UNSUB'S FAVORITE ──➵ spencer reid
➵ based on this request here
summary: the voit case has become personal, his obsession bleeding into your life leaving you shaken. with spencer away on assignment, you struggle to live with the new revelations – until an early return shows you just how safe you are pairing: spencer reid x media liason!wife!reader cw: cm evolution typical themes (BAU-Gate. Mentions of serial killers. Stalking. Obsession). Fluff at the end, and a tiny bit of PDA a/n: i don't know how canon compliant this is, because I watched evolution once and haven't returned to it since. i just remember being lowkey confused. Alsooo, people who usually read my fics will know I normally use ‘’ instead of “” (I grew up reading Stephen King books, he uses ‘’). HOWEVER, I used “” in this one just to see if it makes a difference and if I like it better. Still trying to decide. w/c: 6.5k (how it got this long, I don't know, lowkey a lot of yap at the beginning but i had to make the stakes and context knownnn)
“Huh,” Penelope hums, the sound sharp enough to cut through the quiet hum of computers and low chatter. Her eyes dart rapidly across her laptop screen, neon-pink nails clacking against the keys in a rhythm that doesn’t sound good.
It’s late at the round table. The blinds are drawn, the lights are harsh. Aside from the team and a few yawning agents in the bullpen, the floor is empty. Everyone’s gathered around, shoulders slumped, mugs of lukewarm coffee resting beside tired hands, an overwhelming sense of fatigue tying it all together.
You glance up from your own laptop, where you’ve been painstakingly flagging conspiracy sites for Penelope to dismantle later – the ones peddling lies about BAU operations, tarnishing the Bureau’s name. Your eyes sting from starting too long.
“What is it, Garcia?” Emily asks, her tone shifting from exhaustion to razor-sharp alertness in seconds.
Garcia doesn’t look up. Her brows knit. Lips purse. Her fingers fly faster over the keys.
“This is weird. I mean, really weird,” she mutters, her voice trembling with adrenaline. And confusion. “I’ve been trying to crack the backend of Voit’s BAU-Gate activity for days, right? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. His coding isn’t just good – it’s impossible. Like, ‘chess with ten queens” impossible. But now—just now—suddenly—I’m in. Just like that.”
A ripple of unease passes around the table. No one says it, but they’re all thinking the same thing. This isn’t good.
Beside you, JJ tenses, her shoulders stiff. Rigid. You don’t even think before reaching under the table and slipping your hand into hers, your fingers curling around her hand in silent reassurance. She squeezes back, just once, quick and almost distracted. But you catch the flicker of gratitude in her eyes.
Her gaze lingers on the screen longer than anyone else’s. You recognize it. Sharp and guarded, but threaded with fear. She’s already thinking about how this could get even more personal, what other ghosts this code could awaken – old photos she thought were buried in forgotten servers, locked behind firewalls that suddenly don’t feel strong enough.
You know her well enough to see the pain in her eyes.
“What changed?” Tara asks, leaning forward.
“I—I don’t know. But it’s like it wanted to be opened now. There’s no walls of encryption anymore. No trap code. No digital landmines. I didn’t do anything new. This section just… blinked into visibility.”
Penelope hits a key, projecting her laptop onto the big screen at the head of the table. A blank directory stares back at them – no file names, no metadata. Just empty digital silence.
“Not even a folder title,” Garcia says softly. “It looks creepy as hell, but I’ve run every virus scan I’ve got and it looks clean. Should I open it?”
Emily hesitates, glancing at JJ. The silence that follows is taut and brittle, ready to snap.
“Whatever’s inside,” Emily says finally, her voice low but firm, “we need to see it.”
JJ’s hand tightens around her coffee cup, the ceramic creaking under the strain of her grip. The tension rolling off her is palpable, sharp enough to cut.
Emily’s gaze softens, but only slightly.
“And I’d like you to go through it JJ, please,” she says. “BAU-Gate… it’s personal to you. I don’t want the rest of us seeing things you’re not ready for.”
“Emily, I don’t—” JJ begins, but Emily’s tone slices across her words.
“No.” Her voice brooks no argument. “This shouldn’t be sifted through with everyone watching.”
JJ stares at her, jaw tight, and for a long moment you think she’ll refuse. Her exhaustion wins out instead.
“I can’t do it alone,” JJ says finally, her voice a hoarse whisper. “I’ve already looked through the site once. I don’t know how far I’ll get doing it myself.”
Emily’s gaze flicks to you, to your interlinked hands beneath the table, and she gives a deliberate but subtle nod. “Stay with her.”
One by one, the others file out. Tara gives JJ’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as she passes. Luke offers you a small nod, and even Garcia leaves without a quip, her expression solemn. When Emily closes the door behind them, the sudden quiet is deafening.
JJ exhales, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Sorry,” she mutters, voice barely audible.
“No, I’m sorry,” you say. “This should be over by now.”
You give her a faint smile, meant to be comforting, though your stomach feels like it’s in knots.
“I’ll focus on my work. I won’t look unless you want me to,” you add, nodding toward your laptop.
JJ’s expression twitches with something reminiscent of gratefulness, but her eyes look dull and bruised beneath the blue. She pulls Garcia’s laptop closer to her, jaw clenched, and with a steadying breath, she clicks enter.
The screen flickers. For a moment, nothing. Then the blank folder erupts with files – hundreds of them, cascading down in a blur of cryptic names. Color-coded, it seems, but labelled only with numbers.
“I’m going to open one,” JJ says, voice low. You avert your eyes as she enters the first file.
It expands into a photo.
“What the hell—” you hear JJ mutter. She leans closer to the screen, then looks up at you sharply. “Look.”
Confused, you lift your gaze to the projector – and freeze.
It’s you. Not JJ. You.
A candid, slightly blurry photo of you leaving the BAU, at least seven years ago. Spencer is beside you, his hand hovering awkwardly near the small of your back, his profile caught mid-turn.
Ice floods your veins, settling in your chest.
“Go to the next folder,” you manage, your voice tight.
JJ clicks. Another photo – this time a security camera still of you in a grocery store aisle.
Another.
Another.
The images keep coming, endless and relentless. Thousands of them. Some you recognize: BAU press briefings, stills from news clips where you’re barely in frame, caught just off to the side of someone speaking.
But the others—
A photo of you tying your shoe outside a coffee shop.
A grainy shot from across the street, capturing you leaning against your car, texting Spencer.
Another from inside your old apartment – your home – where you’re sipping coffee in nothing but an oversized shirt. The angle is wrong, invasive; it must have been taken from a building across the street with a long-range lens.
JJ’s breath hitches. “This is… this is sick.”
There are photos of you laughing with Penelope at a work function. One of you about to enter a convenience store.
Every single one is labeled. Catalogued.
‘Nervous.’
‘Smiling at someone (husband?).’
‘Pretty face.’
‘Morning routine.’
“What the fuck,” JJ mutters, her voice trembling somewhere between anger and disbelief.
There are folders within folders. One is marked voice.
JJ clicks it open. There are dozens of files. Recordings pulled from press briefings, interviews, even an old TV segment. All edited, chopped up, stitched back together into something that sounds like a sermon.
JJ hits play on the first one. Your own voice echoes back at you, warped into a chant:
“You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me… You’re in good hands with us, trust me…”
Looped. Twisted. Worshipped.
Another folder: movement. Videos of you jogging. Walking through airport security. Adjusting your bra strap in your office.
“I don’t—are these real?” you whisper, your throat tight. “I mean… JJ, your videos were deepfake, right? Maybe these are too—”
JJ just slams the laptop shut.
“I’m getting Emily,” she says.
The door shuts behind you with a heavy clang, the sound hitting off concrete walls. It makes you flinch.
You don’t belong here.
You’re not a profiler, not a field agent – you’re the calm voice at the podium, the one who translates horror into words that the public can digest. That’s your land.
Not this. Not interviewing suspects or trailing around high security prisons. Not staring down the man who’s memorized the details of your life.
But Emily concluded that your presence would get him to talk. Not necessarily give answers, but give something. He cataloged you like a specimen. There’s no way he won’t react to you.
So here you are.
JJ stands at your side, spine straight and unyielding. She steps forward first, taking up space like it’s a weapon. You stay half a step behind, hands clenched into fists so tight your nails bite into your palms. You’d told yourself you’d meet his gaze the moment you walked in, show him you weren’t afraid.
But just the sound of him moving, of him breathing – you can’t. Not yet.
“Agent Jareau, pleasure to see you again,” Voit greets, voice infuriatingly casual. He drags a chair across the floor with a grating screech, sitting behind the bars with a lazy sort of confidence. You hear it in his tone, the curve of a smile he shouldn’t be wearing. “And… Agent Reid. I hoped you’d come. I wasn’t sure you would.”
You lift your head. Slowly.
His eyes lock on yours instantly. It’s not a glance. It’s a study. His gaze lingers too long, unblinking, cataloguing you even now.
JJ’s glance flicks to you, checking your reaction. You swallow down the lump in your throat, straighten your back, and speak. Your voice is steadier than you feel.
“We know you have information. Give it to us, or I walk.”
Voit tilts his head. His smile stays. “I don’t do ‘transactions,’” he says smoothly. “I do conversations.” His eyes shift to JJ, then back to you. “You’re not usually part of this, are you? Interviews. Evidence collection.”
“No,” you say tightly.
“No,” he echoes with a small, satisfied nod. “No, you belong in the light. Not… this.” He gestures around the sterile cell like it’s beneath you.
JJ leans forward, a silent warning in her posture.
Voit ignores it.
“You have a very distinct presence,” he continues. “When you speak at press conferences, everyone listens. But it’s different seeing you in here, like this. No podium. No cameras. No carefully chosen words to hide behind. You don’t like this, do you? Being seen without the frame you’ve built.”
Your jaw tightens. He’s too close – not in distance, but in knowing. Peeling back layers you haven’t given him permission to see.
“You don’t know anything about me,” you say.
“Oh, but I do.” His voice lowers, intimate and mocking. “I’ve been paying attention. Especially to the little things. The way you tap your pen when you’re thinking. How you take a second too long to blink when someone mentions a child victim. The subtle tension in your shoulders when Dr. Reid isn’t by your side.” His grin widens, sharp as a blade. “He’s far away right now, isn’t he? Long assignments are hard.”
Your throat tightens. You say nothing.
“I even compiled all my observations together for you,” he adds lightly, as if he’s discussing an art project. His gaze slides to JJ. “You showed her, right? I mean, you know your way around BAU-Gate better than anyone.”
JJ’s jaw ticks.
Voit’s grin deepens, as though that silence is all the confirmation he needs. “You did show her. What did you think, Agent Reid? Did you like the pictures, or was it too much?”
“Enough,” JJ cuts in sharply, voice like a blade. “This conversation ends unless you give us something useful.”
Voit chuckles under his breath, slow and low. “Useful? Oh, Agent Jareau, I’ve already given you something. That site… you’ve barely scratched the surface. You want real answers?” He gestures lazily toward you. “They’re standing right next to you.”
“Give us something concrete, Voit.”
“I have,” he says with feigned innocence. His gaze snaps back to you, deliberate and unblinking. “I wonder what Dr. Reid would make of all this. Funny. He must know how easy it is for someone to invade your life like that. I’d have expected him to keep a tighter grip. I know I would have, if it were my wife.”
“You’re pathetic,” you manage.
“Pathetic? No, not pathetic,” he corrects softly, leaning forward just enough to make your skin crawl. “I’m thorough. That’s the word you’re looking for.”
JJ shifts subtly in front of you, blocking his line of sight as much as she can. But his voice slithers past her, wrapping around you like smoke.
“Do you want to know what I liked best?” he asks. “Not the press briefings. Not the polished soundbites. The little things.” He raises his eyebrows. “Like the sweater you wore when you left Agent Jareau’s house one time. The chipped mug you drink from. They remind me how real you are.”
Your throat feels like sandpaper. You glance at JJ, whose glare could cut steel.
“And real is rare,” Voit muses. “Better than pixels and passwords. Those photos? Those notes? That’s just the surface. The real part… that’s what I visited most.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask, though your voice shakes. You already feel the cold dread twisting in your chest, whispering you don’t want the answer.
“A place where you’re not just an image, but… a presence.”
“We’re done,” JJ says abruptly.
Voit leans back with lazy satisfaction. “Oh, don’t leave yet. I haven’t even told her my favorite picture. You know the one. She’s wearing blue, and she—”
“I said enough!” JJ’s voice cracks across the room.
Voit goes silent. But the smile – the smug, knowing smile – stays.
JJ’s hand closes around your elbow, firm but gentle, guiding you toward the door. Your legs feel stiff, heavy.
His voice follows you out, soft and venomous:
“Tell Dr. Reid I understand why he keeps you close. Some things are worth collecting.”
JJ’s bedroom is dark, and the atmosphere feels too heavy for sleep. The only light comes from the narrow strip spilling through the crack in the door, painting faint lines across the floor.
You lie on your back, hands twisted together on your stomach like if you keep yourself still enough, the unease will finally stop buzzing under your skin.
The mattress dips as JJ shifts beside you. A slow, sleepy movement. You hadn’t meant to share a bed again, but when you’d changed and crawled under the covers next to her, she’d accepted it without a word. It was routine; on a bad case, or when Will was away on nightshift, keeping each other company in the quiet of the house.
Staying with her was Spencer’s idea. Something to keep you safe while he was away.
Quietly, she says: “I can hear you thinking.”
You exhale through your nose, the breath shaky. Then you turn, pressing your cheek to the pillow to face her.
“I can’t stop thinking about what he said. About the photos. The recordings. The way he smiled when he talked about it – treating it like a game.” Your voice catches on the last word. “What kind of a person even thinks like that?”
JJ is quiet for a beat. She finds your hand on the top of the blanket. “A sick, broken person,” she says. “But he’s behind bars. He can’t get close to you. Not anymore.”
“I hate that Spencer isn’t here.”
The words fall out of you before you can soften them. They muffle against the fabric, but the ache behind them is loud.
JJ sighs, tired but fond. “If he knew what Voit had done…”
“He’d lose his mind.”
“Completely,” she agrees, then laughs faintly. “But then he’d take your hands, and look at you like only he does, and he;d remind you that none of this is your fault. That Voit’s obsession isn’t about you. It’s about power. Control.”
You don’t reply. Your throat is too tight for anything else.
JJ squeezes your hand. “I know,” she murmurs. “You just want him home.”
You nod. The pillow is damp beneath your cheek. You hadn’t noticed when the tears started.
She shifts closer, blanket rustling. “And when he gets back, you can let him hover and be ridiculous, and wrap you up in all those Spencer Reid words until your brain finally shuts down for the night. You’ll roll your eyes, and he’ll act offended, and then you’ll fall asleep on his shoulder like you always do.”
You manage a watery laugh. “You sound like you’ve seen this happen before.”
“I’ve been third-wheeling you two for almost a decade,” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. “I know how it goes.”
You let the silence settle again. This time, it feels different. A little lighter.
Your gaze drifts toward the bedside table. Spencer’s scarf – the one he wrapped around you before he said goodbye – rests there. Folded, waiting. A reminder that he’s coming back.
JJ shifts beside you again, drowsy.
“Until then,” she whispers. “We’ve got each other.”
You’re sitting at Spencer’s desk, legs curled under the chair, one of his old cardigans draped around your shoulders. You’ve been working here since he left. Some irrational part of you swears the air still smells like him – mint and old books, that faint warmth of his skin. It steadies you. Keeps the panic from finding too many cracks to slip through.
Your pen scratches against a battered notebook, the sound almost grounding. It’s safer than opening a laptop. Safer than being anywhere near the encrypted site and the images you’re trying not to replay.
“Walk with me a minute?”
Rossi’s voice breaks the silence. Soft, but not a suggestion.
You glance up and find him leaning against the next desk over with a familiar knowing look in his eyes. You nod, rising from the chair, keeping the notebook in your hand as you follow him down the corridor. Past the glass doors. Along a quiet hall. He knows you think better when moving – when the walls don’t have a chance to close in.
“You’re not okay,” he says once out of earshot of everyone.
You blink, caught off guard. “I’m… functioning.”
“That’s not what I said.” His tone is firm but kind, cutting through the armor you’ve been wearing. “You’ve got your game face on. I know that look. But I also know that voice you use when you’re trying not to fall apart.”
Your lips press together. You don’t argue, because he’s right.
His voice softens. “You don’t need to be bulletproof all the time. I know you think you do, because you’re the one people see. But you don’t have to be that way with us. Not with me.” He doesn’t demand anything, doesn’t push for confessions. It’s not about prying – it’s about reminding you that someone has your back.
He loops around the floor with you, and eventually you find yourself back at your office. Rossi follows you in, closing the door with a quiet click.
“Now, I hate to do this, kid.” He pauses, expression a little more solemn. “But we found something last night, and I want you to hear it from me. Not the rumor mill.”
Your stomach tightens. You set the notebook down and slump back into your seat. “Found something?”
He exhales slowly, pulling the chair across from you and sitting with deceptive ease.
“Remember – you don’t have to be bulletproof,” he reminds you, his voice suddenly serious. “We’ve been digging since your interview with Voit. And we found a new container.” He pauses again – like he’s weighing how much to tell you all at once. “It contains pictures of you. Like the website, but physical. It’s all locked down, and it’s evidence. We’re one step closed to figuring this whole thing out.”
The room feels smaller suddenly. You push your chair back with a scrape, breathing coming shallow. Physical. Real. You want to throw up just thinking about Voit being down there.
“Hey.” Rossi’s voice cuts through the panic. “Look at me.”
You do. Barely.
“No one else has seen it,” he says, eyes holding yours. “No one else will. It’s under control, and none of it will touch you again. Do you hear me?”
You nod, but your hands are still trembling in your lap.
Rossi stands, circling the desk to your side. His presence is heavy but safe, like standing in the shadow of a wall built just for you.
“There’s more,” he admits. “Because of the deal with him, Voit is coming here. To the BAU. Under full supervision, but…”
“He’s coming here?”
“Yes.” Rossi’s tone is like stone. “And trust me, kid, I don’t like it any more than you do. But this is on our terms. We’re in control of the situation. He’s on our turf, and I won’t let him get near you.”
“What if he—”
“He won’t.” His voice sharpens, no room for doubt. “We’re not taking chances. I’ll set you up in my office while he’s here. You stay there. You and JJ have each other, and you have us. Let us carry this one for you, kid. You’ve already carried too much.”
You swallow, the knot in your chest loosening just a fraction. His words land like a promise.
“Good,” he says after a long pause, reading your face the way only Rossi can. His hand rests briefly on yours—warm, reassuring. “Now, let’s get you some coffee. And a pastry. You look like you’ve forgotten what food is.”
You’ve been holed up in Rossi’s office all morning, curled into the guest chair with your knees angled toward the desk like it’ll act as a shield. Rossi sits across from you, a silent sentry, arms folded over his chest. He’s been keeping watch, both on you and on the team outside. You can tell this case is gnawing at him – there’s a weight in his eyes, something that mirrors the discomfort chewing at your insides.
“That’ll be him,” Rossi mutters. His tone is flat, but grim. He shuts the file he’s been reading and stands, moving closer to the office door but not opening it. The motion alone is enough to make your breath catch.
Despite every warning bell in your head, curiosity scratches at you like claws on glass. You shift just enough to tilt your head, peering through the narrow strip of reinforced glass on the office door.
Voit is there.
Even bracketed by Luke and Tara, even surrounded by agents, he moves like the BAU belongs to him. There’s no tension in his shoulders, no fear in his face. Just that eerie, unhurried calm, like he’s strolling in for an afternoon chat. His eyes skim lazily over desks and walls, cataloguing, calculating.
And then – like he feels it – his gaze slides toward the door you’re behind.
For a split second, you’re certain he sees you. The glass feels like nothing, as though his eyes pierce straight through it. His lips twitch upward, the faintest ghost of a smile, one brimming with recognition. Satisfaction. By the time someone calls his attention and he turns, that smile is gone – erased so quickly you could almost convince yourself you imagined it.
You tear your gaze away, pulse thundering against your ribs.
There’s a quiet beat, then his voice cuts through the hum of the bullpen like a knife, calling for you and Rossi. A taunt. A dare.
Rossi glances at you, shaking his head once. Don’t.
You nod, but your curiosity betrays you again. You risk another glance.
Voit has drifted toward Spencer’s desk. He’s standing there now, fingertips grazing the surface, tapping lightly at the rim of Spencer’s mug like he’s testing the texture of it. His hand skims over the pile of journals stacked neatly on the corner, movements slow and deliberate. As if he knows. As if he’s touching those things just because he knows you will see it.
Your stomach twists so hard it’s almost painful.
“Step away from the desk,” Tara’s voice rings out, sharp and commanding.
Voit doesn’t move right away. For a long moment, his hand lingers there – just long enough to leave the image burned in your mind, like he’s carved the moment out for you to remember later. Only when Luke shifts closer does he finally step back.
But the way he looked at that desk, the way he touched it.
It stays with you.
Two days.
Two days of Voit’s presence seeping through the walls. Even when you don’t see him, you feel him – like a shadow stretching just beyond your line of sight. Rossi hasn’t left you alone once.
You’re still in Rossi’s office, combing through documents. You feel the shift in the air, freeze in place when the door clicks softly behind you and a voice speaks softly.
“Why are you in here?”
Your breath catches. Slowly, you look up.
Spencer.
For a moment, your brain doesn’t compute. He’s standing there, rumpled from travel, dark circles under his eyes, but he’s real. He’s here.
“Spence—” The word comes out as a shaky breath.
He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling you up from Rossi’s chair before you can speak. His arms wrap around you in a tight grip, trying to ground you in the moment.
You clutch at is coat, burying your face in his neck, the smell of him – coffee and mint and something faintly like rain – making your eyes sting.
“Hey, hey,” he murmurs, smoothing a hand over the back of your head. You haven’t felt this at peace in weeks. “It’s okay. I’ not letting go.”
“I missed you,” you breathe.
“I missed you too,” he murmurs into your hair.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming back.”
“They pulled me out of the assignment early,” he says, his thumb brushing absently against your shoulder, nose pressing further into your hair.
You want to tell him he’s right. That he’s needed here – by you – but the words stick in your throat. You can feel your eyes misting up as you hold him close, the tension easing in your chest.
He pulls back just enough to frame your face in his hands, searching your expression, observing your features because the memory of them hadn’t been enough while he was on assignment.
“Why are you working in Rossi’s office? I had to look all over for you.”
“It’s easier here,” you say, but your voice wavers. “I didn’t… I didn’t want to be alone in my office.”
“Why not?” His voice is soft but insistent, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “They briefed my on the case – encrypted website, shipping containers – but—” His expression twists slightly as he looks at you, his head tilting. “There’s more, isn’t there? What haven’t they told me?”
You can’t meet his eyes. “Spence…”
“What?” His hands remain on you face, coaxing you up to meet his gaze. “Tell me.”
“It was me.”
Confusion flickers across his face. “What?”
“The container. The website. It was about me. Voit had this whole section on BAU-Gate – photos. Old press conferences. Notes about things I said…”
Silence falls between you. Spencer blinks once, twice – then his jaw locks.
“He—what?”
His hands drop, fingers curling into fists. His voice lowers to a whisper that somehow sounds more dangerous than shouting.
“Emily didn’t tell me that. No one told me it was about you.”
“Spence—”
“Are you okay? Did he—” He cuts himself off, breath hissing through his teeth. “I—I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”
“You couldn’t have known,” you insist, reaching for his sleeve. “I’ve been staying with JJ, like you suggested. And she’s been great. She was with me when I interviewed—”
“When you what?”
Your words falter. “—Interviewed him…”
The silence turns deafening. He shakes his head in disbelief.
“No.” His voice sharpens. “No, you don’t interview serial killers. That’s not your job. You’re not supposed to be anywhere near him.”
“It was for the case,” you say. “Emily thought sending me in would get Voit to talk—”
Spencer’s laugh is hollow, disbelieving. “Oh, sure. Great tactic. Send my wife in to talk to the psychopath who’s been obsessing over her. That’s brilliant.” His voice is rising, his jaw tight, one hand raking through his hair as he begins to pace around the office. “If I had been here, I would not have let that happen.”
“Spencer—”
“I’m serious.” His eyes find yours, wide and pleading, attempting to get you to see reason. He crosses back to you, hands gently cupping your face again. “That is not your role. You’re not in the field. You’re not bait. You’re not expendable.”
“I was fine with it,” you try, your voice wavering. “JJ was there—”
“Fine?” He glances around Rossi’s office. “You’re hiding, honey. Hiding isn’t fine. You shouldn’t have to feel on edge here.”
“I’m not… hiding. Rossi told me to move in here while Voit’s in the building.”
Spencer freezes yet again. For a second, the words don’t seem to compute. He scoffs, because that’s the only sound he can make.
“He’s… here?”
“They’re using him for the case,” you explain softly. “He’s under constant supervision, but—”
Spencer’s face hardens, all emotion drained except for the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Where is he?”
“Spence, you can’t—”
“Where. Is. He?” His voice is low, barely controlled.
Before you can stop him, he’s striding out of Rossi’s office. You call his name, but he doesn’t slow. He doesn’t wait for you to follow him, just storms through the bullpen with long, confident strides that are fueled by something electric.
You call his name as you follow behind him, but it’s useless. He knows how the BAU operates when they’re desperate, knows exactly where to go.
You hurry behind him as he finds the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms.
Through the glass, Voit sits at a metal table, calm, whistling like he’s bored.
Spencer stops. His shoulders rise with a sharp intake of breath, then his jaw clenches tight and he moves forward, pushing the door open.
The click of it shutting behind him is final. You stand behind it, arms hanging limply by your sides as you move to look through the glass, raking a stressed hand through your hair. Their words are slightly muffled behind the glass, the surveillance video crackling with static.
Voit looks up, smirking. “Dr. Reid. I was wondering when I’d get the pleasure.”
Spencer doesn’t sit. He doesn’t blink.
“I’m only going to say this once,” Spencer says, voice low. “You don’t speak to her or about her. You don’t look at her. You don’t even think about her?”
Voit tilts his head, amusement playing across his features. “That’s a bit controlling, don’t you think? Besides… it’s hard not to look.”
Spencer leans in slightly, his tone dropping even lower. You can feel the coldness through the glass.
“I’ve spent my entire life studying men like you. I know exactly how you operate. Every game, every pathetic attempt to hold on to control. You may believe you hold the power here – but you don’t. And I’m not going to let you so much as breathe her name again.”
Voit studies him. His smirk falters for a second, but he pastes it back on. “You think you scare me?”
Spencer’s gaze doesn’t waver. “I don’t care if I scare you or not. I care that you understand me. You think you know her? All you have are pictures and words you’ve twisted into some sad fantasy. You’re delusional. You don’t know her. You’ll never know her. You don’t even have the capacity to understand who she is.”
There’s a flash of something – anger, or frustration – in Voit’s eyes. It’s gone as quickly as it came.
“You weren’t even here,” he says slowly, a last ditch attempt to control the situation. “You let her go through all of this alone.”
Spencer braces his hands on the table, leaning closer, ignoring the jab. “Here’s what’s going to happen: you’re going to stay quiet about her. If you try anything – anything, even a look – I’ll make sure that the rest of your cooperation is miserable. And when it’s done, I’ll make sure you’re sent far, far away from here. I’ll even move you myself if I have to.”
Voit’s eyes flicker again, but he stays silent. Then, finally, he smiles, though this time it’s thinner. Forced.
“She married someone… interesting.”
Spencer straightens, gaze hard. “She married someone who will never let you near her.”
He turns and walks out. The click of the door feels louder than any threat.
You watch the whole conversation with wide eyes, frozen in the hallway behind the glass. Only when Spencer’s eyes land on you does your breath return.
The sharpness in his face softens instantly.
“Spence,” you whisper.
He’s quick to stand in front of you again, arms wrapping around you, standing between you and the glass to shield you from Voit, from every nightmare you’ve had since he stepped into your orbit.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice close to breaking now. “God, I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have had to go through any of this.”
“Don’t,” you whisper into his chest. “You don’t have to apologize for being gone.”
“Yes, I do,” he says, pulling back enough to look at your face, scanning your expression like he’s checking for damage. “I should’ve been here. I should’ve—”
“You’re here now,” you say softly.
Something shifts in him at that. His grip on you gentles, his forehead pressing to yours for a beat.
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m here now. And I’m not letting him get anywhere near you again. Ever.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering like he’s grounding himself, before steering you down the hall with a protective hand at your back.
“Come on. I need you to fill me in on everything so we can put this bastard away.”
The scent of homemade lasagna fills every corner of Rossi’s dining room, rich and comforting, feeling like a warm hug. Candlelight flickers off the polished wood of the table, casting a soft glow over the familiar faces gathered around it.
Emily and JJ are leaning toward each other, laughing over some half-told story, while Tara is smirking at Luke, teasing him with what sounds suspiciously like a ‘your mom’ joke that makes Garcia nearly choke on her wine.
At the head of the table, Rossi presides like a proud patriarch, his easy smile softening into the knowing look he gets when he’s watching his family – because that’s what this is.
The clink of glasses, the scrape of serving spoons against dishes, the shared laughter – it all feels like a balm after the storm of fear and chaos that’s been hanging over you for weeks.
The case is finally over. Voit is gone – locked away in a high-security federal facility, miles away from Virginia, exactly as Spencer promised he would be. The shadow he cast over the BAU has been lifted, replaced with the quiet relief of knowing he’ll never come near you again.
You sit tucked into Spencer’s side, your chair so close to his that your legs brush with every subtle movement. His arm drapes lazily over the back of your chair, but there’s nothing casual about the way his fingers occasionally trace along your shoulder, a quiet reassurance that he’s here and he’s not going anywhere.
“So, seriously,” Garcia says, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “You actually told Voit that you’d make ‘every second of his cooperation miserable?’ Because that, my love, does not sound very on brand for you.”
Spencer’s cheeks tint the faintest shade of pink, his mouth twitching as though he wants to deflect but doesn’t know how.
“Don’t be so quick to put him in a box,” Tara says, lifting her glass with a sly smile. “I’ve seen first hand that this man is capable of going a little ‘cell block D’ when he wants to.”
That gets a round of laughter. Luke sips his drink, muttering something about “picturing Reid in a prison movie.”
Spencer shrugs with faux modesty, clearly trying to downplay the story, but you squeeze his hand under the table, feeling the warmth of his skin against yours.
“I was watching,” you say, a teasing lilt in your voice. “and I can confirm the rumors. It was a little terrifying.”
His eyes flicker to yours, warmth and affection softening the curve of his mouth. “Well I couldn’t let anything happen to you,” he murmurs, so low, only meant for you. “Not then. Not ever.”
Your heart does that familiar little stutter. You squeeze his hand back, your thumb brushing over his wrist. Around you, the noise of the table continues – clinking glasses, Garcia’s dramatic retelling of her latest shopping spree – but all you can feel is the steady beating of his pulse under your skin.
Spencer shifts closer, his knee brushing yours under the table, his shoulder leaning into yours like he’s anchoring himself to the moment. He dips his head just slightly, voice lowering into a soft, intimate tone that makes the rest of the world fade.
“I missed this,” he says, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Missed you. The normal.”
You smile, tilting your head just enough to rest it against his shoulder. “Me too,” you whisper.
His arm slides more securely around you, pulling you against his side. You feel the warmth of him, the familiar scent of his cologne mingling with the spices from dinner. It feels like coming home.
Another joke gets cracked across the table – something about Rossi’s pickiness when it comes to wine – and Spencer chuckles softly, but his gaze comes back to you, hazel eyes glimmering with something so tender and steady that your breath catches.
Before you can stop yourself, you lean up and press a quick kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing the soft scratch of stubble there.
Spencer’s fingers squeeze yours again. With the soft look still in his eyes, he leans down – just close enough that the rest of the table seems to vanish around you – and kisses you.
Unhurried. Sweet. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a promise. I’m here, I love you, I’ll keep you safe – all the words are wrapped up in the gentle press of his mouth against yours.
When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, and you can feel the smile ghosting across his lips.
“I love you,” he whispers, soft enough that it’s just for you.
“I love you too,” you breathe, your hand reaching up to brush your thumb against his jaw.
“Alright, alright,” Luke groans from across the table, smirking. “Get a room, you two.”
JJ swats Luke’s arm without missing a beat.
“Let them live,” she says with a grin. She catches your eye across the table, and there’s a quiet understanding in her look, like only she really knows just how much you needed this peace.
Rossi stands a the head of the table, glass in hand, his smile soft but full of pride.
“To family,” he says simply, voice carrying across the table.
Everyone else lifts their glasses, the echo of their voices warm and unanimous. “To family.”
You clink your glass gently with Spencer’s, leaning into his side as his arm tightens around you. The warmth of the team, the glow of the evening, the simple comfort of being here with him – it all settles perfectly in your chest.