"Do you understand the violence it took to become this gentle?"
- Nitya Prakash
WIP - first chapter. 2.2k
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, 2nd person, no use of Y/N
Summary: Six months into your new job at the BAU, you rush into a crime scene alone and the suspect has a gun to your head. The situation puts you in a vulnerable position, and Spencer has your back.
Content: unrealized love, slow burn, some light fluff, drama, truly a criminal minds plot NGL
TW: guns & violence typical to any Criminal Minds episode, anxiety attack (sorta), mention of potential death?
A/N: alright y'all, bear with me plz. this is my first shot at a fic in a really long time--it's gonna be a long one, I already know it. This is ch1 and ch2 is almost done. somewhere between season 7-season 9 Spencer I think.
Ch 1
You had no way of knowing that the last six months would culminate to this moment. Six months of training, of learning the dynamics of your team, of real-life application of everything you’d spent your life working for. Six months of profiling unsubs, of nightmares and poor sleep. Six months living and breathing with the six other humans on your team, learning each other inside and out, trusting each other implicitly.
Which is why in this moment, in a dark living room in Peoria, Illinois with a gun pressed against your temple, you’re surprised that you feel alone.
You can feel your heart beating in your skull. The cold metal of the barrel of the Glock 19 is searing, pulling at your hairs as it shakes in the trembling hand of the unsub you’d all correctly profiled—a coward, a power/control oriented male with an inferiority complex, likely with superficial maiming received by physical abuse at a young age by his sadistic father. The scar on his face was gruesome, skin split like the score on a loaf of sourdough.
“D-d-d-don’t move,” the unsub—now no longer the unidentified subject, but the confirmed suspect—Daniel Greene, 32, in and out of foster care after his dad Timothy went to prison—the facts rattle off in your head, the adrenaline in your body searching for the right information to buy yourself some time.
“I’m not moving, Daniel,” you say gently, not an ounce of fear in your voice. You stay calm—too much confidence, and the suspect would feel unable to control the situation. As long as he feels in control, you’re safe—you hope.
“Wh-where are the rest of them?” he asks, practically spitting at the “FBI” printed large on your chest, your head scrambling for the best answer. Make him think he has a chance to escape, he might let you go. You don’t fit his victimology. At this point, if he doesn’t feel like he is immediately threatened, he likely will not hurt you.
“They’re close,” you said, honestly. You had rushed in when you heard a scream. The front door was wide open. You’d caught Greene off guard, and the girl–the victim–ran out the open front door. You were supposed to be partnered up with Spencer, but he was helping the local PD set up patrols and you’d taken the car to pick up your go bag from the hotel. You were on your way back to the police station when the 911 call had come in, and you were closer to the house by four minutes.
You had known based on the unsub’s MO that you’d have about two minutes before the girl inside was dead, and in a split second, you took a risk. You saved the victim, but you may be giving your life in the process.
Though you’re calm, your insides churn, brain cataloguing all of the joys in your life. Your team, your job, your tiny cute house with the bay window overlooking the potomac–all of its existence teetering on the unpredictable actions of this suspect holding you hostage.
But all of a sudden, before either of you can say anything else, tires screech to a halt outside, and the gun shakes harder against your skull. The sound of car doors flying open and shoes on the sidewalk echo inside your head, eyes not leaving the unsub’s, as you each wait for the other to react.
Everything happens so fast. Reid and Morgan are the first ones on the scene, rushing into the living room and quickly taking the 9 and 3, guns drawn. The unsub yanks you back by the hair with his free hand before hooking his left arm around your neck, using you as a shield as his right hand pressed the gun harder into the side of your head. His sharp wrist digs into your trachea, cutting your air supply.
Your heart pounds, and you pull at the unsub’s arm, trying to create space between his arm and your neck. Your brain is screaming danger! danger! as you are unable to breathe the edges of your vision starting to pulse. You’ve messed up, and you’ve put your team in a vulnerable position.
“Daniel, let her go,” Morgan says in a gentle, commanding tone that you’ve come to know. “Put the gun down, and let her go.” He’s to your right, and as the unsub looks frantically between you and Morgan, you focus on Reid’s feet shuffling closer on your left.
Spencer. Spencer who you trust implicitly, Spencer whose mind works faster than anyone’s in the room. Spencer whose eyes you couldn’t meet, who knew how you thought, who you couldn’t disappoint.
“Let her go, you don’t need to carry any more deadweight, Daniel.” You hear it, the clue in his uncharacteristically less than formal vernacular, and you know what you’re supposed to do. Your eyes flash to Spencer’s before you let your knees buckle, becoming a deadweight—and pulling the suspect with you, allowing Morgan to fire a shot into his now exposed abdomen.
You fall to the floor on your hands and knees, adrenaline crashing through your head in an instant as oxygen rushes to your brain and your body recognizes it’s safe. You’re retching air, coughing as your trachea reacts to the choke hold the suspect had you in; and in a second, Spencer is on the floor, both his hands on your waist, holding you up. Beside you, Morgan has the suspect on the ground and cuffs him more roughly than would be considered protocol.
“It’s okay, it’s over,” Spencer says, rather desperately—as if he was comforting himself as much as he was comforting you. At this point, the rest of the team has pulled up along with local PD and an ambulance. There’s a shuffle as the suspect is hauled out by the local PD; It takes you a minute to catch your breath, Spencer’s hands never leaving you, holding you in place—and in that moment, you’re grateful for the assistance. You look up at him and realize he's wearing his glasses, and you can't help but pick up on his glasses being an indicator of how frantically he rushed to the scene; your heart sinks when you think of the crisis you've put your team in.
“Where’s the girl? Is she okay?” you rasp out between coughing fits. You’ll have bruising on your neck, you’re sure.
“She’s in the ambulance being checked out now. JJ’s with her. She’s okay, just in shock… says you saved her life,” Prentiss says from across the room.
“That’s good,” you said, still on the ground, but now upright, arms on your knees. After a moment of silence, you add, “I should’ve waited for backup.”
“Yes, you should have,” Hotch said as he walked in the room. His voice was stern; you could have died, after all. Sure, you had the guy profiled: you knew his victimology, you knew his triggers, and you knew his self-preservation instincts did not likely overshadow his guilty conscience. But killers could always be unpredictable, and he could have killed you. You don’t break eye contact with your boss, who walks closer, evaluating you.
Hotch knows you, knows the note on your file that reads too self critical, will not make the same mistake twice, sees in your eyes that you don’t need a lesson or lecture, that the gravity of the situation has settled into your brain—and continues. “You saved her life. We weren’t far behind you, but he was in control until you walked in. He would have killed her, and we wouldn’t have been here in time.” You hang your head between your knees. “We got him. Go to the medics and get yourself checked out.” You nod.
Spencer grabs you behind the elbow and gently helps you up, bracing you as the blood rushes to your head. “I’m fine,” you say, but his hand doesn’t move from your shoulder as you walk out of the house. “I’m sorry,” you say more quietly, under your breath, to the man who you couldn’t disappoint.
You can tell he’d heard your apology, but your heart sinks when he doesn’t respond immediately. “I’m just glad you’re okay,” he finally concedes, frowning at the ground. You try to convince yourself you’re not hearing anger in his tone.
Though you’re already bruising, the paramedics give you the all clear. Your face is puffy and your chest feels tight as you walk back to the house, where Spencer stands waiting for you as the rest of the team assists local PD with the crime scene. He's just outside the front door, porch light illuminating his messy hair, and you make yourself look away as you sidle up next to him. His hands are in his pockets, and his brow is still creased; his uncharacteristic silence sombers you.
The two of you stand in silence as you watch your team wrap up the scene, and all you can think about is the way you can’t wait to be back at the Peoria Police HQ, or better yet, your hotel—anywhere but this house. While you're relatively unharmed and no longer in danger, you’re crashing from an adrenaline high, as you start to shiver and will your teeth not to audibly chatter. Your ability to handle the physical shock following a trauma is something you’ve always been proud of, but tonight, the shock was starting to win.
“Let’s go,” Reid says, brushing your arm to catch your attention. “Hotch is sending us back to the hotel for the night.” You nod, not surprised your team leader chose to bench after your actions tonight. “He’s worried about you. You’re still new here. That was intense… you have every reason to feel upset.”
But you weren’t upset, not like that. You shrug, unwilling to admit that your feelings of guilt fully surpass those of fear. You were irresponsible. You let down your team, and you are lucky to be alive, and Spencer—beautiful, sweet Spencer—you couldn’t help feeling like you’d disappointed Spencer.
You hand over the keys to your car before climbing into the passenger seat, unspoken heaviness filling the space between you and the painfully patient man beside you. He’s a profiler; he knows you are feeling heavy, he can read it in your posture, but he plays dumb, and the two of you ride in silence back to the hotel. You bite your cheek as you try to hold in sobs—the adrenaline still crashing through you, now morphing into an overwhelming storm of emotions, making you feel drunk.
Right as you pull up to the hotel and park, you finally feel yourself starting to settle down. You’d managed to hide silent tears from Spencer, or so you had thought–but when you unbuckle and move to open your door, he’s already there, pulling you out of the seat and into his chest. His hands make gentle circles on your back, and in an instant, you can’t breathe again, and he holds you tight as you choke on a sob, mind racing. Your feelings of guilt and shame overwhelm you, but Spencer is cooing kindnesses and comfort in your ear, and as you try to focus on the feeling of his hand flat on your back—encouraging you to match his breathing—everything starts to slow down.
You both stand there for a moment, breathing together; the synchronicity is grounding. As you come down—was that a panic attack? —you’re suddenly aware of the intimacy in the way you’re pressed up against him. While you were lost in your own head, Spencer Reid—who doesn’t like to be touched—had you wrapped up, mollifying you with whispered comforts you now can’t remember.
You step back, only slightly, hanging your head. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Spencer says for the second time tonight,, something in his tone you still can’t identify—or maybe you’re unwilling to.
You shake off feeling that this moment is intimate; you’ve been shaking feelings off since the day in the break room your second week on the job—the day you both walked in for a coffee, only to find one serving left in the carafe, and Spencer quickly made a not-so-subtle deal over wanting tea instead. His kind heart made your throat catch, and all of a sudden, you were charmed. Since that day, you have spent your time trying to convince yourself those feelings were meaningless, superficial infatuation—but in this moment, your heart was pounding, and you were worried he could hear it.
Before he can say anything else, you turn to grab your go bag back out of the car and the two of you walk into the hotel. The ride up the elevator to the fifth floor was quiet, but as you walk up to your respective doors that happened to be next to each other, he murmurs your name.
You meet his eyes, and surely you’re mistaken, but you swear they’re also glistening with tears. In a move so quick you’re not sure it even happened, Spencer grabs your hand and squeezes once before disappearing through the door.
Once you’re inside your room, you immediately collapse on the bed as both physical and emotional exhaustion hit you in a tidal wave; you fall asleep fully clothed, and when someone has to knock on your door in the morning to ensure you make it to lobby call, you’re sure it isn’t Spencer Reid.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
They all like to tease him about Dave. Dave is also up there, on Klaus’ favorites list. He’s from out of town, also a traveling performer.
He’s supposed to be a dreamboat. The character is. It’s good casting. If you’re into hot, strong, talented dancer types with shoulders as broad as the humor in a nineties laugh track sitcom and a smile like lighting a match. Well, alright, the thing about the shoulders is not something Tchaikovsky wrote, but it’s implied in the text. In the score. The point is that it’s purely professional that Klaus has noticed the shoulders. Dave’s shoulders. Klaus has noticed.
Fluffy Klaus and Dave Ballet AU for this last week of the year!
"So, if you are too tired to speak, sit next to me because I, too, am fluent in silence."
R. Arnold
WIP - third chapter. 5.2k
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, 2nd person, no use of Y/N
Summary: You realize your team has your back, one member in particular.
Content: unrealized love, slow burn, some light fluff, drama, truly a criminal minds plot NGL
TW: mentions of death/dead bodies, Spencer being sweet
A/N: Ch 3 is a long one--I've been traveling a lot and less able to write, so I'm so glad this one's done! Comment if you want to be added to a taglist!
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - masterlist
3
Your chat with Hotch doesn’t go quite as expected.
And by that, you mean that you don’t expect him to be so kind.
“One of the things that stood out to me the most in your file is the note from your tactical instructor that said, ‘never makes a mistake twice. Critical thinking is always evidenced in the trainee’s actions, and risk assessment abilities are outstanding.’” he reads straight from your transcript, and you try hard not to flush red.
“Running into that house was a decision,” he continues. “I fully believe that you weighed the risk, and while you saved the victim’s life, you nearly cost us an agent.” His gaze bears down on you, and you feel yourself shrink in the chair. “There are protocols for a reason. Our responsibility is to protect the people and uphold the constitution, and there are rules that come with that responsibility.”
“However,” he states, “seeing as I never gave the directive for you to stand back, I don't consider this an act of insubordination,” and you lock eyes as he gives you a pointed look. “Please don’t put yourself in a position to walk into a hot room alone. You have a team. Use them.”
With that, he stands, much to your surprise, and dismisses you without another word.
How is that all? It almost feels unfair, the way you’re still reeling from your own self-retribution, as if you’re being let off the hook when all you want to do is be chewed out. You’re not about to argue with Hotch, though, so you get up and walk out, the confused look evident on your face as you return to your desk. You can’t help but notice everyone in the room studying you, not saying a word, and it makes you wonder if your team feels the way you do – like you’ve unjustly been let off easy.
Then you catch Morgan’s gaze, and he gives you a small but encouraging smile, and you finally realize - Oh. Your team has your back.
As you conspicuously look around the room at the rest of your coworkers, you realize that every single one of them is at ease, and you take a breath. You bury yourself in your paperwork, and as the day rolls on, your chest starts to untwist; you realize that you’re exactly where you belong, with people who support you – and it’s all you could’ve ever asked for.
The rest of your work day was relatively uneventful. The day drags on as exhaustion seeps into your bones, and when the clock hits 5, you’re excited at the prospect of sitting on your couch for the rest of the night. Hopefully you would have a few days at home before another case ripped you out of the city; Tomorrow is a Saturday, which would mean a much-needed day off, a day where you could spend your day in front of the bay window of your cute little house, reading Jane Austen and checking out of life.
With Emma Woodhouse’s naive woes filling your mind, you’re humming as you pack up your bag, focus already four steps ahead of you; so of course when Spencer clears his throat right behind you – oh god, how long had he been standing there? – you visibly jump, hand flying to your chest. “Hi,” you breathe out. “Did you say something?”
Spencer looks at you with a funny look on his face. “I just asked what you were doing tonight,” he said. You secretly feel relief, as this exchange already feels more like the comfortable territory you were used to.
“I’m probably going to put on a movie and not leave my couch,” you confess, a shy smile creeping onto your face. Spencer had been over for movie night before; he knew you were a sucker for a good couch night. “You?”
“I didn’t have anything planned in particular. Which movie?” he asks, and you think you’re picking up on some hopeful energy, but you also worry you’re projecting just a bit. After a day like you’ve had, you would love nothing more than to cuddle up on the couch under some blankets, watching some sci-fi film with your friend beside you, overexplaining in detail the scientific veracities and inaccuracies of a very obviously fictional story.
You aren’t quite sure Spencer is on the same page though, so you pause for a moment to study him, attempting to distinguish if his pursed lips revealed tension, or if they were trying to hide some nerves. You placed your bet on the latter, convincing yourself that throwing a line out could be a good idea.
“I hadn’t decided on a movie yet; you could pick, if you wanted to come over?” you tried to sound casual, but you already know that the way your voice raised at the end, you weren’t doing a very good job of it. The bait was out, and you hoped he’d take it.
“Do you want me to bring any snacks?” he responded, also pressed to sound casual – whatever tension had built was clearly something the both of you wanted to move past, and that was a relief to you. You smiled, nodding your head.
“Maybe we could do takeaway? That Indian spot you brought over that one time was so good.” Dinner and a movie with Spencer felt comfortable – and you believe that curry could be just the chicken soup your soul needs right now.
“Butter chicken and extra garlic naan, right?” he asks, and of course he remembers your order, his eidetic memory commits everything to mind–but you still can’t help but feel a little touched by the way he remembers your order. You nod, smile turning shy, though he doesn’t seem to notice your timidness. “It’s a date,” he says, smiling more genuinely than you’d seen him smile in at least 48 hours.
“I’ll supply the popcorn,” you provide, the words ‘it’s a date,’ echoing in your head. Your and Spencer’s previous conversation floats to your head, noting that the weight from earlier seems lifted; Spencer’s very clearly attempting to move forward past any awkward tension, and you’re grateful to realize that he seems more settled in his feelings about everything. You can’t help but acknowledge that there will likely be a bit of a growth curve – the moment you'd stepped in the door of that house in Peoria, things happened that couldn’t be undone; you had inadvertently unveiled a bit of Spencer that you were now permanently privy to, and just like that, things had become slightly more complicated between the two of you.
You silently push the thought from your mind, though, choosing to look only at the Spencer that is in front of you, the man who wants to spend the evening with you. It’s the evening directly following a rather traumatic event for the both of you, and he wants you by his side; you don’t take that to mean nothing.
The two of you walk out together, the conversation turning to a bit of mindless chatter, Spencer animatedly describing Godzilla Minus One – his pick for the night. He’s still describing the ways the film’s low budget astounded Hollywood by having incredibly advanced visual effects when you reach your car, and you can’t help but smile to yourself as you have to politely interrupt him with a promise to see him again in a few hours.
“Right,” he says with a smile. “I’ll call in to pick up the food around 6:30? The film’s run time is 125 minutes, and I know you like to get to bed early.” Dammit if he wasn’t so considerate–and yet again, you found yourself smiling in response. Your best buddy was back.
“Sounds good, I’ll be home. Feel free to let yourself in,” you add before sliding into your car.
You smile the whole way home.
At 6:48, there’s a timid knock on the door, before Spencer remembers your invite to let himself in, and then your door slowly swings open. “I’m here,” he calls, and you hear the rustle of the takeaway bag as he kicks off his shoes at the front door.
You’re sitting at the couch, TV trays already set up – you have a small dining table in your house, but it’s regularly covered in research papers and other academic resources; you can’t actually remember the last time you ate a meal at the table. Your hair is still wet from the shower, as you couldn’t be bothered to dry it – you rarely can – and you’re comfortable in your pajamas.
You were wearing the blue plaid matching set of PJ's you’d picked up at Old Navy, the cutest pajamas you owned – but no one needed to know that detail.
The shower had been nice; the pang of anxiety you had felt when you first saw your mottled throat – you’d somehow forgotten – had faded as the steam from the shower fogged up the mirror and wiped away any record of the day. As you stood under the heavy stream of water, you felt your shoulders start to relax, the trauma you’d been holding in your body starting to slowly melt away. The shower left you comfortably sleepy – you’d probably fall asleep before the movie was over, but the idea of falling asleep with Spencer beside you made your stomach flip. Spencer made you feel safe.
Now he makes his way into the living room, balancing a drink carrier containing two styrofoam cups, and as he sets the bag of food down on the coffee table, he excitedly hands you a drink. “I got you a mango lassi,” he says, and you can’t help but giggle. He busies himself with pulling out and distributing the food between the two trays, enthusiastically jabbering about the movie as you pull it up on the rental site.
As the two of you get settled on the couch, digging into your food and watching the rather intense opening scene, you feel a profuse sense of comfort. You’re both sitting cross-legged on the couch, and you can’t help but focus on the feeling of your knees touching ever so slightly, the light pressure increasing every time Spencer interrupts the movie with a bout of facts. You’re not really even sure you’re listening to the content of his babbling anymore, instead focused on the way the timbre of his voice is warming your insides–and just like the shower, the sound is slowly melting away some of the tension you’ve been holding for the past day.
As the movie plays on – food now shoved to the side, both of you lying feet to feet on the couch, sharing a blanket – the sounds of the monster and terror of the movie slowly transform into muffled bits of dialogue you can’t understand, as the movie’s in Japanese and your eyes are no longer able to focus on the captions at the bottom of the TV. Your eyes feel heavy, and you sink into the couch. You focus on the comforting press of Spencer’s long legs, toes curling and uncurling as he lays next to you, as your eyelids grow heavy and you sink into a restful slumber.
An hour later, when the movie ends, Spencer manages to get up, carefully untangling himself from you, as first your feet, then your legs, had slowly become intertwined as you slept – he’d been too scared to move them – and you whine at the loss of contact, eyes still closed. “Stay,” you mumble, and you hear him softly chuckle. You drift in and out of sleep over the course of the couple minutes that pass as he cleans up the Indian food – storing your leftovers in the refrigerator, comfortable in your house despite only having been by a few times now – and you’re awake again when he crouches next to you, gently brushing your hair out of your face. You shiver at his touch; you’ve had more physical contact with Spencer in the last 48 hours than you’d had in the previous 6 months of knowing him combined – and you slowly will your eyes to open.
His face is so close, eyes so soft as he studies your face. “You should go to bed,” he suggests quietly, softly.
“I’ll sleep here,” you respond, eyes already fluttering closed again. He chuckles again, before gently squeezing your arm.
“I’ll help you to bed; you need a good night’s sleep, let’s get you off the couch,” he pushes gently, and you huff, eyes still closed. You accept his help as he pulls you up to a sitting position, refusing to open your eyes; when he pulls you to your feet to walk you to your room, maybe you lean on him a bit more than necessary – but you’re so so tired, and you just want to sleep.
He sits you on the edge of your bed, and as he turns on the bedside lamp, you frown at the light and proceed to curl into your bed. He plugs your phone in to charge before turning back to you. “Thanks for having me over,” he says, barely more than a whisper, his voice melodic, and it distracts your tired self from answering.
When you don’t answer, Spencer assumes you’re already asleep and stands up, but you blink your eyes open, reaching for his wrist. “Wait, don’t go,” you plead, voice cracking through sleep. He stops his movements away from you, and quietly lets out a sigh.
“I can’t stay,” he says, his voice full of remorse. “Maybe next time,” he promises, and you’re pretty sure he only tacks this on because your eyes are already closing again and he thinks you won’t remember.
You’ll remember.
You drift off to sleep, thoughts of Spencer Reid and his hair, and his hands, and his entire dumb perfect being flooding your brain; you’re sure you’re already dreaming as you feel a kiss on your head, images of hazel eyes and sweet frowns flitting through your mind.
You feel well rested when you wake up. You lay in bed for a bit, assessing your body physically. Your throat still seems to have a hard time swallowing well, but your body feels relaxed apart from some standard tension in your shoulders, and you can’t help but credit your lovely night on the couch for the way you feel renewed.
You continued to assess your physical wellbeing – you’d experienced a significant trauma, there was no question about that, but you were starting to realize that the people around you – your team – somehow made you feel so safe and supported, both emotionally and physically, and that you somehow seemed to be better equipped to deal with the damage.
The bruises would fade first, and they really didn’t worry you too much; in fact, you’d bet they’re already starting to yellow. The trauma of having a gun held to your head – that was difficult, but not something out of the ordinary expectations of a job like yours. Scary moments like that would happen again, and though it never feels good or normal when your life is in danger, it was one of the complications of the job.
The thing you were having the most difficult time with was knowing that you’d let your team down; but because of the way they’d all shown silent support, instead of sulking in that guilt, you could feel the trust you had in your team growing. You understood that this group of people would protect you, and that you could truly trust them with your life.
That peremptory trust was a new feeling to grasp, one you hadn’t really experienced in your life; when you were a child, of course you trusted your parents to protect you – but knowing that you have a team of people who would all choose to take a bullet for you without a second of thought had you feeling something you didn’t know how to put into words. It was a type of shared experience that surpassed normal human dynamics and extended into something innately intimate. You were starting to realize that your team was just that: a group of people working toward a common goal, all living a unique perspective – almost an alternate reality – together. With that shared perspective actually came some big feelings, feelings you were just starting to wrap your head around. Being involved in this team was giving you purpose, much like the feelings of purpose you've always received from helping others, which is what had lead you to pursue a career in the BAU in the first place.
This sense of purpose seemed to give you a renewed energy, one that left you feeling rooted in your being, capable of managing whatever life would throw your way. With this energy, you finally pulled yourself out of bed, determined to have a really, really good day.
You started with coffee. You pattered around your kitchen, making a ritualistic pourover with some coffee beans you’d picked up at some bougie coffee shop whilst on a case in California, a coffee shop that, at the time, had been an incredible distraction from the triple homicide case you had been working on. In that very cafe, you’d been sitting and working when you finally pulled the last piece of a puzzle out of the depths of your brain, which helped the team to go on and solve the case. You weren’t sure that the coffee tasted great, but you knew it tasted like justice, and that was enough for you.
Once your coffee was made – in a ceramic mug with flowers on the side, whose perfect match was sitting at the office – you curled up into the small chair you had positioned in front of the bay window. You looked out over the water, at Quantico Creek, a subsidiary that fed into the bigger Potomac. The water had always been your sanctuary, of sorts; growing up, that sanctuary was the Hudson, where you’d walk from the house your family had in the Bronx to The Cloisters and sit and stare at the water for hours.
You feel grounded for the first time in a while. Your day is yours, which helps – the last several weekends, the BAU had been dispatched in different states on cases, and having this Saturday for yourself is exciting.
You contemplate reading, but figure you’ll be too distracted to focus on the book. Instead, you flip through your phone, catching up on some news – being so busy with work usually left you a bit out of the loop with things that were going on in the real world, which lent to more disconnection. Lately you’d been starting to realize that your work-life balance was really starting to make your job more difficult – not to mention how it was affecting your mental health – and you had realized you’d need to find a better way to balance a few things if you were at the BAU.
Besides being oblivious to any news that wasn’t case or Bureau related, you had also let a lot of personal relations slip. The friends you’d managed to keep past college you definitely hadn’t spent any time with since you started your new job, and that made you feel a bit guilty, and make a promise to yourself to do better – but starting tomorrow.
Today is a day meant for being kind for yourself – you think about how you can maybe even use that bath bomb you’d ordered online. By the time it had been delivered, you’d left again, and now it’s been sitting in the bathroom cabinet for a month untouched.
But then your phone rings, and like that, any self care dreams dissolve into the air.
Of course it’s Hotch – which means another case. You let out a tired sigh before answering it on the second ring. “Hey Hotch.”
His voice sounds apologetic, “How are you holding up?”
“I’m enjoying my slow Saturday,” you respond honestly, “but I’m assuming it’s about to get busier?” you cut right to the punch so that he doesn’t have to.
“I’m sorry, I wouldn't be calling you if it wasn’t urgent – it’s a missing person,” he says, and of course you know he wouldn't have called if it wasn’t urgent.
You close your eyes, but you’re already standing up before you end the call. “I’ll be there in 20,” you say before hanging up and rushing to pack another go bag; you live so close to the BAU, about five minutes door to door – and know others live further, so a five minute shower means you’ll likely still beat some of the others. After your shower, you quickly dress in slacks and a sweater and head out the door.
The parking lot is somewhat emptier than normal as you pull up and scan to see whose cars are around. You see a few familiar vehicles, but not the one you're actually looking for, Spencer's, and walk in as quickly as you can. Your hair is still wet from your quick shower, and the air outside is just chilly enough to make you shiver a bit.
When you arrive on your floor, the elevator opens to a mostly empty room – you skip past your desk and go straight to Hotch’s office. Inside, JJ is on the phone and Hotch is printing out papers, quickly trying to compile information for you all to review on the plane.
Missing persons cases took absolutely every ounce of speed and energy; generally if a person goes missing, the chance of the victim being found alive significantly decreases after 36 hours; the case becomes a race with time, sometimes one that doesn’t seem like you’re going to win, but your team was good.
“How many hours?” you ask Hotch quietly, minding JJ as she talks quickly with the local PD, and he raises his eyebrows a bit, taking a second to look you over – you know he’s quickly assessing your wellbeing – before he answers.
“Only four,” he says quietly, and you’re surprised; your team usually doesn’t get a call so early in a missing persons case – but the quick response may not be a good thing. “Two other women have already been reported missing, and they found the first body yesterday. This morning, a third woman disappeared from outside her workplace. Car was found parked right outside her workplace, keys in the ignition, same MO as the previous two victims. I’ll fully brief everyone on the plane, we'll go wheels up as soon as everyone’s here – grab your go bag and head on over,” he gestures with a nod towards the door, sliding more papers into his briefcase.
You do as he says. When you climb the steps to the plane, Prentiss is already there making coffee in the back. She pours one for you when she sees you step on, and you nod appreciatively as you accept it, both of you taking a seat at the table.
“Do you know where we’re headed? Hotch didn’t say,” depending on where you’re flying to, the length of the flight could be detrimental–the Bureau’s small private jet was faster than commercial flying, but trips further than a few states away could still cost you precious hours in the case.
“Alabama, about an hour and a half in the air. Clock is ticking,” she said, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Morning sunshines,” Morgan calls from the door, sunglasses on and grab bag in hand. His voice is a bit gravelly, and you doubt the sunglasses are serving a purely aesthetic purpose. You’re sure Morgan had a Friday night out, and honestly you expected most of your team to show up tired – save the one whose whereabouts last night you were a little too aware of.
Morgan and Prentiss continue to chatter as he settles in – his voice is definitely showing some wear – and you get a little lost in your thoughts as you think back on the night before. All you can remember is being so so tired – tired enough that Spencer had practically dragged you to your own bedroom. You remembered asking him to stay, and started to flush with embarrassment before shaking it off and telling yourself Spencer wouldn’t hold that against you.
You are, however, all of a sudden mildly concerned with the way you look in a way you aren’t normally – you’re hyper aware that your hair is still wet, and you look a bit like a drowned rat, and that the sweater you’re wearing was just a little too big in a middle and – where was this insecurity coming from? This is uncharted territory. It’s like the nervousness you’d managed to keep tucked away in your subconscious – tucked right beside the decidedly ignored crush you’d developed on Spencer over the last half a year – was now fully acknowledged and living solidly in the conscious, and you weren’t sure if you were going to be able to shove it back into your brain.
Just then, the subject of your nerves arrives, looking more put-together than the rest of you combined in just a button down and tie, and you try to ignore the way you notice the way his legs go on for days in the dark trousers he’s wearing, and god, why didn't you dry your hair? You give him a smile, forcing friendly thoughts, and he smiles back, taking your breath away just a bit.
You’re not sure what happened last night to affect every neuron in your brain in this way – you suspected that the way you felt safe and comforted in his presence had evoked some primal emotion within you, as that’s a pretty common occurrence in human nature. The air in the room feels thicker, and you physically shake your head to recalibrate – which only helps until you catch Spencer watching you, a hint of soft affection in his expression.
Fortunately, the rest of the team climbs on the plane, and after the plane levels out you all gather around the table, reviewing the files Hotch distributes. You ignore the buzz in your fingers as Spencer sits next to you, and you're finally able to change your focus to the case file in front of you, because you're a professional adult.
“Our missing person. Lisa Snyder, 28, left her house to open the coffee shop she manages early this morning. Husband saw her leave, her car showed up at her work–but her employees said the door was never unlocked, and her car was left parked on the street with the keys in the ignition.”
He hands over another set of folders, and as you open this next one, the sight of a young woman with brown hair splayed all on the ground around her stares back at you, and your heart plunges a bit.
“First victim, Ella Girard, 28, was found in a park yesterday afternoon. Ella went missing six days ago, with the same MO – never showed up to work, car parked outside her workplace with the keys in the ignition. Evidence of sexual abuse, drugs found in her system, and as you can see the body was not disposed of with care.”
He hands out one more stack of files.
“Second victim, also 28, Teresa Sharp. Went missing three days ago, same MO, still missing. Police didn't put together that these cases were connected until the first victim's body was found, so they're still developing new information. Thoughts?"
“Unsub doesn't seem to be displaying any remorse based on the position of the body, the way this body is bruised may indicate a rage murder,” Spencer says, quickly flipping through the autopsy report of the first victim. “Opiates used to subdue, most likely, we’re looking at someone with a lot of anger who isn’t able to overpower the victim on his own.”
“He probably seems trustworthy, as well, or there would be signs of struggle at the abduction sites,” you add. “These women went with him of their own free will, which likely means he is able to dispatch them quickly, and close by – do we know how much time lapsed between Lisa arriving at her job and her employees showing up to notice she was gone?”
“About a half hour,” Hotch replies, and you nod.
“Half an hour to subdue, get her into the vehicle, and then come back and place the keys back in the ignition,” you frown. “Why is he placing the keys in the ignition? That has to be important, if it wasn’t he wouldn't be wasting the short amount of time he has to get out of there.”
“OCD?” Morgan suggests, and you frown. "Unsub could be triggered by something, and feels the need to clean up after himself."
“Maybe,” you allow, but your brain still fixates on it.
“Because the unsub is displaying rage, it could be a taunt,” Spencer adds, throwing a look to you.
“Leaving the keys in the car could be an indicator that the victim went with him voluntarily, and that he thinks she’s foolish for doing so,” Emily reinforces, nodding. "With sexual abuse we could be looking at a lust motive."
“We have a pattern. A woman is taken every three days from her first shift at work. The age is obviously significant. All three women have different hair colors, but similar enough builds that I believe it’s relevant to the victimology. He’s organized, and educated, familiar enough with their habits to be at their work early. He’s angry, and he’s fulfilling a desire for revenge. I think this is enough to build a profile,” he looks at everyone. “Let’s hit the ground running. I’d like JJ to deliver a profile when we arrive.”
You all get to work. You and Spencer bounce off each other like always, the others all working and throwing in ideas and you finally have enough of a profile by the time you land to give a press release.
You’re stuck on the victimology. You’re 28; you share the same build as these women. This fact doesn’t move past you easily; you shudder to think that you live in a world where anyone can be targeted based only on basic, uncontrollable traits like age and physical attributes; you know this to be true, but the fact still strikes you sometimes, especially when you share similarities with the victims.
If the established pattern persists, the second victim has less than two days–your team has 36 hours to find the victim, or you’ll have another body on your hand. You feel like you’ll have a head start, with such a strong profile in a small, close-knit community – but you also know that even a good profile sometimes isn’t enough to save lives.
You look at the picture of the first victim again, Ella, you tell yourself, bruised and battered, contemplating her last hours. Spencer sees you staring, knows you’re drowning in the similarities, and snaps you out of it by squeezing your knee gently under the table. He shoots you a sad smile, and you try to shake the sinking feeling of dread in your stomach.
WIP - fourth chapter. 4.1k
Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader, 2nd person, no use of Y/N
Summary: You're a good team, and Spencer is everything.
Content: unrealized love, slow burn, angst, drama, fluff
TW: mentions of death/dead bodies, blood, kidnapping etc normal to a criminal minds plot
A/N: Ch 4 is here. There have been officially 14,000 words before anyone makes a move in this WIP and that is so crazy. Thanks so much if you've read this far, would love to hear from you--comment if you want to be added to a taglist!
Taglist: @paleeclipseherringroad @beenreidingaboutyou @cottoncandybtchfck
Special thanks to @beenreidingaboutyou for some criminal justice eyes and emotional support
chapter 1 - chapter 2 - chapter 3 - masterlist
4
Hour 6 of 36 / 1:13pm
When you get to the local police department, they already have a board up with all of the information ready for your team. Your group is hitting the ground running, JJ setting up a press conference with the local news outlet.
In this case, the profile was easy–but as you'd come to learn, just because you have an easy profile does not mean you’ll have an easy catch. This type of criminal generally tended to abandon routines and could even already be living off the grid; he would have abandoned any “normal life” he held with friends and a family, and your team’s job of finding the killer would go far beyond just building a profile.
This was a hunt, and the unsub would not be easy prey to find. All you could do is hope to catch before time runs out.
As you stare at the board in front of you, you take a moment to look at the first victim again; though you didn’t quite have enough solid information yet about the three victims to narrow down victimology, the first victim is always important. For any serial killer, the first victim was generally the most planned-out, the most carefully selected—though killers tended to refine their victimology and methods as their crime progressed, the first victim could often be an indicator of why they started killing in the first place.
“Do we have a more comprehensive file compiled for first victim yet?” you ask the local investigator; you and Spencer are assigned to stay at the station and crunch information—with no fresh crime scenes to process, the two of you have analysis and pattern recognition skills that are often utilized in building a victim profile in a case like this.
“Yes,” the local investigator—Burns—quickly hands you a folder. “We’re still gathering information on victims two and three, but I’ve been told your technical analyst may beat us.” Luckily the local PD on this case was very eager to accept your team’s help; they were clearly trying to assist in whatever ways they could, egos shoved to the side, while simultaneously trying to stay out of the way, which is truly the most of service local authorities could be in a case like this where the clock is ticking.
You quickly flip through the first victim's file, Spencer sliding up behind you to read over your shoulder. You shift the file a bit to try to make it a little easier for him to see.
“She worked at a supermarket, as a manager. Single, lived alone, no children, family isn’t local.” You look up over your shoulder at Spencer. “Relationship status and family is completely different from the third victim.”
“Do you know where the second victim works?” Spencer asks Burns.
“Yeah, she was a server at a local pizza spot,” he provides. He shuffles through a stack of folders to hand you another folder.
“Is,” you say, “She is a server at a local pizza spot. Not was, not yet,” you correct politely.
“Her name is Teresa Sharp,” the man says, somewhat abashedly, but again, putting his ego to the side to allow your correction. “She has a girlfriend, they live together.”
You raise your eyebrows. “I don’t know that we’re looking at an ideal victim here,” you say to Spencer. “All of these women work in the service industry and engage with the public in large form. It’s more likely that these victims all interacted with the killer in some way. It doesn't appear like they were necessarily targeted by their physical appearance or lifestyle.”
Spencer nods, his brow creased. “It’s possible their comparable financial statuses and class are merely a coincidence of chance. I still don’t think we should dismiss their similarities in age, but I do think we should get Garcia on building a list of patrons at each of the businesses we could cross-reference.”
“Hotch and Morgan went over to the coffee shop; we should call and have them ask the employees to build a list of adverse clients as well as regulars.” You’re already pulling out your phone.
“I’ll call Garcia and ask her to start compiling employee histories for all three businesses.”
“Don’t forget vendors and utilities,” you add, and he nods, both of you turning away from each other, dialing on your phones.
Hour 10 of 36 / 5:06pm
Several hours later, your team is back together; the press conference was successful, the tip line was busy, and you all now have piles of information to analyze and cross-reference.
You’re currently making your way through a list of upset customers at the grocery store—the list is long, but you can eliminate the women; your current hope is to narrow down the list and allow Garcia to dig more invasively into a more condensed list.
“A lot of Karens here, no surprise,” you mutter, and Spencer nods. He’s currently making his way through the pizza shop’s employee list for the last year; it’s not long, and it also isn’t helpful.
“I’ve got an interesting note here,” Emily says from across the table. “One of the girls that works at the coffee shop noted a disgruntled customer she described as ‘a man with a cane who dresses like he’s homeless’. Apparently our manager told him he had to leave after he made an inappropriate comment to the teenaged girl on the register, and he wasn’t happy.”
“Can we get both girls in? We’ll need the minor’s parental consent, but I’d like to talk to her as well, see if she can describe the man more clearly,” Hotch walks to Emily and she hands him the folder to read.
“I’ll give her parents a call, and reach out to the other employee as well,” Emily agrees.
You all hope this is progress, because the clock continues to click.
Hour 13 of 36 / 8:37pm
“Food’s here,” Burns pops his head in, and continues to carry several bags full of fast food into the conference room. None of you had left, still cross-referencing lists and trying to add any useful bits of information to the board.
You’d all mostly come up cold; the victims had almost nothing in common besides their ages, and there seemed to be no crossover between the employees or customers at any of the three businesses. The disgruntled coffee shop customer had turned out to be a bust; even Garcia was frustrated, not used to such a lack of progress despite all of the information you all have in front of you.
None of you had taken a break all day, so most everyone grabs a burger, immediately returning to their files with food in hand. You’re not hungry, and you’re in the middle of cross referencing a list of employees, and your eyes are starting to read the same names again, and again, no longer absorbing any info.
Spencer slides a pouch of fries in front of you.
“You should really eat something,” he says, “and maybe step away for a minute. Give your eyes a break,” he’s speaking quietly, and though you want to argue with him—this case cannot wait—you feel the salve of his gentle nature, and you listen to him. “I guess I could use another coffee,” you admit, grabbing a fry and popping it into your mouth.
Spencer smiles softly and grabs both of your mugs, leading the way out of the conference room you’d all been camped out in all day. You follow him whilst munching on fries to the break room, where a pot of coffee sits waiting.
You lean against the counter beside him, gazing off into space as you finish off the fries—they’re tasteless, or maybe you’re just dissociating at this point in the day. You’d been staring at pages and pages of names and addresses, and you weren’t sure what time it was—only that your team had maybe 23 hours left before there would be another body.
Beside you, Spencer pours coffee into both of your mugs. As he opens the fridge, he pulls out a brand new bottle of half-and-half and cracks it open, peeling the foil lid off—and you’re sure there hadn’t been any half-and-half anywhere in the entire office earlier in the day, becuase you'd searched for it.
You give him a questioning look, and he clears his throat. “I asked the department if someone could grab some for you,” he admitted, avoiding eye contact. Suddenly your tense muscles relaxed a bit as warmth spread into your middle; Spencer was taking care of you, looking after you, making sure you were comfortable—and it made you feel things.
You smile at him, grabbing the mug from his hand as he offers it back to you. The coffee inside was the perfect shade of caramel; he had, once again, made your coffee exactly how you like it.
As you take a sip, you feel more grounded, and less in your head; he was right, you needed to step away from the case for a bit, try to gather a fresh perspective to be more useful. You take a minute to think about anything but the case. Spencer is beside you doing the same, both of you gently bumping elbows as you wordlessly sip on your coffee.
You scoot a little closer to him, lightly tapping his shoe with yours. He taps yours back, and you’re both looking at your feet. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “This case is tough. We need to crack his victimology, but we’re running out of places to look,” he frowns.
“So let’s look for more places?” You ask slowly, brain slowly starting to churn again.
“Where else would these victims all interact with the same suspect?” He asks, challenging your thoughts. Sometimes you worked off each other like this, spitballing ideas to see what sticks.
“Could be anything. Doctors office, shops; the girls all live in separate neighborhoods, so I doubt they regularly visit very many of the same spots. If it were that easy, Garcia would’ve caught it by now,” you’re brainstorming, but nothing your team hadn’t already verbalized has come to mind.
“I know we’ve already checked with vendors and distributors that work with the businesses, but what if it’s something else entirely? Someone who works in close proximity without actually having a record of work provided?” He asks.
“Like utility or maintenance workers with the city?” You ask, head snapping up. “Utility workers in particular would definitely have a vehicle that would go unnoticed in most parts of the metro area.”
Spencer stands up straight and moves in front of you, eyes locking with yours. “Utility workers would also have an intimate knowledge with the city. All three of these abductions have happened early in the morning, earlier than most utility workers would start actually servicing anywhere; there wouldn't have necessarily been a record if they'd been present in the area prior to a shift.”
“Unless utility vehicles in the area are GPS monitored, they wouldn’t have dispatch logs of any of their employees until after they were on shift,” you agreed, stepping closer.
“All of these businesses likely use the same electric and water services. Garcia ran utility workers that had been dispatched, but if the businesses didn’t have any work scheduled, nothing may have flagged—that doesn’t mean utility workers wouldn’t have interacted with any of our victims at some point.”
“Utility workers would likely also have access to each of the victims' home addresses and information,” you added, and you both knew it was time to go back to the team.
You both walked quickly back into the conference room.
“She’s found something,” Spencer says, interrupting the hum of conversation.
“Utility workers may not have just serviced the businesses; any city work close by could have put the unsub in a position to interact with the victims without a log anywhere,” you say.
"A large utility truck could also be an ideal method of transportation for the unsub to remove the victims quickly from the area of abduction," Emily adds, nodding.
Hotch nods and reaches to the phone in the center of the table, immediately dialing Garcia.
“Speak to me,” Garcia answers, voice less spritely than normal.
“Garcia, can you get a list of all utility workers that have worked anywhere within a few blocks of each business within the last year? Focus on water, electric, anything that we may have dismissed due to lack of recent service at the businesses themselves.”
“Absolutely,” she said, perking up. “One second…. Okay, so on my previous search, there were two people with the water department and five with electrical that have serviced all three locations in the last year,” she said breathlessly. “I’ve already run all of those and none of them fit the profile. It looks like the electric company sends out a meter reader once a month, and water has sent out a few for some routine maintenance and improvements. Looking deeper now... okay. Looks like the city passed a new grant for replacement of fire hydrants all over the city, so that adds another four to the list of water employees that have worked within close proximity of all three businesses in the last year.”
“Garcia, can you cross-reference those names with dispatches at or around any of the victim’s homes?” you add, and Spencer nods behind you.
“Yes! Three of those four employees with the water company have also been dispatched to maintain or repair fire hydrants within a few blocks of all three victims' homes. I'll send everything I have to your tablets ASAP. Garcia out.”
“Good work,” Hotch says, nodding at you. “Reach out to the water department to see if they have GPS on their vehicles. If they do, connect them with Garcia to see if we can place someone at the abduction sights. Morgan and I will gather security camera footage in a wider footprint of the area of the kidnappings to try to identify any utility trucks leading up to the incident. The rest of you work on updating the profile,” You all nod and split off.
Hour 18 of 36 / 1:23 am
“I found him,” Garcia says over the phone in a rush. “I was able to use my facial recognition software on all of the security footage for the last month at two of the businesses and it’s him. GPS information from his water truck also places him at all three abduction sites. Larry Peterson, 32, has worked with Metro Water for eleven years, was sexually abused by his stepfather as a child. His mother was 28 years old when she went to prison for child endangerment and abuse. GPS information on his work truck places him within two blocks of all three crime scenes. He was in a car accident two years ago that left him with a limp, and get this, his mother was released from prison seven days ago.”
“That’s the trigger. He must be angry that his mother was released from prison; he's targeting women around his mother's age, he likely thinks she doesn't deserve to be free. He resents her and believes someone should be punished,” Spencer says. “Garcia, do you have a location on his truck right now?”
“Already sent the coordinates to your tablet. It currently appears to be parked at an abandoned steel mill just outside of town.”
“Let’s head out,” Hotch says, grabbing his coat. “Thanks, Garcia.”
“Be safe, my friends. Go get him,” she adds before the line goes dead.
You all quickly suit up in your tactical gear and make your way out to your vehicles. You and Spencer split off to your own car, and you slide into the driver’s seat while he plugs the coordinates into the car’s GPS system.
“This feels too easy,” you say, feeling safe to voice your concern when it’s just the two of you in the car. “There’s no way he doesn’t know we can trace the GPS on his truck.”
“I know,” Spencer replies, frowning. “It’s as if he doesn’t mind if he’s caught.”
You continue in silence, mind churning.
As you all fly up to the steel mill, your headlights light up the utility truck that is parked beside a large sliding door. You all fly out of the vehicles, weapons drawn, and Morgan leads point as you slide the large door open.
“Freeze!” Morgan yells, flashlight trapping the unsub, who is standing behind a wooden chair; the second victim, Teresa, is tied to the chair, gagged with a cloth that is tied around her head, almost unconscious. There is dried blood dripping from her head, and bruises, both newer and older, decorate her cheekbones. She’s taken a beating and seems to be drugged; the unsub’s holding a knife to her neck, but she is struggling to keep her head from lulling forward into the blade.
You quickly scan the room, the beam of your flashlight illuminating the third victim, whose hands are tied and is tethered to support beam. She seems okay, physically well enough to be standing, though she’s also gagged with a cloth, and silently crying.
“Put down the knife, Larry,” Hitch says firmly from in front of you. “These girls didn’t do anything wrong, it’s time to let them go.”
“And then what? You take me to jail? No, someone needs to pay,” Larry says, brandishing the knife toward your team.
In a split second, Emily uses the opportunity to fire her gun, shooting the subject in the shoulder. All at once he yells, knife clattering to the ground as he clutches at his bad arm, and Morgan quickly rushes forward to subdue him.
And just like that, you'll never have answers as to why he chose these victims; what triggered him. Why he didn’t hide better, why he allowed the GPS on his truck to lead you straight to him. It's over.
The local PD had pulled up outside by now, and Hotch quickly beckons them in. “We need medical,” he yells out the door.
Emily is working on untying the girl from the chair, while you and Spencer move to the girl tied to the wooden beam.
“You’re okay,” you say soothingly, carefully untying the gag as Spencer works on freeing her hands. The girl instantly starts sobbing as her mouth is untied, and once her hands are free, she collapses into you; you hold her as best you can, one hand stroking her hair as you comfort her.
The night wraps up quickly after that; the third victim is a little bruised, and the second victim, Teresa, is en route to the hospital; apart from head trauma, she seems to be okay, and you are all assured she’ll likely make a full recovery.
Once both victims and the unsub are removed from the scene, your team all gathers in front of the barn.
“Excellent work, everyone,” Hotch says, scanning to make eye contact with everyone on the team. His eyes land on you last. “Good call on the utility service. That wasn’t an obvious lead; now both girls get to go home to their families. We are lucky.” He checks his watch. “It’s almost 3am; let’s head back to the station, we’ll let local PD wrap up the scene. They'll take it over the finish line from here. We can work on getting them our statements tomorrow; right now, we all need rest.”
Your team separates, everyone climbing into your respective cars. As you buckle in, Spencer looks over at you.
“You’re really good at your job,” he says, swallowing thickly. You tilt your head at his tone, but you’re so tired, you no longer have the ability to read too much into it.
“Thanks,” you say, “so are you. I couldn’t have figured it out without your help.”
“I think we make a good team, you and I,” Spencer says with a small smile.
“Yeah,” you say, smiling back. “Me too.”
Twenty hours in. Missing persons cases didn’t always end this way. You all got lucky. Suddenly, you’re grateful for your stolen Saturday.
It’s almost five in the morning by the time the team all gets on the plane to fly back to Washington. As you walk into the small cabin, you basically collapse on the other end of the sofa that Spencer has already curled up on; you carefully stretch out, mindful not to kick him as you sneak your legs along the back of the couch. His eyes are already closed, but he feels your movements and shuffles to the edge to make more room for you.
Everyone chooses their perspective positions and as the plane takes off, every single one of you crashes.
You don’t wake up until the plane has landed; JJ is shaking your shoulder, and you quickly sit up; Spencer’s rubbing his eyes beside you.
“Go home,” says JJ. “Get some rest. You did a good job on this case,” she adds, and you aren’t quite sure why everyone is assuring you, but it definitely leaves you feeling like you really, really love your team.
“Thanks, JJ,” you say with a sleepy smile. You stand up to walk off and realize almost forgot your go bag, but when you turn around to grab it you see that Spencer, behind you, already has it slung over his shoulder. He quietly rejects your silent offer to take it from him, and you are too tired to argue with him, so you let him carry it for you.
You hadn't quite mastered running on such little sleep yet; you’re essentially staggering as you make your way back into the building. Spencer is beside you the whole way from the plane, and maybe you lean on him in the elevator, and maybe you think he tilts his head over to smell your hair. You let out a loud exhale as the elevator doors ding open, and you squint at the morning light as you step outside—it’s now 7am, the sun is just coming up—and make your way to your car.
“Are you sure you’re good to drive?” Spencer asks hesitantly; you see his old Volvo is parked right next to yours, and you sigh as you lean on your own car, raising your hand to shield your eyes from the sun as you look up at him.
“No, not really,” you admit, and he nods.
“Give me your keys,” he says, and as you thrust the keys towards him, he takes them and opens your trunk, setting both his and your go-bags inside.
He then opens the passenger door for you, waiting for you to slide in and closing the door for you before walking over to the driver’s side. Your cheeks warm as it sinks in that he is again taking care of you, even at the end of such a long day, and he is so gentle and tender it almost makes your chest hurt.
As he starts up your car he glances over at you, taking note of the pink tinge to your cheeks, looking down quickly and suppressing a smile before you can pick up on it.
You look out the window as he drives the five minutes to your house, and you're still exhausted, but simultaneously exhilarated as your skin buzzes with an electricity that has filled the space between you.
He pulls up to your house, but when he turns off the car, you both sit in the silence a little longer. There’s an indescribable pull between you, some sort of wild, unspoken thing that feels so fragile; you’re afraid that even opening the car door will break you both, shatter you into a million pieces.
But the pull quickly turns into something quieter, something warmer, something burning in the pit of your stomach, like the coals after a fire dies down. Your cheeks burn hot again as you look at anything but him, and your hand twitches as you suppress the urge to reach over the console and touch him.
He sighs beside you, and you finally break, directing your eyes to him. He’s already looking at you, brown eyes wide and a little weary, and your chin nearly trembles; the heavy silence is charged with emotion, and that combined with your utter exhaustion makes you feel like you are about to cry.
“We should go inside,” you say so quiet it’s almost a whisper. As you break the silence he blinks, nodding and looking away.
“Yeah,” he says just as quietly, and the two of you slowly unbuckle your seatbelts and climb out of the car. He pops your trunk and hands you your keys, grabbing your bags again as you make your way to the porch to unlock the door. The door swings open, and you’re again met with quiet. The two of you stumble through into the house, kicking off your shoes and turning to each other in the darkness.
Spencer drops both of your bags on the floor with a thump, and he turns to you, face shrouded in delicate shadows as the light filters in through the curtains that cover your windows.
You feel anchored to the ground, unable to move, incapable of looking away from Spencer across from you. The two feet between you feels too close and too far all at once.
This is it, you think, this is where you cross a threshold from which you will not return unscathed. Your heart feels fragile, and your brain can’t keep up, filled with him.
In this moment, you can only feel aching, can only see him. You're about to break--or he is about to break you.
You cautiously take a step forward. He meets you in the middle; he is so close now that you have to look up to study his face.
His eyes search yours for a beat, looking for reciprocation; he finds it, recognizes it.
Slowly, carefully, as if he knows how delicate you are in this moment, he reaches his hands up to cradle your face; his large palms cover your cheeks, long fingers dancing in your hairline. He holds your face, and you hold your breath; his eyes continue to search yours, burning fiery as he finds exactly what he is looking for.
When he kisses you, it is as if the air is pulled from your lungs. Nothing exists anymore, just Spencer; your hands are in his hair now, too, and you’re grasping onto each other for dear life, pushing and pulling like your lives depend on the way your lips connect and reconnect, like you need it, the same way you need the air to breathe.
And then it slows.
You feel your heart pounding, much faster than the rhythm you have found with Spencer, his lips holding yours in place as you both catch your breath. You slowly open your eyes as your lips separate, looking up to see him already looking at you, pupils dilated, eyelashes fluttering so close to yours you feel them brush lightly against your face. He kisses you one last time before slowly taking one step back; his hands move to your shoulders, though, not ready to break contact with you.
“Stay,” you say, decidedly not phrasing it as a question.
He nods, and you pull him to the bedroom, both bags slung over his shoulder again.
The day has dawned, and fatigue settles into your bones.
You quietly take turns changing into your pajamas in the small en suite; the silence feels lighter now, comfortable, warm.
You both crawl into your bed, holding onto each other tightly as you drift off to sleep together.
When Louis first saw Harry at the 2010 X Factor Auditions, he thought he was watching a peculiarly special stranger. But Harry has known Louis ever since he was five years old.
Because Louis has a rare genetic disorder that causes him to Time Travel to important moments in his past and in his future - and to Harry, always to Harry. When they're put into a band together, it seems like everything Harry has been waiting and wishing for has finally come true. Except for the small fact that Louis doesn't know that Harry is in love with him- that Harry's always been in love with him. Fate, it would seem, is just getting started.
A story about growing up and growing together, and the impossible love that makes it all worthwhile.
notes: ohmygod ohmoyf so i just caught up on this today and its sosososo good. no good is an understatement. it's one of the greatest piece of literature to exist. this is impossibly well written and the plot. the plot is just absolutely wonderful. im convinced that this is the closest i'll ever get to a doctorwho au so this is something i'm going to hold very very close to my heart. everything about this is just. i have no words to explain it. i am in love with it and i mean there's pining, so so much pining. lots of smut too which i don't mind at all. and its like louisandharry are together but at the same time they're not. oh yeah it's a time traveler au if i haven't mentioned that. i think im drabbling now just go read it. you need to read it.
