not responding, and his breath just hitched. You’re not talking, and it’s scaring him. Forget the sweat, forget watching from the side, you’re not confirming or denying that you were supposed to die tonight. You’re staring. And staring. And staring, until your not.
Until your eyes shift to him, without your head, and your mouth opens again.
“‘s in the cabinet.” You mutter, your head tilting towards the cabinet before you.
Slowly, and with his eyes still on you, Reid made his way to the wood, slowly opening it with hands shaking harder than cymbals after a hit.
Your gun, beside your badge.
And a single bullet.
No note. Nothing.
Just a ticket out.
Everything sounds like static as he put it into his satchel. He’d put it somewhere else, somewhere smarter, but he wasn’t thinking. All he knew is that in his bag was the very thing that could’ve taken you from him.
“Wasn’t gonna write a letter.” You tried, your words meshing together. “You’ve read enough of ‘em,” you began, before his arms wrapped around you so tight it almost hurt. His nose pressed against your scalp, almost embarrassed at how hard he was vibrating.
“Stop.” He managed, though weakly. “Just— just stop.”
You two don’t know how long you stand there, and you don’t know why you let him. You just do. There is no explanation, and there’s nothing in you that moves you to stop.
And he hates it.
He hates how you don’t feel anything. How lives messed with you so profusely that you feel nothing towards the potential end of your life. How, come morning, this would simply be yesterday. Most of all, he hates how he knows the feeling. The desire to get worse, and feel nothing about it at all.
“Let’s go to bed.” Reid hiccuped, trying his absolute hardest to keep his voice still. It didn’t work, obviously.
After a beat, you nodded into his shoulder.
“Y’sayin’ that like y’r staying.” You both knew he would. Any smart person would.
When the sun rose, you’d go to work. You’d smile, and laugh, and make up a million excuses for tonight.
“I was drunk,” you’d snort, shaking your head with an all too familiar carelessness. “People say anything when they’re drunk.”
When the sun rose, the gun would be fully loaded. It’d likely be pointed at an UnSub. It’d be saving a life instead of taking one. No one would mention its original purpose, and no innocent would die.
But the sun hasn’t risen yet.
To tonight, with only the stars as witness, he’ll lay beside you. He’ll hold you close, and whisper just how important you are to him. He won’t mention the tears, or the ache, or the wail. It won’t negate him, nor will it shake him.
And come the morning, everything would look just fine.
(END.)
A/N: hi!! this wasn’t my best work. I’ve had a horrible week and wanted to write smth about it. It’s not 100% accurate to ME, but some elements of myself are in it. also, if Reid is OOC, sorry. Again, I was writing to vent 🥹✌️
Hey, I’m anti-(generative) AI. I’m against what it does, what it stands for, and what it’s doing to our planet. It’s lazy, and there’s no pro that isn’t outweighed by a con. Thanks for reading.
The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Three
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
WORD COUNT: 4022
Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three
Looking for more stories? Here's my master list!
The days began to fall into a rhythm, though calling it a rhythm implied a kind of life to it, a warmth, something human. However, what Spencer settled into was something else entirely. It was more of a pattern, a strict loop without variation.
Five mornings in a row, he arrived in the bullpen before anyone else. The lights were still half-dimmed when he walked in, carrying nothing but a file and that same, eerie composure that had followed him since his return. He took his seat with the silent precision of someone slipping into a role that wasn’t quite theirs to take. His posture was straight. His expression was unreadable. His eyes stayed fixed on whatever report lay in front of him, as though concentrating on it might keep the rest of the world safely at bay.
By the time anyone else arrived at the office, he was already typing, sorting and analysing with efficient movements that looked almost mechanical. However, Reid’s perfectly crafted calm wouldn’t last long as it wasn’t even ten when the attempts began. JJ was always the first. She’d pass by his desk holding a case file, a coffee or sometimes nothing other than a hopeful smile and a soft, “Hey Reid, how’s your morning going?”
He’d always nod, just one singular movement followed by a quick, “fine, thank you.” He’d give the same polite, half-smile that died before it reached his eyes before his gaze slipped back to the page in front of him, dismissing her before she had the opportunity to say anything else.
Garcia would try next, arriving in a burst of colour and careful brightness, often armed with a new login code or system update she insisted he needed to know.
“I just want to make sure you’re all set up with everything you need.”
Her voice would always crack at the edges as her hope tried to disguise itself as bubbly efficiency, and Reid always thanked her, always polite but impossibly distant. His responses were short, his tone flat and his attention already drifting away before she finished speaking.
Morgan put in the most effort. He’d attempt to hold casual conversations, make jokes, toss observations in Reid’s direction like stepping stones back to familiarity.
“Hey, pretty boy, you realise you’ve barely looked up from that desk all week? Blink twice if you’re alive.”
Reid would blink once and quickly return to typing.
Even Emily, who approached him in quiet intervals, choosing her moments carefully, found herself hitting the same invisible wall. Reid would answer her questions with precision. He never bristled, never snapped and never let anything slip. He just didn’t let her in. He didn’t let anyone in.
He avoided the break room entirely, choosing to stay at his desk through lunch. If someone asked if he wanted coffee he’d brush them off with a quick no, thank you. When they asked how he was doing, he’d say fine. When they asked anything at all, he’d respond with such a neutral, measured calm that it almost sounded rehearsed.
By Thursday, everyone in the bullpen had completely stopped pretending this was normal. Conversations would stall whenever Reid walked past. Even Hotch, who was trained to observe without interference, found himself watching Reid a little longer from his office window.
Something was wrong, they all knew it, and Reid was more than aware they knew, but he didn’t change. He simply stayed inside that quiet, unreachable place behind his eyes, retreating into his work with the devotion of someone who had nothing else to offer.
By Friday morning, the air felt strained, stretched thin by everything unsaid.
That was when the case landed.
The tension in the room sharpened the moment the elevator doors opened and Hotch stepped out, a thin case file in hand. He moved with purpose, not the stiff efficiency of routine paperwork, but the controlled urgency that meant something dark had just landed in their jurisdiction.
“Morning,” he said, but his tone made it clear the pleasantries stopped there. He swiftly placed the file on the central table, “We have a case.”
Chairs scraped softly as the team gathered, Reid included. He slipped into place among them without a single word, his posture rigid, eyes fixed on the file before Hotch even opened it.
“A local sheriff’s department has reached out early this morning,” Hotch began, “Three young women, all ages twenty to twenty five, were abducted over the last month. All three were then found dead in roadside motels.”
JJ’s brows tightened, “All staged the same way?”
“Same general positioning,” Hotch confirmed, “Cause of death varies slightly, but the similarities all point to it being the same offender.”
Emily looked over the images of the victims on the desk before them, “Why motels?” She asked, “Why not dump sites?”
“I think the murder scenes are the dump sites,” Rossi murmured, “He wants us to find them.”
Hotch nodded, “The bodies were left in plain view for the housekeeping staff to discover.”
Morgan leaned forward. “So he doesn’t care about concealment, or is he escalating.”
“Or both.” Reid’s voice rang out, quiet but crisp.
The team glanced over at him, not surprised by the statement itself, but rather by the fact he had spoken at all. Reid didn’t look up from the photo’s Hotch had slid across the table, his gaze focused and clinical.
Hotch continued, “The sheriff’s department is requesting immediate assistance. Crime scenes are within a thirty-minute radius. We’ll deploy there directly.”
JJ closed the file, jaw set. “Families?”
“Interview teams will split once we’re on-site,” Hotch said. “Morgan, you’re with me. JJ and Rossi, take victimology. Emily, Reid, start with the scenes. I want a full behavioural breakdown as fast as possible.”
Reid gave a small nod. No reaction. No hesitation. As they gathered their go-bags, a strange, charged energy threaded through the bullpen, a blend of urgency, concern, and something sharper. Not just because of the case, but because the last time they’d taken Reid into the field, he’d still been someone they recognised.
Morgan watched Reid from across the room, worry flickering in his eyes as Reid adjusted his coat without once looking at any of them.
“Let’s move,” Hotch ordered.
The team filed out, their footsteps echoing down the hall. Cases usually pulled them together. However, this one felt as though it had the power to do the opposite. As they all made their way to the elevator, Reid, who was silent and unreadable, walked beside Emily, already seeming half a world away.
The motel room smelled of old bleach and stale air, the layers of cheap disinfectant failing to mask what had happened there. The morning sunlight leaked through thin curtains illuminating the dust that drifted lazily through the beams. It should have felt empty, but instead it felt abandoned.
Emily carefully stepped across the threshold, gloves already on, her eyes scanning the place. Reid moved past her without hesitation, crossing straight to the bed where the victim had been found. He didn’t pause, didn’t prepare himself. He didn’t even take the small, grounding breath he used to before leaning over a body. He just got to work.
“Lividity suggests she was placed here shortly after death,” Emily noted, lifting her recorder.
Reid didn’t respond. He was crouched by the nightstand, fingertips hovering above the carpet , not touching, just… seeing. His gaze flicked rapidly between three separate points in the room, connecting something no one else yet noticed.
“Reid?” Emily prompted gently. “Anything?”
“Mm.” He made a noncommittal sound but didn’t look up.
She watched him a moment. His movements were precise, almost too precise, stripped of all the hesitation or empathetic pause that used to soften the edges of his brilliance. Now there was nothing but calculation.
“Two fibres,” he finally said. “Blue polyester. Same synthetic blend as the fibres found at the first crime scene.”
Emily frowned. “That’s a common clothing material. Could be from anything, a jacket, a car seat, motel bedding—”
“No,” he cut in, still not looking at her. “It’s specific to older uniform workwear. Custodial, primarily. Note the thickness here.” He pointed, sharp and quick. “It’s industrial-grade. It narrows down the source.”
He stood abruptly and crossed to the bathroom. Emily followed, trying to keep up with the speed of his shifts.
Reid gestured to the sink. “Look. Same abrasive streak pattern as the other two rooms.”
Emily leaned down. “Could be the cleaner.”
“It’s not,” Reid replied instantly. “This is mixed-stride patterning. Right-handed. The cleaner at the last location was left-handed and the pressure of the streaks is significant, someone scrubbing aggressively, excessively. Someone was trying to remove evidence, not perform routine cleaning.”
Emily hesitated. “Reid… that’s still speculative.”
He finally looked at her, and the intensity in his eyes made her breath still. Not angry. Not frantic. Just… absolute certainty, sharpened into something cold.
“It’s not speculative,” he said quietly. “It’s deliberate.”
Before Emily could answer, Hotch, Morgan, and Rossi stepped into the doorway.
“Local PD canvassed the area,” Hotch informed them. “No one saw anything suspicious. No vehicles matching the previous dump sites.”
Reid didn’t turn. “They won’t. He’s too careful.”
Morgan crossed his arms. “We don’t have enough to say that.”
Reid straightened, motioning around the room. “The fibres. The cleaning streaks. The positioning of the body. The timing between abductions. They all line up, deliberately, mathematically, with one offender.”
The others exchanged looks, not dismissive, but cautious.
“Reid,” Rossi said evenly, “slow down. We haven’t even reviewed the interviews yet.”
“You don’t need them.” Reid’s tone didn’t rise, but something in it tightened. “He’s patterned. Predictable. He escalates every six days. If we don’t move now, we’ll lose another victim.”
Morgan stepped forward. “We need more than hunches.”
Reid’s gaze snapped to him. “These aren’t hunches.”
“Then they’re assumptions,” Morgan countered. “And assumptions get people killed.”
Reid’s jaw clenched, a flicker of emotion at last, but not the one they expected. Not stress, not doubt. It was annoyance.
“Wasting time gets people killed,” he said, voice clipped and controlled. “And we’re wasting time.”
Emily glanced between them, something uneasy settling in her chest. This wasn’t confidence. Not the usual kind. It was something harder… something brittle.
Hotch stepped in, grounding the moment. “We’ll bring what you found back to the sheriff’s office. But we need to verify. All of us.”
Reid said nothing to that. He simply turned away, scanning the room once more with that same cold precision, as though seeking one more detail to tighten the pattern only he seemed able to see, but whatever he found, or failed to find, he kept to himself, and for the first time, Emily wondered if the case wasn’t the only thing slipping out of their control.
The interviews only hardened the knot in Reid’s chest. The victims’ friends, their roommates, coworkers, none of them had noticed anything amiss. No strange men lurking, no sudden changes in behaviour, no obvious warnings. It should have muddied the waters. Instead, it clarified everything.
By the time Garcia’s latest data dump came through, financials, employment records, background details, Reid felt the pieces locking together with dreadful inevitability. He stood in the middle of the sheriff’s cramped office, tablet in hand, scrolling through the file so quickly Morgan had to lean in just to follow.
“There,” Reid said sharply, tapping the screen. “Ross Hardwick. He has access to all three locations. His job requires travel between them. His schedule aligns with the abductions and dumps. And look,” He swiped again. “Two of the victims frequented the same store he works at. He would have had ample opportunity to observe them.”
Morgan exhaled. “It’s circumstantial.”
“It’s connective,” Reid corrected, eyes flashed with irritation.
“It’s thin,” Morgan countered. “A lot of people travel. A lot of people have overlapping schedules. That doesn’t make him a serial killer.”
Reid’s jaw worked, tension coiling through his posture.
Morgan held up a hand. “Look, kid…”
“Don’t,” Reid snapped, the word sharp as glass. “Don’t dismiss this.”
Morgan blinked, taken aback. “I’m not dismissing anything. I’m asking you to slow down and back it up with something solid.”
“I have.” Reid jabbed the tablet screen again. “This man is our unsub.”
“And I’m telling you we don’t have enough to call him that.”
“We DO.” Reid’s voice climbed, just slightly, the edges fraying. “We’re wasting time.”
Morgan’s expression hardened. “No, you’re jumping. You found one thread and you’re trying to weave the whole case around it.”
Reid bristled, the anger rising too fast, too sharp. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Then tell me how you know!” Morgan’s voice cracked through the room, loud enough that the two deputies outside looked over.
“Beacuse I know people like him, I understand them, I was one of them!” Reid snapped.
The world around them seemed to go still. Morgan stared at him, stunned as the last of Reid’s anger flared through his irises. His chest rose and fell, but the anger was gone, replaced with something flat and empty. Like he had said too much and immediately retreated behind the cold wall he’d spent all week building.
Morgan’s features softened instantly as he took a cautious step forward.
“Reid,” His tone lowered, his voice coming out gently but laced with worry, “Where were you, man?"
Reid didn’t blink, he didn’t more, but something shuttered behind his eyes. He turned away.
“Reid?” Morgan tried again but to no avail. Reid simply walked out. He didn’t storm out, or run, he just left in that unnervingly calm, mechanical way he had adopted since he’d returned.
Morgan let him go, but his stomach dropped with dread. Whatever had happened to Reid out there, he wasn’t done carrying it and it most certainly wasn’t done with him.
Following his conversation with Reid, Morgan found Hotch exactly where he expected him, standing over a makeshift desk in the command room, studying a man dotted with motel locations. The low buzz of officers outside barely seeped through the cracked door but still Morgan fully shut it behind him.
Hotch didn’t look up, “What is it?
Morgan hesitated, just long enough for Hotch’s head to lift.
“It’s Reid,” He spoke simply,
That was all it took to gain Hotch’s fill attention, “What happened?”
Morgan exhaled, bracing his hands on his hips as if to steady himself, “He lost it, Hotch… and I don’t mean just irritated or stressed, I mean fully snapped.”
Hotch’s face remained controlled, but the shift in him was clear as his focus narrowed.
“We were talking over the evidence,” Morgan continued, “Reid kept pushing the idea that this one particular guy is behind all the murders. He’s absolutely convinced that Ross Hardwick is our unsub.”
Hotch nodded slowly, waiting for Morgan to continue.
“And when I asked him how he knew, why he was so sure,” Morgan spoke carefully, lowering his voice, “he yelled that he knows people like the unsub because he’s one of them.”
Hotch froze. There was no reaction, no visible breath. Just hard, still silence.
Morgan swallowed. “Something happened out there. Wherever he was undercover, whatever he was doing… something went really damn wrong.”
Hotch’s jaw clenched, but his tone stayed steady. “Did he say anything else?”
“I asked him where he’d been. He wouldn’t answer. Just walked away like I hadn’t said a word.”
Hotch raised his eyes toward the window, thinking fast. When he spoke again, it was with the finality of someone who’d made a decision the moment he heard the truth.
“We can’t put him in the field right now.” Hotch spoke simply, “Not if he’s this volatile.”
Morgan nodded, part relieved, part sick to his stomach. “Yeah. I figured you’d say that.”
Hotch stepped out of the office, Morgan following right behind him, as he scanned the precinct until he spotted Reid reviewing files on a nearby table. Even from across the room, something about Reid’s posture was too rigid, like every muscle was wound tight and ordered not to move.
“Reid,” Hotch called.
Reid looked up sharply. The brief flash of something raw in his eyes vanished almost instantly behind practiced composure.
“Yes?”
Hotch approached, voice even, measured. “I want you to stay here at the precinct.”
Reid’s brows knitted, subtle but unmistakable. “Why?”
“We need someone to re-evaluate the full evidence set,” Hotch said. “Cross-reference victimology. Build a geographic radius. Make sure nothing was missed.”
“I’ve already done that,” Reid replied too quickly, a tight edge creeping into his voice. “And the rest I can finish in the field.”
“I need it done here,” Hotch repeated.
For a moment, just a fraction of a second, something dark flickered behind Reid’s eyes. Frustration. Anger. Maybe even hurt. But then he swallowed it all down and replaced it with a carefully neutral expression.
“The rest of the team will follow up the new lead,” Hotch added.
Reid’s voice went cold. “I should be with them.”
“I need you here,” Hotch said firmly. “This is important work.”
Reid stood perfectly still, too still, as if he were forcing himself not to react. The quiet around him was unnerving.
Finally, with a clipped nod: “If that’s what you want.”
“It is.”
With that Reid turned and gathered the files with stiff precision, before walking toward the sheriff’s office without another word.
Hotch watched him go, feeling the weight of every step.
He didn’t like sidelining him, but sending Reid into the field in this state? He couldn’t do it. Not when something inside the younger man was clearly cracked, strained, and dangerously close to breaking.
The precinct felt hollow once the rest of the team cleared out, Morgan, JJ, Rossi, and Hotch heading for the lead that might finally break the case open. Emily stayed behind, her presence unobtrusive but intentional, hovering near the evidence board while Reid worked with robotic precision just a few feet away in the sheriffs office.
The silence between them was heavy but not tense. Emily understood silence; sometimes it spoke louder than anything else. Reid, however, didn’t seem aware of her at all. His pen scratched across paper with the rhythm of someone trying to outrun his own thoughts.
Emily kept her distance once they returned to the precinct. She knew when someone needed space. Reid had been vibrating with a quiet, volatile tension all morning, and the last thing she wanted was to crowd him. The quiet between their two rooms was thick. Only the occasional murmur of deputies drifted through the hallway.
Emily stepped out to refill her coffee just as a shrill, jarring ring cut through the precinct. The landline on the sheriff’s desk.
Sheriff Mead quickly lifted the phone, placing it to his ear before muttering a tired, “Sheriff’s Department…”
His words cut off as the colour drained from his face in a single, swift rush. The sheriff’s eyes flicked towards Reid, the fear in them raw and instant.
“Agent… Agent Reid?” He called, his voice shaking, “I… you’d better take this.”
Reid looked up warily before standing and taking a step closer.
“What is it?” he asked.
The sheriff covered the receiver. “It’s Ross Hardwick… he says he wants to speak to someone named Michael.”
Everything in Reid stilled. His jaw tightened as his eyes darkened, not with surprise, but with recognition.
“Give me the phone,” Reid said quietly.
The sheriff handed it over with a sort of desperate relief, backing away as if the call itself was radioactive.
Reid lifted the receiver to his ear. “This is Agent Reid.”
A harsh breath crackled through the line.
“There’s no Michael here,” Reid said. His voice was flat. Not emotionless but controlled.
Ross’ voice exploded through the speaker before Reid had the chance to say anything else,“Yes there is! Michael! Put him on!”
Reid’s eyes squeezed shut for half a second, a flash of pain, or memory, or something too human and too raw for him to let show.
“Ross, there is no Michael here,” he repeated, tone steady but trembling beneath the surface.
Ross growled, his voice shaking with fury. “I don’t have time for this! I need to speak to Michael!”
Reid inhaled sharply, before repeated in a calm, even tone, “I’m telling you there is no Michael here.”
Reid could hear Ross’ panicked breaths through the phone as his anger flared, “Just tell Michael that Ricky is back and he don’t take kindly to finding a rat still sniffin’ around his business!” Ross spat,
At Ross’ words Reid felt his knuckles grow white around the receiver.
“Ross, listen to me—” he began, but before he could continue a gunshot erupted through the line.
The sound hit the room like a physical blow.
“Fuck!” Reid yelled, as the phone left his hand in a violent arc. It shattered against the wall sending pieces of beige plastic scattering across the office floor.
The precinct fell silent.
Reid stood in the wreckage of the call. His chest rising and falling too fast, rage radiating off him in suffocating, silent waves.
Emily stepped slowly into the doorway. “Reid… what happened?”
He didn’t look at her. His voice was ice. “I was right. Ross was the unsub.”
Emily swallowed hard. “Okay. Then we can get his address out—”
“It’s over.” Reid’s voice cracked like splintering glass. “He’s dead.”
Emily took a careful step forward. “Wait, what do you mean he’s—”
“It doesn’t matter,” Reid snapped, cutting her off. “None of it matters.”
He moved to leave the office but Emily instinctively reached out, fingers brushing his arm.
Reid recoiled like the contact burned him.
“Don’t,” He whispered, "Don't touch me." the words barely travelling across the room as his gaze finally met hers.
Emily raised both hands in apology, her heart hammering. “I’m sorry. I’m, I’m just trying to understand what happened.”
Reid’s eyes darkened as though they were haunted, “You can’t,” he said, voice flat and final. “You’ll never understand.”
Then he left the office with terrifying calm, steps measured and steady, disappearing down the hall as the doorframe trembled from the force of the thrown phone.
Emily stood alone amidst the shattered plastic, breath tight, dread coiling in her stomach. She stayed frozen in place long after Reid’s footsteps faded down the hall.
The sheriff’s office felt much colder now, as if the gunshot that echoed down the phone had seeped into the walls. The broken received remained scattered across the floor. Emily exhaled shakily and crouched down. Her fingertips brushed a fragment of beige plastic. It rocked slightly beneath her touch, the movement too small, too fragile.
Reid had thrown it without hesitation, as if the sound of that gun shot had detonated something inside of him.
Emily swallowed hard.
This wasn’t just trauma resurfacing. This wasn’t just the stress or the aftershocks of an undercover assignment gone wrong. This was evidence of a man still tethered to another life, one he likely hadn’t chosen and one that he most definitely hadn’t escaped.
Emily rose slowly, her eyes still locked on the shattered pieces left in his wake. The silence around her was suffocating, thick with dread and unspoken revelations. Somewhere out there, the team was chasing a lead while somewhere down the wall, Reid was walking alone into a darkness none of them had seen before.
Here, in this small office, Emily Prentiss finally understood the truth with a painful clarity:
They weren’t just trying to help Reid heal from what he’d been through. They were trying to pull him back from a world he hadn’t fully returned from yet.
She drew in a steadying breath, forcing her shoulders square, though her chest still felt tight with fear because whatever Ross had said to Reid on that call was evidence that whatever past Reid was still living in…
It wasn’t finished with him and it wasn’t going to let go easily.
Emily stared one last time at the shattered phone, then turned away as the scene dimmed behind her, quiet, broken and heavy with the weight of everything they didn’t yet know.
When it's posted you will find chapter four here!
If you'd like to be included in the tag list, please leave a comment!
Spencer Reid with a daughter that turned out to be an UnSub ;(((( ~ a blurb.
TW - Murder, descriptions of a corpse, general TW’s for criminal minds.
Not even a vigilante. She didn’t kill the scum of the earth, she killed innocents. Mothers. Fathers. Children. He should hate her. She’s ruined lives.
But he can’t.
Because that’s his baby.
The same one he cradled in his arms, her cooing and laughing at him and his rambles. The same one he taught how to walk. How to read. How to hold things as fragile as glass without shattering them.
He blames himself, even if this was simply fate. Somewhere, somehow, he went wrong, right? It doesn’t matter if JJ and Derek reassured him otherwise— he was supposed to stop this.
And as he holds the gun at her, demanding she release yet another victim of her wrath, she stared back. Eyes as dark as the night, as blank as a canvas. Content. Almost accepting.
“Put your weapon down!” He demanded, but his voice wouldn’t stop shaking.
The UnSub His daughter didn’t move, refusing to break eyecontact as she mockingly shifted her gun against the victims head.
“Will you shoot me if I don’t?”
Will he?
He has to.
Can he?
…
Eventually, someone else takes the shot. He doesn’t know who. He doesn’t care to look. All he sees is his little girl slowly stumble— hitting the floor in ear-shattering silence.
And suddenly, his baby is dead.
As he walks over, kneeling and unconsciously moving her hair out of her face, he realized that maybe she’s been dead for a long time now. Whoever was below him, a bullet wound imbedded into her skull, wasn’t his little girl and hasn’t been for months now.
But that doesn’t stop him.
His hands work slowly, tilting her head upward and—- almost if in a trance— wiping some of the blood off her cheek. It’s in vain, there’s way too much.
pairing: spencer reid x bau!fem!reader
description: spencer's addiction starts to cause his relationship with his love to unravel quicker (and so much slower) than he can pick everything back up.
genre: this is pure angst. i don't even know if i can call it that because it seems much worse
tags/warnings: buckle up! depictions of drug addiction, mentions and allusions of suicide/death, biblical references, no use of y/n, absolute misery flung everywhere, spencer is definitely in love, but addiction kills far more than just one's liver, and even the most adoring relationships can start to fall apart (please tell me if there's more i need to add; idk how to tag)
w/c: 5.3k
a/n: this was written in an attempt to write addiction and love in a raw, unfiltered manner. please don't read if you feel uncomfortable with any of the topics mentioned above. i'll love you either way!
────────────
It didn't end with a yell, or a plea, or a burst of anger. It ended slowly, unexpectedly, expectedly. It ended on a Monday, on a day that wasn't special in any way; the sun was out, birds' chirps passed through the crack in the window, the grass was green and wet. It ended for months.
Spencer brought it to work on the fourth day. It weighed twenty pounds in his messenger bag, and he swore everyone could see it glowing, announcing that it was there and was there to stay. He left for the bathroom and ran his thumb over the small glass bottle. His eyes were red enough already, and you liked to look at him. He waited until he got home.
It was quick. He liked that. He didn't have to dwell very long on the fact that he was destroying himself, that he was becoming something he would have never allowed in any other circumstance. He played with himself like he was a rag doll.
Once he was done, needle on the ground, head heavy, body light, he thought he must be feeling the wrath of God playing with him. He himself wasn't even sure if God was God or if God was drugs or if God was violence, but either way, he was devout and divine now. His heart wasn't his own, and his mind wasn't his own, and he belonged to fate, to whatever power decided who and what were good or bad, and who or what deserved punishment for whoever or whatever they were. What he liked most of all wasn't the surrender of power; it was the surrender of thought.
It had to be better than suicide. It was an anomaly that he was still breathing, with even a slice of will to live still. Shouldn't everyone be proud of him for that? No one was allowed to judge him for this, not the team, not even you.
Oh, he was bitter.
He went to work every morning, and he didn't really care whether they knew or not. He could still do his job. He was strong enough for that, and he figured the rest of the team knew it too, because none of them mentioned it to him. Either he was far greater at hiding it than he imagined, or none of them cared. He couldn't get himself to mind either way.
You, of course, were the exception. You always were. You were an abnormality of the world, an oddity, something impossible for him to fathom, no matter how many numbers he ran or secret experiments he tested.
He still smiled sometimes. You made him smile. The night after the incident, he went home with you, and he thought that he might be okay. If he had you, he would be okay—and he was for a little while. But love wasn't enough, and it never had been, and Spencer never had been very fond of romance because he found it unrealistic.
He loved you; you were the great love of his life—but you weren't the star anymore. The translucent liquid hiding in one of his old pairs of shoes was.
You knew that.
Not only were you a profiler—it was your job to notice—but you were his girlfriend, for god's sake. You saw everything. You saw the dark circles, you saw the twitch in his left eye, you saw the constant bouncing of his legs. But, maybe more than seeing it, you felt it. He would kiss you, and it was gentle and soft, and it was definitely Spencer, but it was him trying to take. It was he searching for solace, not connection. Instead of someone who added to his life, you were someone who saved it.
None of it was fair to you, and he knew it, and you knew it, but you loved each other too much and hated yourselves too much to do anything about it.
────────────
The first time it was mentioned was the first and only time you caught him in the act.
You had stayed the night, and the moon was full. He had kissed you all the way down and whispered that everything he was consisted of you, that all he ever thought about was you, your voice, the inside of your arm; everything else normally deemed insignificant was the things that kept him tied to the ground.
His eyes had been bright. They looked greener than usual.
He said he was going to go change, grab something from his closet. You went in to ask him to borrow a shirt. You didn't knock because you had just seen him stripped apart for you, on his back, vulnerable to whatever you were in the mood to bring upon him, and didn't suppose it would bother to quickly grab one of his old tees, maybe one of his cardigans.
You didn't expect to find him sitting on the ground, head fallen back against the wall, jaw slack, eyes fluttering shut. You didn't even see his arm until he moved, and the needle moved with him, still stuck.
The room could have flooded with tears. It played in your mind over and over and over; it felt like you had tipped off the edge of a cliff, arms and legs bent in unnatural ways, head cracked open against an unforgiving, careless ground.
It took a while for him to be able to speak clearly.
He lied to you for the second time.
"This is the only time I've done it. I haven't touched it. Stop—stop crying, please. It's not—it's not what you think it is, at all. I'm fine. Please." He hadn't been convincing, or really even determined to convince at all.
Please, please, please. The word didn't sound real anymore, not after the countless number of times it was wept out of both of you. Both sides begged until glass broke.
He should have left you, then. He knew it the moment you drove him home, the car filled with silence, your hand gripping his so tight he lost circulation. He pressed your knuckles against his mouth. He hadn't been the person you'd fallen in love with for three weeks, two days.
He wouldn't ever be able to leave you.
He was a child, curled in his mother's arms, scared for the future, scared for what came for her and what came for him. How old was he when the first blow hit? Ten? Eleven? He wanted to see her and ask her what had happened. What day did it go wrong? When she went away? Was it then? Was it the other children, the day they made him realize he was right to be scared sometimes? Was it when he first thought of dying? Was it the day he realized magic wasn't real?
You said he was strong. He didn't feel strong. He's twenty-five, and he doesn't care that it's selfish to wish to go away.
He'll never have a real house, or a dog, or a child, or you. He won't have you ever again. He can't dream.
Mom, what happened?
────────────
Lying against you, he could never find the right words. His secrets stretched thin between you, and he wanted to drown harder when he discovered them between your fingers, behind your eyes, underneath your feet. You used to always have something to say. He’d find your mind on bannisters, in newspapers, underneath tattered wallpaper, in his dresser drawers. You were always quite the artist. You must have gotten better at hiding yourself.
"Spencer?" You whispered, your voice loud as it bounced off the darkness and his bare chest.
"Hm?" He wanted you closer than in his arms. He was tired. Your breathing was an ocean, and he was drifting far away.
You wanted to go to a river. Somewhere green. Somewhere where things could flow, where the water was like a washing machine. You wanted to dance with him again. It was always clumsy, and if you did anything except leisurely sway, his foot would trip over yours. You wanted to see his teeth.
He had fallen asleep, lips pursed, heart slowed, by the time you figured out what you needed to say.
────────────
"Thanks," he mumbles as you pull a piece of lint off his shirt. Spencer had made a reservation at one of your and his favorite restaurants, and you hope this will be a good night, a night that will feel like one before.
He looks at himself through the mirror in the corner. He looks like shit, and you look so, so gorgeous, and he has never felt so out of place in his life. He is knotted and sour.
"You look pretty." His hand is shaky, and he shoves it in his pocket. "You always look pretty, just... Extra... Pretty right now?"
You smile at him and fuck him, it's such a bittersweet sight. "Thank you, Spence. You look very handsome." He knows that's a lie, but he's grateful for it. Lies are easy. He likes those now, too. You kiss his cheek, and he stops you before you pull away, holds your face in his hand, and takes your lips. You let him have it—you—because you always will, because you will never—especially now—deny the opportunity to be close to him.
He wishes you wouldn't pull away, but you do. He's mindless as he watches you grab your bag off his bed. "Are you ready?" You ask, and his mouth doesn't seem to want to open, and his eyes don't seem to want to look upwards at you.
No, he isn't ready. Not for anything, not for you. Not for a night where he's going to have to fight himself from leaving for the restroom.
"Spencer?"
"Yes, sorry. I'm ready." He watches as you breathe out and take his hand, and he knows that you know. You know him; you know every inconsistency, every flaw, every complexity. You know neither of you is leaving here tonight. You know.
He stops you at the door, and it was only a matter of time. That's what it's been for months now: a countdown, a ticking time bomb.
"Spencer, please. Let's just go. Please." It's been months. All you want is to be with him, without the threat of him leaving you. You can hear the words he's going to say so clearly in your mind, and you're stuck in a continuum of torment, left to dream of things lost.
"I can't. I'm sorry. I can't." He drops your hand, and he just wants to go to sleep. His eyes itch for a reprieve, and his head hurts, and he wants it all to hurt even worse so you'll realize it will never get better; there's no point in staying. But you're still patient, you're still kind as you look at him. That can't last.
You take a breath, reminding yourself that the starry-eyed, wonderful boy you love is suffering under the weight of something you'll never comprehend. He deserves every ounce of tolerance you have left to give up, even if your fingernails crack and your mouth runs dry at the effort. It's difficult, it's so painstakingly difficult to ignore the time slipping through his fingers and every one of his sounds getting drowned out.
"You can. You can just get in the car, and we'll go to dinner, and we'll talk, and you'll tell me about a new black hole, and it will be good." It's begging, you're begging, and it's fine.
"It won't be 'good'. You know it won't. You know I can't go." He is content with your frustration. It's easier to deal with than disappointment, than forged satisfaction. He wants you to take out your anger on him. He deserves it.
"I don't know anything, Spencer! I don't know anything at all." That's the whole point. You don't know anything about him right now; you haven't known anything about him since that night. You just want him—need him—back.
"I'm sorry. I don't know what to say."
And the conversation's over; it's decided. You'll stay in for another night and push it to the back of your mind for another day. He'll say he loves you, and he does, and that he's sorry, which he is, but he won't stop. This is the only way he can be himself. This is him, now.
The night is spent in front of a TV screen with cold, leftover Mediterranean food left on the console table, untouched because neither of you can stand to look at it. He, because he has the appetite for something else, you, because it's one more night of a new normal that is too devastating to bear.
Not many words are exchanged. He quietly whispers translations into your ear when the people on screen speak a different language. He throws in a few Spencer-like interjections: "Actually, Spain was predominantly Muslim for 800 years, from 711 to 1492, despite the popular belief it was almost entirely governed by Arabs," and "Marie Antoinette's 'let them eat cake' quote actually originated from Jean-Jacques Rousseau's 'Confessions'. There's no evidence to indicate she said it at all." But every word is meaningless; it's all pity; it's all distraction. It's nice to hear.
The air between you isn't warm, or comforting, or even safe—but it isn't necessarily cold, either. It's just there. Space, time. Perfectly balanced, perfectly still, perfectly nothing at all.
The documentary ends, and the screen goes black, and the room turns dark. No one moves, and you can feel it all end there. It's felt the same for a long time.
"You can head to bed. I'll clean up."
He might as well have just said, "I'm going to go kill myself, and I don't care that you'll be the one who finds me curled on the bathroom floor."
"Don't take too long, okay, Spencer?"
Don't go. Come to bed. Leave the food to rot.
"I won't."
He gets up, but you don't. It's ruthless, how the sting of tears jumps up on you without any semblance of a warning.
"I love you," you call out. Can he even hear you?
"I love you, too."
He doesn't crawl into bed until you've already cried yourself unconscious.
────────────
Spencer wakes up early the next morning to your body facing away from his, your shirt riding up, your hair a beautiful mess, your back rising and falling as you breathe. It almost feels like a normal morning, except you aren't pressed against him, and he is pretty certain his arm is bruised.
He gets up quietly, careful not to wake you. He throws on a cardigan, brushes his teeth, tries to slap the tiredness out of his eyes. Every attempt is futile. His arm is indeed very bruised.
The leftover food is still on the table when he walks into the living room.
He takes the pen stored with a pair of scissors, a few pencils, and a ruler (one that he had left with you once, after working on a geographical profile) in an old, worn mug, and writes a small note on the back of your grocery list from last week.
Went out to grab something from my apartment. I'll be back!
I love you,
Spencer
It's been hard for him to say it out loud recently. It's easier for him to put it on paper, so he doesn't have to look at the worry in your eyes. You'll say it to him later, and he'll say it back, but it's hard not to think of expiration dates and his next fix and all the things he's not doing that he could be doing.
He'll probably think more than just "I love you," and it will kill him that he will never be able to say it again. He didn't use to be so scared of hard things. He thinks about tearing himself open for you, letting you see that he's the same heart and lungs and stomach that he was before.
"I love you" has always been the most insignificant of affections. He likes the way you speak; you have a tongue worth paying attention to. He wants to be your friend—he wants to be your best friend—and he's always wanted to know the slope of your shoulder and the curve of your neck and things hidden. "I love you," made him a fraud. He means more than that.
He tells you he's fine, but he wants you to know that his body is only taking up space.
Today, he is too dumb for thinking.
────────────
They sell there, and there. And there... And there.
An old McDonald's. A run-down park. The left side of a convenience store around the block.
There, too.
He passes each spot as he drives. These streets will never be the same. He will never be the same. When he sees the bench by your favorite bookstore, he doesn't think about how he felt the first time he really kissed you; he thinks about how it felt selling the watch his mother gave him for Christmas seven years ago, and the relief when he was told it covered several more trips.
He gets back to your apartment an hour later. He didn't even go home. He just wanted a drive—a break from the guilt of having tainted your space with his disease.
When he unlocks the door with the key you gave him a year ago, he finds you seated on the couch, book in hand, legs crossed underneath you. Pretty.
"Good morning," he greets you softly.
You immediately set your book down when you hear him, and it's such a small thing, but he would get on his knees and beg for your forgiveness right now if you ask him to.
"Hi." You are still gentle with him. "Did you get what you needed?"
"I—Yes. I did." Lie. He scares himself.
"Oh, good. I was worried when I didn't find you this morning. I don't remember you coming into bed last night."
Kill him, kill him now. He deserves to be locked away for twenty lifetimes for what he's put you through.
"Yeah, you were—you were already asleep by the time I came in. I didn't want to wake you. You looked peaceful."
You hum and pick your book back up. He leaves and goes to the bathroom, and you can hear the exact moment when his steps pause and his breathing holds still. The trash can opens and closes, and then his footsteps resume.
"Did you..."
"Yes, I saw." Quiet, quiet, quiet. The small wooden clock on the shelf ticks endlessly. You've started to lose the ability to distinguish your different kinds of burns. There's the one that appears after a breakup with a friend, or after you make a mistake during a case; or there's a different kind of burn: the one Spencer makes you feel, warm lava dragging through your veins, hunger to taste and feel. The latter was always the most prominent, but now, they all feel the same. Maybe they are all the same.
"I'm sorry, I didn't—" Fuck. Was it so bad that he couldn't even clean up after himself anymore? What was wrong with him? He hates himself, and hates himself more for you. He'll end it for you.
"You just left it there, Spencer. It still had your blood on it."
Tick, tick, tick. He wants to slam the clock to the ground. You don't notice it.
"I'm sorry. You shouldn't have had to see that."
It's as if a thousand punches land at once, or a thousand cuts slice the same slab of skin, or everything that makes you a being of life blows away after only one gust of wind.
"No, I shouldn't have."
You realize you don't want to hear any apologies; you don't want to hear any of his words at all. You want him to take his clothes off, and show himself to you—show you what he's done to himself—and then you want him to love you, love you until you're sobbing because if it's not out of love it's out of sharp, deafening pain and loss. You want him to touch you and tell you he'll quit, that it's all over, that he's okay, and all he needs is you, not some stolen euphoria in a bottle.
You stand, and it's so hard. It's never been harder to take a step. "Tell me you're done with it, Spencer."
He wants to say that that question isn't fair—it isn't fair of you to ask him anything like that. You have no idea what he experienced that night or what he's experienced every single day in his body, with his mind, since even before. But he's cruel now, and he knows it. Nothing he wants to say is honest, yet it's incredibly overpowering.
"I can't tell you that."
You've been calm with him, and you loved him endlessly throughout it, and you still do. That's why you're angry, so, so frustrated, bubbling and spilling over, smoldering the ground around you.
"Just say it. I don't care if you mean it or not; I just want to hear the words."
"I—"
"Just do it. Please."
"I won't lie to you like that. I can't. Please don't make me break your heart more than I already have."
Oh, you hate him, you hate him so much. You want to hit him, to tell him how much he really is breaking your heart, because even if he thinks he knows, he doesn't. He's selfish, and you're just as selfish as him.
But even though the words aren't even spoken, only thought, they burn your throat. Lie. Of course, it's a lie. He writes you lovely handwritten letters about the stars and the sky and somehow always relates it back to the complexity of his feelings for you; and he draws shaky hearts on the sides of coffee-cups before he gives them to you; and he keeps the horrible quality polaroid picture Garcia secretly took of both of you laughing in his wallet; and he always, always keeps the annotated book you gifted him in his bag; and he kisses the freckle on the inside of your pinky; and you love him; and you love him so much it feels like you're dying.
"Tell me what I'm supposed to do, Spencer. How can I help you? I've tried so hard to give you space because that's what you said you needed, but it's not working, and I'm so terrified."
That's what it is. Fear.
Terrified that he's going to tear himself apart. Terrified that he's going to go too far one night and you'll find him dead on your floor, drained of life and kindness and knowledge and everything tender. Terrified that you're going to lose him forever, when you were there the whole time with the power to prevent it.
"I'm so, so scared. I can barely breathe when you're away, and every time I see you, something inside of me breaks because I know you're hurting in a way that I'll never understand. I've seen you like this for months, and I believed in you—I still do—but I don't think it's enough. I don't know how to be enough for you. Tell me what to do."
He can't speak, he can't do anything but wish everything was different, that he was different, that he hadn't split up with JJ that day, that people just didn't get sick. He wishes he were a stronger man, someone who wasn't capable of shattering the person he would do most for in this world.
He's lied before, but he can't now. He's seen what he's done to you, how you've pulled away right alongside him. It's been remarkably slow, and he's been in charge of it the whole time.
The worst part is that he won't change anything. He'll continue doing this to himself because—although it hurts now—he'll go home and he'll lock his door, and he'll never hurt again.
"I don't want to do this to you. I never wanted to do this to you."
"But you are, Spence, you are. I can get you help. Let me do something."
"No. No, I don't—I don't want anything like that. I don't need it. I might've slipped up last night, but it won't happen again. I have it under control."
"No, you don't." Your voice is almost exasperated, and fuck, it hurts, it all hurts. "I don't even know where you are, Spencer! Because you're not here. You're not." You push his hand against his chest, and he's hollowed out, all of his insides dripping on the floor.
"I am here. I'm right here." He takes your hands in his, and please, stop looking at him like that, but please just keep looking at him. Still love him, please. He's having a hard time living right now, but you're all he has. He'll make it up to you when he's better, when he has the energy to shout it off the rooftops how much he adores your very being. "I've always been with you, no matter what."
You used to always be able to believe everything he said. You don't know if you can do that right now.
Your voice drops to a whisper, and you just want to sleep next to him, with his arm wrapped around you and his eyelashes against your neck. You just want the darkness to be inviting again, and the fear of what you'll find in the trash can the next morning to be nonexistent. "You're killing yourself, Spencer."
He can't argue with you. He can only collapse and fall into the softness of the couch. He rests his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and he imagines he disappears into an endless, black void, constantly moving, being stretched and pushed, free from craving and hurt and a ground that always threatens to hit. He imagines he's not here, not feeling you wrap around his body, not feeling a barely-there, infinitely gentle and undeserved kiss against his shoulder.
"I love you, I don't want to hurt you." His throat closes and he chokes, and he's never been so broken, so incapable. You sit behind him, and one of your arms wraps around the front of his chest, your hand landing right over his heart. Reach in there. Just take it out. It will hurt you less if you do.
"I don't want to hurt you," he repeats, he whispers. He just wants to stop hurting. He wants it all to stop being so loud.
"I know. I know." You rock softly, and you come to think it will never be okay again.
────────────
He doesn't sleep the next night, or the next. You know he doesn't. You don't say anything about it.
In the mornings, you turn over and kiss his jaw, his nose, his eyelids. It's all perfect—you're all perfect. He lets himself touch you one time before you leave him.
You start taking separate cars to work. It's easier that way; Spencer doesn't always come home with you anymore—he keeps making excuses to keep you from coming into his apartment—and he needs his own car to drive home. He won't let you drive him. Time spent between you two starts to consist of silence, and you act like it's normal—like you're content with it, with him like this. He cries one night a week, and the rest he's left to stare at the ceiling and think about what's a foot away in his nightstand, and how good he could love you if he weren't ill.
It starts to bleed into his work life more than he'd like it to. Morgan keeps asking him if he's okay, and he says yes. He doesn't want anyone to worry, but he's too tired to lie convincingly.
You keep trying to be close with him, to touch him, to be intimate in the way you used to, but he can't stand you seeing him. He wants to, god, he wants to, if only to feel a small sliver of you, but more and more lately he's been feeling like he has a contagious sickness. He kisses your neck, and he hopes you still love him and that you know he still loves you more than anything else.
He brings you coffee every other day and tells himself it’s enough. Tries to show you he’ll do anything except give up the silence.
You're eating dinner, his elbow brushing against yours. It's been a while since you've shared a meal like this. He hasn't been hungry lately, and the night usually dissolves into nothing. Tonight, though, he makes himself appear normal for you. You pretend not to notice the mask he's putting on. You’ve learned to accept the small things.
"I read the book you said you liked earlier. It was good."
It was good. That's how you can tell he's far away. No critique, no analysis, no real conversation.
"You read that? I didn't think it'd be something you'd be interested in."
"I'm always interested in what you're interested in."
You finish your meal, and Spencer eats half of it, pushes the remains to the corner so it appears he ate just a little bit more. Tonight almost seems normal, if you ignore most of it. He's saying things he used to say, and he's smiling, and he's kissing you against the kitchen counter.
Your fingers are tangled in his hair, and he's groaning into your open mouth. He's on fire, burning, turning to ash in your hands.
He kisses down your jaw, your throat, across your collarbones. He's dreamt of your skin for months.
"I miss you, Spencer."
The flame flickers inside of him, and you kiss his wrist, and he misses you. "'M right here." He’s drifting away, falling into you so he doesn’t fall into himself.
"Can you stay here?"
Yes. Yes, just ask him again. He's here, now. He just doesn't know where he'll be in an hour.
"Always."
You push yourself up to sit on the counter, and you're looking down at him with the world in your eyes, and he's in awe of you. You are the sun, sobriety, God. He tries to get a grip, tries to steady himself, and you kiss him again, aching.
His hand slips from his hold on the counter. He hits a mug with coffee still in it from the morning, and it’s like it shatters into a million tiny pieces of glass before it even hits the ground. It's loud, and it's quick. It’s the loudest thing that’s happened in a long time.
You jump against him at the sudden sound, and he takes a step away, stunned at himself, stunned at his powerlessness, his destruction. "I—Sorry. I didn't know that was there—I'll clean it up. Don't—don't move."
You were so close, so close to having him back. You felt his heartbeat through his mouth.
You know it then, as you watch him on the floor, that tonight's it. That was the last chance to hold onto him. He tries to pick it up, to reverse what he did, but it's broken, and you're left on the counter with your lips still red and the memory of him on your skin.
He slips again and cuts his hand, a soft, rare curse escaping. He's trying to save it, save the moment, save the night, save everything, and he just keeps fucking it up.
He doesn't look up as you jump off the counter and take his bleeding hand in yours. "It's okay. It's okay."
"It's not—no, it's not okay. I'm sorry—"
"Just sit down, Spence, okay? I'll get you a bandage. Don't worry about it. I'll clean it up later. I'll fix it all."
────────────
PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog! thank you for reading ily!
Pair: Spencer Reid x Maeve Donovan, future Spencer Reid x UnSub!Reader
Chapter Summary: Ever give nothing but your all — which is extremely valuable, by the way— but still get infantilized to death even though you’re in your forties? Meet Dr. Spencer Reid, a cookie-cutter man with a less cookie-cutter job, and a profoundly cookie-cutter life. Not for long, though! Watch out world, here comes the top analyst for the next big killer!
Warnings: Stereotypes of ASPD, Intrusive Thoughts (quick but pretty descriptive,) hostile work environments. !!THIS IS A SPENCER-CENTERED CHAPER, READER IS ONLY MENTIONED BRIEFLY, BUT THIS IS ONLY TO SET THE TONE FOR FUTURE CHAPTERS!!
｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
At 5:30 AM everyday, for the last 20 years of his life, Spencer Reid woke up for what never seemed to be enough sleep. Sweaty, of course, due to the fact he could never seem to switch out of his work clothes. The sun had yet to rise, darkness peeking through his blinds and greeting him a soft ‘good morning.’ His hair, unkept, clung to his face like he had been dragging himself along the Sahara for hours on end. A horrible way to start the day, yet something he had to get used too.
Getting up and letting out his first — and likely not the last— groan of the day, he recounts many more things he just has to deal with. Traffic, for one. Cognitive ability declines as you age— 2016-2017 data shows that there’s a 43% decrease in miles driven by people older than 70– but that doesn’t explain how no one can seem to read signs.
“Hah.” He laughed, in a pathetically quiet manner, as if scared someone would hear him.
Spitting his toothpaste into his sink, he continued his mental tirade: of course, he’d always be blamed for actually following road rules. Honestly, he’s seen more middle fingers than red lights. It’s why he hated driving. He hated everything that stripped people of their common sense, really. The road did just that.
Steam and hot water reminded him of how, 90% of the time, he hated the heat. Fine in the shower, as it relaxed his muscles, but everywhere else? Utterly useless. He was too upset to properly think. To piece things together like he usually would. 10% decrease in efficiency, his dad would remind him—
He paused, looking into the mirror as he dried his hair.
His dad.
Goodness, his teeth were gritting again, weren’t they? His therapist said he should distract himself from going down that path. It never ended well. Headaches all around, angry at everything, angry at himself— he struggles to loop his tie— nothing gets done.
“Okay, okay,” he breathed, like a mantra. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Deep breath in.”
Deep breath in, deep breath out. From stepping out of his house, getting into his car, and getting onto the road, he had to take deep breaths in and deep breaths out. Steadily, his temper slipped away, seeming trivial now that he wasn’t on the verge of seething. Traffic wasn’t bad today. It isn’t hot outside. And, this he was completely certain of, he did not have to deal with his father today. Today hasn’t even started. Today can be good. That’s what he tells himself as he steps into his work building, it’s what he tells himself as he steps into the elevator and watches it climb floors anxiously. It’s what he tells himself as he steps inside.
“Hey, kid!” His boss called, slapping his hand onto his shoulder carelessly. “Say, why don’t you run and grab me some coffee, yeah?”
Great. Today was already terrible.
Nevermind the fact that Jeremy Hedger definitely wasn’t the type to wash his hands, Spencer constantly found himself on coffee duty. He could have the most precise and jaw-dropping analysis on the most cruel of criminals, and still get handed a coffee order instead of a phone number to befriend one of these— politely— jerks.
Spencer swallowed. “I, uh, actually have something to—“
“Great!” Hedger laughed. “By the way, the machines a little wonky. Be a good sport and give it a shove before you get me my cup? Wouldn’t want to deduct money from your check, right?”
“I really have to—“
“—Black coffee, two sugars, no milk. Can you handle that?” Hedger proposed, making his tone almost mockingly adventurous as if performing a mundane task outside of analysis was the Reid-equivalent to being Indiana Jones himself.
Spencers fingers dug into his palm, pressing with a harshness that threatened to cut. Of course. Why wasn’t he used to this by now?
“Yeah. Yeah— I can.” He mumbled, not even bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone. Before Hedger could make up some corny one liner with a thinly-veiled threat behind it, Spencer had taken off toward the breakroom.
Upon observing the pot, the psychologist realized very quickly how understated the ‘little wonky’ comment was. Not only was the coffee pot not set up yet, but there were practically no instructions on how to put it together. He had literally nothing except a time limit to get his boss a cup of coffee, lest he be passively scolded like a toddler.
“Are you kidding me?” He mumbled, his hand roughly sliding down his face before resting on his hips. “Not even good at building stuff. How— how am I supposed to—“
“—Excuse me?” A voice called gently from behind him. Soft. Kind. New?
Turning around, Spencer meets the eyes of a slightly shorter young woman. Brown hair that slightly passed her shoulders and a friendly yet wise look in her eye. She held herself with a warmth that drew him in, which was probably why he couldn’t form a solid word.
“Do you need help?” She continued, adjusting her cardigan as she gestured to the pot behind him. “I’m no expert, but I’ve repaired one or two of those whilst living with my mom.”
Swallowing, he found it within himself to nod. “Thank you. So, so much. I—uhm, don’t really know why they think I’m an expert in this? I’m a psychologist, not a— Y’know..”
Rambling. He was rambling. Okay. Wow. He’s embarrassing himself in front of possibly the only person here who talks to him like a person. And his hands, moving vaguely toward the issue before them without any sense of structure or coherency.
Thankfully, she picks up whatever he was putting down, walking over and beginning to examine the parts dutifully. Her eyes squint when she’s thinking, he noticed, as if peering into the parts very essence. It’s adorable, he thinks.
He then mentally slaps himself for acting so out of line. Watching her gracefully situate the biggest headache he’s had this week, he can’t help but sputter.
“So, you’re new here? What’s your name? Hah, you kind of seem like a, uhm,” Spencer, he thinks, you’re an idiot.
Without turning around, she hummed in concentration. “Maeve. Maeve Donovan.”
Maeve.
The name rolled around in his mouth like candy, sweet and easy to love. Something he could get used to. By the time he had realized he had been ruminating, she promptly turned to him with both the finished coffee pot and… his boss’s cup of coffee.
His mouth goes dry, so she spoke for him. “I overheard him talking at you earlier. Figured I should lessen the load? Sorry— I’m new, but I’ve already memorized the monologue that is his coffee preferences.”
Her hand is offered to him, a one-way ticket out of this mess in it. And all he could do was stare. Whatever he was going to say next, if it were even important, didn’t matter now. Because someone finally seemed to care. Not out of obligation. Not out of exasperation for him to stop talking, simply because they wanted to.
And it felt incredible.
“Thank you.” He managed, his tone surprisingly clear. “Thank you so much.”
With a nod, she holsters her own bag over her shoulder and heads out, much too quickly for him to ask for her number or anything that could allow him to see her again. He’s left with a simmering warmth in his chest, so foreign and practically forgotten it seeps into his ever growing mind. Once more, he’s yearning for her, and the most embarrassing part is that she likely didn’t even feel the same.
His boss is pleased to have his coffee, and his coffee machine, as he wanted it. Though, he did give Spencer a couple of good backhanded compliments because of his ‘in progress speed of preparing caffeine.’ Whatever. The most frustrating part about all this was how cowardly Hedger was. Too harsh to treat his skilled employees with respect, too ‘kind’ to be honest with his immature bias. But that was all authority, wasn’t it? Doing anything to make themselves look better, anything to save their own tail. Even if it meant tossing others aside.
But he didn’t have to worry about that now. The file that laid before him has had his attention for what’s felt like years. This had to be his biggest case yet, despite his time here.
You.
An inmate who’s been receiving inconsistent counseling for your horrid crimes against humanity, terrorizing the streets with silent wrath. What’s really stumped most is your seemingly reformed behavior. Besides teasing and being rather uncooperative when discussing motives and childhood, you’ve never once shown the violent tendencies displayed in your behaviour since the beginning of your rehabilitation.
Flipping through previous case files, he read through them once more before writing his request to take your case.
Patient displays playful, social behavior in conversation. Yet, I have not been able to establish solid answers regarding childhood or motivation for the acts of murder committed.
Yeah, yeah. He knows that.
Patient is honest about victimology, pointing out and naming each victim. She goes as far as to even recite coherent chronology of each murder. More-so, the patient has — on multiple occasions— given personal information on her victims that are unattainable without prolonged interaction. Because of this, I believe that this patient had stalked her victims intently before killing then. As to why is still uncertain.
Interesting. From his profile of you, you shouldn’t care about your victims this much. You showed textbook antisocial behaviour, these men and women should be pawns to you and nothing more. Yet, you chose and studied these people almost reverently. Why? Why would you care about something like that?
“It doesn’t make sense.” He mumbled, leaning his head against his palm. His curls gently framed his face, focused brown eyes scouring the page as if his answer lay between the lines.
“Wow, something doesn’t make sense to you?” He heard someone snark, the very sound making his head hurt. Right. People who’ve never emotionally developed since highschool had jobs now. “Guess even computers mess up, huh?”
Bruno Ramírez was a pretty face. Nothing more. With a cup of coffee in his hand — perhaps there was a pattern here— he showed up, did barely the bare minimum, then collected his awards like he solved cancer. People let it slide, obviously. His father is, for one, on insanely good terms with Hedger. Two, he’s a nepo baby. Billionaire dad, who needs morals?
This agency felt like he never left those highschool hallways. Suffocating.
“I don’t wanna do this right now, Bruno.” Spencer muttered, not taking his eyes off of his request form.
Too late. Not like he’d get any other result. Bruno had taken it upon himself to stroll over and peer right over Spencer’s shoulder. Reading the words ‘request’ and your name did enough, because the next thing that escaped the man’s mouth as a very loud and guttural laugh. So loud, Spencer mentally noted. His hands, naturally, tapped against his thigh. As if the string would finally shut him up.
A thought came to him then, a thought of taking the pencil next to him and piercing it through Bruno’s eye. Maybe then, with his screams and wails as blood began to pool down from the wound, his brain would be scrambled enough to keep him—
—He needed to get it together. His hands still, instead curling into a fist harsh enough for his nails to break skin.
“Bruno, drop it. I told you I don’t want to bicker with you today.” He settled for, his hand once more roughly running down his face.
“Shh, shh, hey.” His coworker cooed in return, patting his shoulder with condesection. “You haven’t heard?”
And for a minute, Spencer Reid was actually interesting in what Bruno Ramírez, out of all people, had to say. He finally meets the other man’s eye, his eyebrow cocked.
“Jeremy already has someone working with that chick.”
Time froze over, and the walls frost with ice. The next words out of Bruno’s mouth are so, so much slower than ever before. Without realizing, Spencer had allowed his request to plop back against the desk, his eyes slightly widening as his brain raced to catch up.
Already has someone working on it? But that was mine. Hedger said I could oversee the assessment. This was mine. He has someone else working on it? He has someone else. Working his assessment? His assessment?
“…Said you were too good at what you have now to move up….”
How was he supposed to be taken seriously now? No accomplishment was as good as this. He was lied too, again. Fooled, again. Humiliated, again. Again. Again. Again.
“…Who else could make coffee like you can, Spence?”
Was this his life? Sitting here and taking insults from morons like Bruno Ramirez and Jeremy Hedger? Starting each day with hope that dies by the end of it, as he lies in his bed with nothing but exhaustion? Exhaustion for what? This? This?
“Why do you think he hired that new girl?”
What?
New girl.
Why do you think he hired that new girl?
New girl. He hired. New girl.
“Maeve. Maeve Donovan.”
“Why do you think he hired that new girl?”
“Jeremy already has someone working on that chick.”
“New girl.”
“He has Maeve Donovan working her case?” Spencer repeated. “On my case?”
A disgusting snort escapes Rameriez, who waved his hand as he seemingly tried his very hardest to bite back laughter. Apparently, seeing goody-two-shoes Spencer Reid at his limit was the funniest thing in the entire world. Never does it get old. Everyone was laughing, and though this was his normal, it felt so much louder. It pounded against his ears like drums, ringing around his head like church bells.
His chair spins as he stands, dashing to the mens bathroom and hoping no one stopped him. He doesn’t hear Rameriez and the rest of his goons call for him, nor does he notice how his boss shot him a confused look from his office. On his way, he dreadfully does notice a familiar young woman meeting him halfway. Joyous and determined to take on the world, he supposed. So, so determined to take his job.
“Hey, Spencer!” Maeve hummed, trying — and failing — to keep up. Her smile faltered as he didn’t look toward her, “You alright? If you want, I can take—“
“Take. That’s all you do, huh?” He spat, finally reaching the bathroom and slamming it shut behind him. From outside of his body, he winced at how cruel he was. But who could blame him? What, was he supposed to keep being the bigger person as everyone spat in his face? Smile and congratulate her for what she stole?
He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, eyes digging into what he saw with almost malice.
Dr. Spencer Reid stared in the mirror for a very, very long time.
｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
A/N: this took so long, and I lwk ran out of motivation at the end.. but shh.. anyway, lwk what you think … also yeah Reid here was based off of the show “Sweetpea.” Readers introduction is soon!!
Plot Summary; When renowned Criminal Psychologist Spencer Reid takes on an enigmatic case that he’s had his eye on for several months, the flame that you are threatens to burn down everything he’s come to know and love.
Warnings for the fic: manipulative/toxic relationships, murder, descriptive gore, mental illness/breakdowns, suicidality, heavily described intrusive thoughts, extreme bullying and violence in general. None of this is healthy.
Chapters: ONE,
｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
DR. SPENCER REID: ORIGIN
DR. SPENCER REID was 5-years-old when his mother was framed and arrested for murder of Gary Micheals by none other than his own father. With her deteriorating mental state, the court looked harshly upon her, allowing her to take the fall with little-to-no question. She didn’t last long in the psychiatric ward, succumbing to an injury she sustained from another patient.
Despite his young age, DR. SPENCER REID knew something was amiss. His mother, his sweet and loving mother, was both incapable and unwilling to do such a thing. Try as he might, no one believed William Reid’s naive and nerdy kid. With no other option, DR. SPENCER REID and his father moved away from Las Vegas, far from accountability, far from his sons dreams of Quantico.
Regardless of what school he went to, torment followed. Due to both his father’s pressure to stay ahead and his own natural genius, DR. SPENCER REID was heavily bullied and abused by his classmates. Too focused on keeping his family’s reputation afloat, William Reid kept his son’s presence outside of his achievements in the dark. This included the suffering he went through daily.
Deciding he wanted to go down a path that suited his interests and got him as far from his father as possible, DR. SPENCER REID became a Criminal Psychologist at the astoundingly young age 21. He and his father don’t speak much, aside from cordial and short messages about his most recent award or promotion. If DR. SPENCER REID could have it his way? His father wouldn’t have made it out of Vegas.
But, he couldn’t say that. He couldn’t say anything he truly wanted to. No one took him seriously enough for that, nor could he keep his job if he had. So, he keeps it within him, never letting that almost animalistic rage manifest outside of the depths of his mind.
Maybe, just maybe, with this new case he’s planning to take— life will get just a bit more bearable.
｡ﾟ•┈꒰ა ♡ ໒꒱┈• ｡ﾟ
A/N: not disclosing much about Reader (you) yet. You’ll learn more about yourself when the fic begins!! I’m so excited !!!
Warnings: marital struggles (reader isn’t the best partner), panic attacks, slight (very slight) sibling abuse indicator (mentions of bruises), dead animal.
Authors Note: wasn’t really motivated to write, but people voted for more of Damien, so here he is! He’s not on screen, but we do see how he’s moving in the plot!! Enjoy!!
Both you and your husband sit on your shared couch, hands intertwined as the television drones on a show none of you are actually interested in. Work has been long, tensions were high. Sometimes, the connection of your fingers were the only thing holding the both of you together.
It went unsaid. You barely made an effort to see him anymore. Sure, it wasn’t purposeful, but you had the habit of overworking you didn’t seem to care to kick. He’s been nothing but patient, but the growing resignation in his expression— ignore it as you may— was a warning that he might not stick around.
In all honesty, you didn’t think it’d end like this. In the beginning, you two couldn’t keep your hands off eachother. Practically glued at the hip, your friends would say.
“Stop,” you whined playfully, swatting him off as he playfully pulled you from what you were doing. “I’m trying to work!”
He’d laugh. A sound foreign to your ears.
“Not anymore you’re not! Cmon, I’ll grab us some coffee, sweetheart. Let’s take a break and chat, yeah?”
By the hand he’d take you, gently and with utter devotion. You wouldn’t give the files a second chance.
This situation now was just a nightmare you’d wake up and be comforted from. Nothing else.
And here you sit. Having yet to wake up. Funnily enough, no one is to blame but you.
“Sweetheart?” Your husband called out, hand on the doorframe as he watched you scribble away. “It’s been almost 5 hours, darling.”
Your hunched form didn’t move, despite the pain the position must put you in. If it weren’t for the exhaustion, your eyes would’ve been as wide as saucers, as if that took in more intel. Got you more answers.
“I’m almost done.” Was your reply, the same reply you have 2 hours ago. Maybe before then, too. “Just— just go wait upstairs for me, alright?”
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. He cared too much too. Instead, he found his way behind you, rubbing your shoulders in a soothing rhythm.
“It’s getting to you,” he whispered, a reminder. “What’s going on?”
Something inside of you broke, and you found yourself turning to meet his eye. Exhaustion graced the bottom of yours, telling of the toll this was taking on you. But you didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down.
You couldn’t find it in you to lie. “I don’t know.”
He nodded. “Tell me what you can, love.”
“These girls all look like me, first off,” you huffed humorlessly. A decent reason. “And— uhm,”
You pause. Because now he has to know the less decent reason.
“I— I just feel like something’s wrong. Something about this case just feels wrong. But for the life of me, I just can’t remember why. I’ve had cases so much worse, but this? This is just..”
You trail, searching for the mockery in his eyes. Waiting for the wave off. It never comes.
“Well,” he began, cupping your chin. “If anything happens, my love. Just know I’m—“
You cleared your throat, giving a curt nod. “Okay. Yeah— I’ll uhm, yeah.”
He ascends the stairs without looking back. He stopped expecting you to follow a long time ago. It’s cold without him, or perhaps it’s colder when you allow yourself to feel the temperature. Part of you, the most rotten and selfish section, wanted to go up there and tell him I told you so.
You told him you were like this, didn’t you? Distant and aloof, ready to throw herself into her job. You told him that. He agreed to love you anyway. This wasn’t your fault. He knew what he was getting into.
No, don’t lie to yourself. You also told him you wanted to change.
“Nothing good is on.” You mumble to yourself, shutting it off.
You were never good at keeping your promises.
The doorbell rings with a chime, the sound increasing as it’s rung a second time. It echoed with such passion you had half the mind to assume your husband (soon to be ex, you mentally chided) had replaced it in an attempt to mess with you.
As you reach the front door, something tells you to stop. A feeling deep within your gut that squeezed you internally, begging for you to step back. Your hand doesn’t want to cooperate, what was happening? You took your medication this morning, hadn’t you? It’s not that serious. Just open the door.
Open the door.
Just— open the door.
Your pointer manages, followed by your middle and thumb, until your grip is so firm on it you couldn’t imagine letting go, ripping it open to what awaited—
A putrid odor. Something horrible. Horrible, horrible, horrible. It invades your noise, stinging at your eyes and forcing you back with a harsh cough as you braced yourself for another look.
“You got me a dog?” You cheered, naive and young.
Your brother. Your brother. Your brother, nods. “Mhm! Aren’t I the best?”
“Aren’t I the best?”
“Say I’m the
Best brother ever!
Best brother ever!
Best brother ever!”
The dog. Dog. Dogdogdogdog barked. It’s tail wagged at you.
“I always wanted one! You’re the best! I love you so so much!” You cheered, pulling him into your arms.
You were so happy. So happy you forgot the bruises. And all it took was a mutt.
All it took was a mutt.
“I love you so so much!”
“Best brother ever!”
“Brother! Brother! Brother!”
You have a brother—
“I’m right here, I’m right here.” Your husband whispered into your ear, holding your trembling form as you choked and sobbed, clutching onto him with enough strength to leave a mark.
Breathing was difficult, each attempt forcing another cry out of your throat as the two of you sunk to the ground.
Your neighbor called the police, hiding her own child from the visible dog carcass on your porch and the rancid, blood soaked note beside it.
“I wanna be your best you-know-what again! Consider this an act of good faith. Sorry if it stinks, it was the best I could find.”
—Sincerely, Iyvaoly.
————————————————————————-
Authors Note: can anyone guess why he signed off as “Iyvaoly”? 🥹✌️
Obsessed with the idea that something is just WRONG with the Darling in Yandere imagínes.
A non-human Yandere crushing on what seems to be a human, but is something much, much worse. Something that’s so close to being an exact replica of a person, something that’s fails. Unnatural eye movement, concerningly inaccurate expressions in social situations (not just autism, I mean complete unawareness.)
A serial killer Yandere being psychologically tormented by a dark!darling that’s so much worse than he is. Shifting their already disfigured perception of love to their own enjoyment.
A Yandad/Yanmom slowly coming to the realization they made a monster.
The uncannyness of an “off” darling is so intriguing to me dude. Especially when it’s too late the Yandere has already kidnapped them.
Would they accept it, with their undying love? Be horrified, as the darling they knew (or atleast thought they did) was nothing as they fantasized? Or perhaps, in utter desperation, will they cling and ultimately submit to whoever they love? Whatever they love? Just a thought.
