Chapter 3: Fake fantasies and games
A surprise lecture from Spencer at Hopkins framed by falling cherry blossoms and Rossi's insufferable smirking has you feeling warm and hopeful in a way you aren't quite sure you ever have before. Until a stranger waxes poetic about the beauty of captivity, and Spencer's response leaves you with the quiet collapse of the version of yourself that still believed in justice. And the version of you that was almost ready to believe in him.
Word count: 3.6k
Masterlist
Warnings: nothing explicit but less fluffy than prior chapters, finally referencing prior murders and sexual assaults, also vomit
a/n: What does it say about me that I don't like reading angst because it's too upsetting but I feel like I enjoy writing them fighting/upset more than fluffy...
You are sifting through a mountain of impenetrable notes for an upcoming exam when your phone buzzes and Spencer’s name lights up the screen
“Hi, Spence,” you lean back in your chair and feel the familiar lightness settle through you as you answer his call.
“Hey,” he replies, his voice friendly and warm. “How’s it going?”
“Mildly panicked and over-caffeinated. You know, the usual,” you breathe out.
Spencer chuckles. “You know, you might be able to decrease your anxiety if you weren’t intentionally imbibing copious amounts of a stimulant.”
You roll your eyes even though you know he can’t see it. “What’s up?”
“I was wondering if you’re free next Monday morning.”
“Next Monday?” You frown in thought, quickly shoving your notes aside to flip through your planner.
“I just have a few lectures. Why?”
“Well,” he began, a hint of excitement in his tone, “I’m going to be giving a lecture at Hopkins on criminal profiling to their psychology graduate students. I thought maybe you’d want to come.”
Your heart skips a beat. “You’re coming here? To Hopkins?”
“Yes,” he says, clearly enjoying your reaction. “It’s part of a special lecture series and I have the special honors of representing the BAU,” okay there was a story there. “I thought it’d be fun to see you, and you know, maybe you’d enjoy a break from all the dense medical jargon…to instead hear much more uplifting anecdotes about violent criminal offenders…”
You laugh. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. I’d love to come. It’s about time I got to hear you lecture.”
By the time Monday arrives you are buzzing with anticipation. The morning passes in a blur of classes and lab work, and by the time 10 AM rolls around, you hurriedly slip into the lecture hall and settle into the back, eagerly waiting for Spencer and Rossi to begin.
You had hoped to catch them beforehand to say hello, but a lab that ran late shattered those intentions.
As the room fills with students and faculty, all eager to hear their guest lecturers, you can’t help but think back to the first time you’d met Spencer and the rest of the BAU team back in Texas. How lucky you were that they came. That he had come. Your life had been turned upside down, and he had been there to help pick up the pieces.
As Spencer and Rossi emerge at the front of the auditorium, you see Spencer’s eyes passing through the crowd—searching—until they finally land on you. His expression softens for a moment. You offer a small wave and reassuring smile in return.
“Good afternoon,” Rossi begins, his voice commanding and confident. “I’m Supervisory Special Agent David Rossi, and this is Dr. Spencer Reid, our resident genius at the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”
The crowd chuckles, and Spencer offers a shy smile as he adjusts his tie.
“We’re here today to discuss criminal profiling,” Spencer says, stepping forward. “How patterns in behavior can reveal not just what someone has done, but who they are and what they’re likely to do next.”
You watch as Spencer transforms before your eyes. He is completely in his element, weaving complex concepts into an engaging narrative. Rossi adds colorful anecdotes from their cases, grounding the theory in real-world examples.
Whenever Spencer’s gaze flickers in your direction, you have to restrain yourself from giving him a thumbs-up, and instead settle on what you hope is an encouraging smile. Your face beginning to ache from maintaining it.
You have a massive fear of public speaking. While you know Spencer thankfully does not share this, and is in fact quite confident speaking to a crowd, you still want to reassure him that he is doing a great job. His glances are fleeting, but every time he looks at you it makes your heart flutter.
A feeling you definitely are not going to question.
After the lecture, you wait as the crowd thins, lingering near the front as students and faculty ask questions. When the last attendee finally walks away from Spencer and turns their attention to Rossi, Spencer spots you and immediately smiles.
“You came” he says, stepping down from the podium, grinning widely.
“Of course I did,” you reply. “You were amazing, by the way. I have no idea how you do it. It’s really so impressive. You just make it look like the most natural thing in the world”
Spencer’s cheeks turn pink. “Thanks.”
The two of you rock back on your heels, and Spencer shoves his hands in his pockets, restraining the urge to reach out and hug you.
You had made him more carefree with his affection, but Rossi’s presence here was a strong deterrent.
“And I’m sorry no one else appreciated your philosophical lightbulb joke. Even though you know how much I hate philosophy. You can make anything sound good,” you said honestly.
Rossi, who had been quietly observing, smirks as he walks over. “So, this is the infamous, genius med student I’ve been hearing so much about.”
You raise an eyebrow but smile. “Genius?” You question. An absurd title to bestow upon you when Spencer Reid was right there.
“She’s far too modest,” Spencer interjects. “She’s brilliant.”
Rossi chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “That explains the medical textbooks you’ve been lugging around for months, Reid, you’re just trying to keep up?”
“Rossi,” Spencer groans, his ears turning even redder.
“I’m just saying,” Rossi teases, raising his hands in mock surrender. “It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”
Spencer finally remembers his manners, and formally introduces the two of you, and you reach out to shake Rossi’s hand.
The warm spring air greets you as you, Spencer, and Rossi step out of the lecture hall into the bustling Johns Hopkins campus. Spencer tucks his hands into his pockets, his posture relaxed for once. Rossi, on the other hand, carried the confident ease of someone used to commanding a room.
Spencer and Rossi banter lightly, with Rossi sneaking in occasional teases that make Spencer groan and you laugh.
“So,” Rossi says, glancing between you and Spencer with a knowing look. “How does it feel having a personal FBI tutor?”
“Pretty great, actually,” you reply with a grin. “His eidetic memory really comes in handy especially when I can’t remember enzyme pathways. I wish I could sneak him into my exams when I’m struggling to write out all the steps for glycolysis.”
Spencer shoots Rossi a warning glance. “Don’t start.”
“Who, me?” Rossi replies innocently. “I’m just appreciating how dedicated you are to helping your… friend.”
Spencer sighs, and you stifle a laugh, pretending you don’t hear his comments. And definitely pretending they don’t warm you to your core.
“You know,” Rossi says with a smirk, glancing at Spencer, “I have to hand it to you, Reid. You actually made criminal profiling sound like a branch of theoretical physics. That crowd didn’t know whether to take notes or get out their calculators.”
Spencer rolls his eyes but smiled. “I was just answering their questions.”
You laugh, walking between them. “For what it’s worth, I think you both did a wonderful job. If your goal was to lure some bright young minds into the FBI, I’m sure you succeeded” you share earnestly.
Rossi looks over at you, his smirk deepening. “And you? Are you thinking about switching from medicine to the FBI?”
“Not a chance,” you laugh. “Although that would be very Dana Scully of me! I’ll leave the serial killers to you two.”
“Smart choice,” Rossi says with a chuckle. “The hours are terrible, and the clientele leaves something to be desired.”
“Yeah,” you quip, “I’m going into medicine specifically for the easy hours it’s famous for.”
The three of you turn down a quieter path on campus, the lively chatter of students fading into the background.
The cherry blossoms above sway gently, their petals occasionally drifting down and landing in your hair. Spencer clenches his hands into fists inside his pockets before he can do something ridiculous like pluck them out.
A few more minutes pass by in easy banter before Rossi not so subtly extricates himself from the conversation.
“You don’t want to join us for lunch? I have extra meal card swipes just burning a hole in my pocket,” you try to be as welcoming as possible.
“As enticing as soggy salad and room temperature burgers sound, I have a date at The Ruxton,” Rossi declines.
“Don’t forget mushy French fries,” you unhelpfully supply.
Spencer’s expression pinches, not actually irritated just mildly amused, “Oh thanks, how convenient you got a reservation for a fancy steakhouse so you wouldn’t have to invite us along.”
“Kid,” Rossi laughed, “ it’s less about the lack of vegetarian friendly options and more about the company I’m going to be meeting there that’s preventing me from inviting you along.”
“Why am I not surprised that you have romantic entanglements across the eastern seaboard…”
“Hey!” Rossi pretends to be affronted by your light jab. “Don’t have too much frozen yogurt, Reid, don’t want you getting sick on the ride back.”
Spencer just blinks at him as he walks away, torn between being grateful and embarrassed by Rossi’s obvious ploy to give the two of you some much appreciated alone time together.
“Well,” you begin, laughing.
“Yes,” Spencer nods solemnly, continuing to follow you down the path.
“Coffee time?” You offer up, as much to satiate your actual need for a caffeine boost, as well as to cut through the unexpectedly awkward shift in atmosphere.
“Yes, please.” Spencer agrees, effusively polite, impossibly sweet as always.
Goddamnit.
You herd Spencer to an outdoor table while you run off to grab some sustenance for the two of you, and hope to use this moment alone to clear your head.
It’s all the teasing from your housemates. It’s the assumptions from his teammates. It doesn’t mean anything.
Fully armed with a black iced coffee and another large black iced coffee with 6 sugars, you see Spencer is no longer alone at the table you left him at.
You approach Spencer from behind, facing this mystery man, and come to recognize him as one of the audience members from the lecture.
You are horrible with faces…and names…but he stood out. Old the older end to be a student and a little too well dressed, a bit too young to be a professor. You had assumed he was a TA. So maybe you can't quite put a finger on why he had caught your attention at all.
He tilts his head slightly, as if thinking aloud and you can finally hear their conversation.
“Your point about control not needing to be violent to be effective—that really stood out to me. And the idea that rules actually reduce fear. People assume captivity is chaotic,” he says, the vowel clipped tight, like the word had corners.
“But it’s often the opposite. It can be very stable. At least when it’s managed correctly. It can be a beautiful thing,” there is a sharpness to the end of his speech.
He smiles again, pleased, as though he’d just summarized a particularly elegant theory instead of simply parroting back the key thesis of a lecture he had listened to only minutes before.
The air seems to thicken around you as his gaze flickers up to acknowledge you just slightly, before ignoring you completely again.
You assumed he had run into Spencer and joined him to continue discussing interesting points from his lecture, but Spencer’s rigid posture and the somewhat sinister undertone to his speech suggests this is something else entirely.
You see Spencer’s hands reflexively tighten and relax on the armrest of his chair, and his head tilt in your direction behind him but never fully turn around.
A shiver goes through you which feels entirely out of proportion to what you’ve heard so far.
But beneath the words, something is off. Something is wrong.
Spencer still has said nothing.
The man gestures around him, as if the quiet campus path were his stage.
“So many young people come here thinking they’re going to find themselves. Or reinvent themselves. Without realizing that what they’re really reacting to is choice. The pressure of it. The excess of it. Constant uncertainty. A lot of suffering comes from that. Not knowing what’s expected of you. What happens next.”
He folds his hands together. “Handing that responsibility over to someone else—having clear limits, clear direction—can actually be very relieving. For some people, it feels like freedom.
Spencer finally nods his head slowly, “That level of understanding tends to come from familiarity rather than theory.”
This stranger's language is too specific, less theoretical and more familiar, Spencer clocks it immediately and his gaze briefly flickers over to you where you have drifted to stand beside him.
The man hums, “surely,” he begins sharply, “ a man with your intellect doesn’t find it too impossible to exercise one’s imagination to the point that theory can feel real.”
“And have you thought much about putting these theories into practice?” Spencer questions.
“To reach its full potential,” he continues, his tone reverent, side stepping his question, “does perfection need to be witnessed?”
“An interesting question,” Spencer now stands up and fully steps in front of you, almost entirely blocking you from view, “we should continue this conversation at our field office so we can properly talk it through and find out.”
“You would let me into your top-secret FBI headquarters?” He asks, almost mockingly. “No, that’s quite alright. Seeing you, speaking with you, that’s been quite enough for now,” he moves to leave.
“Wait,” Spencer interjects smoothly, “we could use a mind like yours, at least tell us how we can contact you.”
It’s calculated. An appeal to ego. Whatever the man is, whatever he has already done or is planning to do, it takes a particular kind of confidence to approach a federal agent and speak the way he has and assume he could just walk away. He hopes stroking that bravado might keep him talking just a moment longer.
Spencer has no cause to demand identification, and he is well within his rights to refuse to comply.
“Oh, you do flatter me, but no. I do hope to see you around though,” his gaze drifts from Spencer before resting heavily on you as he continues, “sooner rather than later.”
And then he is gone, swallowed by the sudden surge of students spilling out of their afternoon classes, disappearing as easily as he’d arrived.
“What the fuck was that?” You can’t contain yourself, and you aren’t sure if Spencer is flinching in response to your language or your sudden bristling anger. “You are just letting him go?”
“I had nothing to hold him on. Nothing actionable,” Spencer responds weakly.
“He didn’t confess, or even truly imply a crime,” He continues with a hollow feeling in his chest. His words not ringing true to what he felt inside. “I couldn’t legally detain him.”
“So that’s it?” You huff in anger. “People might be in danger somewhere but because you don’t have enough proof you can’t do anything? Wow. Wonder where I’ve heard—experienced— something like that before.”
“I had no probable cause to detain him—“ Spencer tries again, reaching for you instinctively, but you angrily brush him off.
“I have classes to get to,” your voice tight, already turning around, “I—I can’t…” you trail off, hands shaking in fear or anger you aren’t quite sure, and decisively walk in the opposite direction from where the man disappeared to.
You clench your hands into fists so tightly you welcome the sting of your blunt fingernails as they press against your skin. They help ground you and stop you from looking back over at him. You don’t want to see him. You don’t want to think about him. You curse the familiar betrayal of angry tears as they begin to sting your eyes.
You don’t even know where you are headed, just that you need to get away. Far, far away.
What had you been thinking?
That you could trust, rely on him. On anyone.
Things never change.
You don’t keep track of how many missed calls and unanswered texts Spencer sends you.
He doesn’t get to tell you how he called Rossi back immediately, and that they coordinated with campus security to help Penelope Garcia scour hundreds of hours of security footage to get the clearest image of him. To track his every movement before and after your encounter.
That this man’s face turned up no hits in her facial recognition software, although that only tells them he was never arrested before. He doesn’t tell you that they can’t just run his face against driver’s licenses or passports without a warrant, and that no judge would authorize that with the flimsy story they have of a possible crime maybe being committed. Or going to be committed.
He doesn’t get to tell you that they couldn’t trace him back to a vehicle, but that they spent hours tracing back possible bus or subway routes that he could have taken, and reviewing station footage, only to come up empty again. He was a ghost.
And Spencer isn’t able to reassure you that they have looked into all missing persons cases from the Baltimore area over the past year and couldn’t find any connection between them.
As you lay immobile on the shared couch downstairs, grateful that your housemates were out, you are unable to gather the mental fortitude to do anything. Including even doom-scroll on your phone.
You simply track the path of cracks in the ceiling that is sorely overdue for some maintenance. Counting the branch points. Considering the very specific set of circumstances that had to come together to save you from the fate that the Deputy— that he— had tried to assign to you.
Was it just luck? It didn’t feel any more purposeful than that.
Someone had decided you were going to die.
On their path towards you they unintentionally murdered someone who meant something to someone important. To someone who really mattered.
How could you view it as anything other than chance that you hadn’t been targeted before that? Before political favors were cashed in and the BAU was finally sent to help and save the day. And as a byproduct of that to save you.
Depending on how much dilaudid Spencer happened to take with him to your little town in Texas you could have encountered him when he was either too high to care or suffering so badly through withdrawals that he was unable to care.
What would have happened to you if you didn’t cross paths precisely when he was just far enough out of withdrawal’s clutches that he was able to focus. To be concerned.
Seeing what you perceive to be inaction on the part of someone you respected and trusted…it was more than just hurtful. It was paralyzing. The worst kind of moral injury. It reminds you how helpless we all really are. How horrifyingly helpless you had been that night he finally got what he had wanted and took you out into the desert. And took what he wanted.
It forces you to reckon with how helpless you truly still are.
You want to believe in justice. In order. Despite what you had experienced first-hand with your father, the sheriff of your town who continues to preside with impunity despite suspicions that he had played a major role in covering up the series of sexual assaults which had preceded the eventual murders of those same women by his own Deputy.
You want to believe in this despite how you had lost your mother.
You feel worse than delusional for still hoping. You feel stupid.
Your mouth goes dry and your stomach flips early enough in warning that you are able to make it to the bathroom to expel the nothing you had eaten today.
Justice is nonexistent.
Why were you even alive? Chance.
There is no reason you could point to that explained why you were spared. You are beholden to the whims of fate and circumstances far beyond your control or understanding.
Why do you even want to become a doctor?
In university and internship interviews you could recite perfectly the rehearsed and flat lines about wanting to help others. To do something meaningful. Good. But you knew the real truth. You were clinging onto the delusion that this might give you some agency. Some sense of control. You couldn’t control your own circumstances, but maybe you could help someone else. Maybe for once you could do something instead of always having something done to you.
No one would care if you are a doctor.
What does that even mean anymore? You aren’t protected. Aren’t safe.
You may try and help someone but you will never be in control. There will always be something, someone, getting in your way.
Men will continue to get away with murder in broad daylight, revel in the deaths of their victims, and the rest of the world will move along as if it were any other day.
You chide yourself for your naive and foolish hopes that there could really be people out there like Spencer Reid—the way you had built him up to be in your head, not who he truly is—who would stand up for what was right. Who would help.
There will be no justice.
