When the world stops turning
summary: When a serial killer targets your best friend in your hometown, Spencer refuses to let you fall apart—even when you try to push him away—proving that sometimes the person holding you together is the one you’ve been falling for all along.
warning: angst, minor panic attack, kidnapping, mentions of serial killer/murder, gun violence, emotional distress, physical struggle (reader hitting Spencer while panicking), blood mentions, trauma, hurt/comfort, best friend in danger, fear of loss, crying/sobbing, guilt, references to violence against women
The familiar streets of your hometown looked different now—tainted by fear, shadowed by death. What should have been a nostalgic return had become a nightmare you couldn’t wake from.
Five women. All between the ages of 22 and 28. All brunette. All found in abandoned buildings throughout the city, staged like dolls, their lives stolen by hands that moved with terrible precision.
You’d walked these streets as a child. You’d laughed in the diners where some of these women had last been seen. You’d driven past the buildings where their bodies were discovered, never knowing that one day you’d return as a profiler, hunting the monster who’d turned your hometown into his hunting ground.
The BAU had been called in three days ago, and every hour that passed felt like sand slipping through your fingers—precious time you couldn’t afford to lose.
“The victimology is consistent,” you said, staring at the crime scene photos spread across the conference table in the local police precinct. Your voice was steady, clinical, but your hands trembled slightly as you rearranged the photos. “He’s choosing women who fit a specific type. Brunette, petite, early to mid-twenties. They’re all college-educated, all working professional jobs.”
“He’s also choosing women who live alone,” Reid added from beside you, his fingers tracing connections on the map pinned to the wall. “No roommates, no live-in partners. He’s watching them, learning their routines. These aren’t crimes of opportunity—they’re meticulously planned.”
You nodded, trying to ignore the cold dread settling in your stomach. Because Spencer was right—these were planned. And you knew exactly who fit that profile perfectly.
You’d tried calling her six times since arriving in town. She hadn’t answered once.
“Maybe she’s just busy,” JJ had said gently when she noticed you checking your phone for the dozenth time. But the worried crease between her brows told you she was thinking the same thing you were.
“Local PD is doing extra patrols in neighborhoods where single women matching the profile live,” Hotch said, entering the conference room with Morgan close behind. “But we need to narrow down the geographic profile. This unsub is operating within a specific comfort zone.”
“Based on the dump sites, I’d estimate he lives or works within this radius,” Spencer said, circling an area on the map with red marker. The circle encompassed half the city—thousands of potential locations.
Your phone buzzed. Your heart leapt.
But it wasn’t Maya. It was your mom, checking in for the third time that day.
Stay safe, sweetheart. Call me when you can.
You typed out a quick response and pocketed your phone, trying to refocus on the case. But the anxiety was there, a living thing coiled around your ribs, tightening with each passing hour.
It was nearly midnight when you and Spencer finally retreated to one of the smaller rooms in the precinct, surrounded by boxes of old case files and cold coffee cups. The rest of the team had dispersed—Hotch and Rossi to interview a potential witness, Morgan and Prentiss to check out another scene, JJ coordinating with the media to control the public narrative.
That left you and Spencer to dig through the tedious details, searching for the one puzzle piece that would make everything else fall into place.
“Did you know,” Spencer said suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence, “that the earliest known detective story is generally considered to be Edgar Allan Poe’s ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ published in 1841? Though some argue that Voltaire’s ‘Zadig’ from 1747 contains early elements of detective fiction.”
You looked up from the file you were reading, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Are you really giving me a literature lesson at midnight while we’re hunting a serial killer in my hometown?”
He had the grace to look slightly sheepish, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I just thought you might want a distraction. You’ve been checking your phone every four minutes for the past three hours.”
“Four and a half minutes,” you corrected automatically, then sighed. “And yes, I know. I just… I can’t shake this feeling, Spence.”
“Your instincts are usually right,” he said softly, his expression growing serious. “Have you tried calling her again?”
“Eleven times today. Nothing.” You rubbed your eyes, exhaustion making them burn. “She’s probably fine. Probably just has her phone off. Maya does that sometimes when she’s working on a big project—she’s a graphic designer, and when she gets in the zone, she kind of disappears into her work.”
“That’s understandable,” Spencer said, but you could see the concern in his eyes. He knew you too well—knew that you were trying to convince yourself as much as him.
You’d been best friends for three years now, ever since you joined the BAU. He’d been the first person to make you feel welcome, to treat you like an equal rather than the rookie who had to prove herself. Long flights had been spent sharing book recommendations and obscure facts. Late nights working cases had been punctuated by terrible jokes and shared takeout. Somewhere along the way, friendship had started to feel like something more—something neither of you had been brave enough to name.
You caught him watching you sometimes, his gaze lingering a second too long. And you knew he caught you doing the same.
But friendship felt safer than the alternative. Safer than risking everything on the possibility that what you felt might be reciprocated.
“Okay, so let’s think about this logically,” you said, forcing yourself back to the case. “Our unsub is organized, patient, intelligent. He’s watching these women, learning their patterns. But he’s also escalating—the time between kills is decreasing. Eleven days between victims one and two, eight days between two and three, six days between three and four, and only four days between four and five.”
“Which means he’s building toward something,” Spencer finished, standing and moving to the whiteboard. His hair was disheveled from running his hands through it, and his tie was loosened—you tried not to notice how good he looked even exhausted and stressed. “The question is what. Is he building toward a specific victim? Or is the escalation itself the point—the thrill of the hunt becoming more addictive?”
“Garcia said all the victims had some online presence—Instagram, Facebook, dating apps. Maybe that’s how he’s selecting them?”
“Possible, but it doesn’t explain how he’s learning their routines well enough to abduct them without witnesses. Social media might be where he identifies potential victims, but he has to be conducting physical surveillance too.”
You were about to respond when Spencer suddenly laughed—a soft, surprised sound that made you look up in confusion.
He was staring at the evidence board, but his expression had shifted into something almost fond. “Do you remember the first case we worked together? That serial arsonist in Oregon?”
“The one where you accidentally set your own jacket on fire trying to demonstrate the accelerant pattern?” You couldn’t help but grin at the memory. “Yeah, I remember. Morgan didn’t let you live that down for months.”
“It was a controlled demonstration,” he protested, but he was smiling too. “And my point is, you were the one who figured out the unsub’s real target—you saw the pattern everyone else missed.”
“No, it was good profiling. And you’re going to figure this out too.” His eyes met yours, warm and certain. “I know you’re scared right now. I know this case is personal. But you’re brilliant, and we’re going to catch this guy before he hurts anyone else.”
Something warm bloomed in your chest—gratitude and affection and a dozen other things you couldn’t quite name. “Thank you, Spence. For staying up with me. For… everything.”
“Always,” he said simply, and the weight of that word hung between you like a promise.
You were both smiling at each other—just smiling, in a way that felt more intimate than it should—when the door suddenly burst open.
Morgan stood in the doorway, his expression grim, his phone clutched in one hand.
The smile died on your lips.
“We found him,” Morgan said. “Garcia traced a series of credit card purchases to an abandoned textile factory on the east side. Security footage from a nearby gas station shows a van matching our profile at the scene.”
Relief flooded through you so quickly it was almost painful. “That’s great! We can—”
“There’s more.” Morgan’s eyes found yours, and the sympathy in them made your blood run cold. “One of the patrol units noticed a car parked outside an apartment complex on their watch list. They ran the plates—it belongs to Maya Hartley.”
“The apartment was empty. Signs of a struggle. Garcia confirmed her phone’s last ping was at that location three hours ago.”
You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The room spun around you in sickening circles.
“No,” you whispered. “No, no, no—”
Spencer’s hand was suddenly on your arm, steadying you. “We don’t know anything for certain yet. We need to—”
But you weren’t listening. You were already moving, grabbing your jacket, your gun, your vest. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely fasten the velcro straps.
Morgan was already on his phone, coordinating with the rest of the team. “SWAT is meeting us there. ETA fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes. Maya had been missing for three hours, and this unsub killed his victims within the first six.
You had time. You had to have time.
The drive to the factory was a blur. You sat in the backseat of the SUV, Spencer beside you, Morgan driving with the kind of controlled urgency that meant he was breaking every speed limit. Your knee bounced frantically, your fingers drumming against your thigh in a staccato rhythm that matched your racing heart.
“Hey,” Spencer said softly, his hand covering yours, stilling the nervous movement. “Breathe. You need to breathe.”
You hadn’t realized you were hyperventilating until he said it. You tried to slow your breathing, but it felt like there wasn’t enough air in the car, in the world.
“She’s going to be okay,” you said, but it sounded like a question. “Right? We’re going to get there in time, and she’s going to be okay?”
Spencer’s thumb traced circles on the back of your hand. “We’re going to do everything we can.”
It wasn’t the reassurance you wanted, but it was honest. You loved that about Spencer—he never lied to make you feel better. Even when a comfortable lie would be easier.
The factory loomed ahead, a dark hulking shape against the night sky. Police cars were already there, lights flashing, SWAT setting up a perimeter.
The second Morgan put the car in park, you were out, striding toward the entrance with single-minded focus.
“Wait—” Spencer was beside you suddenly, his hand catching your elbow. “You can’t just run in there.”
“Watch me.” You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
“Stop. Think about this. You’re emotionally compromised, and if you go charging in there without a plan, you could get hurt. You could get Maya hurt.”
You knew he was right. God, you knew he was right, but logic had no place in the storm of panic consuming you.
“I can’t just stand here—”
“You won’t be. We’ll go in together. But we do this smart, okay? We follow protocol.”
Hotch materialized out of the darkness, already wearing his vest, his expression set in those hard lines that meant he was in Unit Chief mode. His eyes flickered to you, assessing.
“I need you to stay outside,” he said, and your heart dropped.
“No. Hotch, please, I can do this—”
“You’re too close to this. You know the rules.”
“I’ll stay out of the way. I won’t compromise the operation. Please, I just need to—” Your voice cracked. “I need to be there.”
Hotch studied you for a long moment, and you could see the conflict in his eyes—the leader weighing risk against compassion. Finally, he turned to Spencer.
“Reid, stay with her. Don’t let her enter the building.”
Spencer nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“No!” The word tore out of you desperately as Hotch walked away. “Hotch, please! I can help!”
But he was already gone, joining Morgan and Prentiss and Rossi as they moved toward the entrance, SWAT falling into formation around them.
You tried to follow, but Spencer stepped in front of you, his hands on your shoulders.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Get out of my way!” You tried to push past him, but he held firm, his fingers gentle but unyielding.
“Stop. Just stop.” His voice was calm, steady, cutting through the chaos in your head. “I know you’re scared. I know you want to help. But Hotch is right—you’re too close to this, and going in there in this state will only make things worse.”
“She’s my best friend!” The words came out as a sob. “She’s in there with a serial killer because of me, because I didn’t call her enough, didn’t warn her, didn’t—”
“Hey, no. This is not your fault. None of this is your fault.” Spencer’s eyes were fierce, demanding you believe him. “The only person responsible for this is the unsub. Not you.”
You wanted to believe him. God, you wanted to. But the guilt was a living thing, clawing at your insides, making it hard to think about anything except Maya’s face, Maya’s laugh, Maya bleeding out in some dark corner of that building while you stood uselessly outside.
The team disappeared into the factory, swallowed by shadows.
And then there was nothing to do but wait.
The night was cold, the kind of biting cold that seeped into your bones and made everything feel sharper, more real. You wrapped your arms around yourself, staring at the entrance like you could will the team to come back out, safe, successful, with Maya alive and whole.
Spencer stood beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, could hear the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Minutes passed. Five. Ten.
You started muttering under your breath—a litany of desperate prayers and bargains with a God you weren’t sure you believed in.
“Please let her be okay. Please. I’ll do anything, I’ll—”
“Hey.” Spencer’s hand found yours in the darkness, his fingers lacing through yours. “She’s going to be okay. The team is the best at what they do. If anyone can save her, it’s them.”
“What if we’re too late? What if he’s already—”
“Don’t think like that. Don’t go there.” He squeezed your hand. “Stay here. Stay with me.”
You nodded, trying to focus on the feeling of his hand in yours, the solid warmth of his presence beside you. He was real. He was here. You could hold onto that.
“Thank you,” you whispered. “For staying with me.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
The words were simple, but the way he said them—soft and honest and full of something you were afraid to name—made your chest ache.
You stood there together in the cold and the dark, waiting. Hoping. Praying.
The sound split the night like thunder, echoing off the factory walls, and everything inside you went silent and still.
“No,” you breathed. “No, no, no—”
You were moving before you could think, running toward the entrance, toward that terrible sound, but Spencer was faster. His arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you back, anchoring you in place.
“Let me go!” You struggled against him, but he was stronger than he looked. “I have to—she needs—”
“Stop! You can’t go in there!”
“She’s dying! Maya is dying and I’m just standing here!” Tears were streaming down your face now, hot against the cold air. “Please, Spencer, please let me go!”
“I can’t.” His voice was strained, anguished. “I can’t let you run into an active scene. I can’t watch you get hurt.”
“I don’t care!” You twisted in his grip, trying to break free, but he held on. “Let me go! LET ME GO!”
You were hitting him now—wild, desperate blows that he absorbed without flinching. Your fists connected with his chest, his shoulders, but he didn’t release you, didn’t stop murmuring your name like a prayer.
“Please,” you sobbed. “Please, Spencer, I have to go to her. I have to—”
“I know. I know. But you can’t.” His arms tightened around you, pulling you back against his chest. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The fight drained out of you all at once. Your legs gave out, and Spencer sank down with you, still holding you, keeping you from collapsing entirely. You buried your face in his shoulder and sobbed—ugly, wrenching sounds that tore from somewhere deep inside you.
“She’s dead,” you choked out. “She’s dead and it’s my fault.”
“You don’t know that. You don’t—”
“That doesn’t mean—” He broke off, his arms tightening around you. “Just breathe. Please just breathe.”
But you couldn’t. The world was ending, splintering into a thousand pieces, and you couldn’t do anything but hold onto Spencer and cry and wait for the confirmation that your worst fear had come true.
Time lost meaning. You didn’t know if seconds passed or hours. There was only the cold, the dark, Spencer’s arms around you, and the horrible certainty that you’d failed.
Movement at the entrance.
You looked up through blurred vision and saw them emerging—Morgan first, then Prentiss, then—
Walking on her own, supported by Rossi on one side, paramedics hovering close. There was blood on her shirt, a bandage on her arm, but she was alive. She was breathing. She was okay.
“Look,” Spencer said urgently, his hand on your face, turning you toward the entrance. “Look!”
The sob that came out of you was half laugh, half cry. You scrambled to your feet, Spencer’s steadying hand on your back, and ran.
She looked up at the sound of your voice, and despite everything—despite the blood and the fear and the trauma written clearly on her face—she smiled.
You crashed into her, nearly knocking her over, your arms wrapping around her so tightly the paramedics protested.
“I thought—” You couldn’t finish the sentence. “I thought you were dead. I heard the gunshot and I thought—”
“I’m okay,” she said, her voice hoarse but steady. Her arms came around you, holding on just as tightly. “I’m okay. The team got there just in time.”
“Thank God. Thank God.” You were crying again, but these were different tears—relief so profound it was almost painful. “I’m so sorry. I should have warned you, should have made you stay somewhere safe—”
“Hey, stop that.” Maya pulled back enough to look at you, her hands on your shoulders. “This wasn’t your fault. You saved me. Your team saved me.”
The paramedics were trying to check her over, and you reluctantly stepped back, letting them work. But you didn’t go far—couldn’t bear to have more than a few feet between you.
Hotch approached, his expression softer now than it had been before. “She’s going to be fine. Some bruising, minor lacerations. The unsub fired when we breached, but the shot went wide. Morgan took him down before he could fire again.”
“Alive. In custody.” Hotch’s hand landed briefly on your shoulder. “You should ride to the hospital with her. Take the time you need.”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
As the paramedics loaded Maya into the ambulance, she caught sight of something over your shoulder and smiled—a knowing, slightly smug smile that you recognized all too well.
“So,” she said, her voice carrying a teasing note despite everything she’d just been through, “are we going to talk about your very attractive, very concerned FBI agent who looks like he wants to wrap you in a blanket and never let you out of his sight?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me. I saw the way he was holding you. And the way you were holding him.” She raised an eyebrow. “That’s not just friends behavior.”
“Maya, you were just kidnapped by a serial killer. Maybe this isn’t the time—”
“This is exactly the time. Life’s too short, and I just had that proven very thoroughly.” She caught your hand. “You like him. He clearly likes you. What are you waiting for?”
“We’re friends,” you said weakly. “Best friends. And he’s—Spencer’s just being Spencer. He’d do the same for anyone on the team.”
“Uh-huh. Sure.” Maya’s eyes flicked past you again, and she smiled. “Turn around.”
You did, and found Spencer standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching you with an expression that made your heart skip. There was relief there, yes, but also something deeper. Something tender and raw and utterly unguarded.
When your eyes met his, he didn’t look away.
“Go talk to him,” Maya said, giving you a gentle push. “I’ll be fine. The nice paramedics will take good care of me.”
“I should come with you—”
“You should go talk to the man who just spent the last hour keeping you from falling apart. I’ll see you at the hospital.”
Before you could argue, she was being loaded into the ambulance, the doors closing, the lights already starting to flash.
Which left you standing in the parking lot, exhausted and emotionally wrung-out, with Spencer Reid watching you like you were something precious.
He approached slowly, carefully, like you might bolt.
“Hey,” he said softly when he reached you. “You okay?”
“I don’t know.” It was the most honest answer you could give. “I will be. Eventually.”
“Maya seems okay. Strong.”
“She is. She’s the strongest person I know.” You wrapped your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of how cold you were. “Thank you. For earlier. For staying with me. For not letting me do something stupid.”
“You weren’t going to do something stupid. You were going to do something brave and reckless because someone you love was in danger. There’s a difference.”
“Still. Thank you.” You hesitated, Maya’s words echoing in your head. Life’s too short. “Spencer, I—”
“The team’s heading back to the hotel,” he said, and you couldn’t tell if he was interrupting or saving you from saying something you might regret. “I’m supposed to give you a ride. If you want. Or you can go to the hospital first. Whatever you need.”
“The hotel,” you decided. “Maya will probably be in the hospital for a few hours anyway, and I—I think I need to just… decompress.”
The drive was quiet. Not the comfortable silence you usually shared, but something heavier. Charged. You were hyper-aware of him beside you—the way his hands gripped the steering wheel, the set of his shoulders, the way he kept glancing at you like he was making sure you were still there.
When you reached the hotel, he walked you to your room, hovering in the hallway as you fumbled with your keycard.
“Spencer,” you said, turning to face him before you could lose your nerve. “I don’t know how to say this without it being weird, but—thank you. For everything. For being there tonight. For… for being you.”
His cheeks flushed slightly, and he pushed his glasses up his nose in that endearingly nervous gesture you’d come to love. “I didn’t do anything special. I just—I couldn’t let you face that alone. I couldn’t…” He trailed off, his eyes meeting yours. “I care about you. A lot. More than—”
He stopped himself, but the words hung in the air between you anyway, shimmering with possibility.
“More than what?” you asked softly.
“More than I probably should,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than is maybe wise for partners. But I can’t help it. I care about you, and seeing you in pain tonight was—it was—”
He couldn’t seem to find the words, but you understood. Because you’d felt the same way watching him try to hold you together while you fell apart.
Before you could second-guess yourself, before fear could stop you, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him.
He stiffened for just a second—surprise, probably—and then his arms came around you, holding you close. He smelled like coffee and the mint soap from the police precinct bathroom, familiar and comforting and safe.
“Thank you,” you whispered against his shoulder. “For caring. For being the kind of person who cares so much it probably hurts sometimes.”
“It does,” he admitted, his voice muffled against your hair. “But I wouldn’t change it.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, and the expression on his face—soft and open and full of affection—made your heart race.
And then, before you could overthink it, you leaned up and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
It was brief, chaste, but the effect was immediate. Spencer’s entire face flushed red, his eyes widening behind his glasses, his mouth opening and closing as he tried and failed to form words.
“I—you—that was—” He was adorably flustered, and despite everything, you couldn’t help but smile.
“Goodnight, Spencer,” you said gently, stepping back toward your door.
“Goodnight,” he managed, still looking dazed. “I’ll—um—I’ll see you tomorrow?”
You slipped into your room and closed the door, leaning back against it with your heart pounding. Through the door, you could hear him still standing there, could imagine him touching his cheek where you’d kissed him, trying to process what had just happened.
Finally, you heard his footsteps retreat down the hall.
You smiled, exhausted and emotionally drained but somehow lighter than you’d felt in hours. Maya was safe. Spencer cared about you—maybe in the same way you cared about him.
Tomorrow you’d have to deal with the aftermath of the case, the paperwork, the debriefing. You’d have to visit Maya in the hospital and probably have a very long conversation about feelings and what came next.
But tonight, you let yourself hold onto this moment—the memory of Spencer’s arms around you, the sound of his voice saying I care about you, the promise of something that could be.
For now, that was enough.