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The Acklesverse
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I've been starting to work on my Ben Soulmate AU again because I've been feeling inspired! I'm going to tag people who have asked in the past, but please let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series!
Just A Little Something 😉
If The Stars Wish It So Masterlist
There was an elephant stomping around in your head as you wake from sleep, trumpeting like Tantor as he gallops through the jungle after Tarzan, and leaving a dull throb behind at the base of your skull.
An unpleasant ache settles in your bones, heavy and unfamiliar, while your muscles burn with exertion that you cannot remember, making you sink deeper into the mattress cradling your body.
You groan into your pillow, gently curling your fingers into the plush material as you begin to stir from a dreamless sleep.
Mornings were always rough for you and something that usually required a cup of strong coffee while you stood bleary eyed in your small kitchen trying to make sense of reality, but today easily took the cake.
Another groan works it's way up through your chest as you roll over onto your back, raising your right hand to rub your face, but you don't open your eyes.
Why do I feel hungover? I didn’t drink last night did I?
What’s this, a new chapter you say??? AHHHH!!!! I can’t wait to see my grumpy old man once more 💚 I should probably give it a reread to make sure I’m all caught up and remember what’s going on 😏😌😂
Summary: A few weeks after the reader's engagement party, life is not going well. Her mother has unexpectedly passed and she's stuck living with a happy couple while she's miserable. But Soldier Boy has come to visit for some unknown reason. He doesn't want her marrying Rodger Ellis and what Soldier Boy wants, Soldier Boy gets, no matter the cost...
Masterlist
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader
Word Count: 2,600ish
Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more
A/N: Whatever you think is about to happen in this part...just hold onto your hats folks because you're in for a ride 😉...
October 1957
“Y/N.” Your ears perked up at the sound of Clayton’s voice. “You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?” you sighed, exhausted despite not having done much of anything for three weeks besides lay about Rodger’s mansion. It was a cruel twist of fate that the moment you decided to give your mother what she wanted, a peaceful death, she died in her sleep two days later. Everything hurt but it didn’t. You’d been prepared. You knew it was happening and you knew she was happy to go. She’d spent thirty three years without your father and she was ready to be reunited.
But whereas watching Rodger and Clayton’s cute couple antics before had brought you joy, now they just made you bitter.
Bastards.
“Uh…Y/N…” You turned from your spot on the couch, reluctantly rising. In no way were you expecting a “real” visitor. All of your actual friends were currently mid-shift at the Bancroft residence and you already knew Griffin was pissed as hell that Louella had given the staff a few days off for the funeral.
Strike that. He was the bastard. Rodger and Clay were just the unfortunate victims of your grief.
Rodger’s home was tiny compared to the Bancroft’s or his own parents. Modest by their standards. A modest eight bedroom mansion with a library, two parlors and Rodger’s staff didn’t live on site. He actually could pour himself a cup of coffee or make his own bed. For some reason that concept was bewildering to most of the people Rodger and Clayton called friends.
You left Clayton on your tail as you turned down a short hall to the foyer area. You steps slowed when you saw the back of your visitor, Rodger facing you with fascination all over his face.
“What the…” you muttered to yourself, Rodger’s glance at you causing your visitor to turn. He wore a somber smile, a bouquet of white lilies and purple petunias in his deep red fingerless leather gloves. Clay’s hand on your back propelled you forward, walking you over to the man in the tight green uniform, a chest plate over his front, a holster on one side of his hips, a knife the other.
He wore no face mask like he often did, just baring it all to the world today it seemed. Hair combed with a tiny wave to it, looking boyish in one second and all Alpha male in the next breath. It wasn’t like you’d never seen him in uniform before. Countless times in advertisements, the paper, magazines.
In person though you felt the power radiate off him, a raw strength that permeated every speck of the air. Rodger and Clayton were both tall men, both fit and broad shouldered and even they both felt small compared to the man before you.
“You know Soldier Boy?” asked Clayton, neither he or Rodger hiding the way they looked Ben up and down like they wouldn’t sell a kidney to be able to drag him to their bed for a night.
“I heard of your mother’s passing,” said Soldier Boy, ignoring the men fawning over him. One step, another, his hands extending the flowers. Your mother’s favorites. He stared down, a flash of pain in his eyes. “She was a lovely woman. Hopefully she’s with your father now.”
Slowly you took the flowers, Ben’s finger grazing the back of your hand in the pass off. You cleared your throat, nodding at him. “I didn’t realize Soldier Boy cared about the death of house maids. Aren’t you busy saving the world?”
He narrowed his eyes out of view of the boys, a warning in it. “Your mother tended to my unit after Normandy. She was a field medic, was she not?”
“What?” you asked, Ben nodding, surprised washing over his features. “My mother was in goddamn Normandy?”
“She never told you she went overseas?” he said quietly, your head shaking. He flew on a fake smile, a sternness to it, glancing back over his shoulder. “Fellas, I need to have a private conversation with Ms. Y/L/N here.”
“Of course,” said Clayton, his gaze going to you. “As long as Y/N is comfortable here alone with you.”
Ben’s eyebrows shot up, flickering between Rodger and Clayton. Rodger stepped forward, lifting his chin. Ben angled his body towards them both, their awe of him quickly shifting, an edge of fear in both their stances. “There a particular reason you boys think she wouldn’t be comfortable with me?”
“We didn’t mean offense,” said Clayton, holding up a hand, Ben looking him up and down. “It’s just we don’t…know you.”
“Little advice, Clay,” said Ben, striding two large steps over, boring his eyes straight into Clayton’s, his whole body a ball of nerves. Rodger shot you a look, as if he was afraid Soldier Boy was about to attack and you somehow could stop it. Another day, you would have stepped in, cut Ben off right then and there.
Clayton wasn’t in danger though and you simply set the flowers down on a hall table, crossing your arms to watch the show.
“I’m not the one in this house that she has to worry about. I’m not the one who’s daddy paid off a slew of police officers and that girls family to keep quiet, hm? Oh, I’m sorry. That was Rodger’s father, wasn’t it?”
Your head whipped over to Rodger, his face beat red, both you and Clayton staring at him. Soldier Boy took a step back towards you, tilting his head. He didn’t stop until he was beside you, bending down until his lips were brushing your ear. A low growl emitted from his throat, raspy, deep. “You’ll marry Rodger Ellis over my dead fucking body.”
“I did no such thing-” Rodger started before Ben snapped his body upright, head tilted. You couldn’t see it but you just knew he was giving him a look that could kill.
“I don’t think you realize who I am, Rodger.” Ben’s fingers flexed, Rodger’s eyes drifting downwards to them. “I kill nazis. Commies. The monsters, Rodger.” Ben crossed the foyer, poking a finger into Rodger’s chest, forcing the man to stumble backwards. “What to do with you…”
“I-I have money-” Ben’s hand shot out, gripping Rodger’s throat. He didn’t squeeze. You were sure Rodger’s neck would have broken if Ben applied any real pressure. Instead, Ben threw him on the floor, Rodger rolling to his back.
“Tell them the truth Mr. Ellis or I’ll rip your balls off and make you choke to death on them.” Rodger looked over to Clayton first, then you, Ben’s loud footstep forcing his attention to the powerful presence looming over him, ready to crush him under his boot.
“T-There was a girl. High school girl, waitress down at Broadwick. I swear, I thought she was older-” Ben’s foot rested over Rodger’s ankle, one simple press down would shatter it beyond repair. You watched his boot shift ever so slightly and you knew in your gut Ben wanted to break it. Any excuse to and it’d be over like that.
You knew you should have been calming Ben down, let Rodger explain whatever this was more calmly.
Yet…Ben’s turn towards something darker didn’t frighten you. He was acting out this show for you and you alone. Ben wouldn’t do something truly awful in your presence, wouldn’t subject you to that. Anger was an emotion Ben knew well but violence? Benjamin wasn’t that sort of man that, or at least he hadn’t been. Which meant whatever Rodger had done, was enough to make Ben snap.
“Talk,” growled Clayton, the bridge between he and his former beloved growing by the microsecond which led you to believe perhaps he knew Rodger had a side you’d never seen. “Did you sleep with the girl?”
“I tried to,” Rodger claimed, Ben’s head tilted to the side. “I-I should have backed off when she said no.”
“That’s an interesting way of saying you stalked, cornered, and attacked the girl after her shift. Lucky for her, she got away. Even luckier for you, her family was in pretty serious debt and took a payoff to keep quiet. You’re smart like that, aren’t you Rodger? Go after the working class girls that need money. You ever tell Y/N here how she’s the third girl you’ve been engaged to? The others always seemed to have a change of heart.”
“Soldier Boy’s right,” said Clayton, narrowed eyes down on Rodger. “There were two women before you. Rodge said they got cold feet on the idea and ran off.”
“So many lies, Rodge. What to do with you,” taunted Ben, squatting down, letting his weight settle down on the bones underneath him. Rodger groaned, Ben smirking. “There’s a reason your parents are disappointed in you and it’s not because of your little boyfriend, is it, Rodger? Perhaps it’s the way both those girls disappeared off the face of the planet? Girls with no family. Wild guess, but maybe the reason your parents were so mean to Y/N is that they knew just how truly fucked up their boy is. In their own way, they were trying to protect her from their demon spawn child.”
Ben smiled and stood up, clasping his hands together. “So, Clayton, what do you want to do with your murderous, scum of the earth boyfriend? I know you’ve got a trust, you’ll be fine. I’ll personally see to it that Ms. Y/L/N is well-taken care of for the rest of her days.”
Clayton stared at Rodger, a dark scowl crawling across his face. Clearly there were things you didn’t know, things that had Clay not doubting Soldier Boy’s word. You fought back a shudder. Rodger had seemed like a nice man. He’d been the one to bring up the deal for marrying him, not you. He’d cracked jokes and hadn’t cared about how improper you could act. He was a perfect gentleman.
“We should go a proper honeymoon to sell it. My family owns property in Colorado. We could go skiing.”
“We? Isn’t Clayton coming with us?”
“I don’t think I can invite him on our honeymoon,” he chuckled. “You deserve a nice vacation. I’m sure once your mother heads to Switzerland, you’ll want to spend time there. Enjoy it as one last break. Besides, it’ll give us some alone time to really come up with our married life charade”
You’d hummed, smiling at him after a beat. “Okay. But you’ll have to teach me out to ski. I don’t want to break anything.”
Only know could you understand that smile and laugh he’d given you wasn’t a kind one. He’d never intended on you coming back from Colorado at all.
Ben didn’t want you to marry Rodger but this…this was no elaborate lie. That’s why Ben was making a performance of this right in front of Clayton. His reaction was proof enough if for some reason you hadn’t trusted Ben, hadn’t had any puzzle pieces yourself to put it together.
But you had. You knew Ben wouldn’t lie about such things and protecting you…that was as simple as breathing to him. You’d almost married a monster and Ben was here to slay the beast.
“She’ll be okay?” Clayton asked, Ben nodding. He gave one harsh look to Rodger, hands clenched by his sides. “I say we make sure he can’t hurt anyone again.”
“Excellent choice,” said Ben, Rodger squealing as you stepped forward, stopping Ben in his tracks. “Y/N. I suggest you and Clayton go out for lunch, do some shopping. Somewhere public.”
“Great idea,” said Clayton, extending an arm out towards you, Rodger trying to backup on his knees only for Ben to grab his leg and get yanked directly underneath him. Ben settled one boot directly on Rodger’s chest, effectively pinning him down. “Y/N, let’s leave Soldier Boy to it.”
“Go pull the car around, Clay. I need to put on something more appropriate. I’ll only be a moment,” you said. He waited a beat before he was exiting out the front door, leaving you alone with a whimpering Rodger and Ben, not even bothering to look at the man on the ground anymore.
“Y/N, talk to him, please-”
“How long have you known about what a piece of filth he is?” you asked, Ben sighing. “The fuck is going on? Did Clayton know?”
“Not until today. I put out some feelers with Vought after your engagement party. Took a minute to unravel it all but they informed me this morning about his history. They can’t prove in court he murdered those previous fiancés of his but they know he did it. Our guy suspects he was involved in the disappearance of at least three additional women and two men over the past fifteen years. As you’re aware, Clayton travels often for his work. He was never involved and never knew. Vought belives he suspected something was off though and me showing up just confirmed his worst fears. As soon as I found out, I came straight here. I would suggest you and Clay don’t come home until night falls. By then Ellis’ body will have been found.”
Rodger turned his head back, eyes silently pleading. You stared down, cocking your head. “If you think I’m going to help you psycho because of my delicate feminine sensibilities against violence, I’m sorry to disappoint. I’m very much in favor of violence when earned.”
“It’s true. She broke a man’s leg when she was fifteen years old at my family’s estate. Bet she would have kicked your ass when you decided to try something,” said Ben. Rodger’s fear flickered for a brief moment, head cocking. Ben held up his hand, giving a mock wave. “Come on, Ellis. I lived down the hall from you for six years at boarding school. You don’t recognize your old buddy, Ben?”
“Benjamin Bancroft? You’re Soldier Boy? What the-” You kicked Rodger in the head, not hard enough to do any real damage but it made him shut up at least, his hands wrapping around himself protectively. Ben smirked at you with raised eyebrows.
“I tripped. Into his face,” you said, doing it again, Rodger groaning. “Whoops.”
“So clumsy of you,” he said, slamming his foot down between Rodger’s legs right on his nuts, a shrieking howl filling every inch of the room. “Whoops.”
“I’m going to change,” you said, walking around them to the staircase, Ben leaning down to grab the back of Rodger’s collar, dragging him along after him. He turned down a hallway, back towards Rodger’s study. “Benjamin.”
“Yeah?” You paused on the steps, looking over your shoulder to him, a strange twist of desire in your gut. Apparently vigilante justice turned you on.
“Try not to make a mess. I don’t want the staff to have to clean up…you know,” you said. Ben’s face softened, no malice in it, only a comfortable smile that made him look far too cute for a man about to commit murder.
“Don’t worry about us. I have plans for this fella that’ll happen nowhere near here,” said Ben, giving you a salute before he was moving again, Rodger struggling against him. “I’ll see you tonight, sweetheart.”
“Y/N! Y/N, stop him!” shouted Rodger as they went out of view. “Y/N!”
You glanced up at the ceiling, taking a deep breath, knowing you were going to hell for not giving a single damn about what was about to happen to Rodger Ellis.
A/N: Read Part 3 and all other parts on Ao3!
A/N: Bet you guys weren't expecting that turn of events for Rodger! What do you think of Ben showing up as Soldier Boy? Of his interference actually saving the reader through some vigilante justice? Where do you think Ben and reader will go from here? 👀
HO-LY. SHIT. I was NOT expecting that twist!!! And here I thought Rodger was one of the good guys. Thank God for Ben’s jealousy and need to check into him, otherwise Reader would have been gone. Although, what baffles me is why did Clayton stay with him if he suspected him to be someone not who he portrayed himself to be? Like, make it make sense.
Kay so, it’s time for me to run to AO3. BYYYYEEEEE!
Notes: main character’s powers are elemental and effect the weather when emotions aren’t in check (fire, lightening, water, wind, earth, etc.)
- Italics -> past
A big thank you to my sister for showing me this song🩷 And another thank you to @bobabilbil for proof reading most of this lol💜
//
“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!!!”
Soldier Boy nearly missed the kitchen knife flying through the air and imbedding into the plaster, “Christ on a cross, doll. Relax!”
“Relax? RELAX?!?” she screeched at the half-dressed man, “I catch you fucking Crimson Countess in our bed, and you tell me to RELAX?!?”
The mentioned woman sauntered through the bedroom door wearing HER black negligee, smoke from a cigarette wafting around her wrecked red hair. The bitch had the audacity to slink to his side to watch the implosion of this relationship. Electricity crackled in the air as her eyes began to glow with more than just rage. He took a step forward, “Quit acting so surprised. You knew what you were signing up for, Sparky.”
Lightning flared around her fingers at the pet name, “Don’t call me that ever again! I should have known you couldn’t help yourself, but I was hoping you wouldn’t be so fucking predictable, so fucking stupid. What was it? Had to find out if the carpet is as obnoxious as the drapes?”
“Watch it,” he warned. Where he found the audacity to be warning her about anything in this situation was an irritating mystery.
“Or what? You’ll kick me off the team? I’ll do you one better, I FUCKING QUIT! I’m done with this team, but most of all, I’m done with YOU, Soldier Boy!”
She was a whirlwind of emotions and elemental power as she stormed into their wrecked bedroom: door off its hinge, ripped pillows and sheets, broken furniture, the aftermath of fucking a supe like him. She packed furiously, tuning out his regular tantrum of telling her how she’ll come crawling back, won’t make it on her own, she needs him, blah, blah, blah. It was the same shit every time.
This wasn’t like the last few times, she’d never caught him, seen him in his infidelity. He’d crossed the line this time. Not only did she catch him cheating, but he was cheating in THEIR bed with THEIR teammate while the little whore wore HER lingerie. It was the knife in her eye she needed to finally wake up.
“You’re not going anywhere. You’ll be back in a few days like always. Ya know why?” he invaded her personal space as she shoved a whole drawer into a duffle bag, “Because you need me, honey. You need me and all the shit that comes with me. You ain’t shit without me!”
“I don’t care anymore, Ben!” she cried, slinging the bag over her shoulder.
The use of his real name stunned him into silence. The small pause gave her the chance to march past him and Countess, who had silently watched everything with a triumphant smile. She was furious, a woman scorned who’d had enough, but inside her chest, her heart was breaking. Like it was ripping down the middle to wither and die. Ben’s booming voice echoed down the hall after her. The further she walked away, the more her resolve broke and tears breached her lashes. As her cheeks became wet, a rumble of thunder followed the sound of drizzling outside.
This truly was the last time. She couldn’t take the pain of loving him any longer. Why fight to keep the pieces together when he’s so determined to break them?
//
Present Day
That last moment played in her head as she stared at the case file on her coffee table, a blurry still from a security footage of the undoubtable glared at her. Her heart seemed to stop beating then quickly picked back up as her brain short circuited. Her eyes snapped up to the guests that brought her decades long peace to a halt: a dark brooding British guy, a skinny nerd, and blondie from the Seven.
After living through the last half century, she’d disappeared from supe life to focus on herself. It took a long time to forget about Ben, the famous Soldier Boy, and forgive him in her own way. She did the work to move on. That’s what she believed.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, calming herself to keep a down pour from clouding the sky, “It’s not possible…I went to his funeral. H-How is he alive?”
The British one, Butcher, spoke up, leaning forward to shuffle the papers around and reveal a photo of a facility, “Russians had ‘im on ice for the last for’y years.”
The mention of the Reds had her head spinning even more, “Russians? On ice? What does that mean? W-Why did the Russians have him?”
“I think you know, love,” Butcher stated matter of factly, “We ‘eared tell it was yous and the rest of Payback’s idea to get rid of the bastard. That under the table deal with Vought really helped put that idea in motion, ay?
They must have not expected the genuine look of deep confusion and pain to smear across her expression. Her gaze flicked back down to the file before spreading out the papers, eyes scanning rapidly for where in this document it made this outrageous claim. When she finally looked back up, her expression was unreadable. Inside her mind was a whirling storm of the past: Ben’s smile, his temper, Payback’s vanity and hatred, resentment. It all came flooding back, but there was no way they could have done this. He was too powerful, wasn’t he?
“The only way those band of limp dicks and saggy tits coulda figured out ‘ow to subdue ‘im, is if they had themselves a lil’ inside lady that bounced on ‘is cock till all those secrets came tumblin’ out,” Butcher leant back against the couch, popping a cigarette in his mouth before flicking a lighter to life.
Breath caught in her throat, “You’re crazy if you think I gave those egotistical fucks shit after I left. I had nothing to do with this!”
“Not so crazy. I mean, everyone knows ‘bout Soldier Boy’s many dalliances with every actress, model, and strippa’ of the time. It’s in every bloomin’ docu-series ‘bout the wanker. A deep betrayal from a man you were quoted to once ‘want ta marry’,” smoke shot from his nose, cold stare waiting for her to crack, “Must’a made yer blood boil.”
“Fuck you. Fuck all of you! Get the fuck out of my house!” rage sent her to her feet as flames flickered from her fingertips.
The three stood up, Starlight stepping forward to bring the peace, “Look, we just need your help finding him. You’re the only former teammate who hasn’t tried to kill us yet, and we need to find him!”
“Screw you! You come into my home accusing me of murder, conspiring with the dipshit parade, and expect me to help? Like hell I’ll help you!”
Hughie suddenly butted in, “That explosion in Midtown? The one that destroyed a whole block? That was him.”
Her stomach dropped to her feet, a heavy silence settling over the four of them, “You’re…You’re lying. He wouldn’t do that.” Glancing down at the file again, there was a picture of a building blown to rubble, corpses strewn about. It’s all the news had been talking about for the past 24 hours. He…killed all those people?
“Look, we don’t know where he’s gonna go or what he’s gonna do. We’re going off a file and some has been supes half-baked memories and…it’s brought us here,” Hughie stepped around his girlfriend to stand in front of the seething woman, “We need to find him before somebody else does.”
Why did this kid have to be right? A defeated sigh escaped her nose. Their asshole leader aside, they were the only ones doing anything to find him and stop Vought. She had to push aside her emotions for the moment for the greater good. “The Legend…he might have an idea where the rest of Payback is.”
//
She needed that make shift task force out of her way for what she was about to do.
Her boots crunched against the gravel as she marched towards the shitty trailer. You could taste the elemental power in the air, like copper and iron. The information shocked awake a bleeding heart, feelings she became aware she’d buried not dealt with. Well, she was gonna deal with some of those bitches now. As she climbed up the steps to peer through the door, she heard frantic rustling inside, clattering of items and drawers slamming shut.
‘Is this bitch trying to skip town?!?’
The inside of her hand was already glowing red as she grabbed the door knob, cocking her head to enjoy the way the metal melted between her fingers and scorched the wood around it. The evil little voice in the back of her head had been waiting decades for this moment. A gentle push swung the door open, and she calmly strolled inside towards the back bedroom.
All she could see was Countess hunched over the end of her bed, hurriedly shoving clothes upon clothes into a bag. A beat passed before all that emotion suddenly narrowed, a stillness that was more frightening than flying off the handle. This was controlled rage. Countess had every right to be scared out of her mind, but Soldier Boy would be the least of her troubles.
“The last time I saw you was forty years ago…and you were in black.”
Countess screamed as she turned around, hands instinctively coming closer together, but she was faster. Her hand flew up, lightning shooting from her palm and into the other woman’s chest. The red head flew back against the wall then collapsed to the bed gasping for air.
Finally seeing her face up close for the first time, she saw the evidence of the passing decades. Countess no longer looked like that young little red head that slept her way into Payback, but rather a middle aged woman in a silly costume, clinging to the glory days and a lie.
“That V didn’t do you any favors.”
Through her frantic gasping she managed to utter, “Y-Y….Y-Y-Y…ou!”
“Find out your old boyfriend is alive and the first thing you do is run? What kind of girlfriend are you?”
Countess groaned in pain as she threw her head back to focus on breathing, “B-Bitch!”
“Karma tends to be,” with a few flicks of her fingers, water encased and froze around Countess’s hands making her scream as her skin burned, “So how’d it feel? Hm? Trying to take my place? How’d it feel to be under his thumb?”
Countess stopped struggling, eyeing the free supe as she stepped around the bed, “He was a monster.”
“Soldier Boy was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a monster. The real monster is flying around New York in a star spangled cape,” she barked back, “He was a bastard till the end, but he didn’t deserve what you fuckers did to him.”
Countess’s lip quivered in rage, “That bastard put us all through hell! Even you! And you’re defending him?!?”
“YOU SOLD HIM LIKE A LAB RAT!!!”
A roll of thunder nearly shook the trailer.
The red head scoffed at the out burst, “Fuck! Spare me that heartbroken bullshit! He treated you the worst!”
She felt the warm surge of power behind her eyes, rage bubbling and about to boil over. Her jaw ticked, “This has been coming for you for a long time, Countess. I just want to get a few licks in before Soldier Boy turns you into charcoal.”
Countess struggled against her restraints as the air crackled with a strong surge of power, her captor beginning to radiate an unbearable heat.
//
They sucked at the roles of a grieving team.
They didn’t hide their lack of remorse very well, standing over his casket dabbing away invisible tears and sobbing into their hands. Pathetic. None of them gave a shit about him.
She remained invisible in the crowd of mourners. An old friend in security gave her clearance to the cemetery as long as she stayed out of sight. She couldn’t believe it. She wouldn’t, but reality came crashing down with each shot of the 21 gun salute. Her stomach twisted into knots, and her heart felt like it was being torn open all over again. The impossible had happened, and it was happening before her eyes.
The mourners, the fans, and employees of Vought slowly dispersed until the cemetery was empty. She finally approached, each step harder than the last. The coffin had an American flag wrapped around the lid, decorated with many beautiful floral arrangements, cards and dedications from fans, but underneath the sleek finish and decor was a lead-lined box and the radioactive remains of the man she once loved. A sob stuck in her throat as she placed a soft hand upon the wood. For a moment, she prayed for him to be alive, willed God to start his heart again and explode from the box.
“You fucking bastard,” she choked before her forehead pressed against the starchy flag, “Why’d you have to go and get yourself killed?!?”
Her hand clutched her sick gut as she began to shake. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, thunder rumbled over head as fat droplets began to pelt the tarp protecting the burial site.
“Why?” she mumbled over and over again before turning into full sobbing.
She hated him.
She loved him.
It was fucked whatever they had.
The world was cruel and sick for making her fall in love with him, for even putting him in her life. Loving him had brought so much pain and suffering, but losing him felt so much worse.
//
It took two hours to make it home, taking backroads and side streets to throw off anyone’s tracks. The whole drive an emptiness, a cold familiar emptiness, sat on her chest like a rock. The last time it had hurt this bad was that fateful day 40 something years ago.
She calmly walked into the darkness of her home. If anything had been misplaced, she didn’t notice, hellbent on the kitchen and a bottle of tequila. The glass clattered on the counter before tequila was half hazardous poured in. In quick succession, she took three shots back to back. It burned all the way down, but wasn’t enough to get her even buzzed.
“Supe metabolisms sure are a bitch, aren’t they, Sparky?”
She stopped breathing. Her throat closed as the sound was sucked from the room. He was somewhere in the darkness, but she couldn’t pin point where. The smell of weed and the sound of a burning cherry floated behind her. Impulse kicked in, dropping the tequila bottle and rushing forward to jump the island. A large hand closed around the back of her neck to haul her backwards, slamming her into the wall.
She groaned as the air was knocked from her lungs and even more restricted by the hand around her throat. Her hands surged with fire and electricity as she pried at his forearm and wrist. A growl rumbled, and he squeezed tighter as he punched her in the gut, a bright, glowing heat beginning to shine from his chest. When she finally stopped fighting, struggling for a breath instead, his grip loosened to allow her air. The light in his chest dimmed until it was gone.
The kitchen light suddenly flicked on, and for the first time in decades, there he was, alive as the day she walked out. The shock was more jolting than she could have ever anticipated. It dominated over her other emotions.
“I haven’t seen you this pale since New Year’s Eve, 1978. Hell of a party when you end up face hugging the John,” he was teasing her but his face was stone cold.
Her mouth opened to speak, but she couldn’t. There was so much to say, 40 years of shit to say. Wind rushed outside and blew hard against the house, unsettling the frame until it creaked and groaned. Ben looking around at the ceiling before glancing out the window at the trees rattling violently.
His eyes were full of rage when he looked back at her, “Lot on your mind, Sparky? I’d imagine since I’m supposed to be with the ruskies!”
She gasped when he flexed his grip, “I-! It w-wasn’t-“
“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” he growled and squeezed until she stopped trying to speak, “You had all these fucking tears and tantrums about how much you loved me, and what did you do? You fuckin’ sold me to the commies!”
“I-I,” she grabbed his forearm again, digging and clawing, “I-It wa-wasn’t me!”
A snarl marred his face, the glow returning, “LIAR! I trusted you! I fucking loved you, you stupid bitch, and you betrayed me for nothing!”
He loved her? LOVED her? Fuck him! Her anger and power channeled into the swift kick to his stomach. A flood of air hit her brain when he dropped her, and she became light headed, stumbling away from him.
“Y-You…You didn’t love me! You wanted so-someone to…love you!” she coughed, rubbing her throat.
Ben groaned before straightening up, “And you wanted the paycheck that came with taking my loads!”
A scream ripped through her throat as she shot a blast of icy air into his body, sending him flying against the wall. The plaster dented, the edges crumbling as he pulled himself from the crater.
“You’re even more arrogant than I remember!” she screeched, “You should have seen it coming from a mile away! You treated everyone like they were nothin’ but shit on your boots!”
“Not you!” he argued, stepping towards her, “I fucking loved you!”
“Shut up! Shut the fuck up!” every time he said it, it infuriated her more, “You were a liar then and you’re a liar now!”
“At least I’m not a fucking communist bitch!” Ben roared, tackling her before she had a chance to react.
They struggled against one another, both on the verge of a literal explosion. She burned and electrocuted him where ever her hands grabbed, trying to hurt him as much as he’d hurt her. He suddenly got the upper hand when he shoved his forearm against her throat and kept her body snug between the wall and him. Eyes flashed with fury, hurt, raw emotion, the storm outside only becoming worse the longer she struggled with him.
Nails dug into his arm, gritting her teeth before seething, “It wasn’t me, but I wish it was!”
Ben snarled, a humming sound filling the air as the light began to radiate from his chest again. But, a conversation gnawed on his memory. Something his new friend said.
“How’d you do it?”
“Lil’ help from a scorned woman, I s’pose. The lady in red was near frost-bitten when I got ‘ere,” Butcher shrugged, “And uh, I might know where ta find this otha’ ex’a yours.”
Ben raised a suspicious brow, “What do you want?”
Butcher shook his head, “Nuffin’. Bird gave me the run ‘round, so I owe ‘er one.”
The glow dimmed, the pressure on her throat eased, he was suddenly deep in thought. As Butcher had driven towards her home, he glanced at the case file that had her supe-sona written in black marker. The corner of a photo stuck out, so he pulled on it. He felt something twist in his chest seeing the image of her sobbing at his coffin, alone. It was a little out of focus and taken from somewhere secret, the type of photo so emotionally raw that paparazzi would sacrifice their souls to exploit it for publicity. The wind softened from a roar to a loud whistle, thunder grumbling as it settles uneasily like her nerves.
“Why were you at my funeral?” he asked quietly.
She inhaled, emotion twisted her stomach and burned her throat.
“The crumpet muncher showed me the picture. Why were you there?” he demanded, “Goddamnit, if you hated me so much why the fuck were you there?!?”
Her eyes burned, raindrops pelted the windows as she turned away from him. The tears and emotion were welling up inside her, but she wouldn’t let him see her like this. Not again.
“Just kill me and be done with it, Ben!” her throat hurt as she croaked out the order.
His free hand came up and took her face in its hold, forcing her red, teary eyes to his, “I’m not killing anyone until I get the truth!”
The rain came faster as she violently shook her head, desperately trying to pry his arm off her neck, “I-I can’t tell you!”
“Why not?!?”
“Be-Be-Because…,” she didn’t want to say it, couldn’t say it out loud. It would break her heart all over again.
“After 4-fuckin’-decades of torture, of nightmares, of degrading experiments, of false hope, I deserve the fuckin’ truth!” Ben roared.
The tears were hot sliding down her cheeks. Anxiety in the purest form gripped her, her insides hurt like they were coiling around one another, forcing her confession to stay inside. She should tell him but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to relive all of it. What finally broke her resolve was the pure desperate look hidden in his eyes. His body was full of rage, but his eyes were a storm. There wasn’t any other choice.
“I had to say goodbye,” her lip trembled at the admission, “I loved you, Ben. No matter how many times I tried not to, I did.”
Silence. The pressure on her throat lessened. “Why did you go after Countess?” he asked.
She swallowed the lump in her throat, “What do you want me to say?“
“The truth, Sparky.”
“Because I still love you! Happy?!? I still love you after all these decades and all the fucking bullshit you put me through!”
His forearm disappeared before he grabbed the back of her neck, smashing their lips together. Her shocked scream gave his tongue the chance to invade her mouth. She couldn’t stop her eyes from fluttering closed and her body going slack. His kiss, his taste, everything about him felt better than she remembered. Ben moaned as their tongues fought and her arms clung to his neck, prompting him to pick her up and wrap her around him. Through tangled lips, she mumbled directions to her bedroom. He yanked her off the wall and strode down the hall with determination.
She almost remembered every latch and zipper needed to begin freeing his gorgeous body. The door was kicked open, and she was tossed on the bed. They were ravenous, desperate trying to get the rest of his suit off.
“I-I don’t remember this being so hard to get off,” she breathed against his neck. Her fingers trembled as she fidgeted with a stuck zipper.
His chuckle trickled into her ear and down her spine, “Imagine tryna get back in it after all this time.”
The hefty kevlar and skin tight fabric were left at the end of the bed before he was dragged over her body. Blunt teeth nipped her skin causing sweet mewls and gasps to escape. She allowed her hands to roam across the entire canvas of his body, mesmerized by every hard line and the sheer power of his muscles. “Y-You sure you’re g-gonna last?” she teased, moans bleeding into her sentence, “O-or e-even get it u-up?”
He suddenly hiked her thighs to wrap around his waist, his heavy manhood sliding between slick folds, “You know better than to tease me, Sparky.”
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t stutter as he thrust inside her. Her heels dug into his ass, nails into his shoulder blades, and her head thrown back into the pillow as pure bliss took over. He groaned feeling her warm walls suck him in, “Fuck, you feel so good, baby!” She arched her hips up until he took the hint and started a rough pace, thrusting hard to reshape her insides to him again. He left bruises in the shape of his mouth along the column of her neck, he was the only man that ever could. One hand went into his hair and pulled his mouth to hers, nipping his bottom lip to make him growl. The pain made his thrusts harsher against her cervix.
“Gonna take back whatcha said?” he slurred.
She squealed as he pushed one of her legs towards her chest, “Fu-uck!”
He chuckled, but internally he was fighting to get a grip. It had been so, so long since he’d been inside a woman who could get so wet naturally he was having trouble focusing. Ben tried to ignore the burning in his gut, focusing on feeling her, listening to her, being with her again like it was 1975 without blowing his load like some fucking short dick virgin on prom night.
The headboard began to slam into the wall repeatedly, drowned out only by her moaning and gasping. Outside, the storm brewed by her fear and anxiety had died down, but he didn’t miss the quiet patter of raindrops, her cheeks wetting his, tears seeping saltiness between their moving lips. When he pulled back to see her face, he saw the tears quietly trickling down her face and from the corners of her eyes. His heart clenched, and he released his hold on her leg to cradle the side of her face, wiping the sadness away with a gentle thumb.
“Why are you crying?” he whispered.
She sniffled, nuzzling her lips into his warm palm, “They told me you were dead. I should have looked for you. I-I should have known they were lying after…”
“Ssh. Don’t do that. None of that shit, you’re better than that,” he stopped her, “You didn’t know.”
Reaching up, she took the hand holding her cheek and laced their fingers together. He reacted by pining it to the mattress and began his rhythm again. Her toes curled as the pleasure built, the sadness she felt disappearing into urgency once again. The band was about to snap, but she didn’t want it to end just yet. Their tongues danced together in a desperate kiss as Ben snapped his hips with purpose.
His free hand snaked between their bodies to circle her soaked clit, desperate to feel her cunt spasm and tighten around him.
“Give it to me, honey, I can’t finish until you do,” he groaned.
She whimpered, widening her thighs further apart (if that was possible).
“Fuck…” her house could be burning down around them but he wouldn’t have cared. All that mattered was this moment with her, finally free of the nightmare to have this piece of heaven, “I love you.”
It was such a quiet utterance she almost missed it if she hadn’t felt the words spoken against her mouth. Her heart swelled to the point she couldn’t keep the words from flowing, repeating how much she loved him over and over again until the band finally snapped in an earth shattering way. Her shaking thighs locked around his hips, her free hand slapping against his shoulder blade to dig her nails in. His hold on her hand tightened almost painfully as he relaxed and gave in, rutting his hips so far and deep she squirmed at the feeling.
Her vision was blurry around the edges, her body thrumming with pleasurable aftershocks. He was still cumming, still gently rutting his hips until she hissed at the overstimulation.
“Almost done, baby,” he slurred against her ear, “Relax, f’me. I know you can take it.”
Every thrust prolonged the feelings tingling the bottoms of her feet all the way to behind her eyes. Finally, he collapsed, panting, sweaty and spent. Locked in one another’s embrace, neither had the desire or will to move an inch. Eventually, his breathing evened out and he had the strength to pull out with an obscenely wet sound following.
He purred sweet nothings at her quiet whimpers as he shifted them around to lay on his back with her tucked against his side. Her ear pressed against his chest, listening to his heart beating like a soothing drum. He was alive, he was here, he was no longer a memory, no longer a legend. Her fingers delicately traced the expanse of his chest, down his abdomen, and back up to ground her in the moment. His fingers played with the strands of her hair as he listened to her breathing for any signs of crying. It almost scared him how much he wanted to stay, abandon his plans of revenge and killing some douche bag in a cape to stay with her. Pretend for a second no time had passed.
“You’re going to find the rest of them, aren’t you?”
He sighed, “Yeah.”
“Butcher wants you to kill Homelander,” she stated.
“I know,” he admitted, “Says I’m the only one who can.”
She snuggled closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist, “I know. I won’t ask you to stay. I know I can’t convince you, but…”
She sniffled, and he wrapped his arm tighter around her.
“You’re not the only one who has a vendetta against our old team and Vought,” she mumbled, “I’m going with you.”
His eyes closed for a brief moment as he contemplated, “I don’t wanna talk about this shit right now. Just…just lay here with me. I wanna be normal for a night and not a fucking nuclear weapon.”
She let the rhythm of his heart beat soothe her thoughts before nodding.
Summary: When the reader is freed from her nearly seventy years of captivity, she doesn't expect the love of her life, Soldier Boy, to be standing there at the door. Homelander wants them free for some reason but this pair desperately needs to reconnect, to try and understand what happened all those years ago when they thought they lost another. If reader and Soldier Boy want any chance of surviving this new world they've been thrust in, they'll have to remember it all. Even the parts that hurt the most...
Masterlist
Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x reader
Word Count: 8,900ish
Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more
A/N: Here we go! I'm so incredibly excited to finally be sharing this one! Please enjoy and let me know what you think!
2025
A commotion sounded outside your room. A loud one. That wasn’t entirely unusual. You knew the secret prison you lived in held others in their own rooms. Most weren’t as well-adjusted as you’d learned to become. Psychosis was a big concern. You were pretty sure there was a guy down the hall, Bob, that full on thought he lived on a moon base. He’d rant about the airlocks or some shit every time they took him for a shower. Another loud bang had your eyes flicking over the top of your worn book pages, eyes going to the solid steel door on the far side. You’d have thunk that they would have made sure the walls were soundproof or some shit. It grew quiet again, your focus back on your copy of The Fellowship Of The Ring.
Your eye twitched when another loud bag interrupted you. You rose from your bed, staring up at the round black camera in the corner of the ceiling, gesturing to the door and making a face to keep it down out there. You were nearly back at your bed when the heavy metal door creaked open behind you. You rolled your eyes, ready to argue with Braydon, your new guard of the month. Little douchebag with a stupid ass name. You missed Rory. At least he’d shoot the shit with you. Hopefully he decided to come back someday.
Every fiber in your body froze when you turned and recognized the man before you. Your heart clenched, cracking, an old ache resurfacing. The wound had never healed properly, that much you knew. But this…your soul panged like you were back in that nightmare. Like it was that night all over again.
He was as handsome as ever, still so young looking for his true age. How many times over the years had you fantasized of this moment? Of Ben breaking down the door heroically, picking you up in his arms and carrying you off to freedom, to the fairytale life the two of you thought you’d finally have.
But that Ben was a fantasy after all.
“Hello Benjamin.” He shook his head, out of breath, looking you up and down. His chest rose and fell fast, his lips parted, pain in his eyes.
“How are you alive? And so young?” he demanded, a deepness to his voice you didn’t recognize. Whatever he was doing to it, that wasn’t his natural tenor. Even back in the day, he’d never spoken like that. Your Ben’s voice was all man but there was no fake bravado laced within it. It was like being wrapped in a warm blanket, strong but comforting, gentle in it’s touch. It was home. “I ain’t seen you since ‘57.”
Or maybe the fantasies had made you forget the real sound. After all, it’d been a long time since you’d spoken to one another.
“I suppose you can thank yourself for that.” You watched a guard appear behind him, contemplate entering the open room, and then think better of it, slowly backing away before running was heard echoing through the hall. You nodded at him when he pressed his lips into a thin line. “I like the beard. It suits you.”
“Y/N-”
“You sure took your sweet ass time coming back to me. How many years has it been?” He swallowed, flicking his eyes to the cement floor. There he was. Your boy. He still existed, even after all this time. It made your resigned heart flicker with hope but not enough to quite feel it.
“Sixty eight,” he whispered. He froze as you approached, stopping before him. You hesitated but placed a hand against his cheek, tilting his head back up. You closed your eyes, feeling the warmth in your fingertips, they way his breath shuddered. Slowly, you let yourself look at him. You’d seen that face so many times over the years. In movies and interviews. In photographs and articles. The face that was a mask. But looking at him now, those green eyes were open. Honest. The same eyes you once drowned in. You didn’t know how or why but he was here. Not Soldier Boy. No, this was Benjamin Blake Bancroft, and for this moment in time, he was back.
And you were too tired to care that he’d disappear soon and slip back into that fake superhero soon enough.
“Let’s get out of here, Ben. We have a lot to talk about,” you whispered. He nodded, even as your hand fell. “Especially that son of ours.”
“Ours?” Your stepped past the threshold to a dark cinderblock corridor. To your right was an older man in a suit but the man slightly behind him down the hall was who held your attention.
“Yes, Ben. Our son,” you said softly, not breaking eye contact as the tall blonde haired man in his blue suit and american flag cape took a few steps closer. “I assume you know who I am?”
The man stopped a few feet away, staring down his nose at you. It wasn’t crazed or angry or that stupid fake smile plastered on his face you’d seen in the news. He was confused and nervous and doing his best to hide it. Huh. Strange.
“Homelander-” You shot the older man a harsh look, shutting him up.
“I wasn’t speaking to you, old fuck.” You looked back to Homelander, his eyebrows slightly raised before he nodded and the other man went down the hall out of earshot. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions, most of them I can’t answer.” You glanced over your shoulder as you felt Ben come up beside you. “We all have questions. Right now all I want to know is are you going to let me go or did you get me out so you could kill me?”
“No one is killing you,” Ben said gruffly, his gaze going to Homelander who was still staring at you. “No one is killing her.”
The “or else” was silent. No need to be said aloud. The chill in the air was enough to convey the message.
“Could you blame him if he wanted to, Benjamin?” you said quietly, Homelander’s face blank, a few rapid blinks of confusion crossing his features briefly. “It doesn’t matter that his father didn’t know he fathered a son. It doesn’t matter that they took his mother’s…and used some other woman as a surrogate. He should have been raised by us. We were meant to protect him.”
You stepped in front of Homelander, his chin raising as you approached.
“What’s your name? Your real name?” He took a beat, swallowing and looking away.
“John,” he mumbled. You nodded.
“Johnathon Bancroft. That’s your name.” He looked back at you, glancing beyond you to Ben, and then back. “So. What’s the next move, John?”
“I…I was hoping we could be a proper family,” he said so quietly you barely heard him. Ben started to snort behind you, stopping himself when you shot him a look to kill. “The world is…difficult at the moment. It’s not…accepting of my vision yet. Supes are superior and I will lead us. I need strength on my side. I have a plan that requires support I can trust. Afterall, the only people in the world one can really trust is their parents, right?”
Ben snorted again, your arm reaching out and smacking his arm. Hard. It caused no damage or pain but he glared all the same. “Listen. You’ve been locked up for awhile, Y/N. You don’t know what he’s done or-”
You laughed loudly, both of them staring at you like a wild animal.
“What he’s done? Oh, I know all his dirty secrets. Just like I do yours, Benjamin,” you growled, Ben’s back straightening like a steel rod, a dark look washing over his face. “Looking a lot like Griffin there, buddy boy.”
Ben instantly went wide eyed, taking a step back as he looked away. That cut deep, deeper than you intended. Despite what he’d done in his past, there was no way Ben was like that man. None.
“I want to go home, Ben. Just get me out of here,” you whispered, no tears forming in your eyes but you felt a nagging in your gut. God you couldn’t remember the last time you had truly wept. Decades it must have been. It was alarming how the sight of him was making that protective numb wear away by the second. “You promised me.”
His breath hitched barely. Then he was looking at Homelander, giving him a stoic nod. “Show us where we’re going, John.”
Things were awkward to put it mildly. You knew what had transpired between Ben and Homelander, to a degree. The details, no. But Ben had attacked Homelander oh so briefly before turning on this group the CIA worked with time to time, The Boys.
“How does she know what happened,” asked Homelander to the older gentleman from before, likely some bureaucratic puppet of his if you had to guess. The man grumbled back about your deal you had with the CIA. He had glanced back at you as you walked out of the secret prison you’d spent the past few decades in.
At least it was better than the first one you’d stayed in.
None of them bothered to keep their voices down as they spoke, Ben’s ear perking as he listened in.
“It’s simple,” you cut in, Homelander pausing a beat in his pace before walking confidently again, now with you by his side. “I got information about the outside world and Soldier Boy because I was an asset. Not a lot but if it had to do with supes, I knew it for the most part. It was in everyone’s best interest to not let me go crazy and knowledge helped with that.”
Homelander thought it over for a moment before seeming to agree with that assessment. “What did the CIA get in return?”
“Routine genetic testing. Blood draws. They play nice, I played nice,” you said, turning over your arm, tapping two fingers against the crook of your elbow. “They play mean, no blood for them to test. Pretty sure they were trying to develop anti-V or some shit. Never resulted in anything based on the number of pissed off scientists I’ve dealt with over the years.”
“Interesting. You’re not strong enough to fight back. How would you have stopped them?” Homelander asked. You turned down a corridor and touched the back of your hand to his cheek. It was warm, soft. Completely normal.
“And now…” You clenched, Homelander recoiling as your skin went cold and rigid. “Not much of a party trick but I am invulnerable when I choose to be. Obviously it’s done some things like keep me young but that’s about it.”
Homelander eyed you like an oddity, proud but thrown off. “You’ve never taken Compound V.”
“Correct.” His eyes flicked between you and Ben, narrowing slightly.
“How-”
“Not a conversation for right now. Or possibly ever.” You gave him a look. Not a warning, not a threat, just a plain as day statement. His annoyance shone through but he flicked the urge to retort away with some effort as the older man with you got a phone call.
“Homelander, they need you in D.C. White house.” Homelander turned to you and Ben, nodding once.
“Well then. Off to work. A car will take the two of you to Vought tower. Apartments have been arranged for you both. I’ll return when I can. I have things I’d like to discuss. Soon.” You walked in silence outside, Homelander and the man departing, leaving you and Ben standing next to a black vehicle. It was too big to be a car but wasn’t quite a truck either. The back emblem showed it was a Lincoln. Nice to know that at least some things in the world you could recognize.
You slid inside the back door first, Ben trailing after you. He kept staring at you but you weren’t ready for this conversation, not with pressing ears around.
It took two hours but finally you were in NYC, in Vought tower, standing in an obnoxiously grand apartment that was all your own. Something about the floor to ceiling windows seemed ominous. The sky was dark, storm clouds looming, but that wasn’t it. Maybe you’d simply spent too many years locked in ten by ten foot rooms.
It took less than two minutes before Ben was walking in through the open door to the place, the woman that had shown you your new abode looking between you both before scuttling away like a mouse. The heavy wood door closed with a deafening sound in the large airy space. You turned around to face him, Ben’s eyes roaming over your body momentarily, green eyes landing back on your lips.
He was ever so stunning in his Soldier Boy suit. You’d always thought so but this new one…it was your favorite of all of his over the years. A work of art. The little cowl around his neck made him look boyish. Young.
Your eyes traced his face, all those layers of protection you’d placed on your soul washing away with one inhale of his breath.
It ached. It longed. It mourned. Your heart wasn’t your own once again. Then again, it never had been. Your heart had never been yours to give away in the first place. He had stolen it before you knew what a love like that even was. The thief stood right there, a heaviness in his body that made you want to rush into his arms and tell him it’d be okay.
“I missed you so…” he whispered, barely audible.
“Benjamin.” He stepped closer, steps cautious. Heavy boots stopped a few feet away from your bare feet, Ben’s eyes panicked under that mask of indifference he was trying and failing to slip back on.
“Y/N-”
“Let me be very clear. I will speak to Ben. You pull that Soldier Boy shit, you be anything, anything, other than Benjamin, I will never speak to you again.”
He nodded, his breath catching when you stepped right up to him, placing a hand on his cheek. A large hand covered your own, his eyes closing.
“Tell me the note wasn’t real,” he whispered. You shook your head, clearly another piece of life you didn’t know about.
“Honestly, I don’t know what on earth you’re talking about.” He smiled, some of the weight leaving his shoulder. He nodded as he reopened his lids. “What did this note say?”
“That you couldn’t be with a pathetic excuse for a man like me, that that’s why you left me.”
“Griffin,” you growled. “I guarantee he wrote that note the bastard.” He frowned, a wave of understanding coming over him. “I never left, Ben. He had me taken, gave me to Vought to be experimented on I learned later on. He just wanted me out of the way, didn’t give a shit if I lived or died. Probably figured I’d be dead fast but…”
“But what? They gave you V and you survived?” You shook your head.
“I…apparently I was pregnant, at least that’s what they think happened.” Ben blinked his eyes, searching for words he couldn’t find. “It’s all a guess, Ben. I was pregnant and somehow absorbed the V.”
“I don’t understand. You were pregnant with Homelander? But he’s too young,” he whispered, your head shaking.
“No, not him. I was a few days along at most, maybe, they didn’t know for sure. It’s the only thing that makes sense for why I’m still alive. It’s hard to remember. I think they drugged me a lot. I lost…” You trailed off, pinching the bridge of your nose while he stared at you, his green eyes sullen. “All I can remember is pain and then one day, I could make my skin rock hard. Vought kept trying to…hurt me to test it. It took me a few years to learn to control it. They theorized that I was pregnant and somehow absorbed a micro dose of Compound V. The stress they put on my body during those first days of being taken made it not viable…it was so long ago there’s no way to prove if I ever was but that was their best guess. That I got V from our child before I miscarried. Otherwise, I would have died a very long time ago. What they did…normal humans can’t survive that.”
His hand slid down to your stomach, thumb brushing through your thin shirt.
“We made…but we lost…” You nodded, Ben swallowing thickly. Fingertips gently gripped your skin, a shaky quiet breath the only sound in the air. “How do you know Homelander’s yours?” His voice was a low whisper.
“I was Vought’s only known instance of a person being able to get pregnant from a supe, back then at least. They knew our DNA would work together. Or at least figured it would. They…took some eggs, put the embryo in a surrogate, didn’t want to risk it failing or killing me since I’d stopped aging. Again, this is what they told me. Not long after that, Vought was raided and the CIA found me, put me in that secret prison in the early eighties. They didn’t hurt me like Vought but…fuck, this wasn’t supposed to my life, Ben. Either of ours. We were supposed to leave your father behind, leave the war and Vought behind. We were supposed to just be us. We’re alive but we lost our lives. It’s like we’ve been dead for decades.”
He lowered his head, resting his hand on your hip. “You didn’t leave me.”
“No. But you left me.” His head snapped up, your chin raising. “I know who Soldier Boy is.”
“I was Soldier Boy back when-”
“You were kind, a little cocky and flirty but you were full of so much love. Soldier Boy now? He hurts people, innocent people. Benjamin was a little boy that cried and got spanked in front of the damn house staff by his father all because he wouldn’t shoot a bunny rabbit when he was nine years old. I know about your team Payback. The boys club bullshit. I know about the drugs, the booze, the fucking orgies and sex parties. You’d given it all up and then you went back to it a million times harder. I love Benjamin Blake Bancroft. I’ll always love him. But I hate Soldier Boy. Him? He’s the kind of man that has spent the past 68 years treating me like a science experiment. So you decide who you want to be. Ben or Soldier Boy. One gets you that psychopath of a son Homelander, fame, all the girls and drugs you could ever want. The other…” You shrugged, blinking up at him with wet eyes. “Me. A broken, fucked up version of me that can never give you the family you wanted. And I know which one you’ll choose.”
“Don’t you remember, Y/N?” You blinked again, Ben resting his forehead against yours, his fingers wiping the tears falling down your cheeks. “It’s always been you.”
September 1957
You bit back a groan as Rodger crawled down the obnoxiously long drive to Bancroft Manor in his new red Lincoln Premier. An overwhelming part of you wished you never saw this place ever again. It’d been a few years since you stepped foot inside and that still wasn’t long enough. But an even larger part would always see it as your childhood home. Your very strange home.
“Here I thought my parents were rich. Makes the mansion they gifted us look like a shoebox,” Rodger claimed beside you, chuckling when you lightly smacked his shoulder. “You really grew up here?”
“See that section?” You pointed to the very far end of the eastern wing. “I grew up in the staff quarters. We had a tiny little kitchen and one bathroom we shared with the dozen other staff. Mom and I shared a little one bedroom the size of this car.”
“But you grew up with that hunky Benjamin Bancroft,” he teased, earning him another smack. “Oh, I forgot. You were just childhood friends. Nothing more.”
“Exactly. I haven’t seen Ben in fifteen years.” Rodger snorted beside you as he drove past a manicured hedge. “I am a demure, mature, thirty three year old woman that has no interest in that boy.”
“Right, right. You realize your age was the only part of that sentence that was true, right?” You flicked his ear, Rodger pouting. “You know, you’re lucky I’m not jealous of your crush. Most fiancés would put a nip in that.”
“You ain’t most fiancés, honey,” you shot back, grinning over at him in time to catch him returning it. “I so do not have a crush on Ben.”
“Of course not. Silly me,” he said again, driving around the circular bend you pointed him to. “Remind me again why the fuck we’re having our engagement party here?”
“Because your mother hates me because I’m ‘the help’ and the only reason she did not beat me off with her broomstick was because Louella Bancroft is her friend and has known me my whole life and vouched that I am very much in love with you and not after your family’s money.”
“Okay, you get points for implying my mother is a witch but why do we have to do this here? We could have had it at our place. True, it’s not bigger than grand central station like this place but we’re not schmucks.”
You sighed, running a hand over the skirt of your dress. “Because Louella never had a daughter and I don’t think Benjamin is the marrying type in her eyes. She and my mom are still close and you know how women are, they love planning parties and all that jazz.” Rodger parked the car, giving you a bitch face. “Oh, that’s a good one. Putting that in the top ten of ‘57.”
“I am so happy I found you you ridiculous fucking woman,” he laughed. “So we get the party my mother wants and…your mother and Louella get to piss off Griffin Bancroft in the process? Is that how they get their kicks?”
“I love a smart boy,” you teased, patting his head. The playfulness ran out of the air fast though, both of you suddenly on edge. “We could be fashionably late?”
“We were due at six, dear. It’s already seven.” You nodded, Rodger clasping your hand. “We go in, we talk to my parents and your mother, do a sweep of the room, eat some cake, drink copious amounts of alcohol and we feign we can’t keep our hands off each other and are out of here by 9:00.”
“You’re cute when you’re naive,” you said, squeezing his hands. “This is a Bancroft party. It don’t end until at least midnight, sweetie. Now come on, sooner we get this over with the sooner we can go back home and get drunk in private.”
He steadied himself, throwing on a smile the moment he exited the car, walking around to open your door for you. You looped your arm through his, taking a moment to smooth out his jacket. He wore a dove gray suit jacket, black trousers, with a green tie that matched your outfit. United front and all that. You tugged down the skirt of your sage green A-line dress as Rodger placed a gentle hand on your arm. “You look beautiful, Y/N.”
“I feel like a fraud. I used to clean the bathrooms in this place. All my friends still work here,” you said quietly, approaching the grand front entrance with a covered stone archway. You craned your neck upwards, taking in the three story monstrosity made of stone and mortar, grand windows that gave the glimpse of how grand the place was within.
A cold, empty, lifeless, grand palace. The only life to have ever existed was down in those servants quarters. The rest was all for fucking show. Tonight was your debut to the stage after all these years of watching from the wings and you were this close to turning around.
Think of mother.
You swallowed, closing your eyes when a late September breeze caught you both. It lacked the days warmth and you instinctively stepped closer, both of you forgoing overcoats this evening. Rodger hummed, leaning down to your ear. “We get through tonight and tomorrow you can lounge about our tiny shoebox mansion in nothing more than my shirts and shorts like the little degenerate of a lady you are.”
“You know me so well,” you said, resting your head against his broad shoulder. His gentle lips kissed the top of your hair, the two of you paused on the walkway. “You’re funny and tall and intelligent and strong and really, really hot and you don’t care at all how I act, who I am.”
“Right back at you, sweetheart,” he said, spinning you to face him, inhaling deeply, looking around quickly to ensure you were alone. “Life’s a real bitch, ain’t it?”
“She sure is,” you whispered, Rodger hugging you tight. “Happy wife, happy life, right?”
“Something like that,” he returned. He was slower as you walked up to the archway, letting you take the lead when a servant went to open the door.
“Mr. Ellis. Ms. Y/L/N,” said Charlie Keery. You didn’t let him open the door inside quite yet, instead ambushing him in a hug. He laughed lightly, giving you a squeezing one in return. “I missed you too. We haven’t seen you since Bets birthday party back in the summer. Too good to slum it with the help now?”
“Is that a gray hair I see? It seems to be spreading,” you said as you patted the tiny patch of gray in his stubble. Charlie scoffed while Rodger chuckled, his fingers interlaced with yours.
“I’m forty two, fuckhead,” he shot back with a smile, giving Rodger a weary look. “Apologies, sir-”
“Oh, I’m well aware of who I’m marrying. If it were up to me, we’d be having this party at a sleazy little bar with our real friends. Arriving in any formal wear or using titles get you tossed out the back.” Charlie smiled at Rodger and quickly back to you.
“Reminds me of Benjamin.” Rodger made a shit eating grin at you before shaking Charlie’s hand. “Charlie Keery. Shittiest butler on the planet according to Griffin Bancroft.”
“Rodger Ellis. Professional trust fund baby and disappointment to my parents thirty seven years running. Aiming to hit thirty eight years in a few months.” The men shared a laugh, Rodger slapping his back. “I like this fucker too.”
“We’ll catch up later on. Rodge, I’ll show where us ‘poors’ lived and you can lose all your money to these losers in their weekly poker game. Rodger’s so shitty at poker even you’ll be able to beat him, Charlie.,” you said. Charlie barked out a laugh before putting on a professional face as he put a hand on the door.
“Going to wipe the floor with rich boy’s ass,” he said, straightfaced, flashing you a quick wink.
“Oh, only in your dreams, buddy,” Rodger shot back. Charlie waited a beat for you both to nod before he opened the door for you, warm light washing over you.
The foyer of Bancroft manor was massive. Two stories tall, large windows over the front doors, intricate wood covering every surface. It was a beautiful home. Plush curtains, antique paintings, and a grand painted family portrait front and fucking center of it all.
The image demanded every entrants attention. Louella clad in a shiny champagne colored dress as she sat on a velvet emerald green chaise. Griffin in a three piece black suit to her right, hand on her knee. A slightly older version of Ben, certainly not him as a teenager at least, stood off to the side, just slightly behind his mother, hand on her shoulder.
It was subtle but you knew that look on his face. He’d just argued with his father, taken more insults, likely moments before they were set to pose for a ridiculous number of hours for the stupid painting.
Why doesn’t he want me, Y/N?
You blinked away the memory of his pained words, Rodger breathing sharply beside you as the air in the room shifted. A laugh, an overexcited squeal, someone drunkenly talking too loudly in the main room, all attention on you.
“The happy couple at last! We were starting to wonder if you two would ever show,” teased Louella, approaching in a royal navy blue dress that hung to her long, lean frame. She was in her late fifties and still could blow away women half her age. Griffin himself was quite handsome, even at his older age now, but you knew Ben’s gentle green eyes and his luscious locks were gifts from his mother.
“Oh, Lou Lou, you know he’s insatiable,” you teased, Rodger flushing on cue. Hugs were exchanged, Rodger and Louella introducing you through the wards of people in foyer that had bothered to show themselves, the rest too busy getting drunk or smoking in the grand sitting room.
“Excuse me, dear,” you said, patting Rodger’s arm when you were meeting the twelve thousandth associate of his father’s. “I’m going to go say hello to my mother before it gets too late.”
He shifted his left wrist, his eyes flashing in surprise that it was already eight and you hadn’t made it more than five feet inside. “Of course, sweetheart. I’ll come find you soon.”
You pecked a kiss to his cheek before escaping the conversation, catching the smirk on Betty’s face as she walked past with a tray, stopping in front of you. “Old fashioned, Ms. Y/L/N?”
“I’m so stealing you to come work for Rodger,” you whispered in her ear as you picked up the glass. Betty’s jaw dropped, a wide grin on her face. “Or would you miss Charlie too much?”
“He asked me out. Fucking finally.” You took your turn to go slack-jawed, Betty humming. “I’ll fill you in at the poker game later?”
“Yes, tell me everything. I’ve been waiting years for this,” you said, spotting Louella coming up from Betty’s behind out of nowhere.
“Now you girls weren’t about to gossip without me, were you?” she asked, you and Betty sharing a well versed smirk. “Fine, fine, have your secrets. Just remember, I know everything that goes on around here, including what happened in the gardening shed two nights ago.”
“Oh would you look at that, no drinks on my tray, tsk tsk. Places to be, ladies,” said Betty, scurrying off back towards the kitchen. You smiled at Louella, her gaze drifting back to the front door.
“Betty and Charlie?” you asked, Louella nodding furiously. “Wow. That’s only been a decade in the making. All it took was me to move out for it to happen.”
“Or Charlie got nervous that some rich boy was going to come along and sweep Betty away like Rodger did with you.” You didn’t respond, only sipped from your glass, her ever watchful green eyes on you. “Does he make you happy?”
“Yes,” you answered, a practiced softness to your words. She tilted her head up, questioning it. “I’m very grateful to have met Rodger and for him to not give credence to the fact I was a working girl.”
“Not even married yet and already good at the polished lies.” You took a longer sip, Louella nodding. “You’re marrying him for the money, dear. Your mother and I both know it.”
“Isn’t that why you married Griffin? To move up from being a milk maid on a farm?” She stepped closer, an unpleasant chill running down your spine.
“You’ve seen under the shiny facade of this life. I know that your mother is ill and she’s set to travel to the Swiss bath houses next week to get the best medical care in the world. Expensive care. Do not sell your soul to the devil to give her a few more years of life. We both know-”
“Rodger is not like Griffin,” you cut in, Louella stilling. “There are much worse things in life than to be married to a kind and wealthy man.”
“Benjamin-”
“Has no bearing on my decision. We were never anything more than childhood friends. I haven’t spoken to him in years.” She held your firm gaze, a flash of pity in her eyes. “Mrs. Bancroft, I am marrying Rodger Ellis. End of story.”
“You know all too well who you’d be marrying if it weren’t for Griffin.” You scoffed, Louella properly frowning back. “You and Ben-”
“Benjamin is thirty seven years old and frankly far too old to be afraid of what his daddy thinks. But we both know that is exactly why Ben is who he really is now and he’s never going to change.” Louella’s expression shifted, something frightened to it. It quickly passed, a stoic nod, like a nervous tick, returned to you.
“I suppose you’re right. Ben’s made his choice and you’ve made yours. Your mother’s in the dining room with Clayton.”
“Thank you.” You paused, offering a reassuring smile, Louella’s defences dropping in turn. “I know you would have found a way to give her the money if you could have and this party is your way of apologizing. It’s okay. I know you tried.”
She gave you a sad smile, hugging you tightly, pressing her lips to your ear. “Don’t marry a man you don’t love, dear. Even for your mother. She doesn’t want that. You and Benjamin deserve better.”
And then, she was gone, a practiced smile on her face as you were left alone, eyes scanning the crowd of people. No one approached you. Rodger was who these people were really here for and even then, not him truly. Only his family’s power, the urge to stay within the Ellis’ good graces.
You slid back to a dark corner of the hallway, down where it grew quiet. A heavy door opened and shut behind you as you slid into a dark study. Griffin’s. You’d only ever entered the space for two reasons. To clean it as an employee or when you were scolded as a child alongside Benjamin. You’d been a girl, no more than eight, the harsh memory etched into your very being.
Ben sat on the couch behind you, the image of a proper school boy, head low, hands in lap. You tried to smooth out your dirty dress, the hem tinged with blood from the gash on your knee. Griffin Bancroft was a tall man at six foot one and stared down at your barely four foot frame, like some monster from a fairy tale ready to devour you.
You looked up at him, an incredulous look being returned to you. “What kind of manners is your mother teaching you? Is that school of yours? Keep your head down, child.”
“But I didn’t do anything wrong.” Ben’s sharp intake of air behind you had his father’s gaze flickering away for only a moment before it was back on you. Suddenly, you were in the air, Griffin hoisting you up under your arms, holding you at eye level, your feet dangling well above the floor.
“I see it in your eyes you little urchin,” he growled, squeezing your body so tight tears welled in your eyes. “You’re always running amok with my son as if you were a boy. Little girls are to sit with their dolls and play quietly. But you wreck havoc on this home.”
“I fell when I was climbing. I d-didn’t do anyth-” He shook you once, a pained whimper slipping out.
“Speak out of turn again and I’ll ensure your mommy disappears forever and you wind up in an orphanage with very bad people. If I catch you tracking dirt and blood into this house ever again, I will make you disappear and blame it on your mother. Am I clear, little brat?”
You nodded, too afraid to speak, Griffin setting you down on the hardwoods. He straightened his suit jacket and patted your head, as if you were a dog.
“Run along and clean up your mess. Never speak of this to anyone or there’ll be consequences.” You nodded, Griffin spinning you around and patting your bottom uttering you out. For one split second, you saw Ben’s face on the couch, a strange mixture of horror and anger that looked out of place on his boyish face.
You were nearly out the door when the couch cushions shuffled, one glance over your shoulder revealing Ben on his feet, not much taller than yourself, not bothering to fix his small blazer that had wrinkled up.
“If you hurt Y/N or her mom, I’ll tell everyone it was you,” said Ben, nodding at you with a flat smile before turning his little body to face his brooding father. “We were playing and she fell. She didn’t even make a mess inside the house. Leave her alone.”
“She is the help, not your friend. You do not-”
“Yes she is! I-I’ll tell my teacher you threatened a little girl. I’ll tell all of my friends at school!” You were frozen solid next to the large mahogany door, Griffin sizing up his son, a curious yet insidious look in his eye. Ben faltered under the scrutiny, stepping back, knee hitting the edge of the leather clad sofa making him stumble.
“Enjoy your summer with the girl, Benjamin. Come September, you’ll be attending a new school. In Massachusets."
“Massachusets? But that’s so far away. How am I supposed to come home?” Griffin chuckled darkly, bending down to get at his son’s level, leering at him.
“You don’t,” he answered plainly. “Thanksgiving, Christmas, summer you’ll be at the manor. The remainder of the year you’ll be at the Havensworth Boarding School for Young Men. I was undecided but this little outburst cemented my decision that you need a firmer hand. You have the balls to speak back to your father? Then surely you’re man enough to go learn to be a proper one. Dismissed.”
Barely a second passed before you were in the hall, Benjamin joining you quickly, the door shutting loudly behind you both. You swallowed, words stuck in your throat. You didn’t understand Griffin. You didn’t understand what you did wrong or why he was sending Ben away. All you knew was you felt like it was your fault.
“I’m sorry I got you in trouble,” you whispered. A small hand touched your face, your shaky eyes meeting sad green ones.
“He’s just old and mean,” he said, wiping off your wet cheeks a little too roughly. “I don’t care if he sends me away, you’re still my best friend.”
“Maybe if I-I stop talking to you, he won’t make you leave.” He shook his head. “Ben-”
“He’s an…asshole,” Ben whispered, your eyebrows shooting up. He put a little hand over your mouth. “That’s a bad word, don’t say it.”
“Asshole,” you whispered when he moved it away, a moment of stillness before you quietly giggled. “What did your dad mean when he said-”
“Don’t listen to him. I’ll protect you.”
You blinked, the room back in focus, dark wood and books on shelves, a decanter of whiskey half filled near the desk. Just a room. Just a place that gave you nightmares as a child as you grew older and finally understood Griffin’s threat. Just a room where Benjamin had stood on his own. A room where you fell in love with a boy and hadn’t even known it.
With the confidence of a woman that had nothing to lose, you grabbed the decanter and poured yourself two fingers worth into a glass that cost more than what your mother earned in a year. You knocked back the drink, swallowing around the smooth burn, squeezing your eyes shut as flames boiled your insides momentarily.
God, why did life have to be so fucking hard.
Another minute, another drink poured. Fuck Griffin and his expensive as shit whiskey. If you had the misfortune of running into the pretentious ass tonight, you’d gladly tell him his drink choice was crap. At least it was strong. The alcohol was making your skin flush and you easily slipped through the french doors at the back of the den, exiting onto the raised side patio. The breeze from earlier was lighter but refreshing, cooling you off as you walked across the gray stone terrace to the stone railing. Glass set down, you surveyed the dark yard, a few lights sprinkled in the distance giving the deception of a lovely evening walking path through hedges and greenery until you reached the far fountain and the thick forest beyond.
It was a beautiful charade of romanticism complete with a musky tobacco and vanilla scent. Fuck, it smelled like Benjamin had the last time you’d seen him.
“Stealing Griffin’s booze? I can get behind that.” Your head whipped around, heart in your throat as a figure emerged from the alcove to the right of the study, pacing across the stone to stand beside you, the amber liquid in his glass shorter than your own.
It’d been fifteen years and it was truly unfair how good Benjamin Bancroft looked. The boy had stolen your heart, created butterflies and an unnatural giddiness in your bones. The man?
Yeah, the man had you squeezing your thighs together and from the look on his face, he fucking noticed.
At least he wasn’t wearing that ridiculous Soldier Boy suit tonight. But only Benjamin could pull off a white shirt and black slacks and make it look hotter than sin.
“I don’t recall inviting you to my party,” you said, turning your shoulder away, looking back to the yard. The heat of his body radiated off him, Ben stepping dangerously close but still so far.
“I don’t recall getting an invite so looks like we’re on the same page.” You rolled your eyes, Ben leaning his forearms against the stone railing, watching the grounds with you. “I had to see it with my own eyes.”
“See what?” you scoffed.
“The con of the century, honey,” he smirked. You narrowed your eyes in his direction, Ben tilting his head. “Eh, maybe not century. Decade for sure though.”
“You’ve been pretending to be America’s wonder boy for too long. Soldier Boy.” His face stayed steady but you saw the flash of surprise in his eyes. “Maybe you’re the con of the decade. Playboy and fuckup Ben Bancroft is actually Soldier Boy. Imagine if daddy’s friends knew who you really were.”
“Some of them do,” he stated matter of factly. “Most people find Soldier Boy impressive.”
“The key word in that sentence being most.” You sipped your drink, Ben watching you, something playful to him. “Not going to ask how I figured it out?”
“Any moron with two eyes could look at Soldier Boy and me and realize we’re the same guy. But morons are morons for a reason. No one would ever believe trust fund fuck up Ben is him. So how’d you-”
“Don’t play fucking games with me, Benjamin. I know who you really are and we both know the only fuck up in this house is your father.”
He hummed, swirling his drink it’s glass, both your attention caught on a stray orange leaf floating through the wind. “You’re smart. That’s why you know I’m him.”
“Won’t disagree with you there.” He laughed softly, the sound making you turn back to him. He sighed, biting his bottom lip as he shifted a half step closer, looking through his lashes when his strong shoulders turned his body toward yours. “Why not let everyone know you’re Soldier Boy? Why hide it?”
“Because Soldier Boy is supposed to be a poor street kid, the backbone of America rising to greatness. No one wants to find out he’s a rich fuck that got kicked out of school and got his insanely powerful father’s friends in the State department to turn me into a freak.”
“You think you’re a freak?” you asked without thinking, your voice slipping, revealing a weariness to it. He shrugged it off, picking up his glass. “Did it hurt? Whatever they did to change you?”
“Why haven’t you told me to fuck off yet?” he asked without looking, drowning the whole glass in one go.
“Don’t worry, I will soon,” you said, Ben smirking. A light pink tinged his cheeks, your heart pitter pattering in your chest.
You still made him blush.
“Although I can tell you to get lost if that’d make you feel better.” He stood up straight, holding out his left arm to you, palm up. You stared at it, Ben resting your hand flat over the top of it.
“They pushed a syringe with blue liquid into my arm and then it felt like my whole body was on fire. I was strapped down to a table screaming for someone to kill me for what felt like days. I honestly thought I’d died and gone to hell.” He dropped your hand, shoving it in his trousers pocket. “But I got more muscles and the girls love that, right?”
He didn’t smile though, the breeze playing with his brown strands, flicking the ends up oh so delicately.
“You think you’re a freak.”
“I can lift a car overhead as it it were a book. I can hear half the conversations in that house if I concentrated enough. I can hear how your heart rate matches mine,” he trailed off quietly, looking to his black loafers. “Enough about me. Let’s talk about this con of yours.”
“Oh yeah? What con is that?” you shot back, lifting your chin, sipping your liquor in a deep swig.
“You and Rodger. You know your fiancé likes to fuck men, right?” You nearly choked on the liquor sliding down you throat, Ben whacking your back and sending it straight over the railing into the bushes.
“Jesus christ Benjamin!” You glared at him, a smug look on his face. “How dare you say such a thing!”
“I don’t hear you denying it,” he said, inspecting his nails, eyes shooting you a cutting look. “Oh, sweetie. You’re too smart to not know.” Your eye twitched up at him, Ben chuckling. He stepped closer once again, the heat from his body radiating off him, chest pressed against yours. “I’ve known Ellis since I was thirteen. Pretty sure most of the school knew he liked boys before he did.”
“You know nothing.”
“Oh so that’s not Rodger and Clayton I hear fucking in the coat closet, moaning each other’s names?” You stared at him, still as a statue. He frowned back, a clench to his jaw. “If you think I have a problem with the two of them, I don’t. Those boys were sucking and fucking since we were fifteen. It’s kind of cute they’re still together over twenty years later.”
“What a romantic you are,” you deadpanned, Ben’s mood lightening, a soft laugh filling the night air. “How the hell do you know about them?”
“Clayton was my roommate junior year at Havensworth. I may have walked in on the fellas once or…fifty times,” he said, tilting his head. “So. Why are you marrying a man into dick?”
“Jealous?” you huffed, crossing your arms. Ben crossed his in return, eyes darkening.
“Believe me, the boys invited me to…partake. We could have been the ultimate trust fund boy threesome. Alas, I only have eyes for the…” He trailed a finger over your collarbone, watching the skin pebble with goosebumps. “Curvier sex.”
“What a modern man I’m in the presence of.” He flashed you a sharp grin, predatory like. His finger traced across your throat, thumb resting on it as he cupped the back of your neck.
“Let me guess. Ellis marries you and gets his parents off his back all while little Clayton lives in the mansion with you and you get what, money?”
“Everyone needs money, Ben.”
“I’ll give you whatever you need.” You took a step back, glaring at him. “Y/N, don’t fucking marry Rodger for money. Between my trust and what Vought pays me, I can more than take care of you both. My father has no say over that money.”
“My mother is sick and she needs the best care, Ben. The best. It’s not just about the money. Rodger’s parents know people and got her into an experimental clinic in Switzerland.”
“Yeah, cause experimental clinics go over so well in my experience,” he said without thinking. You sighed, Ben holding up his hands. “Sorry. I’m sorry Delia is ill. It must be bad if you’re going through all this trouble.”
“Cancer. It’s all over her body but they say that she could live another few years if…” Ben was giving you the same look he did when you’d found an injured bird when you were seven. It’d only lasted a few hours before it finally died. It was buried in a shoe box somewhere out past the gardening shed if you recalled correctly. “You think it’s useless to try.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way but does your mother actually want the treatment?” You stayed quiet, Ben gently resting his hands on your arms. “Y/N. Let her go on her own terms.”
“Easy for you to say. You hate your father.”
“Easy?” he scoffed, walking away, wiping a hand over his face when he spun back. “I’ve only felt loved by three people in my life. One is about to marry a man that doesn’t love her and she doesn’t love him. The other is my mother and yours. Don’t tell me it’s easy for me to say that about Delia. But I know my mother and I wouldn’t subject her or yours to something she doesn’t want just for another year. Haven’t our mothers been told what to do enough in their lives?”
“I know,” you whispered, closing your eyes. With a shaky breath, you let a tear escape, a shudder leaving you. “Why are we talking about this?”
“Because I don’t want you to marry Rodger Ellis.” You blinked open your eyes as Ben cupped your cheek, this thumb pad wiping away your tears. “I still remember the time in the study and I was wiping your face. My father threatened your life. A child’s life.”
“He’s a real asshole,” you whispered, sadly smiling, Ben laughing to himself. “Rodger will take care of me even after my mom’s gone. He’s a good man, Ben.”
“If Rodger really knew you, he’d know that you don’t need anyone to take care of you,” he mumbled, resting his forehead against yours. “You just think it’d be nice if there was someone who would every once in a while. Someone like a little boy that’ll stand up for you even when he’s scared shitless.”
Your bottom lip wobbled as he recited a letter you’d written him when he was at boarding school, twenty years ago.
“Please,” Ben whispered, brushing his nose with yours. “I’ve loved you my whole life. Don’t marry him.”
“Are you offering instead?” you breathed out, Ben’s breath hitching but no words following. Your heart sank as you shook your head. “I didn’t think so.”
“Please,” he begged, voice so high it sounded like it belonged to someone else. “My father forbid it. You surely know that if it weren’t for him-“
“You can’t have me until you stop picking him first. You’re thirty seven, Ben. You have to stop being so damn afraid of him.” You tilted your head up and pressed your lips to his, a perfect rightness spreading over your body, Ben pulling your body tight to his. You pushed him away though, Ben letting you go despite the fact he could easily overpower you. You smoothed out your dress, Ben breathing hard. “I gave myself to you Ben and you chose him over me. It’s been fifteen years since I gave myself to you and you’re still picking a father that will never love you. Until you fix that, don’t seek me out again.”
You picked up your glass and went back inside, finding Rodger looking only slightly disheveled in the dining room. His smile quickly disappeared, Rodger pulling you away to a quiet corner. “Y/N, what’s wrong?”
“My mother should stay here. In Philly,” you said, his shoulder falling slowly, a nod of understanding passing through him. “I’ll still marry you, don’t worry about that.”
“Don’t worry about that shit right now,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, embracing you in his strong arms. “Spend as much time with her as you can.”
“I just wish…”
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmured. “I know.”
A/N: Soooo what did we think of Part 1? What's your favorite element so far? The two different time periods? The dynamics of reader and Ben? Of Ben versus Soldier Boy? The angsty Bancroft family? What the hell is reader doing about to marry another man? What the hell is Homelander doing breaking his parents out of captivity?!
I promise future parts will not be as long (for the most part) but I'm so excited for everyone to dive into this epic love story with all the boys flair that comes with it!
I absolutely love how you’re differentiating Soldier Boy and Ben, I’ve always thought Ben was the softer of the two; the human versus the supe. I love this reader already! She takes no shit 💚
So, does she wind up marrying Rodger???? Does Ben finally pick reader over his father??? I mean, she winds up pregnant, so can we assume that or did she have a moment of weakness (cause same girl, same)??? SO. MANY. QUESTIONS.
Summary: When the reader is released from captivity by Homelander, she's reunited with a familiar face. Soldier Boy. Her childhood friend. Her true love. The loss of her life. The man she was taken from in 1957. Sixty eight years later and Soldier Boy is baffled not only by her being alive but her young age and apparent powers. Old memories resurface as the pair try to navigate what truly happened all those years ago. New fears emerge as they come to terms with who they now are in a frightening modern world. All the while, Homelander poses a looming threat to not only the two of them but the entire world. Hard truths must be faced. Lines must be drawn. Two fated souls must make an impossible choice. Run or fight. Monster or anti-hero. Soldier Boy or Ben. Alone or together, once and for all...
Pairing: Soldier Boy x reader
Word Count: ~80K
Warnings: spoilers through S4, language, violence, smut, captivity, mention of torture/miscarriage/parental abuse, supes vs. humans, death, illness, adultery, threats of violence against a child, attempted murder/murder, vigilantism, mention of drug use/drinking/WW2 violence and more
A/N: It's finally here! I am so excited to finally be sharing this one! This is something completely different for me to tackle a romance of this size that takes place in two different decades. There's a lot of surprises to come and mystery to unfold as we go on this journey. I really hope you guys have as much fun with this one as I have writing it!
Part 1 - The Loss Of My Life
Part 2 - March 29
Part 3 - TBD
Part 4 - TBD
Part 5 - TBD
Part 6 - TBD
Part 7 - TBD
Part 8 - TBD
Part 9 -TBD
Part 10 - TBD
Part 11 - TBD
A/N: There will be NO TAG LIST for this series! If you want to make sure you don't miss new parts, check out the posting dates below or make sure to follow @luci-in-trenchcoats-reads and turn on notifications to get only fic alerts!
Summary: You don’t know the cause of why you’re so tired all the time. You blame insomnia, and you try everything that you can to go to sleep on time. One day, Spencer sees something that will answer all of your questions, and he tries his best to become the solution you’re so desperate for.
Square Filled: Insomnia for @hc-bingo
Author’s Note: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3
x
Spencer has to do a double-take when he sees you walk into work one morning. The bags under your eyes are thick and dark, and the whites in your eyes are slightly red. You flop into your chair and lean back to stare at the bright fluorescent lights.
“Whoa, are you okay?” Spencer asks. “You look tired.”
“Thanks, Spencer,” you say sarcastically.
Spencer’s eyes widen, and he says, “No, that’s not what I meant. You’re always beautiful.” This is when he immediately starts stuttering. “I mean… What I meant was…”
“I know what you meant,” you cut him off. “Yes, I am tired. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I stayed up way too late and woke up too early.”
“Are you okay?”
“I have insomnia, and I refuse to take medicine for it. I’ll be fine.” You stifle a yawn. “I’ve been trying different things, so it’ll be fine.”
During the briefing, you barely pay attention to what Penelope is saying. You’re only going through the motions of grabbing your go-bag and getting on the plane. Even when they started discussing the case more, you don’t participate. After the discussion, you rest your head on Spencer’s shoulder. What you hoped was just resting turns into a full-blown nap.
“What’s going on here?” Derek asks, gesturing between you and Spencer.
“Nothing. She’s just tired. Let her sleep.”
Derek shrugs and goes back to listening to his music. Spencer reaches for your hand that’s resting on his leg, and he smiles when he feels you tighten your grip.
The nap helped a little bit, but you’re still so tired when you land in Montana. Much like what you did in the briefing this morning, you’re just going through the motions. You try to participate in the discussions as best as you can, but it’s clear you haven’t gotten adequate sleep in days. Weeks, even.
By the end of the night, it’s time to check into the hotel and turn in for the night, and you can’t be more excited. All you can think about is the plush bed and air conditioning. The entire team is on the same floor as each other, but spread out. Spencer is the only one with a room next to yours, and he smiles at you when you two reach your rooms.
“If you want some company, my door is always open. I get insomnia sometimes, too.”
You smile at him. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Relaxing isn’t the issue. It’s falling asleep. There is no milk in the room, so you can’t drink warm milk, but there are other ways to help someone fall asleep. For the first hour, you tried meditating, but that only made youmore restless. For the second hour, you tried exercising to tire your body, but that only put more energy into it. For the third hour, all you did was lie in the dark and cold room, but sleep still didn’t find you. By the fifth, it finally did.
Spencer has always been a light sleeper, so when he hears footsteps walk past his room four times, he is awoken from his slumber. He groggily walks to the door and peers through the peephole. No one is there, but he can still hear the patter of footsteps. He opens his door and sticks his head out, frowning when he sees a retreating form.
Wait, that person looks familiar.
“Y/N?” he calls out.
You or someone who looks like you doesn’t answer. The person turns the corner and disappears from view. Huh. Maybe Spencer is seeing things. He shakes his head and returns to bed, where sleep finds him easily.
The next day, when Spencer walks into the police station, he immediately looks for you. You’re sitting at the conference table, looking over the files alone. He walks to the table and sits down next to you.
“Good morning,” you greet.
“Hey, what were you doing last night?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m a light sleeper, and I was woken to the sound of someone walking in front of my door. I looked out and saw you walking away from my room. I called your name, but you didn’t answer.”
“That wasn’t me.” You’d know if you were walking around last night, and you’d certainly never ignore Spencer. “It’d have to be someone who looked like me. I was asleep. It took me a long time, but I finally managed to go to sleep around one in the morning.”
Spencer believes you, but he still thinks it’s weird. He could have sworn it was you. He’d never be able to miss the shine of your hair or the sway in your hips. Maybe he was too tired to know who exactly was in the hallway. Oh, well.
The entire day goes by with some progress in the case, but the unsub is still roaming free. Hotch knows you’ll have to spend another night here, even though it’s clear there will be bodies in the morning to check out. There are no leads on the unsub and no profile, so all you can do is just hope to catch him tomorrow. It sucks, but that's the job sometimes.
You and Spencer walk to your rooms together, and he stops outside of his instead of going to yours. “Do you want to watch a movie with me?”
“Tempting, but I’m just going to take a bath and hopefully get some sleep.”
“Okay. Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Good night, Spencer.”
Spencer watches you walk away, and it reminds him of the woman who walked away from him last night. The same shine to the hair and the same sway of the hips. Sleep comes easily to Spencer that night, but he is woken up in the middle of the night by the same footsteps. He grabs his room key and opens his door. Just as he does, someone walks past him, staring straight ahead.
It’s you. He knew it was you last night, too.
“Y/N?” You don’t answer. He leaves his room and approaches you like one would an injured animal. “Y/N? Are you okay?”
He steps in front of you, but you don’t look at him. Your eyes are glassy and unfocused, and Spencer finally understands what’s going on. You’re sleepwalking, and it sounds like you have no idea it’s happening. He grabs your shoulders and gently directs you to his room. Your door is closed, and you don’t have your room key, so he doesn’t mind if you crash in his room for the rest of the night.
The second you fall onto his bed, you close your eyes and fall asleep again. Spencer doesn’t know what to do now. He’s standing over you, just watching the steady rise and fall of your chest. He twists his hands together as he thinks of his options. He can go back to sleep on the couch, but the downfall could mean another sleepwalking episode for you. He could sleep in the bed next to you so he’d know when you get up, but what if you don’t get up again? You’d wake up next to him, all confused and possibly mad. The only other option is to stay up and make sure you don’t sleepwalk again.
Yeah, that’s what he’ll do. He’ll be tired, but at least you’ll be safe.
You don’t have another episode that night.
In the morning, you’re shocked to find yourself in Spencer’s bed, but he acts cavalier about it. He is making coffee for both of you in the small kitchenette when you drag yourself out of bed.
“Why am I in your room, Spencer?”
“I’m guessing you have no memory of last night.”
“Oh, God,” you groan. “What did I do? Did I drink too much? I don’t remember drinking more than a glass. I took a bath, and then I went to sleep a few hours later.”
“No, you didn’t drink,” he brings the coffee over to you, “but you should drink this.”
“Thank you,” you smile and take the cup.
Spencer sits next to you on the bed and sips his own coffee. “Last night, I was woken again by the sound of footsteps outside my door. It was you.”
“Me?”
“You were sleepwalking. I directed you back to my room since you didn’t have your key on you, and you slept in my bed the rest of the night.” This news is shocking. You didn’t think sleepwalking was a thing for you. “It’s probably why you’re so tired.”
“Wow, I never knew I was doing it. I admit I’ve woken up in weird places, but I figured I had gotten up in the night and didn’t remember it. Is there a way to stop sleepwalking?”
“I can do some research, but maybe you should sleep in my room again.” Spencer’s cheeks tint pink at his implications. “You know, just so I can make sure nothing happens.”
He’s so cute. “Spencer, I can take care of myself.”
“I know, but let me anyway.”
“Okay. I’ll take you up on that movie offer then.”
The case is enough to distract you from the thought of spending the night with Spencer. The unsub has killed two more people last night, so you have to work hard to create a profile for the police. You get most of it done, but there is one thing missing that no one can pinpoint. It takes all night, but you’re able to come up with a solid plan on how to move forward. Unfortunately, it’s already ten at night, and it’s clear the unsub will roam free for another day.
Back at the hotel, it seems.
You grab your things from your room and meet Spencer in his. Now that you have no distractions, you’re kind of nervous to be spending the night with him. Nothing will happen between the two of you, but it feels sort of intimate.
Spencer did research when he could, so he has a list of things to do to prevent sleepwalking. There is no way to keep you on a strict sleep schedule right now, so Spencer doesn't even try to get you to sleep at eleven. He can, however, encourage a nighttime routine that consists of no screentime, drinking plenty of water, and keeping the room quiet and cool.
It does’t work, but Spencer doesn't give up.
The next thing he tries is relaxing techniques, like deep breathing and a bit of meditation. You take a short but warm bath before performing these techniques.
It doesn’t work.
It’s been hours, and nothing is working for you. You think it’s hopeless, but Spencer has one more trick up his sleeve. He slips underneath the covers and holds it up so that you can slip in next to him.
“Come here. I’m going to read you a bedtime story.”
“I’m not a child,” you say, but get in the bed anyway.
“I know, but this is the last thing I can try. If not, we’re going to have to work harder on other things. You might want to consider medicine.”
“Maybe if nothing else works. What book are you reading?”
Spencer grabs the book he was reading last night from the nightstand. “East of Eden by John Steinbeck. Just relax.”
He opens the book to page one and begins reading. You’re having a hard time following along with the story since you hate reading, but the sound of his voice is so soothing. Over the course of minutes, you find yourself slowly leaning toward him. He lifts his arm, and you press yourself to his side. He rests his arm around your shoulders and runs his fingers through your hair gently. The massaging feeling, plus the liquid gold voice of his, is enough to lull you into a deep sleep.
Spencer’s proud to say that you didn’t wake up once to sleepwalk, and he likes to think that reading is the answer to your problems.
When you wake up in the morning, you feel more refreshed than you have in months. Your head is still on Spencer’s chest, and his arms are still wrapped around your body. It makes your cheeks heat, but you don’t want to make it awkward. You slowly pull away from Spencer and let him sleep in for a little while longer while you get ready.
Reading must be the answer, even if you hate doing it. You’ll do anything to sleep better without medicine.
The profile helped catch the unsub fairly quickly, but the entire case turned around when news hit about the unsub having a partner. You didn’t profile this, so you had to stay in Montana for a few more days to figure out who the unsub could be working with. Every night, you and Spencer slept in the same bed together, and every night, you didn’t sleepwalk. He read to you every night, only proving that reading before bed is the key to getting a good night’s sleep.
Eventually, you got the partner and saved two people. It’s homeward bound now. It’d be nice to sleep in your own bed for once. There are a few books lying around in your apartment, only because Spencer left them behind when he stayed over. You’ll have to find subjects you like to read because Classic Literature is just not it.
The weather is worse over here than it is in the North-West. The rain has been steady over the course of a week, and it looks like it’s not letting up anytime soon. It’s nearly midnight, and you can’t fall asleep. Three of Spencer’s books lay open on your bed, and you’re holding the fourth. The words are swirling in your vision, and you keep reading the same sentence over and over again.
Fuck. This isn’t working. When Spencer did it, it worked like a charm. You really thought reading was the answer to all of your problems. You toss the book to the end of the bed and throw the covers over your head. This doesn’t feel right. Why did it feel right before? Spencer read the same words as you’re reading now, but--
Wait. That’s what’s missing.
Spencer.
It wasn’t the words he was reading; it was the sound of his voice. It was the way he’d run his fingers through your hair. It’d quiet the mess inside your head.
You throw the sheets off your body and get out of bed. On your way to the door, you grab three things: an umbrella, your keys, and your phone. Spencer’s apartment is a fifteen-minute walk from your place. Since it’s just after midnight, the streets are empty, making time go by faster. Before you know it, you’re outside of Spencer’s apartment and walking inside. When you get to his door, you knock loud enough that he’d hear it from his bedroom.
Spencer opens the door with messy hair, given that he was just sleeping. “Y/N? What are you doing here? Are you okay?”
“I can’t sleep.” Spencer wipes the sleep from his eyes. “I can’t sleep without you. Can I come in?”
Spencer leads you inside his apartment, and you leave your umbrella by the front door. He takes you to his bedroom, and the two of you crawl into bed together. He gets comfortable, and as try as you might, you can’t.
“Look, I’m sorry. If you want me to go, I will, but you make me feel safe.”
“Come here,” he whispers.
You climb underneath the covers and immediately sink into his side. Instantly, you feel better. It’s like your body knows that it can finally rest if he’s by your side.
“Will you read to me?” you ask.
“Of course.”
Spencer is tired, but he’d read to you every night if it means you get to find peace in your dreams. He grabs the book he was reading off his nightstand and flips to the page he stopped on. The second he starts talking, the noise in your head silences. Spencer runs his fingers through your hair over and over again, and your body relaxes against him as sleep consumes you. Even after he knows you’re asleep, he continues to read because he’ll know the monsters in your dreams will sit down and listen instead of running amok.
When Spencer reaches the end of the chapter, he sets the book aside and pulls you closer. He kisses the top of your head, content to have you in his arms for the rest of his life.
x
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Ma’am, I will be sending you my dentist bill cause the tooth rotting fluff you have given us! Seriously, this is just too damn sweet. I want Spencer to read me to sleep; maybe I will sleep better like our dear reader.
Over a decade ago, an email landed in your inbox to announce your transfer from the BAU to the Human Trafficking Unit in your home state. You were excited to spend more time with family…but you had to do the difficult and leave behind the family you had made at the BAU. Especially Dr. Spencer Reid, with his lanky arms, thick glasses, and speech faster than a bullet train. He had unintentionally charmed you with his smarts from the moment you arrived, and it was hard to say goodbye after you got so close.
But, many years later, a case overlapped with the BAU and you were called in to help them. It felt like walking home when you flew up to Quantico, walking in. You had already reviewed the staff, noting a few changes, but Spencer Reid’s name was still listed (making you smile). You expected to walk in to see him just as awkward and clumsy, instead you were met with someone colder and harder than the young man you met.
His hair was longer, unkempt. His eyebags were heavier, hanging under eyes that lacked the glasses she was used to. His sharp jaw was lined with stubble that she didn’t even realize he could grow. No longer was he dressed in his sweaters and khakis, instead he was dressed in a full suit. But, even under all the changes, his eyes were still those same puppy-brown that lit up whenever they looked at you.
Spencer prides himself on his ability to detect lies, to spot the tiniest inconsistencies in a person's story — it's the one thing he has always been able to rely on.
Which is why he feels such a disdain for the BAU's newest member. Unlike the rest of the team, Spencer isn't fooled by her veneer of normalcy. There's something off about her; a lack of warmth in her smiles, a lack of light behind her eyes...
She's hiding something. He knows she is.
He just needs to prove it, and her house of cards will come crashing down.
DISCLAIMER: this fic, whilst it is an x reader, features no use of y/n. the reader is instead referred to in vague terms — such as she or girl — or by her woefully ironic nickname: angel. additionally, the fic is narrated exclusively in third-person.
get to know angel here !
ACT ONE
001. Seven's a Crowd
when a new agent unexpectedly appears in the bullpen, spencer 'hates change' reid grows suspicious. can this mysterious woman be trusted, especially after he catches her in a lie on her first day?
002. Lucretius: Chaos and Order
five months into the new agent's stay at the BAU, she earns herself a nickname — one that spencer believes to be wholly undeserved. as tensions continue to grow, so does spencer's suspicion.
003. The FBI Code of Conduct
after an incident on the jet almost leads to a physical altercation. both spencer and angel are subjected to lectures regarding their recent conduct. spencer tries to repair a bridge that was never built, and angel receives a call from her past.
004. Rackensack
the BAU are called out to the remote town of st paul, arkansas to investigate a series of murders that leave windpipes crushed and fingers broken. when residents don't want to point fingers, can the team solve the case before the unsub finds their next victim? to make things worse, angel and reid have to share a motel room.
005. Smoking Kills
angel decides that the only way to get this case moving is to face their number one suspect one-on one. she quickly learns that such recklessness comes with a price.
006. Power
the team drag angel out on one of their notorious end-of-week evenings at the bar. with tensions at an all time high, can spencer keep himself in check after one too many whiskeys? (NSFW)
007. Family Matters
a case in alexandria hits a little too close to home for angel. despite their sour relationship, she is willing to risk her life, and her job, for spencer when a home visit go south.
008. City of Angels
the BAU are summoned to los angeles to tackle another series of murders. maybe it's just the humidity, but things are beginning to heat up between spencer and his 'angel'. (NSFW)
009. Dreams, Nightmares
a nightmare. a pain-in-the-ass case. an interrogation that ends with a flipped table. these long days in la seem to have softened the hard shells of two problem agents.
010. Emergency Stop
a conduct review with strauss turns into an argument that should end her career, but angel returns to her desk without as much as a written warning. spencer finally snaps as she pushes him to his limit. (NSFW)
011. Control
after the incident in the elevator, after getting spencer to admit that no, he doesn't hate her, angel decides it's about time she rewarded him. after all, it would be a shame to leave him in such a state of desperation again. (NSFW)
012. The 206
a glimpse behind the curtain reveals a side of angel that spencer had not known existed. but whatever flame was kindled that night is extinguished when angel must follow the team to the worst place on earth: home.
013. Respect
when a case leaves her with nothing but a haunted heart and a terrible, bone-deep exhaustion, spencer offers angel a shoulder to lean on. she expresses her gratitude by humiliating him in front of the team, and pisses him off for the 'last' time.
014. Unforeseen Circumstances
an unexpected phone call may ruin spencer's sunday plans, but it also provides him with the opportunity to go on a date with his 'enemy' whom he has definitely not caught feelings for. too preoccupied with his newfound optimism, he fails to notice the unease that trickles in through the cracks of this spur-of-the-moment meeting.
015. Work the Case, part one
when it's revealed that angel is now missing, aaron hotchner has a choice to make. does he bring in the team and expose angel's criminal past, ruining their perception of her? or does he handle this alone and hope for the best? meanwhile, angel has a much needed catch-up with a certain ex-boyfriend.
016. Work the Case, part two
the BAU are forced to reconcile with their coworker's criminal past. tensions rise as they realise the extent of her lies and begin questioning their faith in hotch. meanwhile, angel receives a call that completely derails her escape plan.
017. Back to New York
spencer has been kidnapped, and the BAU are falling to pieces trying to find him. but whilst they're scouring cctv footage from the safety of the academy, a certain angel has taken matters, and a loaded gun, into her own hands.
018. "Angel"
with angel having vanished once more, the team are left to pick up her pieces, and break even more rules, in the hopes of tracking her down. meanwhile, angel confronts the ghost of her past and things take an unexpected turn.
019. Questions Without Answers
when angel wakes up in the hospital, she expects to find herself utterly alone but, as it turns out, a certain genius has been camping at her bedside all day. their reunion is, however, overshadowed by their unit chief and his desire to know the truth about angel and her past.
and more to come...
Status report: unfinished, more chapters coming soon!
Summary: Being pregnant is hard enough, but it’s even harder when you can barely afford to take care of yourself. Spencer has always taken care of you, even if you don’t know it, and he finally decides to show you just how much he does.
Square Filled: erin strauss for 2022 @criminalmindsbingo (previously @spencerreidbingo)
Author’s Note: Any and all comments are greatly appreciated <3
x
This morning has been particularly hard. Morning sickness had passed with your first trimester, but with the stress of your financials and work, it was enough to have your head in the toilet for most of the morning. The only thing that will help your financial situation is to keep working, but how can you go to work every day knowing you’d rather stick a knife in your eye than work for her?
Erin Strauss is someone who doesn’t take bullshit. She’s very good at her job, but she doesn’t always treat you right. What boss does? You’re her assistant, so you see ninety percent of what lands on her desk. She’s wound tight, but she’s been taking it out on you in the form of doing extra work and staying later to finish what can be done the following day.
You’d quit if you had a plan. Unfortunately, you don’t. You have no idea where you’d go or what you'd do if you left the FBI. You’re sure the director can put in some transfers, but what other job would get you home in time for dinner? Strauss may be a hard ass, but she allows you to go home at a decent time.
Plus, you’re having a baby in a few months. Switching jobs now would be idiotic. The FBI is allowing you three months of paid maternity leave. The one good thing Strauss has ever done for you was make it four months, and you’re only assuming she did that because she’s a mother herself.
You walk into work and shuffle over to your desk, thankful she’s not in right now. She usually doesn’t get in until closer to nine, so you have a bit of time to sort through things before she demands stuff from you.
Since you had your head in a toilet bowl most of the morning, you skipped breakfast. Before, food didn’t sound appealing. Now, all your stomach can do is grumble. You have to eat, otherwise you’ll get even more sick. After thirty minutes of sorting through what you need to do for the day, you decide to grab something to eat in the break room.
You’re on the same floor at the BAU, just in another hallway, so you often see the team hard at work. It’s admirable what they do, but you could never be a profiler. You second-guess everything and have a tendency to overthink. Not very good at a place where they need hyper focus.
Spencer is at his desk dooling on a pad of paper when he notices you walk down the short flight of stairs to get to the bullpen. A smile immediately dons his face, and he waves you over.
“Hey, Y/N.” You walk over to his desk. “How was your weekend?”
“Oh, you know, caught up on some of my favorite shows. Did some gardening. Nothing really exciting. You?”
“I finished ten more books. I have to go back to the bookstore for some more.”
“I still can’t believe that brain of yours. It’s very impressive.”
Spencer blushes from your compliment. “Thank you.” Your stomach growls loud enough for Spencer to hear, and he chuckles. “You hungry?”
“Oh, yeah. I missed breakfast.”
Spencer opens his desk drawer and pulls out a cereal bar, some crackers, and some peanuts. Some of your favorite things to munch on.
“Here. I’m not going to eat it.”
“This is my favorite.”
Spencer smiles, “I know.”
“Thank you.” You take the snacks from him. “I should get back. Strauss will need me when she gets in. Um… Thanks again for the food.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll make sure to stop by to see how you’re doing later.”
When you part ways, you can’t keep the smile off your face. Spencer is such a sweetheart. He always seems to know what to bring to ease your stress. Now you don’t have to spend money on getting something to eat.
You get back to your desk and munch on your food as you continue working. After Strauss gets in, the work piles up even more, but you manage. The day is over before you know it, and you’re packing up your things slowly. You’re getting off at a reasonable time, so you’ll be able to take your dog on a walk before getting dinner ready.
You walk toward the bullpen and notice one other person still here.
“Spencer?” He looks up from his desk. “What are you still doing here?”
“Oh, I had to finish a few things. Are you working late?”
“I had some things to finish as well.”
“I’ll walk you out.”
What you don’t know is that Spencer was done hours ago. He’s been playing math games on his phone to pass the time. He was waiting for you to get done so he could walk you out. He never minds when it comes to you.
The buses still run at this time, so you wait for the bus to come at the nearest stop. You don’t have a car since you can’t afford one, but you don’t mind taking the bus. You live close enough to take the bus. Plus, you’ve been saving as much as you can to get one because once your son comes, you’ll need to get a car.
Spencer normally walks home since it’s that close, but he gets on the bus with you. The bus is filled with people with few seats available, but there is one that someone left as they got off the bus.
“You can sit there if you want,” you say to Spencer.
“No, take it.”
“Spencer--”
“Take the seat, Y/N.”
The tone of his voice tells you there is no room for argument. You smile at him before sitting down, and relief floods your system. The more your stomach grows, the more your feet hurt. It’s nice to get off your feet and let them relax, even if it’s only for a little bit.
“So, what are you doing when you get home? Any big plans?”
“Not much. I have to clean.”
“Sounds riveting.”
“Oh, yeah,” Spencer chuckles. “What about you?”
“I’m going to take Rocco for a walk, and then I’ll make some dinner. My plans are as exciting as yours.” You look out the window and see the streets pass by, and you frown slightly. Wait, Spencer doesn’t live out this way. He lives in the4 opposite side of town from you. You’ve been to his place plenty of times to know that. “Wait, don’t you live on the other side of town?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you doing on this bus?”
Spencer chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck. “Oh, there is a bookstore around here that I like to go to. I do need more books.”
“Oh, okay.”
That bookstore is a block away from his apartment, but he doesn’t tell you that. After a few stops, more of the seats are open, and Spencer sits next to you when he can. You’re so tired that you end up putting your head on his shoulder, not noticing how he stiffens a bit from the attention. He makes sure to stay still so you can rest, but the act warms his heart. He loves being what you need, even if you don’t know you need it.
“This week is going to be rough,” you say.
“Why do you say that?”
“Stuff with Strauss. I think the director is breathing down her neck, which means more work for me.”
“Well, anytime you need a break, you come to my desk. If I’m not away on a case, I’ll make sure to be there.”
A small smile dons your face. “Thanks, Spencer.”
The bus stops near your home, and you stand up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Spencer.”
“Yeah, I’ll see you tomorrow.” You thank the bus driver as you get off, and Spencer watches you go. Your house is only a few doors down from the bus stop, so Spencer approaches the bus driver before he can drive off. “Can you wait just a second, please?” The bus driver doesn’t have to ask why. He just does. Spencer’s eyes are on you the whole time as you walk up your porch steps. After unlocking your door, you step inside, and Spencer nods to the bus driver.
“You can leave now.”
The bus driver smiles as he pulls away from the curb. Spencer gets off at the next stop and boards the next bus that will take him home.
The next day, Spencer walks into work and immediately looks around for you. Your desk isn’t visible from the bullpen, but he notices you sitting in the break room, working on some paperwork. He sets his things on his desk before walking over to the break room.
“Hey, why are you in here today?”
“Oh, someone a few desks down from me is eating tuna, and I can’t stand the smell of fish, especially now, so I’m here. Plus, I like the smell of coffee. I don’t mind.”
“Oh, well, I won’t keep you.”
Spencer returns to his desk to get some work in, but he can’t concentrate. He finds himself looking at you every few minutes. The document on his computer is blank, but he’s no longer interested in it. His hand is on his mouse, but he isn’t clicking on anything. JJ walks down the steps to the bullpen and notices Spencer’s lovestruck eyes on you. Your head is down as you write, so you don’t see him watching you.
JJ stops by his desk and leans in close to his ear before whispering, “You’re staring.”
Spencer snaps out of his trance and looks at JJ. “What? Oh, sorry.”
“Just ask her out already.”
“I can’t. She’s having a baby.”
JJ knows Spencer has a thing for you. It’s clear by the way he looks at you and cares for you. It’s cute.
“Okay, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but her douche of an ex left her.”
“What?” The concern on Spencer’s face is evident. “What happened? How do you know?”
“She told Pen, and Pen told me. I guess he didn’t want a kid and just bailed.”
Spencer looks at you again and whispers, “How can anyone leave her?”
A few hours pass as you work hard, then you finally have a break in the day. Strauss is in a meeting, and you already finished your tasks. With a few spare minutes on hand, you look over your finances to plan out how you’ll spend your next few paychecks. This is the part you dread every month. This job pays well, but you have too much to pay for.
Bills are overdue, and it seems like each paycheck is just going to bills. Sometimes, there isn’t enough to grab groceries. There isn’t enough money to support yourself, much less a child. Are you even doing the right thing? It would make sense, financially, to give the baby up for adoption. To give your son a better home than you can provide him. It breaks your heart to even think about it. Your ex left without so much as a single penny, and you’re going to fight him for child support once the baby comes.
No, you’re not going to give your son up for adoption. You already love him too much. You’ll figure it out. You always do. Maybe you can take out a loan from the bank.
Spencer walks down the hall and spots you at your desk. You look upset. That’s nothing you should be when you’re pregnant.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Spencer sits next to your desk. “If you want to talk about it, you know I’m here for you.”
One look into his honey-brown eyes, and you're spilling everything. “It’s just bills are piling up again. It seems I never have enough money for anything. I might have to borrow money from my mom again. I know she won’t mind, but I do. Plus, I still need to buy baby stuff, and it’s just hard.” You sigh and put on a smile for him. “It’s okay. I’ll figure it out.”
“You know I’m here for you for anything, right?”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
Spencer gets an idea, and he pretends someone sent him a message. “I gotta go. I’ll find you later, okay?”
“Okay. Thanks for listening.”
Spencer smiles kindly at you before leaving. He goes straight to Hotch’s office and knocks on the door.
“Come in.”
“Hey, I’m gonna grab lunch for everyone since it calmed down. I’m thinking Jersey Mike’s. Just text me what you want.”
“That’s nice of you. Thank you.”
Spencer leaves his office and texts the group chat that he’s going out for lunch. Orders come flooding in with thanks and appreciation. With an excuse to leave, Spencer walks back over to your desk.
“Come on.”
“Where are we going?” you ask.
“Out to lunch. Let’s just get away for an hour.”
“Okay, sure,” you smile. “Let me just tell Strauss.”
Strauss doesn’t have an issue with you leaving to get lunch, so you grab your purse and phone before leaving with Spencer. JJ and Penelope watch from the briefing room, and they smirk at each other.
Spencer’s intentions aren’t to go to lunch with you. Of course, he knows your order, so he put in for a pickup at Jersey Mike’s in about thirty minutes. In the meantime, Spencer wants to do something for you. He knows exactly what you’re going to say about it, which is why he doesn’t tell you what his plans are.
Ever since JJ told him that your ex left you alone with his child, that didn’t sit right with Spencer. Then, when he heard about your moment problems, he knew this was the right thing to do. Spencer wants nothing but the best for you, and he will do whatever he can to take care of you. He likes you a lot, and he wants to treat you like how you should be treated.
Spencer is using JJ’s car to get around town, and he pulls into the nearest mall’s parking lot. There are a lot of food places around, so you figure he is going to go to one of those. Nope. He drives past the mall to where a strip of stores is. He pulls up to one of the stores, and it causes you to look at him in disbelief.
“Spencer, what are we doing here?”
“Just come on.”
You have no choice but to follow him. It’s not like you’ll be staying in the car. Spencer grabs your hand while he walks to Babies R Us. The simple act of him holding your hand is enough to make your heart race, but you try not to think about it. Spencer is such a sweetheart, and he treats you like a Queen. He’s better to you than any man has ever been to you.
Have you thought about going there with Spencer? Maybe once or twice, but how can you think about that now, knowing you’re going to have someone else’s baby? He probably doesn’t want to be stuck with some other man’s kid, so you haven’t done anything about it. It’s nice to know he cares, though.
You two walk in, and Spencer grabs a cart as if he’s going to be grabbing a bunch of stuff. You follow him around the store, and he stops at the baby clothes. He looks through the clothes and pulls one of the onesies out.
“You think he’ll like this?” Spencer shrugs. “We’ll get it anyway.”
You are speechless. You want to say something, but the words die in your throat whenever you can. The only thing you can do is watch as he throws in a lot of clothes and toys that your son might like. Spencer turns down one of the aisles that has baby bottles, nipples, and other things for feeding.
“Are you going to be breastfeeding or feeding him formula? Do you have enough bottles? I was doing some reading last night, and a baby should have eight to ten bottles, but it doesn’t hurt to have more.” When you don’t say anything, Spencer looks at you. “Y/N?”
“Spencer, why are you doing this?” you ask when you finally find your voice.
“I want to.”
“You shouldn’t spend your money on me. I’ll be okay.”
“This stuff?” He gestures to everything in the cart. “It’s worth it knowing you’ll have what you need when Kaden comes.” He’s saying all the right words, and it’s making your head spin. Your hormones are running wild, so you’re trying really hard not to cry. He sees this, and he steps closer to you so he can hold your hands. “I care about you, Y/N. A lot. I just want to take care of you. You know what I mean?”
You didn’t before, but you do now. “I’m starting to.”
x
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pairings: post prison!spencer reid x profiler!reader
theme: angst, hurt to comfort
summary: before spencer went to prison, they were inseparable, wherever she was, he was never far behind. late nights blurred into shared silences, and his presence felt as natural as breathing, but after prison, everything shifted. now, the moment he walks into a room, she’s already looking for the exit.
content warnings: none!
a/n: okay listen, i know hotch wasn't there when reid got arrested but I think it was better to pretend that he was because he's the only one who would ever understand without being told so JUST PRETEND WITH ME
The thing about Spencer Reid and her was that they had never needed to name what they were. It lived in the margins of their days, in the quiet hours when the bullpen lights dimmed, and everyone else went home.
“You’re done already,” she said once, glancing at the neatly stacked files on his desk.
“I completed the report twenty-seven minutes ago,” Spencer replied, eyes still on the screen.
She leaned her hip against his desk. “Then why are you still sitting here?”
He hesitated, fingers hovering above the keyboard. “Well, the probability of meaningful human interaction increases when one remains in proximity.”
She smiled. “You’re terrible at pretending this is about statistics.”
“I’m not pretending,” he said softly. “I’m choosing.”
She didn’t respond to that. She just set a coffee down beside him.
Five sugars. Extra cream.
His eyes flicked to the cup. “You remembered.”
“I always do.”
It lived in the notes. Tiny hearts scribbled on sticky notes and hidden between files. Mathematical equations that spelled I miss you if you knew how to solve them. Her handwriting was tucked into his satchel, his precise block letters slipped into her coat pocket. The people around them noticed, of course. Garcia and Morgan teased gently. JJ and Emily pretended not to see while seeing everything. Rossi and Tara said nothing, which somehow meant he approved. It lived in the exhaustion after long cases, when their shoulders would brush against each other on the jet, and neither of them would pull away. When her head would tilt, just slightly, until it rested against his shoulder, and Spencer would freeze for exactly half a second before relaxing, heart racing at a speed that contradicted every statistic he knew.
It lived in everything. Until it didn’t.
The night Spencer was arrested, the world didn’t break loudly. It collapsed inward. Her phone rang at 2:17 a.m. The sound jolted her awake, heart already racing before she even answered.
“Hey,” she said, voice thick with sleep. “What’s wrong?”
There was silence on the other end. That was the first sign.
“I need you to listen to me,” JJ said gently. “And I need you to stay calm.”
Her chest tightened. “Why?”
“Spencer’s been arrested.”
For a moment, she thought she’d misheard.
“That’s not funny,” she said, a brittle laugh slipping out, but she was greeted with silence again.
“Why?” Her voice cracked. She tried her best not to cry, not yet. “Where is he? What happened?”
The call ended shortly after that. She didn’t remember hanging up. She just stared at the wall, the room spinning slightly, the words replaying in her head until they lost meaning.
Spencer? Arrested? It didn’t make sense. Nothing about him fit that word. The thought scraped painfully against everything she knew about him. She drove to the office on autopilot. Sat in the bullpen long after sunrise, waiting for answers that didn’t come. Days passed. Then weeks. She tried to visit him.
“I’m here to see Spencer Reid,” she told the guard, voice tight with exhaustion.
The guard typed, frowned, shook his head. “You’re not on the list.”
“That’s not possible.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am.”
She stood there longer than she needed to, staring at the counter as if it might change its mind. As if the world might correct itself. It didn’t. She confronted JJ later that week, anger and desperation tangled in her chest.
“Jennifer, why isn’t he letting me see him?”
JJ hesitated, flinching at the way she had called her by the first name when she was nothing but sweet to her in other times, but she knew where all of it was coming from: “Spence asked us not to.”
The words hit harder than she expected.
“Us?” she whispered. "Everyone..." JJ hesitates, swallowing slowly. She watches her face drop, and tears threaten to fall from her eyes.
“Why?” Her voice was soft and breaking.
JJ didn’t answer. Spencer didn’t write.
The not knowing became unbearable. It gnawed at her in the quiet hours, hollowed her out until she felt like a shell of herself. She went to work. She did her job. She smiled when required and laughed when appropriate, but something essential had fractured. Over time, she just decided that it was her new normal, something she had to deal with, and in the process, she felt numb.
When Spencer came back, there was no triumphant return.
No dramatic moment where everything snapped back into place.
He walked into the bullpen thinner, quieter, his movements more cautious. His suit hung differently on his frame. His eyes carried something dark and heavy that didn’t leave even when he smiled.
“Reid!” Garcia cried, launching herself at him. JJ hugged him tightly. “You okay?”
“I’m… here,” he said, voice soft. His eyes scanned the room, looking for the only person he ever wanted to say the moment he walked in. She was at her desk. Still and silent. For a split second, hope surged through herm sharp and painfully. He was alive. He was free. She wanted to break so badly, run over to him, hug him, kiss him, cry, and tell him how much she missed him. Then the memory crashed in.
She stood, gathered her things, and walked past him without looking. Spencer flinched. The entire bullpen went silent. Spencer looked back at them and forced a fake smile before putting his head down.
He deserved it. That’s what he told himself.
For the next few weeks, everything remains stale between them. Spencer tries his best to start even the smallest conversation, but she keeps turning him down. The first time was when Spencer caught her near the coffee machine.
“I, um,” he started, then stopped himself, adjusting his grip on the paper cup. “Garcia said the machine’s been over-extracting. If your coffee tastes burnt, statistically speaking—”
She didn’t look at him. “I like burnt coffee,” she said flatly.
“Oh,” he replied. “Okay. Then, good. I mean. Not good. Just… noted.”
He stood there for another second too long. She stayed in place, mixing everything she needed, and pretended like nobody else was there with her.
Finally, he cleared his throat. “I was wondering if you’d like to—”
“No,” she said.
He blinked. “I didn’t finish.”
“You didn’t need to.”
She walked away, coffee untouched. Spencer stood there staring at the empty space she’d left behind, fingers tightening around his cup until the heat burned his skin.
The next time was when they were in the field, standing over a whiteboard cluttered with timelines and victim profiles. Spencer stepped closer, pointing at a gap in the sequence.
“There’s a cognitive inconsistency here,” he said carefully. “If the unsub—”
“I see it,” she cut in.
“I wasn’t questioning you,” he said quickly. “I just thought—”
“I don’t need you to think for me,” she snapped, eyes flashing.
The room went quiet. JJ glanced between them but said nothing. Spencer dropped his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to overstep.”
She exhaled sharply, jaw tight. “Then stop doing it.”
The case continued with Spencer not speaking again unless directly asked.
One evening, she was reviewing reports in her office when Hotch appeared in the doorway.
“Do you have a moment?” he asked.
She looked up, surprised. “Of course.”
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. That alone was unsettling.
“I won’t keep you long,” Hotch said. “This isn’t a reprimand.”
She stiffened anyway.
“It’s about Reid.”
Her shoulders tensed. “I figured.”
Hotch folded his arms. “He’s struggling,” he said plainly. “More than he’s letting on.”
She laughed softly. “That’s new?”
Hotch’s gaze sharpened. “He believes he deserves your distance.”
She met his eyes. “Maybe he does.”
“Maybe,” Hotch agreed. “But I’m not speaking to you on his behalf.”
That caught her off guard. “Then why are you here?” she asked.
“Because unresolved tension compromises team cohesion,” he said. Then paused. “And because I’ve seen what it costs when people carry pain alone.” She swallowed.
“He made his choices,” she said quietly. “I didn’t get a say.”
“No,” Hotch agreed. “You didn’t.”
Silence stretched. “I won’t tell you how to feel,” Hotch continued. “And I won’t ask you to forgive him, but I will say this: Reid isn’t asking for absolution. He’s asking for a chance to explain.”
Her fingers tightened around her pen. “And if I’m not ready?” she asked, her voice ever so soft. She was breaking, even more than she already did, and she couldn't help but think when this was going to end. She wanted Spencer back in her life so much, but how could she when all the pain was filling up her already broken heart?
Hotch nodded once. “Then you’re not ready.” He turned toward the door, then stopped. “For what it’s worth,” he added, “you’re allowed to be angry. Just don’t confuse silence with strength.”
She sat there long after, shaken by the fact that Hotch had seen her pain without trying to fix it.
The day after her talk with Hotch, she deliberately decided to stay late to finish work and to be able to think, but unbeknownst to her, Spencer was staying late too. Now here she was, in the presence of the man he both never wants to see but can't stop thinking about.
Spencer noticed it before anything else, the absence of noise, the way the building seemed to exhale now that everyone else had gone home. Papers were spread across the table between them, real work this time, not an excuse. His pen scratched softly against the page.
He hadn’t planned to say anything, but the silence pressed against his ribs until it hurt. She was trying her hardest not to steal a glance across her, forcing herself to read the same paragraph over and over until the words were basically mushed together in the paper.
“I know you don’t want to talk to me,” Spencer said finally, voice low, careful. “But we can’t keep pretending I’m not here.”
She didn’t look up. “We’re working,” she said flatly.
“I mean—” He swallowed. “I mean about everything else.”
That did it. She slammed her folder shut so hard the sound echoed.
“No,” she snapped. “No, you don’t get to do that.”
He flinched. “Do what?”
“You don’t get to come back,” she said, standing abruptly, “and just… start conversations like nothing happened.”
“That’s not what I’m trying to do,” he said quickly.
“It sure feels like it,” she shot back. “You walk in, everyone’s relieved, everyone’s happy you’re alive, and suddenly I’m supposed to be fine too?”
“I never said that.”
“You didn’t have to,” she said bitterly. “You said enough when you didn’t say anything at all.”
Spencer stood slowly. “I was trying to protect you.”
She laughed, sharp and humorless. “There it is.”
“What?”
“That line,” she said. “The one you keep hiding behind.”
“I mean it,” he insisted. “I could’ve hurt you.”
“No,” she snapped, stepping closer. “You did hurt me.”
He opened his mouth, then closed it again.
“I know you,” she continued, voice shaking now. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me like that, but you decided I couldn’t handle the truth. You decided I was too fragile.”
“That’s not—”
“You didn’t let me see you,” she said, tears spilling over. “You didn’t write. You didn’t explain. You left me with nothing but silence. Do you know how many nights I stayed awake on my bed with my heart heavy, thinking whether or not you were alright? If anyone was hurting you? If you were...still alive?”
“I didn’t know who I was anymore,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t know what I was capable of.”
“You don’t know me either, then,” she fired back. “Because if you did, you’d know I would’ve stayed. I would have fought for you, Spencer! Fiercer than any of them. What hurt most was that everyone else got to see you, everyone else got to fight for you. While I was reduced to the one who stayed in the bullpen to answer calls, and sit with my anxious thoughts.”
He looked at her like that thought physically hurt him.
“You don’t want me,” he said quietly. “Not anymore. I’m not the same person I was before. You don't know me anymore, everything's changed since.”
Her eyebrows pulled together, anger and heartbreak colliding.
“Who are you,” she said through clenched teeth, “to tell me what I want?”
Spencer watched, hands shaking in guilt, fear, anger, and sadness, which morphed into one monstrous emotion.
“I’ll ruin you,” he said, whispering, turning away like he couldn’t bear her expression. “I’ll mess up your life. I’ll fuck you up.”
“Then do it.”
He turned back sharply. “What?”
“Ruin me,” she said, voice breaking but fierce. “Fuck me over. Make me cry. Make me beg. I don’t care.”
She took another step toward him.
“I want you, Spencer,” she said. “I want you. The good, the bad, the ugly. I don’t fucking care.”
He was shaking now.
“You don’t get to decide for me,” she continued. “I don’t give a single fuck if you end up being bad for me. Let me decide that later. What I want right now is you. I want you back. I want to understand why you shut me out.”
Her voice softened, but only slightly.
“I’m not fragile. I don’t need pity. I can take it.”
Spencer crossed the space between them like the floor was on fire. Finally, the truth was out. Both of them had unraveled completely, bare to each other. His hands came up to her face, fingers pressing in too tightly, like he was afraid she’d vanish if he loosened his grip.
“I was scared,” he whispered. “I thought loving you meant destroying you.”
Her hands wrapped around his wrists.
“You don’t get to love me by leaving,” she said quietly.
He kissed her like an apology. Like a confession. Like a promise, he was finally brave enough to keep.
“I’m here,” he murmured against her lips. “I’m not going anywhere."
"I won't let you. Not this time."
She kissed him back, and this time, he didn’t push back.
pairings: post prison spencer reid x fem!reader / fiancée
theme: angst
summary: spencer comes home late and find reader asleep. He explains the hostage situation with JJ and reader can see he is torn, leaving her hearbroken. They fight, they yell and then she leaves.
content warnings: be prepared to cry because I certainly did.
words: 3967k
The apartment was quiet in the way that only came after midnight—soft, careful, like it didn’t want to wake anyone. Lamps glowed low in the living room, warm pools of light reflecting off framed photos and half-read books. You were curled on the couch beneath a blanket, waiting longer than you’d promised yourself you would.
The front door finally clicked open.
Spencer stepped inside slowly, as if the weight of the night was still pressing against his shoulders. His jacket hung loose, his tie forgotten, curls more unruly than usual. He looked exhausted in a way sleep wouldn’t fix.
He locked the door behind him and turned—then froze when he saw you.
For a moment, he just stood there.
You must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing you felt was the dip of the couch beside you. A familiar presence. A familiar warmth. His hand settled gently on your leg, fingers curling just enough to ground himself. A light squeeze.
You stirred, blinking blearily as you surfaced.
“Hey,” he whispered, voice rough.
“Hey,” you murmured back, sitting up slightly, the blanket slipping to your waist. One look at his face and your heart tightened. “You’re home late.”
“Yeah.” He swallowed. “It was… a lot.”
You waited. You always did.
Spencer leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands laced together. He stared at the floor as he began to talk—about the hostage situation, about the fear, about the seconds stretching into eternities. His words came fast at first, clinical, detached. Profiling language. Survival language.
Then his voice cracked.
“And JJ—” He stopped, breath hitching. “She said something. She… she told me she loved me.”
The room seemed to go very still.
You didn’t interrupt. You watched him instead. The way his jaw tightened. The way his eyes were glassy, conflicted, almost haunted. You’d lived through his prison trauma with him, through nightmares and panic attacks and silences that lasted days. You knew his tells.
He believed her.
“I didn’t know what to say,” he continued. “I didn’t—there wasn’t time, and I—” He finally looked at you then, eyes desperate. “I love you. I do. What we have is real. JJ doesn’t—she doesn’t change that.”
But you could see it. In the way his gaze wavered. In the way his shoulders slumped like he was carrying guilt he didn’t know how to set down.
You nodded slowly, more to yourself than to him.
“I know you love me,” you said quietly. “And I know you didn’t ask for that to happen.” A shaky breath left you. “But Spencer… you’re torn. I can see it.”
He shook his head immediately. “No, I just—”
“She matters to you,” you said, not unkindly. “And not just as a friend.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and painful.
You didn’t work for the BAU. You weren’t in the field, didn’t live with constant danger or shared trauma—but you weren’t naïve either. You knew what it meant to stand close to that kind of bond. You’d always respected it.
But this?
This was different.
“This makes me feel like I’m standing in second place,” you whispered. “Like no matter how long we’ve been together, there’s always going to be something unfinished between you and her.”
Spencer reached for your hands, holding them too tightly. “She doesn’t mean anything. Not like that. I swear. But I- I'm ”
You pulled your hands back gently, shaking your head.
“No.”
His face fell.
Then the words came out sharper than you intended, pain pushing them forward. “But what, Spencer? She’s married. Married. For fucks’ sake.” Your voice trembled. “She has two kids. They’re your godchildren.”
He flinched.
“We’re supposed to get married in the spring,” you went on, tears burning your eyes now. “I’m planning a future with you, and tonight you come home looking like you just lost one.”
Spencer’s shoulders caved inward. “No,” he murmured. “No, honey. Not at all, no.”
That was all he had.
And somehow, that hurt the most.
A soft, broken sound escaped your chest as tears finally spilled over. You stood abruptly, the blanket sliding to the floor.
“I can’t do this,” you whispered.
He stood too, reaching out instinctively. “Wait—please—”
But you were already walking away.
The zipper of the bag was too loud in the quiet apartment.
You flinched at the sound, breath shaking as you shoved the last shirt inside. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. You hated that you were crying like this—hated that it had come to this at all.
“Don’t,” Spencer said from behind you, suddenly closer. “Please don’t do that.”
You froze.
“I just need the night,” you said, voice barely holding together. “I need space.”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he meant it to, and you turned, startled. His chest was rising and falling too fast, eyes wild in a way you rarely saw. “No, you don’t get to just leave. Not like this.”
“Spencer—”
“You’re packing a bag,” he said, gesturing helplessly. “You’re acting like this is over.”
“I didn’t say that!”
“But you’re treating it like it is,” he snapped, and then immediately winced, hands flying up to his hair. “God, I— I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“You did,” you said, tears spilling freely now. “You meant it because that’s how it feels.”
He stepped closer, blocking the doorway. “Look at me,” he begged. “Please.”
You did, and that only made it worse. His eyes were red, jaw clenched so tight you thought it might crack. This wasn’t calm, gentle Spencer who talked things through. This was Spencer terrified of losing you.
“I came home to you,” he said, voice breaking. “Not her. You were the one waiting for me.”
“And yet she’s the one you’re falling apart over,” you shot back.
“That’s not fair!”
“Then explain it to me!” you yelled, the sound ripping out of you. “Explain why you looked at me tonight like you didn’t know where you belonged!”
He flinched like you’d slapped him.
“I was confused,” he said hoarsely. “I was ambushed emotionally after a hostage situation, and I didn’t have time to process it, and—”
“And what?” you demanded. “And you realized you love her?”
“No!” he shouted back, louder than either of you ever had before. The room seemed to echo with it. He looked stunned by his own volume, chest heaving. “No. I love you. I chose you.”
“But you believe her,” you whispered. “I saw it in your eyes. You believe she loves you. And some part of you… wants that to mean something.”
Silence slammed down between you.
Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands dropped uselessly to his sides.
“That doesn’t mean I would ever act on it,” he said finally. “It doesn’t mean I want a life with her.”
“But it means I’m standing here planning a wedding with a man whose heart just split in two,” you said. “And I don’t know where that leaves me.”
“You’re my fiancée,” he said desperately. “You’re the woman I asked to marry me. You’re the one I wake up next to. You’re the one who held me together after prison when I couldn’t even stand to be touched—”
“Then why doesn’t that feel like enough right now?” you cried.
He crossed the space between you and grabbed your face, gripping it like he was afraid you’d disappear if he didn’t. “Because I messed up,” he said, voice cracking. “Because I didn’t know how to come home and pretend I wasn’t shaken. But please—please don’t punish me for being honest with you.”
“I’m not punishing you,” you sobbed. “I’m protecting myself.”
“You’re running,” he said, panic seeping into every word. “And you promised me you wouldn’t do that. You promised we’d talk.”
You tried—and couldn’t.
That broke him.
“Please don’t go,” he begged, voice dropping, raw and wrecked. “I can’t— I can’t sleep without you. I can’t sit in this apartment alone knowing I did this to us.”
Your chest ached at the sound of it. “Spencer…”
“I’ll call Rossi. I’ll call Hotch. I’ll call my therapist,” he said rapidly. “I’ll do whatever you want. Boundaries, distance from JJ, counseling—anything. Just don’t walk out that door tonight.”
You squeezed your eyes shut, tears streaming.
“I need you to understand how much this hurts,” you whispered. “Because if I stay tonight, I’ll pretend I’m okay when I’m not. And then we really will break.”
His grip loosened, like his strength was draining out of him.
“So you’re choosing to leave,” he said hollowly.
“I’m choosing us,” you said. “Or what’s left of us.”
The fight burned itself into the walls.
Words flew sharp and fast until both of you were shaking, voices hoarse, hearts laid open in ways they never had been before. By the time the shouting stopped, there was nothing left to defend—only wreckage.
You stood there, chest heaving, tears sliding freely now, no longer angry enough to stop them.
Your fingers wouldn’t leave the ring.
You twisted it endlessly, back and forth, back and forth, the diamond catching the light every time your hand moved. Spencer noticed too late—noticed the way you’d been doing it the entire fight, like it was the only thing keeping you upright.
His voice broke. “You’re going to wear a groove into it.”
You let out a broken laugh. “I know. I keep thinking if I spin it enough, I’ll remember why I felt so safe wearing it.”
That shattered him.
“You are safe,” he said, stepping toward you again, hands trembling. “With me. With us.”
You shook your head slowly.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said, quieter now, devastation seeping into every syllable. “I never thought—God, I never thought you feel like this.”
“That’s the problem,” you whispered. “I love you so much and I was to afraid to admit, to ashamed to speak on it, that I am jealous of your relationship with her. I never wanted to be that woman. I feel like this is it”
The words knocked the breath from his lungs.
Spencer hovered, helpless, watching his life split open.
Your hand never left the ring.
You twisted it as you packed. As you wiped your face. As you took one last look at the room where you’d planned a future.
Finally, you stopped.
With a breath that felt like it might kill you, you slid the ring off your finger.
Spencer made a sound—half sob, half plea. “Please… don’t.”
“I’m not ending anything,” you said softly, even as your voice broke. “I just can’t carry this tonight.”
You crossed the room and placed the ring on his bedside table next to his books and glasses. Carefully. Reverently. Right where he’d see it when he woke up. Right where it would hurt the most.
He stared at it like it was a wound.
“You’re taking my heart with you,” he whispered.
“I know,” you said. You already took mine and broke it tonight.”
You stepped back into his space then, close enough that he could feel you shaking. He reached for you instinctively, hands resting at your waist like muscle memory, like home.
“I don’t know how to survive this,” he admitted, tears spilling freely now. “I don’t know how to exist without you here.”
You lifted your hands to his face, thumbs brushing his cheeks, wiping tears you’d never seen from him before. “Neither do I.”
Slowly, painfully, you leaned in and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was soft. Trembling. Final.
His lips parted under yours like he was memorizing the feeling, like he knew this might be the last time he ever felt it. His grip tightened for half a second, like he might beg again—
—but he didn’t.
When you pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath uneven.
“I love you,” he whispered, like a confession, like a prayer.
“I love you too,” you said. “That’s why this hurts so much.”
You grabbed your bag and walked toward the door on legs that barely worked. At the threshold, you hesitated, fingers brushing the frame.
The door closed behind you with a soft click that sounded far too permanent.
Spencer stayed where he was long after you were gone. Eventually, he sank onto the bed, eyes drawn helplessly to the ring on the bedside table—your ring—glinting under the lamp like a promise he didn’t know how to keep.
Outside, the night swallowed you whole.
And neither of you knew if love would be enough to find its way back.
Spencer sat on the bed, staring at the ring on the bedside table. The apartment was oppressively quiet, every shadow heavier than the last. His hands trembled, but it wasn’t just from crying—it was from the thought of calling someone. Anyone.
He swallowed hard. He never did this. He never reached out for help with personal things. With work? Sure. With danger? Always. But… this? This was different. This was about her. About the woman he loved, the one he had just scared into leaving him.
His thumb hovered over Emily’s number. His breath caught. She’ll know. She’ll understand… but also, I shouldn’t… I shouldn’t involve anyone.
He dialed anyway.
The line rang, each buzz echoing in his chest.
“Emily?” His voice was small, hesitant, almost broken.
“Spence? Is everything okay?” Emily’s voice was warm but cautious. She could sense immediately that something was wrong.
“I… I—” He paused. The words stuck. His throat tightened. He looked at the ring again. “She left… she… left the apartment. The ring…”
Emily was silent for a beat, letting him gather himself. “Okay… okay, Spence. Breathe. What do you need?”
He swallowed hard. “I… I can’t… I don’t know what to do. I can’t be alone. I—God, I just… I…” His voice cracked, small, almost whispered. “I don’t want to be alone tonight. I—”
“Okay,” Emily said gently, “I’m coming over. Just… stay where you are. Don’t move. I’ll be there.”
He exhaled shakily, a mix of relief and terror. “I… thank you… I—I don’t usually… I mean… I never… I don’t—” He trailed off, embarrassed by how completely unguarded he was.
“You’re allowed, Spence,” Emily reassured him softly. “You care about her. You’re human. That’s why you called me.”
He nodded, even though she couldn’t see him, and sank deeper into the couch. Every muscle in his body was taut with tension. Finally, he let himself tremble, tears spilling freely, hot and unstoppable.
Twenty minutes later, a knock at the door. Emily’s voice: “Spencer? It’s me.”
He didn’t hesitate this time. He opened the door, relief and raw vulnerability written all over his face. Emily stepped inside and wrapped him in a firm hug, holding him as he allowed himself to completely collapse into her, trembling, crying, broken.
“I… I don’t know what to do,” he whispered, voice shaking. “I… she left… the ring… I can’t—”
“You don’t have to do it alone,” Emily said firmly. “I’m here. We’ll get through this. You’re not alone.”
And for the first time since she left, Spencer felt a fragile tether to the world, someone who could hold him when he felt like he was shattering, even if only for a moment.
You sat on the edge of the bed, coat still on, bag untouched at your feet. Your hands were empty, and that was the problem. You kept reaching for your ring without thinking—thumb brushing bare skin where weight used to be—over and over again.
It wasn’t there.
A sound tore out of your chest, sharp and broken, and suddenly you were folding in on yourself, shoulders shaking as the reality finally crashed down. You pressed your hand to your mouth like that might keep the sobs inside, but they spilled anyway—ugly, heaving cries that echoed off the walls.
You slid down onto the carpet, back against the bed, fingers twisting around nothing.
I left it there.
On his bedside table.
Like I wasn’t sure I deserved to keep it.
The thought cracked you open.
You buried your face in your knees, crying harder now, gasping for air, whispering his name like it might summon him. Like he might appear and fix it the way he always did.
A knock sounded at the door.
You froze.
Another knock—gentle this time. Careful.
“Hey, beautiful,” a familiar voice said softly. “It’s me.”
Your heart stuttered.
You opened the door with shaking hands, and there she was—Penelope Garcia, cardigan wrapped tightly around herself, eyes already glossy with worry.
She took one look at your face and her own broke.
“Oh, honey,” she whispered.
You stared at her, stunned, voice barely there. “He… he called you?”
Penelope nodded immediately. “Yes.”
That was all it took.
You crumpled into her arms, sobbing so hard your knees nearly gave out. She held you without hesitation, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles into your back like she was anchoring you to the ground.
“He’s losing his mind,” she murmured softly into your hair. “He didn’t know what else to do.”
You pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes red and desperate. “So… you know what happened?”
Penelope swallowed. “Yeah,” she said quietly. “I know.”
The hotel room finally broke you.
You didn’t even make it to the bed this time. The moment the door clicked shut behind Penelope, your legs gave out and you sank against the wall, breath coming in sharp, panicked bursts. Your hand went to your left ring finger out of pure instinct—
Nothing.
A sound tore out of you that didn’t sound human.
“Oh—oh God,” you sobbed, clutching your hand to your chest like that might stop the pain from spilling everywhere. “I left it there. I left it with him. He is probalby loosing his mind, thinking I left for good”
Penelope dropped to her knees in front of you instantly, arms wrapping around you so tight it was almost painful. She pulled you into her chest, rocking you as your body shook violently.
“I know, baby,” she whispered. “I know.”
You cried harder, face buried in her sweater, sobs ripping through you in waves so strong you gasped for air between them. “It’s supposed to mean forever,” you choked. “It’s supposed to mean he chose me.”
“He did choose you,” Penelope said fiercely, voice already cracking. “My beautiful boy genius chose you and keeps choosing you even when his brain betrays him.”
That made it worse.
You sobbed into her, fingers twisting in her cardigan. “She loves him, Penelope. She loves my Spencer.”
Penelope’s arms tightened. “Okay, listen to me,” she said, rambling now, voice trembling in that way that meant she was trying to keep herself together. “Spencer Reid is many things — a genius, a disaster human, emotionally constipated, too tall for most doorways — but he is yours. He loves you in a way that is steady and real and earned.”
You shook your head violently. “She’s married and Will is wonderful to her. She has kids. She has it all, she has the life I want with him.”
“I know,” Penelope whispered.
Your crying turned frantic, hands fisting in her sweater. “I don’t want to be the woman who’s jealous of his best friend. I don’t want to be bitter. I just wanted to be enough.”
Penelope cupped your face, forcing you to look at her, tears streaming down her own cheeks now. “You are enough. This isn’t about you lacking anything. This is about someone saying something they should have buried and it exploding at the worst possible moment.”
You collapsed back into her arms, sobbing so hard your entire body shook. Penelope rocked you again, murmuring nonsense and endearments, rambling through tears.
“He talks about you like you’re gravity,” she whispered. “Like if you let go of him he’ll float off into space. He calls you his anchor, his safe place, his—God, you’re making me cry harder.”
That broke you completely.
Eventually, she coaxed you onto the bed, still holding you, arms wrapped around you from behind like a shield. Your sobs slowly dulled into hiccupping breaths, exhaustion dragging you under.
When your breathing evened out, Penelope stayed frozen, afraid to move.
Only then did she carefully slip free, grab her phone, and step toward the bathroom door.
She dialed.
Penelope whispered into the phone, pacing gently. “Emily, it’s bad. She’s… she’s completely broken. Crying, shaking… I didn’t think—”
There was a muffled sound on the other end.
“Yeah, I know she fell asleep finally, but she’s hurting worse than anything I’ve ever seen—”
Suddenly, a sharp, desperate voice cut through. “Garcia?”
Penelope froze mid-step. “Spencer?”
“Hand me the phone. Now.”
Emily’s voice came muffled, surprised: “Spence—what—”
“I don’t care! Hand me the phone!” he snapped, urgency so raw it made Penelope’s stomach twist.
The line clicked, and suddenly Spencer Reid was there, his voice trembling and breaking, right in Penelope’s ear.
“Garcia, I… I need to know she’s okay. I can’t—I can’t just wait to hear about her like this! I have to hear it from you! Right now!”
Penelope’s eyes softened, watching your chest rise and fall in sleep on the bed, still wet with tears. She knelt beside you, brushing a stray hair from your face as she spoke to him.
“She’s asleep,” Penelope said softly. “Finally resting. But she’s hurting, Spencer. You scared her. You shook her world tonight.”
“I know,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I know, I—I should have shut it down. I should have protected her. But I didn’t, Garcia. And now… now I’m losing my mind, and I just… I need to hear that she’s safe.”
Penelope nodded, brushing your hair behind your ear. “She’s safe, Spence. She’s here. But she’s hurting. Badly. And she needs you to—”
“I know!” he interrupted, desperation bleeding through every word. “I love her! I’ve always loved her! Not JJ! Not anyone else! Just her! You have to tell her I didn’t stop loving her!”
Penelope’s voice softened, a whisper that wrapped around him like a shield. “I know you love her, Spence. She knows. I know. But she’s scared, and she’s hurting, and she needs to rest tonight. Because right now, she feels like she lost her future.”
There was a long pause. Then Spencer’s shaky exhale. “I’ll wait. I’ll do whatever she needs. But God… I can’t—Penelope, I can’t stand knowing she’s hurting and I can’t be there. I can’t.”
“I know,” Penelope whispered. “And you are there. Even from here. She’ll feel it.”
Spencer’s voice dropped, quieter, raw. “Tell her… tell her I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere. That I love her. That I’ll wait however long she needs me.”
Penelope glanced back at you, sleeping, tiny breaths catching, face still wet from crying. “I will,” she promised, softly.
And there he was, he was on the line, pouring himself into every word, desperate, shattered, and utterly hers—even from miles away.
Respectfully JJ, you’re a fucking bitch. Like, I love you girl, but fuck that was just cruel to not only Spencer, but to his CHOSEN life partner! Hell, how could you say something like this when you have an incredible husband and two amazing boys??? Ma’am, you can’t have all the good men. Kay so, I’m gonna need a part 2 (or more) of this getting fixed and my genius getting his HEA. He fucking deserves it!
Summary: Dean gets a phone call from Bobby about a case. What he doesn’t know is how personal it will be.
Word Count: 1.2K
Pairings: Dean x Reader.
Warnings: A little angsty and sad.
A/N: Unbetad so all mistakes are my own. This is the first one shot I have written for 4 years so please be kind.
My Masterlist
Dean Winchester never stayed anywhere long enough to leave ghosts behind.
That’s what he told himself, anyway.
Bobby’s voice crackled through the phone with a familiar town name; your town.
Dean felt something cold and sharp lodge itself under his ribs.
“Any reason you went quiet?” Bobby asked.
Dean stared out the motel window at the flickering neon sign. “No reason.”
“Uh-huh. Well, local PD says it’s a classic haunting. Woman found dead two years back. Folks reporting lights, cold spots, voices. You and Sammy are closest.”
Dean swallowed. Two years.
That was about right.
Dean had survived hell.
More than once.
But standing in front of your gravestone felt worse than anything demons had ever done to him.
The marker was simple. Your name carved into stone. Dates that shouldn’t have been so close together. Someone had left wilted flowers at the base, the petals browning with neglect.
You’d been dead for two years, and he was only just finding out.
Dean crouched slowly, like the ground might give out beneath him if he moved too fast. His fingers brushed the stone, rough and cold.
“I didn’t know,” he whispered.
The words were useless. You couldn’t hear them. And even if you could, what good would they do now?
Sam stood a few steps back, giving him space. Too much space, maybe. Dean felt like if Sam left, if anyone left, he’d collapse straight into the dirt and let it swallow him whole.
“She was murdered,” Sam said quietly. “Police never solved it.”
Dean laughed once. Sharp, broken. “Of course she was.”
Because monsters had always followed him.
Because he never left anywhere without something bleeding afterward.
Because loving him had consequences.
And you had paid for it.
You’d known from the start that Dean Winchester was temporary.
Men like him always were. Too charming, too damaged, too restless to stay. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That whatever this was, it didn’t have to last forever to be real.
But Dean had a way of making things feel permanent.
He stayed longer than he meant to. Slept in your bed like it belonged to him. Left his boots by the door. Memorised how you took your coffee. Fixed the broken latch on your window without you asking.
One night, after sex, you traced the scars on his chest with reverent fingers.
“Someone hurt you,” you said softly.
Dean swallowed. “Yeah.”
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I want to,” he replied. “I just don’t know how.”
You pressed your forehead to his. “Then don’t leave.”
Dean went still.
“I can’t promise that.”
You should’ve pulled away.
Instead, you kissed him harder.
The EMF screamed.
Dean’s head snapped up.
The motel room lights flickered violently, plunging the space into shadow before flaring back to life. Cold seeped into the air, curling around his skin like fingers tightening their grip.
“Dean,” Sam warned. “We’ve got company.”
Dean didn’t reach for his gun.
He didn’t need to.
You were standing near the bathroom door, half-formed, edges blurring like smoke in water.
Your eyes were too bright, too hollow, fixed entirely on him.
“Hi,” you said.
Dean forgot how to breathe.
“You…” His voice cracked. “You’re dead.”
You flinched.
“Yeah,” you replied bitterly. “I figured that part out.”
Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Dean…?”
“Give us a minute,” Dean said hoarsely.
Sam hesitated, but one look at Dean’s face, and he nodded, stepping out into the hallway.
The door shut.
You and Dean were alone.
Just like old times.
Except now there was a knife-shaped hole in both of you that could never be stitched closed.
You had dreamed of this moment.
Not like this. Not with death weighing you down, not with rage curling hot and ugly in your chest, but still. You had imagined Dean coming back. Knocking on your door. Apologising.
Instead, he looked at you like you were a wound he’d never known he’d inflicted.
“You didn’t come back,” you said.
Dean stepped toward you, then stopped short, like he was afraid you’d disappear if he got too close.
“I tried,” he whispered.
“No, you didn’t.”
The words landed hard.
“You said you’d call,” you continued. “You said you just needed time. I waited, Dean. I waited until it hurt to breathe. I checked my phone every day.”
His jaw trembled.
“And then I died,” you said softly. “Still waiting.”
Dean covered his mouth with his hand, eyes burning.
“I didn’t know,” he choked. “I swear, I didn’t know.”
“That’s the worst part,” you snapped. “Because if you had, you would’ve come. And I wouldn’t have had to wonder if I just wasn’t worth staying for.”
That was the moment something in Dean broke completely.
Ghosts weren’t supposed to cry.
But you did.
Your form flickered violently, the room shaking in response. Mirrors cracked. The lights exploded, plunging everything into darkness except for the faint glow of you.
“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” you said through tears. “I didn’t even know it was me at first. Things just… happened. People got scared. I got angry.”
Dean took another step forward, pain radiating off him in waves.
“You were murdered,” he said. “You didn’t choose this.”
“But I chose to stay angry,” you replied. “I chose not to let go.”
You looked at him then. Really looked at him.
“And I stayed because of you.”
Dean’s knees hit the floor.
“I ruin everything,” he whispered. “Everyone I love ends up dead.”
“That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?”
You had no answer for that.
Solving your murder felt like reopening a wound Dean had never known existed.
Every clue led to another piece of your life he hadn’t been there for. Friends he’d never met. Fears you’d faced alone. The man who killed you had known you, trusted you.
Dean wanted to kill him.
Not because he was a monster.
But because Dean needed somewhere to put all the rage he had at himself.
When the truth came out, when the killer confessed, you stood silent and hollow, watching from the corner.
It didn’t make it better.
It didn’t bring you back.
The salt circle burned faintly on the floor.
The iron waited.
Dean stood across from you, hands shaking.
“This is it,” he said.
You nodded.
“I don’t want to go,” you admitted.
“I know.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
You stepped closer, your ghostly form overlapping his, close enough that he could feel the cold seep into his bones.
“If you’d stayed,” you whispered, “maybe things would’ve been different.”
Dean’s breath hitched.
“If I’d stayed,” he said, “you’d still be alive.”
You smiled sadly. “Or maybe I would’ve lost you anyway.”
Light began to surround you, warm and blinding.
“I loved you,” you said.
Dean’s voice shattered. “I never stopped.”
Your hand brushed his cheek.
Almost solid, almost real.
“Then don’t let it destroy you.”
And then you were gone.
Dean didn’t sleep that night.
Or the next.
On the road again, Sam watched him quietly spiral.
Drinking more, talking less, staring out the window like he expected to see you standing on the shoulder of the road.
“She found peace,” Sam said gently.
Dean shook his head. “No. She found the end.”
He pressed his forehead against the glass.
And for the first time in a long time, Dean wondered if some ghosts didn’t deserve to stay.
Dean Winchester is haunted.
Not by you.
By the life he didn’t choose.
Sometimes, late at night, he swears he hears your laugh in the wind. Sometimes he talks to the empty passenger seat like you’re still there.
But you never come back.
Because love doesn’t always conquer death.
Sometimes, it just teaches you how to survive the loss.
If you enjoy, please like, comment and reblog. FEEDBACK IS GOLD and is the fuel that keeps me writing. I am happy to chat about anything so feel free to send me an ask anytime!
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I shall reblog with tags as they don’t seem to work 😬
summary: spencer gets turned on when you start rabling and sharing your knowledge.
content warnings: none!
a/n: I know i know I have so many stories posted already, but I cant help it! I have so much more in draft waiting to be edited so stay tuneeeed my dearests! i wrote this after i made my matcha, wishing spencer was real so I can tell him about it too.
masterlist
Saturday afternoon arrived quietly, sunlight filtering through the curtains of their living room, turning dust motes into something soft and golden. Spencer sat curled into the far corner of the couch, long legs folded awkwardly, a book balanced in his hands. It was his fourth book of the day, a personal record he hadn’t announced out loud but felt quietly smug about. The problem was the book itself. It was a rom-com. Not just any rom-com, but a very specific one she had practically ambushed him with three days ago, eyes bright and mischievous as she shoved it into his hands.
“Please,” she’d begged, handing him the paperback while they were lounging in bed. “Just read the first chapter. The male lead is literally you.”
“That’s unlikely,” he’d said, already suspicious.
“He speed reads.”
“…Okay.”
“He hates most technology.”
“That’s a mischaracterization—”
“And he only ever wears vests.”
Spencer had stared at her, betrayed. “That’s circumstantial.”
Still, he’d read it, out of love, and because he knew how you'd keep bugging him if he didn't, and then, annoyingly, kept reading it. Now, he closed the book with a soft thump and sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose as he stood and padded toward the kitchen. She was already there, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely, focused with great seriousness on her third cup of matcha for the day, a decision Spencer had opinions about but had learned to pick his battles.
“Okay,” he announced, leaning against the counter, “I’m done.”
She didn’t look up. “Already?” Asking as if she was surprised.
“Yes. And I’d like to formally state for the record that he is nothing like me.”
She snorted, whisking faster. “Spencer, he memorized an entire subway map because he got bored.”
“That’s not romantic,” he said. “That’s practical.”
“And he refuses to use social media.”
“Because it’s a privacy nightmare.”
“And he owns twelve vests.”
Spencer paused. “…I only own nine.”
She grinned triumphantly. "Whatever, you can deny all you want, but that guy is you."
He rolled his eyes but smiled despite himself, stepping closer. “Also,” he added gently, peering into her mug, “isn’t that your third matcha today?”
“Mmmhm,” she hummed.
“You do know that’s… not advisable.”
“So is profiling murderers for a living,” she shot back sweetly.
Fair. He moved behind her without thinking, resting his chin near her shoulder, arms looping comfortably around her waist. It was muscle memory at this point, domestic, easy, familiar in the way that made his chest feel warm and steady. He watched her whisk, mesmerized by the rhythm, and then she started talking.
“Did you know,” she said casually, like she hadn’t just flipped a switch in his brain, “that matcha has a significantly higher antioxidant concentration than most other teas?”
Spencer hummed, absentminded. “I did, actually.”
“It contains about ten grams of catechins per hundred grams,” she continued, “especially EGCG, epigalloca...nevermind, anyway, which has anti-inflammatory and potential anti-cancer properties.”
Her failed attempt at the name made him chuckle, then as she kept going, the hum turned into something lower. Attentive. She didn’t notice.
“It also provides L-theanine,” she went on, pouring the bright green mixture into her mug of oat milk, the yellow one with the tiny ducks he’d bought her because it reminded him of how she smiled at baby animals, “....which promotes calm focus without the jittery crash you get from coffee.”
Spencer blinked. Something about the way she said L-theanine, like it was the most natural thing in the world, made his brain short-circuit just a little. She took a sip, satisfied, then continued, because of course she did.
“And did you knoooow, In Japan, matcha actually dates back to the Kamakura period,” she said, leaning against the counter now, entirely too relaxed. “A Zen monk named Eisai brought tea seeds and preparation methods from China.”
Spencer’s arms tightened imperceptibly.
“He wrote The Book of Tea, documenting its health benefits and cultivation techniques. He even introduced it to the shogun. Which reminds me, please look for that book the next time you go to the little corner bookstore to thrift, I believe they have Japanese classics there.”
Spencer swallowed.
“Anyways, eventually, matcha spread among the samurai class. They used it to improve concentration, stabilize mood, even help recover from trauma after battles.”
She smiled softly, clearly charmed by her own trivia. “It became this whole cultural practice, not just a drink, but a ritual.”
Spencer stared at the side of her face like she’d just recited poetry.
“And by the Muromachi period,” she finished, “it laid the foundation for the formal tea ceremony we know today.”
She finally turned to show him the beautiful, bright green beverage, but Spencer was no longer behind her. He was halfway across the living room, moving with a speed she usually only saw during emergencies, grabbing a throw pillow and pressing it firmly to his lap as he sat down much too quickly.
“Spence?” she asked. “Baby, are you okay?”
“Huh?” he squeaked, far too high-pitched. “Yeah. Great. Love tea. Fascinating history.”
She looks at him, confused. “You’re sweating.”
“I— am I?”
She squinted. Then, her eyes slowed and descended to where his trembling hand was. Holding onto the pillow against his growing bulge for dear life.
“…Did my rambling,” she said slowly, realization dawning, “turn you on?”
The silence was loud. Spencer groaned, looking away from her. “I hate that you phrased it like that.”
She burst out laughing, the kind that bent her in half.
“Oh my god,” she wheezed. “You’re telling me I could’ve been doing this years ago?”
“Please don’t.”
“So you’re saying—”
“No.”
“If I just start listing fun facts—”
“Stop.”
“—about, I don’t know, the migratory patterns of arctic terns—”
Spencer whimpered. “You’re evil.” She crossed the room, grinning, setting her mug down before gently prying the pillow away.
“You married me,” she said innocently. “This is on you.”
He looked at her, flushed, flustered, hopelessly in love, and sighed. “I did.”
She leaned in, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Relax, Doctor. I’ll behave.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “You’re lying.”
“Maybe.”
She kissed him again, softer this time. “But I’ll make you a matcha.”
summary: after the world doesn’t end, dean winchester chooses to live. this story follows dean and reader as they leave hunting behind and build a quiet life together — one filled with ordinary days, growing old, and a love that doesn’t end, only waits.
series masterlist
pairing. dean winchester x reader
genre. tooth-rotting fluff
warnings. none
word count. 1.k
the world doesn’t end with fire. it ends with silence.
that’s the thing dean never tells anyone—not sam, not eileen, not even you. after chuck is gone and the sky stays put and the ground doesn’t split open, there’s this awful, ringing quiet that follows him everywhere. like the universe held its breath for centuries and now doesn’t know what to do with the air it got back.
dean winchester has killed monsters his entire life. he’s killed demons, angels, things with too many teeth and not enough souls. he’s fought death, stood up to God Himself.
and now?
now he’s back on a routine salt-and-burn hunt in iowa, staring at a half-empty grave and wondering why his heart isn’t in it anymore.
the ghost goes down easy. too easy. a few lines of latin, a quick flick of the lighter, done. no adrenaline rush. no relief. just… nothing. he wipes his hands on his jeans and thinks, that’s it?
that’s when it hits him. it’s not fear. not exhaustion. it’s worse than that.
it’s boredom.
dean tries. he really does.
he keeps hunting for a while after the big final battle because what else is he supposed to do? this is the life. this is all he knows. he tells himself it’s just an adjustment period, that fighting God kind of messes with your sense of scale.
but every hunt feels small now. trivial. like putting out candles after surviving a wildfire.
sam doesn’t say anything at first. sam never does. he just watches dean take longer to gear up, linger in the Impala a little more before driving off, come home quieter than usual. eileen notices too, but she’s happy—really happy—and dean’s glad for that. sam deserves that kind of happiness.
and you… you notice everything.
you’ve always been running point from the bunker when dean’s on the road—researching, checking lore, keeping the lights on. you stitch him up when he gets back, fuss over his injuries even when he pretends they don’t hurt. you’re the constant. the gravity.
dean doesn’t remember the exact moment he fell in love with you.
he remembers the night he admitted it, though.
you were both exhausted, slumped at the table in the war room, surrounded by open books and empty coffee cups. He’d been pacing for twenty minutes, hands fisting in his jacket like he was bracing for impact.
finally, you’d looked up at him and said, “dean. you good?”
he froze. then, like ripping off a bandage, he just… said it.
“i think i’m in love with you.”
no grand speech. no joke to soften it. just raw, terrifying honesty.
you’d stared at him for a second too long—long enough for panic to set in—before smiling so softly it damn near knocked the breath out of him.
“good,” you’d said. “because i love you too, winchester”
dean still thinks about that sometimes. about how easy it was once the words were out. how right it felt, like something clicking into place after years of being just slightly off.
these days, the only time dean feels alive is when he’s with you.
not when you call him mid-hunt with research updates. not even when you’re stitching him up, hands steady and familiar against his skin.
it’s the quiet moments.
coming home and finding you humming in the kitchen while you cook dinner, wearing one of his old flannels like it belongs to you—which, he guesses, it kind of does. watching you curl up on the couch with a book, feet tucked under his thigh, warm and solid and real. falling asleep beside you, listening to your breathing even out in the dark, knowing, really knowing, that he made it back.
that’s the relief. that’s the peace.
and somewhere along the line, without realizing it, dean starts imagining a future that doesn’t involve weapons by the door.
a house. a porch, maybe. somewhere quiet. somewhere with mornings instead of emergencies.
and, this part scares him the most…kids.
rugrats. little winchesters with scraped knees and bad attitudes and a life that doesn’t revolve around the end of the world.
it feels selfish. it feels impossible.
but it also feels… right.
he’s thinking about all of this when it happens.
you’re in the bunker library, standing on your toes as you organize books on one of the higher shelves. there’s a pencil tucked behind your ear, and you’re muttering to yourself about dewey decimal classifications like it’s personal.
dean leans against the doorway, arms crossed, just… watching.
he doesn’t realize how long he’s been staring until you turn around.
“okay,” you say, amused. “you’ve been staring at me for, like, ten minutes. what’s up?”
dean opens his mouth.
the plan; whatever half-formed, carefully considered version of this conversation he’d been working toward; evaporates instantly.
“i want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
silence.
dean blinks, heart slamming into his ribs. he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, suddenly acutely aware of how insane he sounds.
“i—uh. i mean,” he rushes on, words tumbling over each other, “no bunker. no hunting. none of it. just… me. you. a house. somewhere normal.”
he swallows, voice dropping. “maybe a couple rugrats.”
you stare at him.
then you laugh; soft and warm.
dean exhales, some of the tension bleeding out of him as you step closer.
“i’m not surprised,” you admit. “i’ve noticed you pulling away from hunting lately. i just… didn’t realize all of this was on your mind.”
he searches your face, bracing for doubt, for hesitation.
instead, you smile. “i’d love that.”
for a second, dean can’t move. can’t breathe.
then he’s laughing, this startled, disbelieving sound, and suddenly he’s lifting you off the ground, spinning you around like he’s twenty again and the world hasn’t tried to kill him a thousand times over. he presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there, eyes closed—equal parts excitement and relief crashing through him all at once.
when he finally sets you down, there’s a voice from the doorway.
“so,” sam says, eyebrows raised, eileen beside him. “what’d we miss?”
summary: When history threatens to repeat itself, Spencer Reid runs headfirst into danger, proving that the love he once lost will not be taken from him again.
content warnings: none! just angsty so grab tissues i guess?
a/n: i rewatched the maeve episode and can't get it out of my head and. i don't think listening to sad songs were good to my mind haha
‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹
masterlist
Aaron Hotchner knew it was over the moment Spencer finished the profile. The room was quiet and completely still in that way the BAU conference room only ever got when something irreversible had been said. The whiteboard was filled with hastily written notes—dates, locations, victimology, but no one was looking at them anymore. They were all looking at Spencer.
“Male,” Spencer said, voice steady but eyes unfocused, like he was already somewhere else. “Late forties. Highly intelligent, but profoundly narcissistic. He doesn’t just hate women, he resents them. Specifically, women who are successful, independent, and intellectually superior to him.”
Morgan leaned back in his chair. “You’re saying he targets women who make him feel small.”
“Yes,” Spencer replied. “But more than that, he needs to destroy them. To prove to himself that no matter how accomplished they are, he still has power.”
Hotch felt it then. That cold certainty was settling in his chest. Rossi asked the question none of them wanted to voice. “And the escalation?”
Spencer swallowed. “He’s been circling someone for weeks. Studying her routine. Her work. Her relationship.”
Garcia’s fingers froze over her keyboard. Hotch already knew the answer, but procedure demanded he ask. “Who?”
Spencer hesitated for half a second. Just half.
“My girlfriend.”
The word landed like a gunshot.
“No,” JJ said softly. “No, Reid—”
“He fits the pattern perfectly,” Spencer continued, faster now, as if outrunning his own fear. “She’s accomplished, intelligent, and confident. She’s everything he despises, and she’s close to me.” Spencer paces around the room, and the team notices how his fingers tremble when he pushes his hair back. "I—She's been telling me this man, whom she keeps seeing in front of her office. It's not coincidental, I know it isn't."
Hotch stood. “Garcia. I want eyes on her. Now.”
“I’m already trying,” Garcia said, panic creeping into her voice. “She’s not answering her phone. I’m pulling traffic cams, cell pings—anything.”
Spencer was already out of it. HE looks up the ceiling to blink off the tears of pain, anger, and fear all mixing and bubbling up his chest. He can't do this, not again.
“Reid,” Hotch snapped. “Sit down.”
“I can’t,” Spencer said. His hands were shaking now. “If he has her—”
“Spencer,” Hotch said, firm. “We do this by the book.”
But Spencer wasn’t listening anymore. They didn’t know until the last minute. Garcia let out a sound that didn’t quite qualify as a gasp or a sob. “I—I found something.” The screen at the front of the room flickered to life. It was a video feed. Dark. Grainy. A single overhead bulb. There she was, tied to a chair. Hands bound behind her back. Hair disheveled, face bruised. A gun pressed to her temple. Her breathing was shaky, but her spine was straight. She wasn’t screaming. She wasn’t begging. She was crying quietly, silently, but her eyes were defiant. Spencer’s world stopped.
“Let. Me. Go.”
Her voice cracked through the speakers, each word deliberate, controlled, like she was clinging to dignity as her last weapon.
“No,” he whispered. “No, no, no—”
His body burned, anger, fear, terror all colliding at once. It was prison all over again. Maeve all over again. That helplessness. That knowledge that someone he loved was suffering while he stood powerless.
Hotch grabbed his arm. “Reid, listen to me—”
Spencer ripped free.
“I have to find her,” he said, voice breaking. “I have to.”
Garcia was typing furiously. “The stream is masked, but I can try to trace the signal. It’ll take time.”
“How long?” Spencer demanded.
“I—I don’t know. Minutes. Maybe longer.”
Spencer was already moving toward the door.
“Reid!” Hotch shouted. “You are not cleared to go in alone.”
But Hotch knew it was useless. He couldn’t stop him. "I need Garcia," Spencer mumbles before bolting through the door.
It was an hour of hell. Spencer paced like a caged animal, replaying every moment he’d ever failed to protect someone. Every time, he’d been too late. Every time, he’d believed loving someone meant risking their life. Garcia finally looked up, tears streaming down her face. “I’ve got it.” An abandoned industrial building. Edge of town. Spencer didn’t wait for orders. He ran to the car. Spencer never disobeyed traffic laws; no stop sign went unnoticed, even in unwatched intersections. Three seconds: stop, look right, look left, go. But today, he wasn't having it; every second mattered. He rushed through the streets with determination and eagerness to race against the clock, which was ticking quickly.
The team followed, hearts pounding, fear thick in the air. Hotch cursed himself for letting this happen, for not locking Spencer down the moment they knew, but some things couldn’t be commanded, and love was one of them.
Spencer reached the door first, and as soon as he did, he heard it. A dull thud. Her gasp. Please. He hears her beg again. Another blow, another shriek.
“Stop!” Spencer shouted, slamming his fists against the metal door. “Please, please take me instead!”
His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “Please don’t kill her, take me! I can’t lose her, I can’t, I can’t do this again. Not her. Please. I can’t do it if I lose her!”
The team froze behind him, weapons raised, hearts in their throats. Spencer slammed and punched, and eventually kicked the door open, and almost immediately, a gunshot rang out. For a split second, time shattered. The team looked at each other, tears almost rounding their eyes, wondering, was it over?
Spencer didn’t remember letting go of the gun. One moment it was warm in his hand, solid, real, proof that the threat was over, and the next, it clattered against the concrete floor, loud and final. He barely registered it. His entire world had narrowed down to the way her heartbeat stuttered against his chest, too fast, too fragile, too much like it had almost stopped. She was alive. Beaten, in pain, but Alive. That word echoed in his head, over and over, like a prayer he was afraid to say out loud in case it vanished. He wrapped his arms tighter around her, as if the simple act of holding her could anchor her to the world. His hands were shaking now, no, trembling, violent, uncontrollable tremors running through his fingers and up his arms.
She felt it. “Spence,” she whispered gently, one hand coming up to cradle the back of his neck. “Hey. I’m here.” That was all it took. The dam broke.
“I thought I killed you,” he sobbed, the words tearing out of him without permission. “I thought I walked in and it was, and I was too late again.”
Again. He couldn’t stop shaking. His knees buckled, and if she hadn’t been holding him too, he might have collapsed entirely. He pressed his forehead into her shoulder, breath coming in short, broken gasps. Maeve. The room blurred, the present bleeding into the past like it always did when fear got too close. The sound of a gunshot. The way Maeve’s voice had gone silent mid-sentence. The way his brain had cataloged every possible outcome, every statistic, every probability, and still failed to save her. He had known the odds then, too. He always knew the odds. That was the cruelest part.
“Spencer,” Hotch said softly from somewhere behind them, but Spencer barely heard him. All he could hear was the echo of his own voice from years ago, bargaining with a man who had already decided how the story would end. It hadn’t worked then, and tonight, for one unbearable second, Spencer had been certain it wouldn’t work again.
“I can’t do this,” he whispered into her hair, voice raw, stripped of all logic. “I can’t live through that again. I won’t survive it. I won't survive without you.”
She pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused, terrified in a way that had nothing to do with the unsub and everything to do with memory. Prison had carved something into him, something permanent. The isolation. The violence. The constant awareness that he could be taken, hurt, erased, and no one would get there in time. Loss wasn’t theoretical to Spencer Reid. It was muscle memory.
“I know the facts,” he said suddenly, almost hysterical. “I know them better than anyone. I know the probability of repeat victimization, of retaliatory violence, of losing loved ones when you’re in law enforcement. I know all of it.”
His hands clenched into the fabric of her jacket. He was wailing now. This broke her heart. Everyone knew he was broken, but she knew how deep it ran. His heart was shattered.
“But when it’s you,” he choked, “everything goes out the window. All the math disappears. All I can think about is, is you not breathing. You not laughing. You not existing. And I can't do it!”
His body shook harder now, tremors rippling through him like aftershocks. This wasn’t adrenaline anymore. This was trauma reclaiming its territory. She cupped his face, forcing him to look at her. Her eyes were glassy, bruises blooming across her skin, but she was solid. Real. Alive.
“I’m not Maeve,” she said softly, not cruelly, not defensively, just truthfully. “And you’re not losing me tonight. I'm here, right here with you, Spencer. I won't leave you, not now, not ever.”
That name broke something open in him. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, his body curling inward like he was trying to make himself smaller, safer. He pressed his forehead to hers. She wrapped her arms around him fully now, grounding, steady.
“You’re shaking,” she murmured.
“I know,” he said weakly. “I can’t make it stop.”
“That’s okay,” she said. “You don’t have to.”
He let out a broken laugh that dissolved into another sob.
Spencer Reid, who never acted on impulse, who calculated every move, who lived by data and reason, had run headfirst into danger tonight without hesitation, because loving her wasn’t logical. It was instinct. It was the one variable he couldn’t quantify, and as he clung to her, trembling and undone, he realized something that scared him even more than loss: He would do it again. Every time. No matter the odds.
The hospital room was dim and quiet in the way only trauma wings ever were, lights low, machines humming softly, the world deliberately slowed to keep people from breaking apart any further. Spencer sat on the recliner beside her, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The tremors hadn’t fully stopped. They came in waves now, smaller, less violent, but persistent, like his body hadn’t yet received the message that the danger was over. She lay against the pillows beside him, wrapped in blankets, a thin hospital bracelet circling her wrist. Spencer kept looking at her like she might vanish if he blinked too long.
“Baby, you can sleep,” she said gently.
“I know,” he replied, voice quiet. “I just, I want to make sure you’re still here.”
She reached for his hand. He startled slightly at the contact, then immediately laced his fingers with hers, grounding himself in the warmth of her skin.
“I'm right here,” she whispered.
He shook his head. “Every time I try to calm myself down or try to sleep, my brain reminds me how close it was. How statistically improbable this outcome is.”
He swallowed.
“That’s how it always starts.”
She shifted carefully, turning toward him. “Spencer.”
He looked up.
"When I close my eyes, I see you, and I see myself not making it in time, and I know I did, but what if I didn't?"
“But you did. Spencer, you saved me.”
The word hit him harder than she expected.
His breath hitched. “I just can't help but think that I'm cursed. Everyone I love gets into some kind of danger because of me."
“You are definitely not cursed. You said so yourself, it just comes with the job, and I know you think it doesn't have to be, but the world isn't perfect," she said firmly. “And besides, cursed people don’t love the way you do. They don’t run into danger knowing the cost. They don’t break every rule they’ve lived by just to save one person.”
His eyes filled again.
“That’s not a curse,” she continued softly. “That’s being human. A human who loves. Deeply.”
“I’ve spent years trying to convince myself that if I just follow the numbers, I can control the outcome,” he admitted. “That if I’m careful enough, smart enough, detached enough, I won’t lose anyone again.”
His voice trembled.
“But you make me reckless.”
She smiled faintly. “You make it sound like a crime.”
“It is,” he said weakly. “In several jurisdictions.”
That earned a quiet laugh from her, soft, breathy, real. Spencer’s shoulders relaxed just a fraction at the sound.
“I don’t want you to stop caring,” she said. “I don’t want you to stop choosing me. I just want you to believe that loving me doesn’t doom me.”
He looked at her then, really looked at her.
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
A knock sounded at the door.
Hotch. Spencer stiffened immediately, instinct kicking in before fear had even finished settling. He straightened, withdrawing his hand reluctantly.
“Come in,” she said.
Hotch stepped inside, expression calm, measured, but not unkind.
"How are you?" Aaron asks, and she smiles at him. "Had better days, but I'm fine here," He nods before looking at Spencer, who was already looking at him. Spencer didn’t wait.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I violated protocol. I disobeyed a direct order. I compromised the team.”
Hotch opened his mouth. Spencer continued, voice steady but fragile beneath the surface. “You don’t have to say it. I should be placed on probation. Mandatory counseling. Possibly desk duty.”
He met Hotch’s gaze. “I’ll accept whatever disciplinary action you decide.”
The room was silent. Hotch studied him for a long moment. Then his expression softened, just barely.
“You’re already on probation,” Hotch said. Spencer nodded.
His voice lowered. “I’ve seen what happens when agents don’t get space to heal. I wasn’t about to let that happen to you.” Spencer swallowed hard.
“I understand,” he said quietly. “Thank you… for not making me ask.”
Hotch nodded once. “Take the time you need. For her, but most especially, for yourself.”
Hotch claps him softly on the shoulder. Then he left, closing the door softly behind him. Spencer exhaled shakily, tension finally bleeding out of him. She reached for him again.
“You see?” she murmured. “Not cursed.”
He leaned into her touch, finally letting himself rest against the bed, forehead pressed to her shoulder.
“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered.
She wrapped her arms around him, holding him steady. His breathing evened out, at last, and for the first time since Maeve, since prison, since every loss that had shaped him, Spencer Reid believed that maybe, just maybe, love didn’t always end in tragedy. Sometimes, it stayed.
Summary: The reader is Gideon's daughter... and it's the scariest thing that has ever happened to them
requests are open
You stood in the elevator of the FBI building, watching the numbers climb. Twenty-three years old, and you'd already lived three lifetimes. The brass doors reflected a young woman in professional attire, a navy blazer, a crisp white shirt, and credentials clipped to your belt. No one would guess that two years ago, you'd been extracting intelligence from a weapons dealer in Budapest, or that your hands, now folded calmly in front of you, had done things you were still trying to forget.
The doors opened to the sixth floor. The Behavioral Analysis Unit.
Aaron Hotchner stood waiting, his expression unreadable as always. Your mentor. The man who'd found you eighteen months ago when you'd burned out of the intelligence community, guilt-ridden and searching for redemption. He'd seen something in you, maybe recognized the same carefully controlled trauma he carried.
"Ready?" he asked.
You nodded. You were always ready. Composure was your armor.
The bullpen was exactly as Hotch had described it. Organized chaos, the hum of focused energy. But your eyes went immediately to him. Jason Gideon sat at his desk, head bowed over a file, silver hair catching the fluorescent light. Your chest tightened, but your expression remained neutral. Years of training ensured that.
He looked older than in the photo your mother kept hidden in her jewelry box. The only photo you had of your father.
"Everyone," Hotch's voice cut through the ambient noise, "this is Special Agent Y/N L/N. She'll be joining the team."
Derek Morgan approached first, all charm and confidence. "Derek Morgan. Welcome to the team."
"Jennifer Jareau, but everyone calls me JJ." A warm smile from the blonde woman.
"Penelope Garcia, technical analyst and purveyor of all knowledge!" A woman with colorful glasses practically bounced over.
Then he approached. Tall, thin, younger than everyone else but with eyes that held encyclopedic knowledge. "Dr. Spencer Reid." He didn't offer his hand, and you didn't either. You'd read his file, the germaphobia, the three PhDs, the eidetic memory.
"The prodigy," you said, a slight smile playing at your lips. "Three doctorates by twenty-two. Impressive."
"You read my file." Not a question.
"I read everyone's file. You read mine, didn't you?"
The corner of his mouth twitched. "Twice. Your psychological evaluation was... interesting. Compartmentalization scores off the chart."
"Survival mechanism," you replied simply.
"Actually, it's a dissociative defense pattern that..." He paused, really looking at you. "You already know that."
"I do."
Something sparked in his eyes. Recognition of a kindred spirit, perhaps.
Finally, Gideon stood. He moved with deliberate calm, assessing you the way he probably assessed every new person he met. Profiling. You felt the weight of his gaze and kept your breathing steady, your micro-expressions controlled.
"Jason Gideon." His voice was exactly as you remembered from thirteen years ago. The only time you'd met, when you were ten years old, and a serial predator had taken you from your mother's apartment.
He'd saved your life then. He just didn't remember it.
Three days you'd been held. Three days of terror that had eventually forged you into steel. And when he'd found you, when he'd carried you out of that basement, he'd looked at your mother and asked, "Is she mine?"
Your mother had lied. "No. Just... thank you for bringing her home."
You'd never understood why she'd lied until years later. She'd been trying to protect him, she said. Protect you both. He'd just lost his family, was spiraling into darkness. She thought it would destroy him to know he had a daughter in danger because of what he did.
"Agent L/N," Gideon said, extending his hand.
You took it. His grip was firm, searching. "Sir. It's an honor. I've read your work, 'The Evolution of Criminal Profiling' is brilliant."
His eyebrows rose slightly. "You've read my monograph?"
"Twice. Your analysis of the disorganized offender's psychological deterioration was particularly insightful."
Reid glanced between you both, something curious in his expression.
"Well," Gideon said slowly, still studying you, "anyone who's read my monograph twice is either very dedicated or very bored."
You smiled, his smile, though neither of you knew it. "Dedicated. I don't do boredom well."
"Neither do I," he replied, then added with that characteristic wit, "It's why I hunt serial killers instead of teaching college courses."
"Teaching shapes minds. You save lives. There's no comparison."
Something flickered across his face. Approval, maybe. "Hotch says you came from intelligence work."
"I did."
"And you wanted to join the BAU because...?"
Because you're my father. Because I've spent thirteen years wondering what it would be like to know you. Because I carry your analytical mind and your burden of guilt, and maybe being near you will help me understand how to live with it.
"Because I'm tired of playing chess with governments," you said instead. "I want to save people, not manipulate them."
Gideon held your gaze a moment longer, then nodded. "Good answer." He returned to his desk, but you felt his attention still on you, that profiler's mind working.
Spencer appeared at your elbow, holding a cup of coffee. "You take it black, right? No sugar?"
You accepted it, surprised. "How did you..."
"You have a slight callus on your right index finger from writing, extensive note-taking, and probably journaling. There's faint scarring on your knuckles consistent with Krav Maga training. Your posture suggests hypervigilance, and you have the controlled breathing pattern of someone who's practiced meditation or tactical stress management. People with that level of discipline typically don't dilute their coffee."
You stared at him, then laughed, a genuine sound that surprised you both. "That's either brilliant or slightly terrifying."
"Both, usually," he said with an awkward smile. "I notice you're close to my age. Everyone else here is at least a decade older."
"Twenty-three," you confirmed.
"Twenty-four," he replied. "It's... nice. To not be the youngest anymore."
"Don't get used to it. I'm told I have an old soul."
"Trauma will do that."
You met his eyes. No judgment there, just understanding. "Yes," you said quietly. "It will."
Three months into the job, and you'd found your rhythm. Your first case had been difficult, a child abduction that hit too close to home, but you'd maintained composure, helped save the boy. Hotch had given you an approving nod. High praise, coming from him.
You'd also started keeping a new journal. Two, actually.
The first was small, leather-bound, and stayed in your desk. In it, you wrote about the people you saved. The boy from your first case. The woman in Phoenix. The teenager in Seattle. Their names, their faces, what they'd said when they realized they were safe. It was Gideon's habit, Hotch had mentioned it once, and you'd adopted it like you'd inherited his eyes.
The second journal stayed locked in your apartment. That one held names too, but different ones. The asset you'd burned in Prague. The target you'd neutralized in Caracas. The civilians caught in crossfire. You didn't write to remember, you couldn't forget, but to witness. To make sure their deaths weren't invisible.
Reid had found the first journal one afternoon when you'd left your desk.
"Sorry," he said immediately when you returned, but he'd already seen the open page. "I wasn't snooping, it was just... open."
"It's fine." You closed it gently, not defensively. "Just notes."
"They're beautiful," he said quietly. "The way you describe them. The details. It's like... you're preserving them."
"Someone should remember who they were before the worst thing happened to them."
His expression softened with understanding that went bone-deep. "Gideon does something similar. Did you know that?"
"I might have heard something about it," you said carefully.
"You remind me of him sometimes." Reid tilted his head, studying you with that penetrating intelligence. "The way you process crime scenes. You both go quiet, still, like you're listening to something the rest of us can't hear."
Your heart rate increased, but your training held. "He's brilliant. I'll take the comparison as a compliment."
"You should. But it's not just that." Spencer's eyes narrowed slightly, not suspicious, but curious. "You have similar speech patterns. Parallel phrasing. You both use teaching moments disguised as observations."
"Maybe I learned from reading his work."
"Maybe." But he didn't sound convinced.
Reid had become your closest friend on the team, which surprised you both. You'd bonded over books first; he'd found you reading a first edition of Dostoyevsky in the original Russian on the jet, and his eyes had lit up. Then over music, classical composers, philosophy, and the mathematics of probability. You played chess. You debated quantum mechanics. You understood his rambling tangents, and he understood your comfortable silences.
"You're good for Reid," Gideon had commented one evening, watching you both absorbed in a chess match during downtime. "He needs someone who can keep up with him intellectually."
"He's good for me too," you'd replied. "He reminds me that brilliance doesn't have to be weaponized."
Gideon had given you a long look then. "You speak like someone who's seen their gifts used for dark purposes."
"Don't we all, in this line of work?"
"Yes. But you're young to carry that particular weight."
You'd wanted to tell him then. Wanted to say, I'm your daughter, and I carry it because it's in my blood. Because you taught me, not directly, but through your work, your words, your way of seeing the world, that intelligence is both gift and curse.
Instead, you'd moved your knight. "Checkmate in four moves."
Reid had studied the board, then laughed in delight. "Three, if I sacrifice my queen."
"But you won't," you'd said with certainty.
"How do you know?"
"Because you assign value beyond utility. It's one of your best qualities."
Gideon had watched this exchange with an expression you couldn't quite read.
The case in Chicago changed everything.
A serial killer targeting young women, leaving them displayed with elaborate staging. The team had been working on it for three days, and tensions were high. On the fourth day, you'd profiled the unsub's next move, suggested a location.
You'd been right. But you'd also been first through the door, and the unsub had grabbed a hostage, a nineteen-year-old girl who looked terrified.
"FBI! Let her go!" Morgan had his weapon trained, but no clear shot.
The unsub pressed a knife to the girl's throat. "Stay back or she dies!"
You'd holstered your weapon slowly, hands visible. "Okay. Okay, we're not moving." Then you'd met the girl's eyes. "What's your name?"
"S-Sarah."
"Sarah, I'm Y/N. You're going to be fine." Your voice was calm, assured. The same voice your mother had used when you were ten and terrified. The same voice Gideon had used when he'd found you.
"Shut up!" The unsub was spiraling, knife hand shaking.
You'd taken a step forward. Hotch had made a sharp gesture, Stay back, but you'd ignored it.
"You don't want to hurt her," you said to the unsub. "This isn't about her. It's about control. Power. What you felt you lost."
Another step.
"I said, stay back!" But his grip on Sarah had loosened slightly.
"When you were seven," you continued, voice steady as a heartbeat, "something happened. Someone took control from you. A parent, maybe. An authority figure. And you've been trying to take it back ever since."
How did you know? Educated guess. Pattern recognition. Reading his micro-expressions, his defensive posture, the specific nature of his crimes.
And because you understood obsession intimately.
"You don't know anything about me!" But tears were forming in his eyes.
"I know you're tired," you said softly. "I know this feeling, this need, it never stops, does it? Even when you do what you think will make it better, the emptiness is still there."
You were three feet away now.
"It doesn't have to end like this. Let Sarah go. Let me help you."
For a moment, one crystalline moment, you thought you'd reached him.
Then his expression hardened. The knife moved toward Sarah's throat.
You'd moved without thinking, muscle memory from a different life. A disarm technique learned in a facility that didn't officially exist. You'd had the knife away and the unsub subdued in under three seconds.
Sarah had collapsed, sobbing. Morgan had secured the unsub. And the entire team had stared at you.
"Where did you learn that?" JJ had asked on the jet home.
"Intelligence training covers a lot of ground," you'd said vaguely.
But Gideon had been watching you with new intensity. "That wasn't standard FBI training."
"No, sir."
"Want to talk about it?"
"Not particularly."
He'd nodded slowly. "The things we do before we find our way here... they don't disappear just because we're doing good now."
You'd looked at him sharply. He'd held your gaze, and something passed between you. Recognition. Not of blood, but of shared burden.
"I kept a different kind of journal, before," you'd found yourself saying. "Not for the people I saved. For the ones I couldn't. The ones I... sacrificed for the mission."
Gideon had been quiet for a long moment. "How many names?"
"Thirty-seven."
His expression had flickered, pain, understanding. "I have a hundred and six."
"Failed cases?"
"Cases where I made the choice. Where I decided one life was worth more than another, or where I was too late, or too slow, or just... wrong." He'd pulled out a worn journal from his bag. "I write them down. Remember them. It's the least I can do."
You'd felt tears threaten for the first time in years. "Doesn't it break you? Carrying them all?"
"Every day." He'd looked at you with something almost like tenderness. "But you carry them anyway, don't you?"
"I don't know how to put them down."
"You don't. You just learn to carry them alongside the ones you saved. The weight balances out eventually. Not equally, never equally, but enough to keep moving forward."
Spencer had been watching this exchange from across the aisle, his expression thoughtful.
It was Spencer who pieced it together.
Two months after Chicago, you'd all been working late on consults. You'd been at Gideon's desk, discussing a cold case, when you'd made an observation about the unsub's psychology. Gideon had built on it, and you'd added another layer, and suddenly you were both talking rapidly, ideas flowing, building a profile that was more complete than either of you could have created alone.
It had felt natural. Like breathing. Like coming home.
Reid had been watching from across the bullpen.
Later, as you'd been leaving, he'd stopped you in the parking garage.
"Can I ask you something?" His tone was careful. "And I need you to be honest with me."
Your stomach had tightened. "Of course."
"I've been noticing patterns. In your speech, your mannerisms, your methodology. They mirror Gideon's with statistical improbability." He'd paused. "I thought maybe you'd studied his work extensively, modeled yourself after him. But it's more than that. It's genetic."
Your heart had stopped. "Spencer..."
"The way you both tilt your head when you're processing information. The identical hand gesture when you're explaining complex ideas. You both have a slight tremor in your left hand when you're stressed, inherited essential tremor, probably. And your eyes..." He'd stepped closer, voice dropping. "You have the same eyes. Same color, same shape, same way of looking at people like you're reading their entire history."
You'd stood frozen, years of training warring with desperate need to tell someone, anyone, the truth.
"He's your father," Spencer had said softly. "Isn't he?"
The concrete walls of the parking garage had seemed to close in. "Yes."
"Does he know?"
"No." Your voice had broken on the word. "He saved me when I was ten. I was abducted, and he was on the case, and when he found me, he asked my mother if I was his. She said no. She thought she was protecting us both."
"But you've known?"
"My whole life. My mother told me when I was sixteen, made me promise not to tell him. She said he'd already lost so much that knowing he had a daughter he couldn't protect would destroy him." Tears had finally fallen, and you'd been too tired to stop them. "I joined the BAU to know him. To understand where I came from. To maybe save enough people that I'd deserve to be his daughter."
"Y/N..." Spencer had looked stricken. "You don't have to earn that."
"Don't I? Look at what I did before this. The people I hurt in the name of national security. The moral compromises. I'm trained to lie, to manipulate, to kill if necessary. That's not..." Your breath had hitched. "That's not someone he'd want as his daughter."
"That's not true. You're one of the best people I know. And he already cares about you, I've seen it. The way he mentors you, watches out for you."
"As a colleague. Not as..." You'd pressed your palms to your eyes. "I can't tell him, Spencer. It would change everything. He'd feel guilty about not being there, about not knowing. It would hurt him, and I can't, I won't do that to him."
Spencer had pulled you into an awkward but genuine hug. "Your secret's safe with me. But Y/N... he deserves to know. And you deserve to stop carrying this alone."
Her name was Ekaterina Volkov.
She walked into the BAU on a Tuesday morning, diplomatic credentials in hand, asking to speak with someone about a series of murders that matched a pattern from Eastern Europe.
You'd been at your desk when Garcia had brought her up. You'd looked up, seen her face on the security monitor, and your coffee cup had slipped from your fingers.
"Y/N?" Spencer had been beside you instantly. "What's wrong?"
You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Ekaterina Volkov. The asset you'd run in Moscow. The woman you'd promised safety to, then burned when the operation went sideways. She'd barely escaped with her life.
She should hate you. She had every right to.
"I'll take this," Gideon had said, already moving toward the elevator. Something in your expression had caught his attention.
You'd found your voice. "No. I'll go."
"Y/N..." Hotch had started.
"I know her. From before." You'd stood, legs unsteady. "She asked for the BAU. She asked for me."
The meeting room had felt smaller than usual. Ekaterina had sat with perfect posture, her hands folded on the table. When you'd entered, her eyes had met yours without flinching.
"Agent L/N. Or should I call you Anastasia? That was the name you used in Moscow."
Behind you, you'd felt Gideon go still.
"Ekaterina. What are you doing here?"
"Three women have been murdered in DC. All former intelligence assets. All burned by their handlers." Her smile had been cold. "I thought the FBI should know there's someone killing people like me. People your government promised to protect, then abandoned."
Your hands had clenched beneath the table. "I'm sorry. For what happened in Moscow. I'm sorry I couldn't..."
"Couldn't save me? Or couldn't be bothered?" She'd leaned forward. "You promised me a new life. Instead, I got a target on my back and a fake passport. Do you know what I had to do to survive after you left?"
"I know." Your voice had been barely a whisper. "I know, and I'm sorry."
"Sorry." She'd laughed bitterly. "The great Anastasia is sorry. Tell me, do you sleep well at night? Or do you see our faces, all of us you used and discarded?"
"I see them." The words had torn out of you. "Every single one. I have a journal with your names. Thirty-seven people I failed. You're number fifteen."
Something had flickered in her expression.
Gideon had stepped forward then, his voice calm. "Ms. Volkov, we want to help. Tell us about these murders."
The meeting had lasted an hour. Ekaterina had provided information, and you'd helped build a preliminary profile, your voice mechanical, professional. When she'd left, she'd paused at the door.
"For what it's worth," she'd said quietly, "I'm still alive. That's more than some of us got." Then she'd looked at Gideon. "She has nightmares about us. The ones she couldn't save. I saw her file before everything went wrong. She tried to extract me five different ways. They all got shut down by someone above her pay grade. She didn't abandon me. They did."
Then she was gone.
You'd stood frozen in the empty meeting room.
"Anastasia," Gideon had said softly.
"It was my operational name. For seven years." You hadn't turned around. "Before that, I was Lydia. Before that, Claire. I've had so many names, I sometimes forget which one is real."
"Y/N is real."
"Is it?" You'd finally looked at him. "I've lied about everything. Who I am, what I've done, why I'm here."
"Why are you here?"
"To make up for it. To save enough people that maybe the scales balance."
"They never do," he'd said gently. "Believe me, I've tried."
Over the next three days, you'd worked the case. Five more former assets had been identified as potential targets. You'd protected three of them, but two had died before you'd reached them.
Two more names for your journal.
You'd started disappearing during the case, slipping away to empty rooms, sitting in the dark. Spencer had found you once, sitting on the floor of a supply closet, arms wrapped around your knees.
He hadn't said anything, just sat beside you.
"I was good at it," you'd finally whispered. "The intelligence work. I could lie, manipulate, become anyone. I could make assets trust me, make targets lower their guard. I was one of the best."
"That's why you left."
"I couldn't carry them anymore. The people I used. The ones who died because I wasn't fast enough or because someone decided they were acceptable losses." You'd looked at him. "Do you know what it's like to be good at something that destroys you?"
"Yes." His voice had been heavy with understanding. "Every time I can't save someone. Every time my memory shows me exactly where I failed."
The case had ended with four assets dead, three saved. The unsub had been a former handler, someone who'd lost his entire network and blamed the assets for talking.
After, in the quiet of the bullpen at two in the morning, Gideon had appeared beside your desk.
"Come with me," he'd said.
You'd followed him to his office. He'd closed the door, pulled out a chess set, and began arranging the pieces.
"Play with me," he'd said.
"Gideon..."
"Just play."
You'd sat. Moved your pawn. He'd countered. For several moves, there was only silence and the click of pieces on wood.
"Chicago," he'd finally said. "Thirteen years ago. A ten-year-old girl with your eyes."
Your hand had frozen over your knight.
"Her mother's name was Sarah. We'd been together briefly, years before. When I found that little girl in that basement, when I carried her out, I asked if she was mine." He'd moved his bishop. "Sarah said no. But I've thought about that girl every day since. Wondered what became of her. If she was all right. Your move."
You'd stared at the board without seeing it.
"I started noticing things," he'd continued, his voice quiet. "The way you tilt your head. The same gesture I make when I'm thinking. Your eyes. Your wit. The way you see patterns. The journal of names." He'd paused. "And then Ekaterina called you Anastasia, and I realized you were trained young. Recruited after something traumatic. After something that would make a child want to be someone, anyone else."
Tears had been falling silently down your face.
"I know, Y/N." His voice had been unbearably gentle. "I've known for weeks. I just kept thinking, if I'm right, why hasn't she told me? And then I realized. You were protecting me. The same way you tried to protect those assets. The same way you've been protecting everyone your whole life."
"I'm sorry," you'd whispered. "I wanted to tell you. Every day I wanted to tell you."
"I know." He'd reached across the board, covering your hand with his. "And I'm telling you now, I know. You're my daughter. And nothing you've done, no name you've carried, no mission you've run, changes that."
"I've done terrible things."
"So have I." His grip had tightened. "We both carry ghosts. But we're still here. Still trying. Still saving people when we can."
You'd looked up at him, really looked, and seen acceptance there. Love. Understanding.
"Can we..." Your voice had broken. "Can we keep this quiet? Just between us? I don't want the team to know, I don't want to change anything, I just..."
"Just want to know I know," he'd finished. "And that it matters."
"Yes."
He'd nodded slowly. "Our secret, then. But Y/N, let me be your father, even if it's only in the quiet moments. Let me know you, really know you. No more walls between us."
"Okay," you'd whispered.
He'd smiled, soft, private, meant only for you. "Good. Now, it's still your move. And don't even think about going easy on me just because we're family."
You'd laughed through your tears. "Never."
Over the following months, you and Gideon developed a language no one else could decode.
It started with chess. Every few nights, you'd find him in his office or at his desk, board already set up. You'd sit. You'd play. Sometimes you'd talk about cases, about philosophy, about the names in your journals. Sometimes you'd sit in complete silence, the only communication in the movement of pieces.
The team never asked. They assumed it was mentorship, maybe friendship. Only Spencer looked at you both sometimes with knowing in his eyes, but he never said anything.
"Knight to E5," you'd say.
"Protecting your queen," Gideon would observe. "You always protect your queen, even at the cost of position."
"She's valuable."
"Hmm. I tend to sacrifice pawns. Did you know that?"
"I've noticed."
A pause. Then: "I'm sorry. For every time I wasn't there. For every moment you needed a father and only had ghosts."
"Check." You'd move your rook. "And you were there. You saved my life. You just didn't know you were saving your daughter."
"Mate in six moves," he'd counter, eyes on the board. But his hand would brush yours as he moved his piece.
You'd started leaving things for each other. A book on his desk, one he'd mentioned wanting to read. An article about behavioral science was tucked into your case file, something he thought you'd find interesting. A cup of coffee, made exactly right, appears beside your computer. A note in familiar handwriting tucked into your journal: Proud of you.
Once, during a particularly brutal case involving children, you'd frozen. Couldn't enter the house, couldn't move. Gideon had appeared at your elbow.
"Breathe," he'd said quietly. "I've got you."
Just four words, but you'd heard what he really meant: I won't let anything happen to you. Not again. Not ever.
You'd steadied. Entered. Saved the child.
After, he'd squeezed your shoulder briefly, affection hidden in a gesture of professional support.
The team never noticed.
Morgan had commented once, "You two have the same poker face. It's actually kind of creepy."
"Learned from the best," you'd replied smoothly.
Gideon had hidden his smile behind his coffee cup.
You'd started spending time together outside of work, though you were careful to keep it professional-looking. Dinner at a quiet restaurant became "discussing case theories." A walk through the park became "clearing our heads after a difficult profile." A bookstore on Sunday afternoon became "I needed to pick something up, and she happened to be there."
Once, at a diner at midnight after a case, he'd looked at you across the table.
"Tell me about her. Your mother. What was she like as a parent?"
You'd stirred your coffee, considering. "Strong. Scared, but she never let me see it. She worked two jobs to keep us afloat, always made sure I had books, encouraged me to be curious. After... after what happened when I was ten, she never quite stopped looking over her shoulder."
"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you both."
"She never blamed you. She blamed herself for not telling you." You'd met his eyes. "She died three years ago. Cancer. Before she went, she told me to find you. Said she'd been wrong to keep us apart. Made me promise I'd try to know you, even if I never told you the truth."
His expression had cracked, just for a moment. "I wish I could have thanked her. For raising someone so remarkable."
"You did. In a way. She kept every article about you, every case you solved. She'd tell me, 'That's who you come from. That brilliance, that drive to help people, that's in your blood.'"
He'd reached across the table, and you'd taken his hand. Just for a moment. Then you'd both pulled back, aware of the public space, the need for secrecy.
But it had been enough.
Spencer had cornered you one evening. "He knows, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"And you're keeping it quiet."
"It's what we both need. The team would make it a thing, they'd watch us differently, treat us differently. This way, we can just... be. Father and daughter in the spaces between."
Spencer had nodded slowly. "It's kind of beautiful, actually. Like a secret language."
"It is," you'd agreed.
There were harder moments too. Times when Gideon would watch you work and you'd see the grief in his eyes, for all the years he'd missed. Times when you'd want to call him 'Dad' and have to swallow the word. Times when the weight of secrets felt crushing.
One night, working late and alone in the bullpen, you'd been writing in your journal, the one with the victims' names. Gideon had appeared silently, setting his own journal beside yours.
"Read it," he'd said softly.
You'd opened it. Page after page of names, dates, details. His failures, his ghosts. And then, near the end, a new section. It was titled simply: Found.
The first entry: Y/N. My daughter. Lost for twenty-three years, but never really gone. Every case I worked, every child I saved, I was looking for her. I just didn't know it.
You'd looked up at him, vision blurring.
"I started a new journal," he'd said. "For the things I find instead of lose. It's a short list so far. But you're at the top."
You'd stood, and he'd pulled you into a hug, brief, tight, everything words couldn't say.
"Thank you," you'd whispered against his shoulder. "For knowing. For letting me keep the secret. For understanding."
"Always," he'd murmured back. "That's what fathers do."
When you'd pulled apart, you'd both wiped your eyes quickly, professionally. If anyone had walked in, they'd have just seen two colleagues standing by a desk.
But you'd both known better.
"Come on," Gideon had said. "Let's go get something to eat. I know a place that makes the best apple pie. Your mother used to love apple pie."
"She did," you'd confirmed, smiling through tears. "And so do I."
"I know," he'd said simply. "I pay attention."
And that, more than anything, was the truth of it. He paid attention. To your coffee order, your tells when you were stressed, the way you chewed your lip while reading, the exact tilt of your head when you were profiling. He learned you, the way he'd never had the chance to when you were young.
And you learned him. The way he'd tap his pen three times before writing. His preference for tea over coffee late at night. The slight tremor in his hand when a case involved children. The way he'd look at you sometimes with such fierce, quiet pride that you had to look away or start crying.
It was a silent love. A secret love. But it was real, and deep, and enough.
More than enough.
The team never knew.
Even Reid, who'd figured it out, never said anything to anyone. It remained between the three of you, Spencer, the knowing observer, you, and Gideon, the quiet participants in this beautiful secret.
Morgan would joke about you being Gideon's protégé. JJ would comment on your similar analytical styles. Garcia would gush about how you'd softened Gideon's edges a bit.
None of them knew the truth.
And that was okay.
Because every chess game was a conversation. Every shared glance was a confirmation. Every "good work today" was "I love you" in disguise.
You kept your journals, victims and saved, and sometimes you'd find notes in Gideon's handwriting in the margins. Observations about the cases. Insights you'd missed. Occasionally, just: You did everything you could.
He kept his journals, and sometimes you'd see your name among the saved. Not as Agent L/N, but simply: Her. My daughter. Still saving people. Still brilliant. Still mine.
In another world, maybe you would have told everyone. Had a moment of big revelation, of team support and acknowledgment. But this wasn't that world, and you weren't those people.
You were the daughter of Jason Gideon, a man who understood secrets and silence, who carried ghosts and guilt, who saved people and lost pieces of himself doing it.
And he was your father, who'd found you twice, once in a basement when you were ten, once across a chessboard when you were twenty-three.
The second finding mattered more.
Because this time, you both chose it. This quiet, secret, sacred thing between you.
And in the end, that was everything.
One night, months later, working late together, Gideon had reached into his desk and pulled out a small box.
"This was going to be your mother's," he'd said quietly. "A ring. I bought it years ago, before things fell apart. I never got to give it to her."
Inside was a simple silver band with a small stone, nothing flashy, just elegant and understated.
"I want you to have it. Not as an engagement ring, obviously. But as... a promise. That I'm here. That I know. That you're not alone anymore."
You'd slipped it on your right hand. Perfect fit.
"Thank you," you'd whispered.
"Checkmate," he'd said, looking at the forgotten board between you.
You'd laughed. "I wasn't even paying attention to the game."
"Neither was I." He'd smiled. "I was paying attention to something far more important."
And there, in the quiet of the empty office, with only the chess pieces as witnesses, Jason Gideon had been simply what he'd never had the chance to be before:
Your father.
And you had been what you'd always been, even when he didn't know:
His daughter.
Some truths didn't need to be spoken aloud to be real.
Some loves didn't need witnesses to be whole.
And some families existed in the spaces between words, in the language of chess moves and shared journals and coffee made exactly right.
