Be My Angel / S.R x Reader
Spencer can't just forget about the kiss you shared on Christmas eve. A shared hotel room forces you both to unpack it all, for better or worse.
warnings & tags: typical cm violence, lots of blood mentioned, idiots in love, angst, angst, angst, hurt/comfort, reader is self destructive but we love her, Spencer is trying his best, plenty of kissing and yes I get freaky with it so what, no mention of y/n
a/n: woah so this was one hell of a project! Pt.3 of my Hero series (pt.2 here). English is not my first language and I clearly don't know enough about the US to write this but oh well. Reader is highkey a self insert so be nice to her.
You never realized just how much seven days without Spencer Reid would hurt you.
It’s not like he hadn’t called; he had, repeatedly. You just didn’t have the courage to answer. The memory of the events at the Christmas party last week remain fresh in your mind. His lips on yours, warm hands on your cheeks, and most of all the helpless look in his eyes when you left him there, the way his hands dropped to his sides and confusion washed over his face.
The thought alone causes you to groan into your pillow as you try to force yourself asleep. How were you possibly supposed to face Spencer at work tomorrow after declining the whopping twelve calls he had given you? After making out with him in a dark corner of your colleague’s backyard?
Briefly, you consider quitting your job and avoiding him for the rest of your life, but the flash of desperation passes, and you slump against the mattress, convincing yourself to close your eyes and rest lest you actually miss work tomorrow.
Waking up groggier than usual, you drag yourself to the kitchen to prepare a coffee and get ready for work. The rainy drive to the office definitely isn’t making you feel any better.
The clink of your heels against the bullpens floor draws gazes towards you, including the gaze of a particular someone. Spencer looks at you as though you had just landed from mars, eyes widening a fraction, tracking your movement as you walk to your desk, mumbling ‘good mornings’ and avoiding his eyes at all costs. From the corner of your eye you spot him scooting closer and your heart rate skyrockets, yet before he can say anything Hotch’s voice turns both your heads. “We’ve got a case, conference room, please.”
You stand with a sigh of relief and Spencer follows with a clearly disappointed sigh of his own. At least a case means less idle time with Spencer. Or so you thought.
Sitting at the round table, you read off your file and the slides on the screen, using the wonderful excuse to keep your gaze far away from the man sitting across from you.
Despite your regrettably distracted state, you listen carefully to Hotch as he explains the case. “…Current body count of three women all in their mid-twenties; Brenna Walsh, Lindsey Carver, and Mallory Jensen, all residents of Wasilla, Alaska. Preliminary examination indicates the victims had been drained of blood through large incisions to the neck. No evidence of sexual assault, no defense wounds.”
You wince in disgust, looking at the images in the file you were given as you take a sip of your coffee. Three women, skin a pale and ashen, looking more like wax figures than humans. Their lips tinted blue, their hair frosted with ice, bodies left in the streets like trash. You have to take a breath before looking back up at the screen, the close-up shot of two deep cuts stares back at you. Despite your year of experience in the BAU, sights like these don’t fail to rattle you.
Morgan leans forward slightly. “So they’re subdued before the injury?”
“That’s our assumption,” Hotch replies. “Either incapacitated quickly or they trusted the offender enough not to resist.”
JJ glances at her notes. “Local PD thought it might be animal-related at first.”
“They did, that theory’s been ruled out. The wounds are controlled. Intentional.”
You take a second look at the pictures, trace your finger along the cut. “Is there any connection between the victims?” you ask, ignoring Spencer’s focus trained on you as you look at Hotch instead.
“None so far. All victims are different ages, no consistent racial background. What we do know, is that all three women lived within a one-point-five mile radius from one another, yet they were dumped in different locations across town.”
Spencer has been quiet, his eyes now fixed on his file. “There’s something inconsistent here,” he hums. “Draining blood through the neck is not the most efficient method of exsanguination. From a purely anatomical standpoint, there are faster access points.”
JJ nods. “But he still gets the job done.
“Exactly,” he continues. “Which means he compensates. He likely subdues the victims first, chemically, physically, or psychologically, so he has the time he needs. That level of control points to organisation.”
“And dumping the bodies?” Emily asks, tilting her head.
“Also organized,” he replies. “They’re found in different locations across town, which suggests forethought and mobility. He’s comfortable navigating Wasilla without drawing attention.”
You nodded, chiming in. “But there’s no effort to fully conceal the bodies.”
He pauses for a moment, then continues. “That’s where the disorganization comes back in. He’s not trying to hide the crime.”
Hotch watches him. “Meaning?”
“Meaning the act itself may matter more than the aftermath. The blood loss, the method, the repetition. He may be methodical, but not optimising. That usually indicates compulsion rather than efficiency.”
Hotch hums, nodding. “Local PD is completely out of their depth. There’s already talk of ritual elements. With three victims in two weeks, we can assume his pace will pick up rapidly. It’s a long flight, we’ll speak more on the jet. Wheels up in thirty.”
Making a beeline to your desk, you double-check your go-bag has enough warm clothes to allow you to survive the Alaska cold.
“So, what do you think?” a soft voice asks next to you, causing your eyes to snap up to his.
For a moment you just stare. Spencer stands there, his hands awkwardly twitching at his side, his eyes hesitant. He doesn’t understand, doesn’t understand what happened nor where you stand now. “About the case, I mean.”
You blink a few time, before casting your eyes back down. It’s an obvious excuse to talk to you, but you don’t have the heart to be cruel. “Oh, well- I think we’ll know more when we get there. See for ourselves.”
He nods quickly, letting out a breath of relief. Clearly he gains some confidence and decides to push his luck. He steps closer, his adams apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. “About what happened on Christmas-“
You clear your throat obnoxiously loud, zipping your bag closed. The heat radiating from your cheeks tells you you’re blushing. “I uh, I think its best we don’t talk about that.”
The drop of his shoulders is enough to tell you its not the response he was hoping for. Out of morbid curiosity, you lift your gaze to read his expression and something ugly twists in your chest. His eyebrows are pinched in confusion, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he finds his words. “Oh. Can I ask why?”
“Can we just not talk about this right now?” your voice comes out sharper than intended, and you hate yourself for how he immediately takes half a step back, nodding.
“Yeah, okay. I’m sorry.” He nearly whispers, the hurt in his tone not lost on you.
When he finds silence as his answer and realizes you’re done talking, he reluctantly steps away until he disappears from your peripheral. Once he does, you draw a deep breath in, running a tired hand over your face.
Regret creeps in like a dirty virus once again, infecting you head to toe, painting you over and laughing in your face. You shouldn’t have kissed him, shouldn’t have let yourself develop feelings for him, shouldn’t have come this close to him.
More than anything, you’re embarrassed. Nothing you say or do can take back that kiss, or those personal, vulnerable thoughts you’d shared with him in the past. That part of you will always be known to him, as if he tore open your ribcage with his bare hands and was met face to face with your heart. The thought sickens you.
By the time you get on the jet, Spencer is sitting at the aisle seat, looking up at you expectantly as you place your bag near the others. Normally, you’d sit next to him at the window as he knew you liked to, talk about case details the whole way, maybe share your headphones with him once he got bored and tired. He’d smile and tell you he loved Bob Dylan, The Beatles, The Cure, anything you played him, really. Now you can’t bear the thought of spending seven hours by his side.
He straightens up in his seat as you step closer, already drawing his long legs inwards to give you space to pass and sit at your usual seat. With much self-control, you press your lips together and keep walking, sitting across him next to Emily instead. An aisle seat, Spencer knows you hate those. He knows you like staring out the window for hours on end. He knows you.
He watches as you sit down, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion once again, and you pretend not to notice the look Emily gives you, then him.
Once everyone settled down, theories come fast. Spencer is the first one to speak, unsurprisingly. “I keep coming back to the motivation,” he hums. “It feels internal, in a way.”
Derek looks up. “Internal how?”
“The method isn’t efficient. Draining blood through the neck takes time. Someone doing this just to kill would choose a faster approach, but someone acting under a fixed belief system wouldn’t care about efficiency.” His fingers tap against the polished wood of the jet table in a way that tells you he has some grand idea processing in that big brain of his.
JJ leans forward. “You think he has some... belief, about the blood?”
“Exactly,” Spencer continues, looking back down at the file he holds between deft fingers. “Which raises the possibility of a psychotic disorder, like schizophrenia, or a related delusional condition.”
Hotch tilts his head, folding his arms over his chest. “Walk us through that.”
“If the unsub is schizophrenic, the behavior may be driven by delusions rather than logic,” He sets the file on the table, illustrating with his hands as he speaks, and you can’t help but lean forward, focus all your attention on him. He has that effect on you. “The blood could represent survival, purification, or control. The act isn’t about the victim, it’s about maintaining the belief.”
Penelope hums, looking around to see if anyone else is as impressed (and exasperated, to an extent), as she is. “So he thinks he’s some kind of vampire?”
Spencer nods, rushing to explain. “There’s something known as clinical vampirism, sometimes called Renfield syndrome. It’s not an official diagnosis, but it appears in forensic case studies. I mean, even the two cuts on the neck could be some… symbolic reference to mythological displays of vampires. Individuals suffering from this condition feel a compulsive need to consume blood.”
You nod, leaning your chin on your palm, eyebrows furrowed as you skim the report in the file again. “So he thinks he needs it.”
“Possibly,” Reid says, and you don’t have to look up to feel his eyes on you. “Or he believes something bad happens if he doesn’t.”
You continue, not lifting your eyes from the folder. “That would explain why there’s no other motive. No theft. No assault.”
“And why the bodies are left to be found,” Emily adds. “He’s not hiding the crime.”
“Precisely,” Spencer says enthusiastically. “He’s organized enough to plan and move unnoticed, but disorganized in execution due to the compulsion overriding strategy.”
Derek shakes his head slightly. “So he’s functional until he isn’t.”
“Yes, and if the delusion is reinforcing itself, each successful act strengthens it. That’s when escalation happens.”
Hotch nods, sighing. “Alright, when we get there, Prentiss and Morgan, work the crime scene. We need to know exactly how he ambushed his victims. JJ and I will work victimology.”
Thus far you’ve been half listening, lulled to an odd calm by the mechanic hum of the jet and the severe lack of sleep you’ve been sporting this past week, yet youre jolted sober by the sound of your name. “I want you and Reid at the morgue, find out what you can there. Garcia, town records, we’ll be setting up at the inn seeing as the police force in Wasilla isn’t large enough to facilitate all of us comfortably. We land in five hours, try and get some rest.” Hotch’s tone is final, deciding, and you know there’s no possible way for you to get out of this. Alone time with spencer might just be your personal torture at the moment.
Spencer’s eyes find your, and he gives you that awkward tight lipped smile you would normally find endearing. Now you simply return a half-assed attempt at a polite smile and look back down.
The rest of the flight goes by as peacefully as it could. Spencer reads some old Russian book (one that he talked your ear off about last month, and likely got for Christmas), while you close your eyes and blast your favourite classic rock bands in your headphones.
So what if you have to spend a couple of hours with spencer? This is your job, and you’re a professional. You can either quit or act like an adult. Simple as that.
As soon as you land, Spencer hovers beside you. He watches for a moment as you stretch up as much as you can to reach your bag before he pulls it out of the cabin himself and hands it to you with a small smile. You mumble your thanks and head out.
The drive to the morgue is silent. Uncomfortably so. Normally, you enjoyed silence with spencer, he was the kind of person who made silence soft, tender.
Not this time though. You find yourself toying with a loose thread on your sweater, clearing your throat, glancing out the window as he drove; anything to avoid addressing these clandestine feelings simmering below the surface.
The suv comes to a stop outside a small clinic, where a man in a long lab coat raises a hand in greeting.
“This is it?” you mumble to Spencer.
“Yeah. From experience, the smell inside might not be very… pleasant, in small morgues like these. Their facilities aren’t exactly equipped for this.”
You scrunch your nose in displeasure at the thought, and he smiles. Something in him softens, eases up. “Come on,” He nudges you, opening his car door.
Inside, the smell hits you before you even see the bodies. The man, a Dr. Keegan leads the two of you inside, where three bodies lay on the wooden floors, between them large bags of ice. Spencer shoots you an almost apologetic look, before he turns to the bodies and steps closer, leaning over to get a better look.
“I found Saliva, on the remains. Around the incision sites.” Dr. Keegan says curiously, stepping next to Spencer.
“I figured it was some animal who found the body before us, but I got lab results this morning. Its human.” He nods.
Reluctantly, you follow them closer to the bodies, drained of colour, with two deep bluish lacerations on the neck. The scent of rot in the air nearly makes you back away, but you hold your ground. “Around the incision marks, you mean he… licked the wounds?” you ask with suppressed disgust, glancing at Spencer.
Dr. Keegan nods again, pointing at the wounds. “The third body contained the most saliva, first two were mild. Though too much of the victim’s DNA was mixed in to determine who exactly it belonged to.”
You and spencer exchange a look.
After a few more minutes inside, once you’ve had whatever you could’ve gotten from the bodies, the two of you step back outside towards the car. “I’ll run the DNA by Garcia just in case. Are you okay?” he asks, tone full of care even after the cold shoulder you’ve been giving him today. It nearly catches you off guard.
“Hm? Yeah, yeah I’m okay. Why?”
He shrugs, glancing at you with a hint of an affectionate smile. “You looked pretty nauseous in there. More than your usual morgue-nausea.”
You open the car door with a huff, grimacing. “He had bodies on the floor with ice bags, Spencer. The place smelled like death.” You scoffed, buckling your seatbelt. “Besides, did you hear what he said? The wounds had the unsub’s saliva on them. I think your theory was right.”
Spencer starts the car, humming in thought. “I think he quite literally sucks the blood from the wound right after making the cuts, then drains the rest of it into some sort of storage container. Sucking that much blood from a human through the neck would realistically take about three hours.” He says it so casually that he doesn’t notice the utterly disturbed look on your face, smiling sheepishly when he spots it as he pulls out of the parking lot. “Sorry, not the best discussion before dinner.”
Before you think too much of it, you’re chuckling back at him. “Oh you can forget about dinner. I’m about to throw up.”
At the inn, after you all shared your findings respectively, you sat at the lobby (closer to a living room, really) with the sheriff Baker. The inn was cozy, with wooden walls and lamps all over, as well as a fireplace lit to combat the January cold.
“I’ve run everyone who’s been printed through CODIS, nothing has come up so far, I’m gonna pull an all-nighter, finish going through the town record, should have background checks by sunrise.” Penelope shrugs, reporting her findings of our curious saliva sample.
“Good.” Hotch replied. “The rest of us should get some rest, start fresh in the morning.”
The innkeeper entered the living room, holding a pot of coffee. “I’ve got five of the upstairs room available,”
Hotch nods, looking around. “Looks like you’ll have to double up.”
Penelope smiles, placing her hand on Derek’s. “Dibs.”
Emily and JJ naturally team up, and between sharing a room with Hotch or you, Spencer figures you’d be the safer choice. You assume he might also be seeking a relief from the tensions laying between you.
He raises his eyebrows at you in a silent question, to which you hesitantly nod. After all, you’ve shared a hotel room with him once before, and you managed just fine to be normal with him at the morgue today. Spencer Reid was still your best friend, in a way.
Unlocking the door, you find the room inside to be just fine. Two beds, separated by a bedside table with a large yellow lamp, wooden walls matching the living room, decorated with deer antlers and gold-framed paintings, and a TV no younger than 1990 on top of a mini fridge. You step inside and Spencer follows, setting his bag by his bed, as you set yours by your own.
Alone, in the quiet room, the tension is thicker. It fogs the room up like a cloud of smoke.
“I’ll go shower,” you mumble and he nods. You take your clothes with you into the attached bathroom and close the door. With water washing over you, thinking is easier. You could just pretend nothing ever happened with spencer, stay his friend, and pray he can go against his eidetic memory and simply forget that kiss ever happened. Unlikely, but possible. Fake it ‘til you make it.
When you step outside in your pajamas and thick fuzzy socks, Spencer is sitting on his bed, unpacking into neat piles of clothes. He turns his head to look at you, and suddenly your plan seems less doable as it did only five minutes prior.
It’s a sweeping look so quick you could’ve missed it, but you know its slow enough for him to commit you into memory as you are, with skin flushed pink from the warmth, steam following you from the bathroom, hair damp and dripping onto your shoulders, wearing a sweater about two sizes too large on you and pajama pants from a set you got last Christmas.
You pretend not to notice how his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he looks away, and instead you take a seat on your own bed and pull a book out of your bag. “The water is hot,” you say with forced nonchalance, getting under the thick fur blanket and drawing your knees to your chest, opening your book.
“Thanks,” he replies with a deep breath, getting up and walking past you to the bathroom.
As the water runs inside, you rubs your eyes in something close to despair. Who knows how many nights you might have to spend here until you catch this unsub? How many nights you will spend two meters away from the man you have feelings for, feelings which under no circumstances you may act on?
When the door slides open and he steps out, you have to actively strain to not stare. His hair is still damp, his cheeks rosy, and a steady flow of steam follows him into the room. His eyes catch yours for a moment before he clears his throat and sits on his bed. “Wow, it’s already twelve,” he mumbles awkwardly, earning a nervous glance and a nod from you.
“Yeah, we should probably sleep.”
“Right.” He swallows thickly, getting under his blanket. “Goodnight.”
Once the room is dark, the silence is overwhelming. It chokes, engulfing both of you in orphic smoke.
The rustle of sheets to your right draws your attention. “Are we really not going to talk about it?” His voice is dulcet and low, barely over a whisper, contrasting the chilling wave of nerves passing over your body at his words.
“About what?” you lie through your teeth. You know. And he knows. And he knows you know, but he plays along anyways.
“The party. When we kissed.”
That same silence finds you again while words fail you, your mind scrambling to find a way out of the conversation. “I think its best we just pretend that never happened.”
Even though you can’t see him, the tone of his voice tells you everything you need to know, an odd concoction hope and bitterness. “Is that what you really want?”
You sigh, inspecting the wooden ceiling in the dark like it’s the most interesting thing you’ve ever seen. “Yes.”
Light suddenly floods the room, and you wince, looking over and finding him sitting up in his bed, looking back over at you. “Hey-“
He cuts you off, his gaze not leaving yours for a moment. “Please, just tell me truth?”
You’re left helpless when his eyebrows draw upwards in plea with a glint in his eyes to match, sitting up with a huff and running a hand through your hair. “It’s the truth. I want us to pretend that it never happened.”
He swallows, searching your eyes, and you assume he’s utilizing his finely trained profiling skills to seek for signs of dishonesty. You can only hope you hide it well enough. “Then why did you kiss me back?”
A defensive huff leaves you and the walls rise high and tall around the truth, masked with irritation. “I was tipsy, I wasn’t thinking straight- can we just forget about it?”
“No,” he sits up straighter, giving you that puzzled look he does when he doesn’t understand why you’re being so difficult. It unfortunately feeds the flames burning through your screen of vulnerability, leaving in its ashes only your defensive anger. “I’m not trying to provoke you. I don’t understand why you’re being this way.”
Knowing Spencer, deep down you’re well aware he didn’t intend to offend, but it’s so much easier to pretend he did. You give him a glance, that glance, the one that precedes words you can’t take back. “Being like what? Honest? We were drinking at a party, simple as that. There isn’t always some grand deep meaning to everything.”
The wave of anger clouding your judgment isn’t truly strong enough to hide the fact that you’re being rather unreasonable and hurting his feelings while doing so.
It’s so quiet you could’ve missed it, and now you wish you had. “Huh?”
“I said I wasn’t tipsy. You’re well aware of my aversion to alcohol. And you drank two glasses of eggnog, but Penelope makes hers nearly alcohol free. You were sound and in control of your actions, I wouldn’t have kissed you if I noticed otherwise.” His voice is measured, a faux-calm. It takes a trained ear to detect the hint of impatience in his tone, but you’re more than qualified.
You hate how his logic strips you of your defenses, you hate even more how he looks right at you as he says it, like he’s purposely pushing you to retaliate.
Clenching your jaw, you’re determined as always to give the winning punch, deliver the final venomous blow for the sake of it. “Why are you always so hell-bent on figuring me out, huh? Can you ever just leave me alone? I’m not some fucking project you can dissect, for god’s sake.”
Spencer has never looked at you with as much disappointment and pity as he does right now. With a small shake of his head, he flicks the light switch off. “Fine, I’ll leave you alone. I didn’t realise it bothered you that much. Guess I didn’t figure you out. Good night.”
You don’t need your vision to read his feelings. His words tell you everything you need to know.
“…good night.” The heat is gone from your tone now. In the darkness, you’re left with the reality of what you’d said.
You and Spencer never fight. Bicker, maybe, but nothing like this. It leaves this ugly tightness in your chest.
Sleep doesn’t find you easily that night. The rustle of his sheets tells you it didn’t find him either.
By the time you awake his bed is empty. The room is abnormally quiet, and one glance at your watch tells you that he woke up earlier than needed to go downstairs. You try not to overthink the growingly likely possibility that he is obviously avoiding you and get dressed.
Once downstairs at the living room/lobby/currently the closest thing you have to headquarters, you see him. He’s sitting with a book on the couch, drinking coffee.
You linger for a moment, watching as he takes nearly an entire minute to read the page he’s currently on. It tells you everything you need to know.
Footsteps behind you on the stairs draw you away from your thoughts as Emily, JJ, Penelope and Derek join you with scattered ‘good mornings’, bringing Spencer’s attention to you.
Its visible truly, the exact moment at he turns his head and his eyes find yours, and something crumbles. Immediately he averts his eyes to the rest of the team, closing his book and scooting aside on the couch so everyone can fit. Hotch’s quick footsteps follow, and before you can speak, he’s briefing you all on the next steps in finding the unsub. Spencer doesn’t even look up when you reluctantly take your seat next to Emily, letting Derek fill in your usual place next to him.
“The Sherriff informed me last night that blood drops at the crime scenes confirm that the unsub poured the blood directly into some sort of container, possibly a jar judging by the rings of blood found at the scene. At the moment, our standing theory is that he is consuming the blood orally first, then willingly taking the time to collect and store it. As we’ve mentioned before, this behavior is likely affected by some sort of psychological condition. We can expect another attack as early as today, so let’s stop him before that.” He says in that monotone voice of his.
You try to catch Spencer’s eyes more than once, but he’s determined to stare at the carpet like it’s the most amazing thing he has ever seen. Emily nudges you and gives you a look, paired with a raise of her eyebrows and a glance at Spencer. You shake your head in return, and she lets it go. For now.
Your attention is brought back to Hotch when he mentions your name. “I want you and Prentiss interviewing anyone who might’ve seen anything, or heard anything. If our unsub took over thirty minutes per victim, there’s bound to be an eye witness somewhere.”
With a nod at Emily, you stand up and head out for the SUV, not bothering to check if Spencer is looking. You know he isn’t.
As she unlocks the car door and slips into the driver’s seat, Emily finally gives in to her curiosity fully, chuckling with a shake of her head and starting the engine. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on with you and Spence?”
You bristle at the acknowledgment, but you saw it coming. Apart from spencer, Emily was the team member you were second-closest to. It seems she has now climbed her way to the top. “What do you mean?” you lie for a moment, and you both know it’s purely for show.
“I mean this weird… vibe between the two of you lately. I had a suspicion since the jet yesterday, now I’m sure. Something’s up.”
“Can’t keep anything from profilers.” You sigh.
She chuckles, shaking her head as she makes a turn. “That, and the walls aren’t too thick here,” she snorts at your alarmed face. “Calm down, I didn’t hear what was said, only loud talking. And Spence never raises his voice, let alone with you.”
You groan, running a hand over your face. “I just- I messed up big time, and now he’s mad at me and I don’t know where to go from here. He’s one of my best friends, Emily. It worries me, losing him. But I get so angry sometimes and I snap, then I fuck things up.”
The words pour out and she listens anyway, humming in thought as though measuring how much of her assumptions she should bring to your knowledge. “You two need to talk. A long talk. He cares about you a lot, you know. And he worries too. Spencer has a tendency to shut down when he’s upset, but he comes around eventually. You didn’t lose him just yet,”
You’re still debating her words when the car comes to a stop and brings you back to reality, where there is a serial killer on the loose and your stupid argument with your coworker is no longer a priority.
“Sherriff said Mrs. Naluk claims to have seen a ‘monster’, as she calls it, the same night Brenna Walsh, our first victim, was murdered. They dismissed it at first, I figured its worth taking a look now.” Emily explains as we walk up to a wooden cottage house, the red mailbox reading ‘Naluk’.
Before you knock even once, the door swings open, inside a rather enthusiastic lady no younger than eighty, you’re sure. “Come inside, come inside,” she urges.
Mrs. Naluk sits wrapped in a faded wool blanket, hands folded around a chipped mug of tea. Her eyes are sharp despite her age, watching you and Emily with quiet certainty.
“I know what you’re going to say,” she says. “That I’m old. That I’m confused.”
You offer a small smile. “We just want you to tell us what you saw.”
Mrs. Naluk nods once. “I saw a vampire.”
Emily doesn’t react, tilting her head sideways in intrigue. “Can you tell us what that means to you?”
She exhales, slow and deliberate. “Not the kind from your movies. Not capes and coffins.” She lifts one hand and taps two fingers gently against her neck. “The old kind. The ones that drink life.”
You glance at Emily, then back to her face. “When did you see him?”
“Ten nights ago,” Mrs. Naluk says. “Late. The snow was quiet.”
Emily leans forward slightly. “What was he doing? When you saw him?”
Mrs. Naluk’s brow furrows, shaking her head once in a grimace. “He was holding her. His knife cut her throat, his mouth followed.”
“Her? Can you describe to me the woman you saw with him, Mrs. Naluk?” you ask.
“Brown hair,” Mrs. Naluk nods. “Young, lively. I called as soon as I saw it, but they do not believe me. They doubted. Then she was on the news, Walsh. I called again, and still.”
Emily exchanges a quick glance with you. “And you believe he was a vampire.”
Her gaze hardens, certain. “In our stories, they’re not monsters. They’re people who lose their way. They take what they think they need to survive.”
Emily speaks carefully, writing down in her notes. “Blood.”
“Yes. Life carries warmth. When someone believes they are empty, they go looking for it.”
Back at the inn, you regroup and share your findings. Apparently, Spencer and Derek too investigated a report of a ‘vampire’, matching Mrs. Naluk’s story. With these findings at hand, you build your profile, and give it to the limited police force, the Sherriff and barely five officers.
Hotch stands at the front of the room, hands resting on the table. The board behind him holds crime scene photos, maps of Wasilla, and timelines still incomplete.
“We’re looking for a white male in his late twenties to mid-thirties,” he says. “He’s socially isolated, likely unemployed or working irregular hours. He blends in by keeping to himself.”
He pauses, letting it settle.
“The victims are all women. That suggests both opportunity and perception. He sees them as accessible, controllable, a means to an end. There are no signs of sexual assault on the women, they are insignificant to him.”
“The wounds to the neck indicate a fixation,” Hotch continues. “He’s not killing them as quickly as he could. That tells us that his MO is ritualized. He would rather risk getting caught than disrupt his ritual, which gives us an advantage. He plans enough to avoid immediate detection, subdues his victims, chooses low-visibility locations, and moves the bodies”
He steps to the map, taps a point near the outskirts of town.
“But the method itself is disorganized. Risky. Messy. That contradiction points to a severe mental illness. Most likely a psychotic disorder with a fixed delusion. In this case our unsub seems to believe he needs blood to survive. He is more than likely carrying a weapon, and is extremely dangerous. If you spot him, call for backup immediately.”
Hotch takes a deep breath, then nods to Sherriff. “We need to have officers set up at each of the crime scenes, and my team will split between three locations within his killing grounds. If we don’t stop him soon, he escalates, let’s get going before that happens.”
Your luck seems to have failed you yet again. Standing in a dingy road bordering the woods of Wasilla, you and Spencer are silent. Exhaustion is to blame, it is one in the morning, but you know he’s still mad at you. You also know he has every reason to be.
“We should cover more ground,” you offer quietly, worried you’ll shatter reality itself if you raise your voice.
He barely even turns. “It’s dangerous, let’s stick together.”
You allow a moment of silence to linger, pursing your lips as you attempt to stop the words from tumbling out. “So is this how it is now?”
Oh now he glances at you. “I thought you wanted me to stop analyzing you.”
Exasperated with yourself and with him, you nod. You hate yourself for doing this to him, putting him through this constant rollercoaster. “I did, but I didn’t mean stop being my friend.”
That earns a bitter huff from him, shaking his head with an amused sigh of your name. “You can’t even talk about what happened. You refuse to acknowledge it, and you expect me to, what, go along with it? Keep quiet because you can’t get through a bit of discomfort for the sake of our friendship?” his voice raises as he talks. Spencer Reid, who never raises his voice, is scolding you. “And you know, I’ve tried so hard to get it. To see the way you see things, but I don’t! I know what I want, I don’t understand why you can’t at least try and do the same.”
You’re stunned to silence for a minute. In that minute, the only sound audible is his breathing slowly catching up and growing softer, the gulp he swallows as his eyes nervously search yours, and the natural noises coming from all around you. It overwhelms you. The intensity of it all.
“I think we should split up for a bit, ill round the alley.” You mumble, and you can’t even look in his eyes as you say it, as you stick to your cowardice despite yourself.
He sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s dangerous.” He repeats.
“I have a gun,” you answer, already walking away, following the path you both came from, and rounding the alley.
“Fine,” he calls after you, though you can hear through the false bravado. He’s hurt, and it’s your fault. Again. This is what he doesn’t understand. You can’t be in love with Spencer if it means hurting him every time things get too real for you to handle. If it means breaking his heart over and over again.
A muffled noise to your side catches your attention and you see it. You actually see it. A man hunched over, drinking from the neck of a thrashing woman, though her movements weaken by the moment.
“Freeze! Get away from her!” you yell, pulling your gun out. “Spencer!” you yell, prompting the man to run away immediately, not before you land a shot in his leg.
As soon as he’s away, you rush over to the woman, crouching and pressing your hands to her wound in an attempt to slow the steady flow of deep maroon blood pouring from it. Spencer calls your name in distress as soon as he spots you, rushing over. “Not me! I’m fine, get him! That way!” a split moment of hesitation pauses before he sprints in the direction you pointed, while you rip your sleeve off and press it to the woman’s gash, dialing nine-one-one to get an ambulance.
“Shh, don’t try to speak, okay? You’ve lost a lot of blood, but you’re going to be okay, stay awake for me,” you say as calmly as humanly possible as you explain to the emergency worker the situation.
By the time the ambulance arrives, your hands and clothes are soaked with blood. The woman, who you now know by the name of Naomi Kincaid, lost consciousness five minutes in. Derek ended up catching the unsub, having been stationed at the spot the unsub coincidentally ran right into.
As soon as you arrive back at the Inn, Spencer rushes out, skipping a few steps on the stairs, warm hands softly placed on their rightful spot on your shoulders as they haven’t been in a long time now. “Are you okay? Are you hurt? None of it is your blood, is it?”
You swallow hard, shaking your head. Still in shock, you struggle to comprehend it all. It's your first time witnessing it like that. being alone as it happened right in front of you. Everything happened so fast.
Spencer nods quickly, guiding you inside. “Okay- okay, you’re alright, let’s go clean you up, okay?” he ignores the very concerned looks from Penelope, reassuring her with a simple nod as he leads you upstairs and into your room.
Once the door closes, it's quiet again. You look down at your hands, stained dark red with the blood that had covered them twenty minutes prior. Spencer shakes his head, takes your hands and guides you to the bathroom, turning on the shower and letting the water run warm. “It’ll wash off, take a shower and I’ll be right here-“ He goes to close the door behind you and you nearly panic, holding on to his hand and leaving a red print on his forearm.
For a moment he’s quiet, before he nods and steps back inside. “Yeah, yeah, I can stay, is that okay with you?”
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” is the whispered answer he gets, and it's enough for him. His hands very slowly find the hem of your torn-up shirt, barely lifting it upwards. “Is this…?” he starts, but you nod before you can change your mind. You trust Spencer. You need to learn to let him see that. Let him see that behind the brave face you put on, you want his care, his touch, his love.
“Okay,” he whispers back, taking your bloodied shirt off, then slowly peeling your pants down your legs. His soft hands graze your skin as he does so, smoothing away the horrors you’ve been thrown into headfirst just thirty minutes ago.
He looks in your eyes as his arms reach around your back and he undoes your bra, not averting his eyes downwards even once. Instead, he pushes your panties down with one hand and lets them drop to the floor before he guides you into the shower, hand running up and down your arm to soothe. “Is the water warm enough?” he asks softly, rolling his sleeves up to his elbows and rubbing the dry blood out of your head.
“Good, just relax. I’ll take care of it. You did well,” his tone is as gentle as his hands are when they wash your body. It surprise you, the lack of sexuality in his actions. He’s not touching you to his advantage, for his own enjoyment. Every glide of his palm over your skin is feather light, cautious, caring. Pleasant.
He’s quiet. Hands run through your hair as he washes the soap out of it.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, almost silently over the rush of the water, and it brings you out of your trance momentarily.
“I said I’m sorry. For being petty earlier. And just, for all of it. Shouldn't have let you go alone.” He scolds himself as he turns the water off, averting his eyes back to your face as he turns you around and wraps a warm towel around your shoulders. “I… I thought there was something. But I see I was wrong. That wasn’t your fault.”
Your mouth opens to answer, but he clears his throat and leaves your side. “I’ll get you some clothes. Hold onto something, your systems are still in mild shock.”
He returns to the bathroom with a pile of clothes taken from your suitcase. “Should I…?” he asks as he looks you over.
Realistically, you are in fine condition by now to dress yourself. The idea of him taking care of you and having his hands on you, however, is too enjoyable you fear you have grown attached. “Yeah,”
He nods, takes your towel off and sets it aside with a deep breath. He guides you to lean against the wooden sink cupboard and puts your legs one by one into your underwear, then soft pyjama pants. Lastly, he carefully guides your head into a warm fluffy sweater, helping your hands through the arm holes. “Feel better?” he asks lowly, hands smoothing your damp hair out.
“Yes. Thank you, Spence.” The return of the nickname brings a tiny smile to his face, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
He leads you out the bathroom, closing the door behind the two of you. “You should sleep, we’re leaving tomorrow morning.” He hums, lifting your blanket and nudging his head in the direction of your bed.
You chuckle, some characteristic wit returning to you. “You’re really enjoying playing nurse, huh?”
This time his smile is slightly more earnest. “Of course I am. Get in bed, please?”
With a smile and a shake of your head, you get in bed, letting him pull the blanket over you. For a moment he stays, and his eyes rush all over you before he seemingly catches himself and steps away, his throat bobbing as he does so.
“Good night,” he breathes as he gets in his own bed, flicking the lights off.
What feels like an entire hour of darkness is filled with the noises of his soft shifting against his mattress every few minutes. You on the other hand, do not shift. You lay on your back, watching the ceiling swirl with blue and purple, an illusion of the dark. You close your eyelids, rub them until colours spark and explode like little fireworks, and repeat. Eventually, you cannot bear it. You cannot bear going to sleep with Spencer thinking this was all in his head.
“Spence? Are you awake?” you just about whisper.
A rustle of sheets. “Yeah. Are you okay? Does it hurt anywhere?”
You shake your head, though you’re not quite sure he can make it out in the dark. “No. Can you come here?” you shut your eyes at how nervous the silence makes you, before the sheets rustle once again.
“Of course, yeah,” you swear his voice is nearly breathless when he answers. You scoot aside on your bed, making out his silhouette walking over to your bed, then his warm body slides under the blanket, hands respectfully clasped atop his stomach. He doesn’t ask, doesn’t rush, just there.
A breath, and an exhale. “About what?”
“What you said before. The ‘something’. You weren’t wrong, it was there.”
You hear him swallow, and the mattress dips as he releases his weight comfortably. “Okay, can you uhm, can you help me understand that?” his finger now taps on the backside of one of his hands, a nervous habit.
Copying him, you take a deep breath, and an exhale. “You asked me why I kissed you at the party. I wasn’t drunk, barely tipsy. I just wanted to kiss you. I wanted you to kiss me, too.” You dare to tilt your head to sneak a glance at him. Your eyes, adjusted to the dark by now, make out his furrowed eyebrows and the unmistakable sparkle in his eyes, how his tongue darts to wet his lips.
“Why did you lie about it?”
You expected his question, and rightfully so. It doesn’t stop the wave of nausea you get at the mere idea of getting that vulnerable with him, though. To lay your heart out in front of him, vessel by bleeding vessel, and tell him there, do with it as you will. “Because I was scared. I…. cherish you. You’re very special to me. I was worried I’d lose you if I let myself indulge in this, I didn’t realize I’d only hurt you more by denying it.” you scoot closer, bumping your shoulder at his arm and hope he gets the hint. He does, lifting his arm cautiously and allowing you to slide under, his hand settling on your own arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper with a small nudge into his side.
He sighs, shaking his head. “It’s okay, I’m not mad. I could never be mad at you. I was just confused, that’s all. I wanted to kiss you for so long, I got defensive when you seemed to regret it.”
You tilt your head to look at him, and a small smile blooms on your lips when you find him already looking, an equally shy grin on his lips. “How long?” you muster.
With a soft chuckle, he raises his eyebrows, his hands slowly beginning to soothe up and down your arm. “God… since I met you. Well, since our first case. We were paired together for the first time. I couldn’t stop looking at you, still can’t.”
Groaning, you momentarily hide your face in his side. “Spencer,”
“What? I thought we were being honest.” He smiles, nudging his nose against your hair in hopes of getting you to look at him again. It works.
“Too honest,” you smile back.
He hums, shaking his head with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “No, too honest would be to tell you I have feelings for you. Which I do.”
You laugh, scoffing. “Spencer!”
Joining in your laughter, he squeezes your arm lightly. “You don’t?” he asks, though you can hear the hint of nervousness underneath. Spencer knows how to push you to answer even if it’s uncomfortable. He has mastered the art of you.
“I do, you know I do.” Is your huffed answer.
The biggest, stupidest grin spreads on his face. He nearly bites his lip to stop it. “You do?”
He groans, resting his head on yours. “I really want to see you right now,”
You giggle, shrugging. “Then turn on the lamp,” its an invitation, you know it is and so does he, as he slowly moves to flick it on.
Now in the light, the rosy blush of his cheeks is visible (matching your own, you presume), and his smile widens as he takes the vision of you in. “Hi,”
“Is it now acceptable if I tell you you’re beautiful?” he hums.
With a nod you shift closer, eyes darting between his. “Yeah,”
“Good. Is it also acceptable if I kiss you again? I would like to.”
He smiles fondly, bringing his other arm to cup your cheek slowly. “Good,”
“Good,” you agree breathlessly, closing your eyes as his face inches closer to yours, and then his lips are on yours.
Its nothing like the first time. There’s no rush, no hurry. His lips slot between yours, kissing you languidly, like he’s pouring affection into you in its very essence with every pull. Soon enough he shifts for the sake of comfort, laying you on your back and following half-over you, though his lips don’t leave yours. You kiss him back, sliding a hand into his soft curls, lifting slightly to meet his lips more firmly.
He takes the sign to deepen the kiss, tugging your chin down slightly to lick into your mouth slowly. The greed from last time is present, the heat bubbling under his skin, though he appears to be keeping it on a tighter leash this time. A low sound escapes him as his tongue brushes against yours, drawing back to trace your lips yet again, sucking in a breath. “Perfect, you’re so perfect,” he whispers, before his lips lock with your again, tugging gently and releasing.
An equally embarrassing noise leaves your lips when he tugs on your bottom lip, rewarding you with one more of his before he pulls back for air, his breath on your lips and yours on his.
It’s quiet for a minute or two, barring for the soft pants coming from you both, before he opens his eyes, looking down at you. He clearly intended to keep his demeanor serious and heated, yet he cracks immediately when he sees you. Flushed, breathless, and ever-so beautiful, he can’t help but smile. “Better?”
Swallowing thickly, you nod. “Yeah. Yeah, better. Really good.”
He laughs at that, pressing a firm kiss to your cheek. “I’m very glad to hear that, any other points?”
You tsk, nudging him. “You’re making fun of me,”
Stifling another laugh, he shakes his head, smiling down at you like you’re another one of the star constellations he reads about. Shining, warm, human. “I’m not. I’m smiling because I’m happy. You have that effect on me.”
A secretly satisfied hum, and you’re shuffling closer to him. He allows it, resting back again and pulling you close. “Tired?”
He smiles, carding his fingers through your hair as he stretches a long arm and turns off the light. “Sleep then. I’ll be here.”
“You will,” you remind yourself, and you swear you hear him smile as he kisses your forehead.
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