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𝄂𝄢⋆˙Undercover Harmony⋆˙𝄞𝄃

pairing: spencer reid x ex-bella!reader category: crossover, action, humor, bau x the bella, background slow burn word count: 6.2k dividers: uzmacchiato a/n: hey everyone! aca-scuse me? me posting two different fics on the same day? craazy! anyways, i just made this because i had a tough week and binge watch my comfort trilogy pitch perfect, and when i was watching the third movie, i had this idea to write a crossover between Criminal Minds and Pitch Perfect. im alredy aware this wont be as good as my other works cause i got a bit lazy with it but honestly? this is more for me than anything, just to birth out this idea from my mind and move on with the next stuff. now, lets stop rambling and let you guys enjoy reading .⋆♱

˚.𖦹°Masterlist✶⋆.˚

The bullpen felt unusually quiet for a morning briefing. The walls hummed with the projector as JJ clicked through the slides, her voice steady and clinical.

“Fergus Hobart. Fifty-six. Australian national. Former small-time hustler, currently suspected of large-scale smuggling operations across Europe and the Pacific. Gambling rings, money laundering, illegal arms trade—you name it. We’ve been circling him for years, but nothing sticks.”

Hotch stood at the head of the table, arms folded, watching each face around him absorb the intel. Morgan leaned back in his chair, unimpressed. “Guy sounds like a wannabe Bond villain.”

JJ tapped the next slide: a grainy photo of Fergus exiting a luxury car, flanked by men in dark suits. “Except this Bond villain has millions stashed away in off-shore accounts. Until now, we haven’t been able to prove direct involvement. But last week, one of his associates attempted to breach an account located in the Cayman Islands.”

Reid frowned, pushing his hair back as he shifted in his seat. “An account belonging to who?”

JJ glanced down at her notes. “Patricia Hobart. Listed here as… Fergus’s daughter.”

The words seemed to echo louder than the hum of the projector. You froze before you could help it, a small hitch in your breathing. Reid’s eyes flicked toward you instantly, sharp in their concern. He tilted his head just slightly. “You okay?” he murmured under his breath, just for you.

You swallowed, forcing a nod, but the air felt too thick, too heavy. Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood abruptly. “Hotch… can I talk to you outside?”

The rest of the team turned, confusion painted across their faces. Morgan raised his brows. Garcia—watching through the conference room monitor—pressed her nose against the camera. Even JJ hesitated mid-slide, glancing at Hotch.

Hotch gave a curt nod. “Five minutes.”

You followed him out, the door clicking shut behind you. Through the glass, the rest of the team exchanged bewildered looks.

“Okay, what was that?” Morgan muttered, leaning forward like he might hear through the glass.

JJ shook her head. “She recognized the name.”

Reid’s eyes stayed trained on you and Hotch, lips pressed together, as if trying to puzzle out the answer on his own.

Inside, you and Hotch spoke in hushed, clipped tones. You gestured once toward the files, then toward yourself, frustration flickering across your face. Hotch listened, expression unreadable, before giving a single, firm nod.

When the two of you returned, the silence in the room was deafening. Hotch adjusted his tie and stepped forward, his tone even. “There’s been a development. Agent, explain.”

Your heart thudded as you set the file down on the table and looked at your teammates—your family. “In college,” you began carefully, “I joined an acapella group. A national champion acapella group. Called the Barden Bellas.”

For a beat, no one reacted. Then—

Morgan’s brow shot up. “I’m sorry—what?”

Garcia gasped so loud it squealed through the speaker. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE.”

JJ blinked, then slowly shook her head. “That’s why you’re terrifying at karaoke night.”

Reid sat frozen, blinking once, then twice, before clearing his throat. “You… you sing?” His voice was almost shy, like he wasn’t sure if it was safe to sound impressed.

You shifted awkwardly, muttering, “Used to.”

The room erupted in overlapping voices—Garcia demanding to know if you still had the outfits, Morgan insisting this was impossible, Reid quietly processing like he’d just been handed a paradox.

Amidst the chaos, someone turned to Hotch. “This wasn’t in her file?”

Hotch gave the faintest sigh, tone clipped but firm. “It was in her file. I don’t share personal information without consent.”

That shut them up—for all of three seconds.

Finally, Hotch cut through the noise. “The plan is simple. Fergus is circling the Bellas. If we infiltrate the USO tour with her embedded alongside them, we’ll be close when Fergus makes his move. The rest of the team will provide support and cover.”

You exhaled slowly, the weight of it settling in. For the first time in years, you were stepping back into a world you’d thought you left behind—and this time, it was life or death.

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The rehearsal hall echoed with faint piano chords and the sound of overlapping voices warming up. It had been years since you’d heard that sound—not in passing, not in memory, but here, in real time. The Bellas, together again.

You hesitated just inside the doorway, still in your FBI formal—navy blazer, badge clipped inside your belt, the posture of an agent rather than a performer. For the first time in years, your throat felt dry.

Then—

“NO. WAY.”

Before you could even brace yourself, a blur of blonde hair and sequins launched across the room. Amy hit you like a linebacker, arms crushing your ribs in a bear hug. “MY BABY IS BACK FROM THE DEAD!”

You staggered, catching her weight, half-laughing despite the shock. “Amy—air—air—”

She pulled back, eyes shining. “I thought you got eaten by the government! Which, plot twist, you kind of did. You look like a cop. Do you have a cop car? Please tell me you have a cop car. And a gun. Show me your gun.”

Around you, the Bellas were a chorus of gasps and squeals. Chloe’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh my god, I can’t believe it’s actually you!”

Flo fanned herself dramatically. “I thought she was a myth. Like Bigfoot. Or health insurance.”

Emily beamed, starry-eyed. “You’re the one from the championship story! Beca talks about you all the time!”

That name hit like a pebble in a pond. Your eyes found her—Beca, leaning against the piano, arms crossed. Unlike the others, she didn’t rush forward. Her expression was unreadable, guarded.

“Hey,” she said simply.

You swallowed, nodding. “Hey, Becs.”

The warmth of the room suddenly cooled. You felt Amy still clinging to your side, Chloe stepping forward for a hug, but your eyes stayed locked with Beca’s, a silent acknowledgment of the years between you.

You finally peeled Amy off gently and raised your voice enough to gather their attention. “Look, I know this is… a lot. And I wish this was just a reunion. But there’s a reason you were called here.”

The chatter faded. Chloe’s smile faltered into something more tentative, and even Emily stilled. Amy, still clinging to your sleeve, blinked at you with wide eyes.

You drew in a steadying breath, falling back on the clipped cadence of your training. “There’s a threat connected to this tour. Fergus Hobart is planning to make a move. And as much as I wish this wasn’t the case—he’s the reason I’m here.”

The name landed like a cymbal crash. Chloe gasped softly. Aubrey’s brows knitted in instant concern.

Amy froze. For once, no witty comeback, no sarcastic jab. Just a stunned blink. “…My dad?”

You hesitated, nodding once. “Yeah. Him.”

The silence that followed was heavier than anything you’d felt since walking in.

Amy’s arms slipped from around you, falling slack at her sides. Her eyes darted between your face and the floor, like she couldn’t decide where to anchor. “But—I thought he was… I thought he was done. Out of my life. Out of everything.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “I know. But he resurfaced. And this time, he’s not just after money or some backroom deal. He’s circling this tour. Which means he’s circling you.”

Amy let out a half-laugh, but it was brittle, broken around the edges. “So, what—you came back from the dead just to tell me my dad’s the villain again? Classic Bellas reunion, huh?”

Nobody laughed. Chloe reached out and took Amy’s hand, grounding her.

You straightened, forcing yourself back into the role you were here to play. “Listen. He’s dangerous, but you don’t need to carry that weight. I’ll handle him. All you need to do is focus on the music. Do what you do best.”

Amy sniffed hard, swiping at her eye with the back of her hand. Then, with a shaky grin, she rallied. “Well… good thing what I do best is crush the competition and make a mean pancake. Fergus can choke on both.”

The Bellas laughed this time—relieved, if still unsettled. But Beca, leaning against the piano, hadn’t moved. Her eyes were still on you, sharp, unreadable.

“You could’ve told us,” she said softly. “You didn’t have to just… disappear.”

The weight of that cut deeper than Amy’s shock. But you bit it down, meeting her gaze. “I know. And we’ll talk about it. Later. For now—we’ve got a job to do.”

Chloe looked around at the group, her tone firm. “Bellas, let’s get to work.”

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The BAU had secured a private jet for the Bellas’ overseas tour, partly for protection, partly because there was no way to discreetly manage an entire a cappella group in coach without attracting attention. The Bellas, of course, were treating it like their own flying slumber party.

You sat a few rows back, watching Amy animatedly lean across the aisle toward Derek Morgan.

“So, Derek,” she purred, adjusting her sunglasses though they were indoors, “do you work out, or were you just born carved from the marble of some Greek temple?”

Morgan gave her a slow, practiced smile — the kind that was equal parts charm and warning. “Both.”

The Bellas burst into laughter, Chloe actually clapping. Amy, undeterred, slid closer into his personal space. “You know, I’ve always said I wanted a man who could protect me and carry all my groceries in one trip. You seem like you could manage two carts.”

“Three, easy,” Morgan shot back, playing along.

“Sir,” Hotch’s voice cut from the front of the plane, where he hadn’t even looked up from his files. “Boundaries.”

That earned another wave of giggles from the Bellas.

You tried to keep your head down, focusing on your notes — cover story details, possible emergency protocols, anything that would keep you from getting dragged into the circus. But you should have known better.

“Okay,” Beca leaned over the armrest, lowering her voice in that conspiratorial way she always did before stirring trouble. “I’ve been observing something.”

The others perked up immediately.

“Don’t.” You didn’t even look up, sensing the trap.

“Oh, this is about Spencer,” Chloe grinned, unable to contain herself.

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Fat Amy abandoned Morgan for a moment, swiveling around in her seat like a kid who’d just heard gossip. “Wait wait wait. Genius Boy Wonder Spencer Reid? Our Spencer Reid? The one with the hair that looks like it’s permanently tousled by the wind of tragedy?”

Aubrey gasped dramatically, as if this were the biggest reveal since the finale of a soap opera. “I knew it. You get this look every time he talks. Like you’re two seconds away from writing his last name in your diary with little hearts.”

Heat rose to your cheeks instantly. “I don’t—”

“Oh, they’re blushing,” Chloe practically sang, leaning forward. “This is better than a new choreography.”

“Yeah, look at that face,” Amy crowed, abandoning all interest in Morgan now that there was fresh prey. “That’s not just a coworker face. That’s a please let me sort your bookshelves alphabetically and then make out on them face.”

Morgan laughed outright at that, shaking his head. “Kid’s not gonna know what hit him.”

You groaned, sinking lower in your seat, but the damage was done. The Bellas smelled blood in the water, and they weren’t letting go.

Beca smirked. “Don’t worry, Agent. We’ll keep it subtle.”

From the back, Aubrey whispered loudly, “By subtle she means we’re definitely bringing this up mid-op if we get the chance.”

You muttered something under your breath about regretting every career choice that led to this exact moment, earning nothing but another round of cackles.

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The hotel suite looked less like a resting spot and more like a tactical base. Case files and surveillance photos covered the table, Garcia’s voice chirping over speakerphone while Hotch paced at the head of the room. The BAU was locked in, their presence radiating seriousness.

The Bellas… not so much.

“Tomorrow’s the window,” Hotch was saying, laser-focused. “Fergus will move assets during the performance. We’ll need to split eyes between the stage and the crowd.”

Before you could take more notes, Aubrey suddenly snapped her fingers at you. “You.”

You blinked. “…me?”

“Yes, you. If you’re hovering around backstage, you need to blend. Which means joining our warm-ups.”

You scoffed. “No way. Not in front of—” you gestured to Hotch, who raised an unimpressed brow—“literally my boss.”

Aubrey folded her arms. “This is not optional.”

“I can handle myself,” you pushed back. “I’m trained for field work, not… synchronized humming.”

“Excuse me?” she gasped, affronted. “Do you think standing around looking intense will cover you? Please. If you can’t match pitch, you’ll stick out like a sore thumb.”

“I’m not about to stand here and—”

That’s when she dropped it, loud and firm, as if she were addressing a cadet:

“I don’t care if you can handle a Glock, you can’t handle an F5 without cracking if you don’t breathe properly!”

The room went dead silent.

Hotch stared at you. Morgan coughed to cover a laugh. Even JJ was biting back a grin.

You stared back at Aubrey, stunned. “…Did you just compare my firearm handling to… Mariah Carey?”

“Yes,” Aubrey said flatly, taking leadership without shame. “Now inhale from your diaphragm.”

The Bellas erupted into giggles, and before you knew it, they’d circled around you, pulling you into their ridiculous vocal exercises.

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already regretting agreeing to this assignment.

It would’ve stayed funny—until Amy returned. She set something soft onto the table with a thud.

The rabbit. Old, worn, one ear hanging by a thread.

The laughter fizzled. Amy’s usual grin was gone, her voice quiet. “He left it on my bed.”

Morgan’s jaw tightened instantly. “That’s not random. That’s a message.”

Hotch leaned closer, studying the toy like evidence. “Which means Fergus isn’t just near. He’s already here.”

You looked back at Amy—her hands trembling, the Bellas instinctively huddling closer. The tension in the room shifted from comedy to cold dread.

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The air was electric in the venue—bright lights, military precision backstage, and the lingering nerves of the Bellas about to perform together for the first time in years. You stood near the edge of the curtain, scanning the crowd while half-listening to Chloe, who was practically buzzing beside you.

“They look so smug,” she muttered, glaring at the rival group onstage. Evermoist was mid-performance, all leather, hair whips, and over-rehearsed dramatics.

“I mean, they are smug,” you replied, eyes narrowing as you catalogued exits, suspicious faces, anything that might spell trouble.

Chloe leaned closer, whispering, “Can’t you just, like… run a background check on them? Y’know, so we know who we’re really up against?”

You snorted, shaking your head. “You know that would be illegal, right? And besides—Garcia already did. They’re clean.”

“Ugh.” Chloe groaned like that answer personally offended her, but she didn’t push further.

By the time Evermoist ended their set, the Bellas were shuffling into position. Aubrey adjusted everyone’s posture like a drill sergeant, then turned to you and snapped her fingers. “Stay out of the way but look natural. Blend in. Try not to look like the FBI.”

“That’s literally my job,” you muttered, but no one heard over the announcer’s booming voice.

The Bellas filed onstage, and then it began.

The first notes of their a cappella rendition of Cheap Thrills rippled through the air. Despite yourself, you felt your chest tighten a little at the sound—they still had it. Harmonies layered over one another like they’d never spent years apart. The crowd responded instantly, clapping and cheering, bodies moving to the rhythm.

Behind you, someone shifted. You glanced back to find Spencer, standing a few paces away, completely entranced. His wide eyes followed the group, but lingered on you, pike he’d forgotten to blink.

Morgan leaned against the wall with a sly grin. “Kid, close your mouth before you catch flies.”

Reid blinked, startled. “What? I—I’m just observing—statistically speaking, the synchronization after years apart is—”

“Uh-huh.” Morgan smirked. “Observing. That’s what we’re calling it now.”

Reid flushed red, tugging at his sleeve. You didn’t hear the exchange, too focused on singing with the others, but Morgan’s amused chuckle carried over the music.

Then—just as the Bellas hit their stride—the unexpected happened.

The sharp blare of a military siren ripped through the air. Everyone froze. The music collapsed into awkward silence, audience members looking around in confusion. A voice rang out over the speakers, solemn and grave: a call to honor fallen soldiers.

The Bellas lowered their mics respectfully. Some audience members stood. The weight in the room shifted instantly from lighthearted to somber.

But at the back of the hall, Hotch’s eyes narrowed. He pulled out his phone, typing quickly. “That wasn’t scheduled,” he mumbled under his breath.

JJ, seated nearby, looked up sharply. “Are you sure?”

“Positive. Memorial calls are on strict rotation.” His gaze swept the crowd, the exits, the tech booth. “This was triggered deliberately.”

Morgan’s expression hardened. “Diversion?”

“Or a warning,” Hotch replied.

The BAU moved with practiced ease, subtle but alert, slipping out of the spotlight to check feeds and cross-reference. You caught Amy’s eye onstage —her shoulders were stiff, her jaw tight. She tried to shrug it off, but you could see it. This wasn’t just about the Bellas anymore. Fergus was moving pieces on the board.

While the audience quieted and the announcer attempted to smooth things over, you couldn’t shake the crawling sensation at the back of your neck. This wasn’t a coincidence. Someone wanted the Bureau looking the wrong way—and if you were right, that someone was buying Fergus time to get closer to Amy.

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The Khaled party pulsed with lights, bass rattling through the walls and chandeliers that looked much too expensive to be swinging that hard. The Bellas were buzzing with nervous excitement, dolled up in sleek dresses that fit somewhere between “pop star” and “undercover decoy.” You, however, stood in the center of the room with arms folded, scanning the crowd the way only an FBI agent could—shoulders tense, eyes sweeping for exits, already identifying faces that didn’t belong.

“Alright,” you said firmly, tugging the Bellas into a loose huddle before they could scatter. Your voice cut through their chatter, calm but laced with steel. “I know we’re all here to look hot and get Khaled’s attention, but remember—there are dangerous people in this room. I won’t let anything happen to you, but stay smart. Split into small groups, keep your eyes open, and if anything feels off, my team is ready to kick ass. Don’t get killed. Let’s go.”

Chloe blinked at you, both impressed and slightly offended. “You just… FBI’d our pep talk.”

Amy, of course, grinned ear to ear. “Honestly? Kinda hot.”

The girls fanned out into the party, laughter and teasing disguising the sharp edge of nerves. Music throbbed, waiters drifted with trays, and somewhere in the mix you spotted DJ Khaled himself holding court with a gaggle of industry moguls. Your earpiece buzzed faintly—Hotch checking in, Morgan murmuring about three suspicious guys near the bar, Garcia whispering updates from the tech van.

You smoothed your dress, forcing yourself to blend, though your instincts never let up. Every move was calculated: where Amy was dancing too close to the wrong group, where Aubrey’s nerves showed in her smile, where Chloe kept glancing your way like she wanted reassurance.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you caught it—the shift. A pair of men approaching Amy, not drunk fans but too casual, too directed. They flanked her smoothly, one dropping a hand on her shoulder, the other motioning toward a rope-lined section marked “VIP.”

You straightened, jaw tightening. This isn’t right.

Amy glanced back once, her smile faltering just slightly before she shrugged and followed. The crowd swallowed them, and within moments she was gone.

Your comm crackled. “Where’d she go?” Morgan’s voice was sharp.

“Taken into the VIP section,” you whispered, already weaving through bodies, heels clicking against marble. “I’ve got eyes—”

Except you didn’t. By the time you pushed through the curtain, the hallway was empty. Just a faint trace of perfume and the muffled echo of a door closing down the way.

“Damn it,” you hissed under your breath.

Hotch’s voice came steady, commanding in your ear. “Stay calm. It could be contact. Or it could be her father.”

The weight of that landed like lead in your stomach. Fergus. If this was his play, Amy was already in danger.

The rest of the night blurred into chaos—frantic whispers in earpieces, Bellas unknowingly distracting guards, Morgan pushing past security, and Garcia hacking her way into the hotel’s cameras with less-than-polite curses. By the time you had regrouped, it was too late to trace Amy’s path. The party roared on aboveground, but you and the team knew something had shifted.

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Hours later, or maybe it was the edge of morning, the Bellas were slumped across hotel couches in smudged eyeliner and wrinkled dresses. You stood in front of them, arms crossed, trying to look every bit the stern agent even though exhaustion tugged at your features.

“The only thing I asked,” you said flatly, “was that you not draw attention. That’s it. One rule.” You held up a hand, ticking fingers off as you listed. “You managed to create a fire, get a bee’s nest opened and destroyed, and break a hotel window. Now Garcia and the rest of my team are working overtime to clean up the mess, and I officially owe them at least five karaoke nights.”

Fat Amy raised her head just enough to smirk. “Well, at least we didn’t get killed. That counts for something, yeah?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, half-sighing, half-laughing despite yourself. “You’re lucky that’s true.”

The Bellas groaned in unison, a blend of shame and stubborn pride, while you couldn’t shake the gnawing thought pressing at the back of your mind: Fergus had made his first move, and Amy was now caught in the middle.

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You and Beca slip into the backseat of the car, the early morning sun glinting across the glass as Theo drives. It’s quiet for a beat, the kind of silence that only happens after a long night. She’s hunched over her phone, scrolling, but you can tell her mind’s somewhere else.

“Hard to believe Khaled actually picked me,” she mutters, almost like she doesn’t want to admit it. “I mean, this is… kind of insane.”

You nudge her shoulder lightly. “Insane in the best way. And hey, at least he noticed what you can do. Took him long enough.”

That earns a half-smile before her expression flickers, thoughtful. “You know… this isn’t the first time something like this happened. Remember the aquarium thing?”

You tilt your head, not following.

Beca sighs. “They told us it was a reunion. All of us thought we’d be singing. But nope—turned out we were just… spectators. Emily’s Bella’s. We just sat there like props.”

You blink, then scoff under your breath. “Wow… that was kind of—”

“Selfish?” she cuts in quickly.

“I was going to say insensitive,” you correct gently, “but yeah. A bit. I get that Emily’s excited about leading the new generation, but come on. She didn’t even let you guys sing one song? That’s brutal.”

The corner of Beca’s mouth lifts, but there’s something sad in her eyes. She stares out the window. “Yeah. Maybe if you were there, you would’ve said something. You always said what was on your mind.”

That one stings, more than you’d like to admit. Silence falls, heavier than before, and you feel it press down on your chest. Beca hesitates before finally asking, soft:

“Why didn’t you? Not come, I mean.”

Your throat tightens, but you force the words out. “Becs… my job is literally my life. And I’m not the same anymore. I’ve seen a lot of stuff that’s… changed me. And it’s hard to admit but… I was scared you girls wouldn’t like the new me.”

She turns toward you then, gaze sharp and searching. “You? Scared?”

You laugh once, bitter, then shake your head. “Yeah. Terrifying, right? But that’s the truth.”

And underneath it, gnawing at you, the guilt bubbles back up. You rub your palms against your jeans. “I already promised Amy I’d keep her safe, and look what happened last night. He—he got to her anyway. Fergus made contact.”

The words hang there, heavy. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until Beca reaches across the seat and squeezes your hand, grounding you.

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Meanwhile, elsewhere in the city…

Amy laughs as she weaves through a busy street market, plastic bag of trinkets in her hand, when a familiar voice calls her name. She freezes.

“Patricia.”

Fergus stands by a stall, the crowd parting like it doesn’t even see him. His smile is wide, sharp, too knowing. “You’ve grown. But you still look just like your mother when she was your age.”

Amy stiffens, caught between anger and nerves. “Cut the crap, Dad. Why are you here?”

He steps closer, his tone low. “Because your mother left something behind. And I intend to get it back. You’ll help me, won’t you?”

Unbeknownst to Amy, a small bug hidden in her jacket collar carries every word back to you and the team.

“Target’s in play,” Reid’s voice murmurs in your earpiece. Morgan adds, “Eyes on him. We’ll move if he touches her.”

Amy scoffs, crossing her arms. “Yeah, sure, Dad. Because I’m totally going to help you after everything.”

She turns to leave—only for Fergus to grab her wrist, grip bruising. His voice drops into a snarl. “I tried to do this the nice way, Patricia. You remember that.”

Before the fear can sink in too deep, two figures break from the crowd—Morgan and Reid, undercover, moving fast. One peels Fergus off her while the other ushers Amy into the safety of the crowd. Fergus doesn’t resist. He just watches, smiling like he already won something.

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Back in the car with Beca, your phone buzzes. You glance down at the incoming report: Amy safe. Fergus made his move.

Beca sees the look on your face. “It’s him, isn’t it?”

You don’t answer right away. You just stare out the window, jaw tight. That guilt you confessed earlier? It just doubled.

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The Bellas were laughing harder than they had in days. A round of cheap drinks had gone around after their set, loosening nerves and smoothing over the sting of being on the road too long. You could hear Chloe’s cackle spilling through the thin walls, Stacie teasing her about something, Emily chiming in. For the first time since this whole tour had begun, it felt like they were just girls again, not pieces on a chessboard in the middle of an FBI operation.

You, Beca, and Amy had stayed behind. Beca was still fiddling with Theo’s ridiculous mixer setup, half-suspicious he’d sabotaged something, half just avoiding socializing. Amy refused to leave her side, claiming she had to protect her “tiny boss lady.” And you—well, JJ had told you flat out to stick close. They’re the biggest targets. Don’t let them out of your sight.

You were about to suggest meeting up with the rest when a knock came on the door of the lounge. A man in a crisp uniform leaned in, smile polite, tone official.

“Chicago said to bring you all to the USO reception.”

The girls lit up. The word reception was like dangling glitter in front of them. Emily squealed, Chloe clapped her hands together, and they were up in a second, linking arms and giggling as they followed him out.

You opened your mouth to call after them—something didn’t feel right—but the door had already swung shut.

It was only minutes later that Amy’s phone buzzed. She frowned at the screen. The number was blocked. She swiped anyway.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end turned your blood cold. Fergus. Smooth, smug, dripping poison.

“Ah, Fat Amy. I do love when you answer so eagerly. I thought you should know—I’ve got your little friends. Sweet girls, really. A shame if something happened to them before the grand finale.”

Amy’s eyes went wide, the color draining from her face. She couldn’t even muster a comeback. Just silence.

Your chest tightened. Every nerve in your body screamed: move, fix this, stop it. But you couldn’t. They were gone. And the guilt hit like a freight train.

“This is on me,” you muttered, pacing as Amy hung up. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve stopped them. I knew something felt wrong, and I let them walk right into his hands.”

Beca spun toward you, alarm flashing in her eyes. “Hey—don’t do that.”

But you couldn’t stop. You pressed your palms to your temples, the words spilling out too fast. “I’m supposed to be trained for this! JJ told me to watch them, and I let them get taken—”

A hand landed gently on your shoulder. You startled, looking up to find Spencer standing close, his gaze steady on yours.

“No,” he snapped quietly, voice cutting through the chaos. “This isn’t your fault. Fergus has been orchestrating this for months. He would’ve found a way no matter what. He took them, you didn’t let him.”

Your throat felt tight, but you shook your head, desperate to argue. Spencer didn’t let you.

“And listen to me—if anyone’s going to help get them back safe, it’s you. Don’t waste your energy on guilt. Use it to fight for them. That’s what they need from you now.”

The words struck something deep, grounding you. His hand lingered, warm against your arm, steady as if to anchor you there until the storm inside you passed.

You drew in a shaky breath. Nodded. And for the first time since Amy picked up that phone, you believed him.

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The yacht loomed ahead, lights gleaming over the black water. It was too pristine, too quiet. You’d seen enough setups in your time with the BAU to know when something smelled wrong.

From the comms, Hotch’s voice cut in: “Positions. We have eyes on every exit. Reader, you and Amy take the lower deck. Beca—you’re the distraction.”

Beca groaned. “Of course I am.”

Amy slapped her on the back. “Own it, tiny boss lady.”

You adjusted your vest beneath the leather jacket, gun holstered but close at your side. “Let’s move.”

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The plan unfolded fast.

Beca and the other Bellas swept onto the main deck, their voices rising in that polished harmony that managed to charm even armed guards. Laughter, clapping, a glittering show in the middle of a trap.

Meanwhile, you and Amy slipped down a narrow stairwell into the bowels of the ship. The air was thick with gasoline and salt, metal corridors humming under your boots.

The first guard turned the corner before you could even speak. Your fist connected with his jaw, and he crumpled without a sound.

Amy’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, wow. That was very Jason Bourne of you.”

Another guard lunged. You spun, hooked his arm, drove your knee into his ribs, and let him collapse at your feet.

By the time the third came barreling in, Amy had finally stepped forward—delivering a brutal roundhouse kick that sent him crashing into a stack of barrels.

You froze. Blinking. “…I’ve taken down drug lords. Serial killers. Guys with machetes. But that was way scarier, to be honest.”

Amy grinned, brushing off her hands. “Australian childhood, mate.”

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The corridor twisted deeper, voices echoing from the cargo hold. Fergus’s men. At least a dozen of voices echoed in the dark.

You clicked your comms. “Garcia, you’d better have a present for me.”

Her voice bubbled through the earpiece, cheerful as always. “Oh, honey, I’ve got sparkle and chaos in equal measure. Package is armed and ready.”

Amy hefted the odd-looking canister she’d been given, a smirk tugging at her mouth. “Never thought I’d be setting off a glitter bomb for real.”

You motioned her back. “Stick to the plan. I’ll clear the way.”

And then you were in motion—slamming into the room, fists and elbows flying. One down, two down, three struggling as you twisted a rifle out of his hands and cracked it across his jaw. Amy backed you up, catching stragglers with surprisingly brutal efficiency.

By the time the last thug hit the floor, Amy had already tossed the glitter bomb into the middle of the room.

A blinding explosion of silver and neon burst across the hold, sparkling dust filling every corner. Fergus’s men screamed, coughing and clawing at their eyes as the entire room transformed into a disco nightmare.

Overhead, the distraction went nuclear.

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Amy, of course, made her entrance the loudest way possible.

Glass shattered above the deck, and she came crashing down from the ceiling, wielding a fire extinguisher like a medieval mace. The spray blasted out in a white cloud, Fergus himself stumbling back in shock as his goons dropped like bowling pins.

You burst through the door at the same time, gun raised but eyes locked on the girls huddled together.

“Move!” you shouted, rushing to them. “We’re getting off this boat now!”

Amy grinned through the chaos. “Did you see that?!”

You grabbed her arm, practically dragging her toward the railing alongside Beca, who was already hauling the Bellas out. “I said use the door, Amy! You’ve just added hours of paperwork!”

Her laugh rang out, even as you shoved her toward the edge. “Worth it!”

And then, together, you leapt.

The icy slap of the water stole your breath, but when you surfaced, flashing lights were already bearing down. FBI boats closed in from every angle, helicopters chopping through the sky. On the deck above, agents swarmed, cuffing Fergus’s glitter-coated soldiers.

A wave of relief surged through you as you paddled closer to the girls. They were alive. Safe.

And the BAU had finally closed the case.

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The stage lights were warm and blinding as you stood off to the side, watching Beca nervously adjust her mic. The roar of the crowd was almost overwhelming—thousands of voices chanting Khaled’s name, waiting for the headliner. But when the spotlight fell on Beca, the arena hushed with anticipation.

You saw the nerves flicker in her expression before she glanced toward you and the other Bellas in the wings. Just like that, her shoulders squared, and she stepped forward, starting the opening chords. Her voice carried strong and clear, wrapping itself around the audience and drawing them in like a tide.

For the first verse, she was alone. But as the chorus came, Beca glanced back again, her eyes silently pleading, and it didn’t take more than a heartbeat before one by one, the Bellas filed onto the stage. Their harmonies joined hers, layering over the music until it swelled into something magical—something that wasn’t about competition, or fear, or even proving themselves anymore. It was about being together.

From your spot with them, singing into your mic, you could feel the electricity surging through the air, the way the audience screamed louder at every harmony, at every playful dance move. Aubrey grinned wider than you’d ever seen her. Chloe and Fat Amy spun dramatically in sync, their laughter ringing even in the middle of the performance.

And you—your chest felt full to bursting, every note you sang carrying not only your own voice but every memory of the journey you’d shared with these girls. For once, the guilt of everything—the mission, the kidnapping, the danger—slipped away. What was left was joy. Fulfillment. A sense of belonging you hadn’t even realized you were starving for.

By the time the last notes faded into wild applause, you were breathless. The Bellas clung to one another, sweaty and laughing, their voices drowned by the roar of the crowd. You caught Spencer’s gaze from the edge of the stage where the BAU stood watch, his hands shoved into his pockets, his lips twitching into that small, soft smile he saved just for you.

When you finally slipped offstage, still buzzing from adrenaline, he was there waiting. Without a word, Spencer tugged you aside from the chaos, his hand lingering on yours.

“You looked incredible up there,” he muttered, his voice almost shy despite the chaos around you. “I think you might’ve just stolen the show.”

You rolled your eyes with a grin. “Hardly. But… it felt good. Like all of this actually meant something.”

Spencer’s thumb brushed against your hand. “It does. You did. And not just on that stage.” His voice softened, so only you could hear. “You kept them safe. You kept me grounded. And for what it’s worth…” His gaze dipped, then rose again, warm and unwavering. “I’ve never been prouder of anyone.”

Your heart clenched in that wonderful, dangerous way, and before you could second-guess yourself, you leaned in and kissed him, just a gentle press of lips that held everything words couldn’t. For a moment, there was no roaring crowd, no mission, no aftermath to face. Just you and Spencer, standing together in the quiet corner of the storm.

From the sidelines, you only hear Garcias cheerful laugh, as she declares “Best op ever. Musical crime fighting. Ten out of ten.”