Can't Sleep - When no one's heard from Y/N in over a week the team begin to get worried so Spencer pays you a visit to find out what's going on.
(TW: Depression, Taking Anti-Depressants)
I'll Be Here - Y/N has suffered from anxiety since she was young but since joining the BAU her anxiety has been kept in check, until one particularly bad case. Luckily, Spencer is there to comfort her.
(TW: Anxiety, anxiety attack, medication)
The Intruder - When theres an intruder in Quanitco, Y/N feels helpless as she follows instructions to hide and wait it out.
(TW: Intruder, break in, blood, guns, trauma, PTSD)
The All Nighter - Drowning in late-night deadlines, YN escapes to a quiet café, only to find unexpected comfort in Spencer, the soft-spoken coworker who’s been quietly noticing her for months.
(TW: burns, sleep deprivation (this is a lot of fluff centering around caring Spencer))
MULTI-PART STORIES
Sick - When Y/N gets sick and ends up in hospital, her boyfriend Spencer is there to take care of her.
(TW: hospitals, vomiting, pain, taking medicine)
Part One, Part Two
I'm Okay Really - You’re okay, really, aside from a lack of concentration, not sleeping, not eating, striving for perfection but always falling short.
You’re okay… really…
(TW: Eating disorders, anorexia, calorie counting, calorie tracking, bulimia and other eating disorders, fainting, hospitals)
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
SERIES
Stargazer Lilies - YN owns a flower shop. Spencer is looking at flowers for his wedding. (TW: Controlling partner, abuse, panic attack, sadness).
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Epilogue
(completed: 23/11/2025)
Sign of the Times - Y/N Y/L/N is considered a danger to everyone. She killed three people at the age of only twelve. After eight years she's released back into society. How will the world react to the girl they see before them?
(TW: Murder, death, self harm, prison, graphic depictions of murder, brief mentions of physical abuse and sexual assault, major character death)
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six,
Part Seven, Part Eight
(completed: 25/11/2025)
The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
(TW: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares)
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven
Loving you will be the death of me - YN and Spencer meet at an addiction support group. Spencer has been clean from drugs for ten years. YN is struggling with her own addictions but poses a mystery to Spencer, as she never actually reveals the extent of her troubles. When the two find solace in each others arms, and beds, Spencer begins to question just how far YN will go to run from herself.
(TW: Smut, addiction, sex, drugs If you're under 18 please don't interact with this. This story isn't for you!)
Part One, Part Two, (currently incomplete with an indetermined number of parts)
REQUESTS
Connect (Autistic YN x Spencer Reid) - After overhearing her colleagues tease her, YN struggles with grief and overwhelm, finding comfort and understanding in Spencer Reid, leading to a slow-burn realization of deeper feelings.
(TW: Autistic YN, mentions of a death during a case, panic attack, crying, comforting Spencer)
Requested by @yourl0vebug
My requests are open! Please leave a comment or DM me if you have a story you'd like me to write!
ALPHABET CHALLANGE:
The challenge: using a random word generator, I will go through the alphabet and write a YN x Spencer Reid one shot inspired by whatever word I got.
I cannot skip a letter or post them out of order. I’m also not allowed to regenerate a word, I have to go with the first one that comes up.
(I have not listed any trigger warnings here as each individual story will have their own).
JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER!
Cherries - At a crowded party, Jamie meets a stranger. In a quiet moment outside, they share truths they don’t usually tell anyone. By morning, she’s gone—leaving behind only a number and the feeling that something unfinished lingers.
(TW: Smoking, stress, discussions of alcoholism... no major warnings but yeah...)
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
STRANGER THINGS!
This House Is Not A Home - After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became. However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
(TW: Prison, blood, violence, manipulation)
Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five
Jamie sets off on a journey that feels both uncertain and inevitable, carrying a quiet anticipation that only deepens with a single, reassuring message before everything goes silent.
WORDS: 1803
You can find part two here!
Looking for more stories? Here is my masterlist!
“Thank you, everyone!” the director called, clapping his hands together with finality. “That’s a wrap on the lab!”
A wave of applause rippled across the set, echoing off the high studio walls. The harsh white lights dimmed slightly as the tension that had gripped the room moments before dissolved into relieved chatter. Cast and crew began to disperse, drifting toward the craft table where the smell of coffee and snacks lingered invitingly.
Jamie exhaled, the last traces of his character slipping from his shoulders as he stepped out from beneath the lights. He ran a hand through his hair, blinking as his eyes adjusted, then made a beeline for the coffee pot. He poured himself a cup, the rich, bitter scent curling upward, grounding him. Cradling it between his hands, he sank into a nearby chair.
Off to the side, Joe sat hunched over his phone, thumb flicking idly across the screen. He glanced up as Jamie approached, his expression shifting into something like awe.
“That was intense, man,” Joe said, shaking his head slightly. “Seriously—you were so good. I thought Millie was actually going to cry.”
Jamie let out a quiet laugh, lowering his gaze to the coffee in his hands. “Thanks. I hope I didn’t scare her too much. I get a bit… lost in it sometimes.”
Joe shrugged, leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure she’s fine. She knows you. You wouldn’t hurt anyone.”
Jamie hummed in agreement, though his mind was already elsewhere. He pulled out his phone, unlocking it with a practiced motion. Notifications flickered across the screen, but one in particular caught his eye… his flight. Five hours.
Only five hours until he’d be on his way to you.
Joe’s voice cut back in, casual but curious. “So… we’re all going out tonight. Celebrate finally being done. You in?”
Jamie hesitated, thumb hovering over his screen. “I would love to…” he began, then trailed off, shaking his head. “But I can’t. I’ve got plans.”
“Plans?” Joe raised an eyebrow, interest piqued.
Jamie considered brushing it off with something vague, something easy, but instead, he sighed lightly. “I’m… going to London.”
Joe blinked, surprised. “Oh. Visiting family?”
Jamie shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “No. Just… visiting a friend.”
Joe studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly, as if deciding not to press further. The conversation faded into a comfortable silence, broken only by the low hum of the set winding down.
After a moment, Jamie pushed himself to his feet. “I should go return my costume. Still need to finish packing.”
Joe glanced up again, offering a grin. “Alright, man. Have a great time in London.”
“Thanks,” Jamie said, already turning away. “Have fun tonight.”
“We will!” Joe called after him.
Less than an hour later, Jamie stood in the middle of his bedroom, staring at the open suitcase sprawled across his bed. Half-packed. Half-decided.
He folded his arms, scanning what he’d already thrown in, jeans, a couple of shirts, the basics. His gaze drifted toward the window, where the sky hung in that indecisive grey that reminded him far too much of London’s unpredictable moods.
He exhaled, turning toward his wardrobe. The doors creaked softly as he pulled them open, rifling through hangers. After a moment, he tugged out a few more shirts, hesitated, then grabbed another pair of jeans. He tossed them onto the bed, the fabric landing in a soft heap.
“That’ll do,” he muttered to himself. If he needed anything else, he could always buy it there.
He packed quickly after that, movements efficient but distracted, his thoughts already miles ahead of him. Once the suitcase was zipped halfway, he moved into the bathroom. The cool tile pressed under his bare feet as he gathered his toiletries, shampoo, conditioner, shower gel, toothbrush.
He reached for his toothpaste… then paused.
His hand hovered in the air as a thought crept in, oddly persistent. Would you have toothpaste he could use? Was it strange to assume? Was it worse to show up without it?
He stood there longer than he should have, staring at the tube like it held the answer to something much bigger. Eventually, he shook his head lightly and grabbed it, tossing it into his bag.
Better safe than overthinking.
Back in the bedroom, he zipped the suitcase fully and set it by the door. The room felt suddenly still. Quiet.
He glanced at the clock on his bedside table.
Three hours.
His chest tightened, not with anxiety exactly, but something close to it. Anticipation, maybe. Or the weight of what he was about to do.
He sat down on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, and let out a slow, steady breath. His cab would be there in half an hour.
Before he could talk himself out of it, he grabbed his phone and hit call.
It rang once.
“Dan?” your voice answered, warm and immediate.
“Hey…” he replied, softer than he intended.
There was a pause, then your tone shifted, gentle with concern. “Are you okay? Reconsidering coming?”
“No, no, God no,” he said quickly, sitting back and running a hand down his face. He let himself fall onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. “I just… my cab will be here soon. I don’t know…”
“It’s okay,” you said, your voice steadying him.
He swallowed, staring at nothing. “Is this crazy?”
A small pause.
“Do you often fly halfway across the world to spend time with someone you’ve only met once?” you asked, your voice carrying a quiet seriousness.
He let out a breathy laugh. “No… can’t say I do.”
“Then yes,” you replied simply. “It is.”
Jamie huffed a quiet chuckle, a smile tugging at his lips despite himself.
“I can’t wait to see you,” he said, the words slipping out softer than before.
“Not long now,” you answered, and he could hear the smile in your voice. “I have so much to show you.”
“Oh really?” he said, raising an eyebrow though you couldn’t see it. “You’ve made plans?”
You giggled lightly. “Not plans exactly… just things I’d like you to see.”
“That sounds… mysterious,” he said. “Do I get any hints?”
A brief pause.
“No,” you said, almost teasingly. “You’ll have to wait.”
He smiled, eyes closing for a moment.
“Alright,” he murmured.
“I’ll let you go,” you said softly. “I’ll see you soon.”
“Yeah,” he replied. “See you soon.”
The line clicked, leaving a quiet hum in his ear. He lowered the phone slowly, letting it fall onto the bed beside him.
For a moment, he just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the reality of it settling in.
Then he pushed himself up, running a hand through his hair.
“Not long now,” he muttered, a small, unmistakable smile forming.
The sharp knock at his door came sooner than he expected. Jamie’s head snapped up, his thoughts scattering. For a second, he just sat there, disoriented… then reality rushed back in.
“Right,” he muttered under his breath.
He grabbed his bag, slinging it over his shoulder and gave the room one last glance. Nothing forgotten. Nothing left behind… at least, nothing important.
The hallway felt quieter than usual as he stepped out, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoed faintly. Downstairs, the cab’s engine hummed low and steady, it’s headlights cutting through the dim evening light.
The driver glanced up as Jamie approached, offering a polite nod before stepping forward to help with the bag.
“Airport?” The driver confirmed.
“Yeah,” Jamie replied, his voice quieter than intended.
The suitcase was loaded into the boot, and a moment later Jamie slid into the back seat. The door shut with a dull thud, sealing him into the small, moving space.
As the car pulled away, he leaned back against the seat, exhaling slowly. His leg started bouncing almost immediately. He didn’t even notice at first, just a restless, constant motion, his foot tapping against the floor as the city blurred past outside the window. Streetlights flickered across his face in passing intervals, each one briefly illuminating the tightness in his expression.
His mind refused to settle.
Every possible outcome, every scenario, every what-if seemed to surface all at once. What if this was a mistake? What if it wasn’t what he thought it would be? What if…
He dragged a hand down his face, cutting the spiral short.
Too late now.
The drive passed in a haze. Familiar streets melted into unfamiliar ones, the quiet murmur of the radio blending with the low rumble of the engine. At some point, they arrived, but the moment barely registered.
He paid. Thanked the driver. Retrieved his bag.
After that, everything felt… distant.
The airport was a blur of movement and noise, rolling suitcases, overhead announcements, the constant shuffle of people moving with purpose. Jamie moved with them, but it felt automatic, like he was following a script he’d memorised long ago.
Check-in.
Security.
Shoes off. Bag through the scanner. A brief, polite smile at the guard.
Wait.
Time slipped strangely. Minutes stretched, then vanished entirely.
He sat at the gate at some point, though he couldn’t quite remember sitting down. His fingers tapped absently against his knee, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the windows where planes taxied beneath the dim glow of runway lights.
Then,
“Now boarding.”
The words cut through the fog and suddenly, things sharpened again.
The next moment that truly felt real was the plane seat beneath him.
Jamie blinked, adjusting slightly as the hum of the aircraft settled around him. The overhead bins slammed shut one by one, muffled conversations filling the cabin as passengers found their places.
He let out a slow breath, staring down at his hands for a moment.
He was here. Actually here.
With a small, almost hesitant motion, he pulled his phone from his pocket and unlocked it. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second before he typed quickly.
Boarded. About to take off.
He hit send before he could overthink it.
For a moment, nothing. Then his phone buzzed softly in his hand.
I’ll see you when you land.
Jamie stared at the message, something warm and steady settling in his chest, easing the restless tension that had followed him all evening.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
“Yeah,” he murmured under his breath.
He took a second to pull on his headphones, pressing play on Spotify before he switched it to airplane mode, the signal bars disappearing in an instant.
Cut off.
Committed.
Leaning his head back against the seat, he closed his eyes as the plane began to move, the low rumble building beneath him.
For the first time since the cab ride, his leg finally stilled.
After an unexpected call, Jamie makes a quiet, impulsive decision that hints at a deeper pull he can’t quite explain.
WORDS: 1263
There are no real trigger warnings for this, asside from light stress and smoking.
You can find Part One here!
Looking for more stories? Here is my master list!
“Cut!” The directors voice rang out through the sound stage, “Take a break while we set up for the next shot!”
Jamie stepped away from the lights, grabbing his jacket from the back of a chair before slipping it on over his costume.
“I’m gonna go for a smoke,” He said to Joe as he headed for the door,
“Alright man, I’ll give you a shout if they need you.” He replied, while turning the page of the script he was holding.
Jamie made his way outside, quickly pulling a cigarette and lighter out of his pocket. He made quick work of lighting the cigarette, taking a long slow drag as he let himself lean against the wall. It was cool and grounding behind him. He just stood there for a moment, looking out at the empty road, the familiar burn in his lungs feeling oddly comforting.
After a moment, he pulled his phone from his pocket, holding the cigarette in one hand as he unlocked it and navigated to his contacts. Then he paused, staring down at his phone. His finger hovered over your contact, contemplating calling. He took a long drag, exhaling shakily as his mind ran over every scenario… you not answering, you answering and not remembering, and worst of all, you answering, remembering but not wanting to to talk to him.
He stubbed out the cigarette on the wall, running a hand over his face. He huffed out a tired laugh as he realised how stupid he was being. It was just a phone call. Before he could overthink it any further, he hit call.
It only rang briefly before you answered.
“Hello…” You spoke softly,
“Hi…” Jamie responded, matching your tone,
There was a slight pause before you responded, “Dan? I thought you’d never call?”
Jamie huffed out a soft laugh at the name before replying, “You said you had a flight to catch… I didn’t want to disturb your travels but I… uh…” He paused, “I was wondering if you wanted to meet up.”
The line went quiet for a moment, Jamie worried he’d been to forward.
“I’m back home now… in London.” You replied just as softly as before.
“Oh…” Was all Jamie could muster in response as a slight disappointment settled in his chest.
“I’m sorry,” You whispered, before continuing, “I don’t like leaving unfinished business while on travels. I thought a party would be a good way to wrap up my travels, a bit of entertainment before going back to normalcy.”
Jamie chuckled lightly through his disappointment, “Was it as entertaining as you expected?”
You hummed lightly before responding, “It was.”
A soft silence falls over the line again before Jamie speaks, “So you’re in London… oh god…” He muttered shaking his head lightly, “I’m sorry it must be late for you.”
“It’s okay, it’s only eleven.” You replied quickly. “I can be a bit of a night owl.”
Jamie nodded in response, even though you couldn’t see him. He considered ending the call there, apologising for bothering you, wasting your time… but something stopped him, a light nagging, a question he needed an answer to.
“Why did you leave your number if you knew you were leaving?”
You pause briefly before replying, “I told you, I don’t do unfinished business.”
Jamie goes to reply but gets cut off. You can hear talking in the background, but nothing is quite understandable. Then Jamie spoke again, “Sorry about that, I’m on set. They want me back in ten.”
“Oooh,” You laughed lightly, “They missing their big star?”
“No, no…” He shook his head, laughing, “I’m not that big of a star.”
“You told me you work for Netflix.” You spoke matter of factly.
He fell silent for a second, before replying tightly, “Yeah… I did…”
You could feel the change in his demeanour through the phone, “Are you okay?” You asked softly.
“Yeah…” He replied, breathing deeply, “I just… It’s a lot… I guess thats why I called, I just…”
“Needed to get away for a moment.” You finished for him.
He went to reply but his breath hitched lightly as the words didn’t come.
“Look,” You began, “If you ever want to get away, just be Dan for a while. I have space for you.” You glance around your room, “All you have to do is call and I'll make it work.”
Jamie began to talk, but the words died on his tongue, his mouth ran dry.
“I mean it, just tell me when.”
Finally, he found the words to reply, “Thank you.” He spoke quietly but with a soft sincerity.
“Now,” You replied, “Take a breath and go back to set. You’ll be amazing.” You paused for a second before adding, “It was nice talking to you, Dan.”
Before Jamie could reply, you hung up.
Jamie lowered the phone from his ear, letting his head fall back against the wall. He took a deep steadying breath, just as you’d instructed. He didn’t know why he followed your instructions, you couldn’t see him, yet he did it anyway. Weirdly, he found it helped. Finally, he felt ready to head back in and get back to work.
The shooting ran quite late. It was well past midnight when Jamie finally made it home, settling down on his sofa. Although all Jamie wanted to do was rest, his mind wouldn’t let him settle. He kept thinking back to the call, your offer. He picked up his phone, opening your contact. His finger hovered over the call button but he stopped himself, putting his phone down on the table.
He stood abruptly, walking into the kitchen. He began making tea but paused, he walked back to the living room, he picked up his phone again. He started at your contact… he wanted to call you, wanted to hear your voice but stopped himself. He tossed his phone onto the sofa, walking back into the kitchen.
He picked up the kettle, filling it with water as he sighed deeply. Finally, he relented, placing the kettle on the counter he rushed back into the living room, taking his phone from the sofa. Rather than calling he sent a simple message:
Can I take you up on that offer?
He sighed, there was no taking it back now. He went to put his phone away again but it pinged almost immediately.
He unlocked it to reveal your reply.
Tell me what time your flight lands and I’ll be there.
He smiled to himself. Quickly opening a web browser, searching flights from LA to Gatwick. He had some time away from set coming up and he planned to take full advantage of it. He found a flight and began inputting his information to book it but paused. His thoughts suddenly clouded by how crazy this whole thing was.
He went back to your text, deciding not to book just yet, he wanted confirmation from you first.
Is two days time too soon? The flight would get in to Gatwick at 12:30?
He sent the message before he could stop himself. Almost immediately a text bubble appeared.
I’ll see you then!
Jamie sighed lightly, relieved that you’d agreed, that it wasn’t too soon. He moved back to the web browser. He finished inputting his information, booking the flight before he could talk himself out of it. He considered replying to you again but quickly decided against it. He’d see you in two days anyway.
He smiled to himself as he settled back against the sofa, finally his mind seemed to ease.
At a crowded party, Jamie meets a stranger. In a quiet moment outside, they share truths they don’t usually tell anyone. By morning, she’s gone—leaving behind only a number and the feeling that something unfinished lingers.
This is my first straight Jamie Campbell Bower fic, instead of writing a fanfic for a character he plays.
This is inspired by Cherries by Peter Raffoul.
There are no real warnings for this... maybe just mild discussion of alcoholism and smoking... but not really.
WORDS: 2229
Music thrummed through every corner of the house. He drums like a steady heart beat keeping people in line as they drank, danced, chatted amongst themselves. The smell of liquor and sweat clung to the air, creating an intoxicating aroma that seemed to drive the party forward.
In the corner, on an old worn couch, sat Jamie as he nursed a glass of soda, taking in the sight of people enjoying themselves. He watched as people laughed, the sound carrying across the room to him. He smiled lightly at the sound.
He went to take another sip of his drink. However, he quickly realised the glass was almost empty. He stood slowly, weaving his way through the crowd to his kitchen. Before he could quite reach the fridge, a firm hand clasped him on the shoulder.
“Jamieeee!” A male voice called.
Jamie turned, placing his glass on the counter, behind him stood his friend Nick.
“How ya doing, man?” Nick asked, a bright smile on his face, his voice a little louder than necessary, “This is one sick party!”
Nick went to reply but cut himself off, distracted by something across the room, “She came…” He muttered, disbelief flooding his tone.
“Who?” Jamie asked, following his gaze across the room but before he got a response, Nick stepped slightly away from him.
“Y/N!? Over here!” He called, approaching you, standing by the front door.
He quickly embraced you in a gentle hug. Jamie couldn’t make out your conversation from where he stood but his drink was completely forgotten as he watched the way you smiled as you spoke, the way your hair fell around your face in effortless waves. Jamie was so distracted he didn’t realise you and Nick had approached him until Nick spoke up again.
“This is Y/N.” He announced proudly, as if you were someone of great importance.
“It’s nice to meet you,” You spoke gently, far quieter than Nick had been.
Jamie nodded, his mouth suddenly feeling dry. He reached to the counter beside him, grabbing what he thought was his drink. He took a quick sip, trying to find the words to respond but quickly, he realised his mistake as the sharp taste of vodka hit his tongue. He recoiled slightly.
“I’m sorry,” He muttered putting the glass down, quickly turning and walking through the party, away from Nick’s confused expression.
He kept walking until he made it outside. If this was a few years ago he would have panicked at tasting alcohol, he would have spiralled but now, it was different. He knew how to get past it, how to ground himself. It was a simple mistake, easily done but done nevertheless. He huffed out a sigh, realising how stupid he must have looked, you had no idea what had just transpired. All you saw was some guy, unable to form words, sip a drink and run. He ran a hand down his face, taking a deep breath.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out his cigarette box and a lighter. He plucked one from the packet, quickly lighting it, drawing in a deep breath as he placed the pack on the patio table.
He exhaled slowly, the light burn in his lungs a familiar, grounding sensation. He stood there for a moment just looking at the garden around him before he laughed, a strange, yet genuine sound.
“This is so stupid.” He muttered to himself before taking another drag. He didn’t even know you. Why should he care what you think.
He stood there for a moment longer, letting the nicotine burn away the light taste of vodka still lingering on his tongue before stubbing out the cigarette on the ashtray he kept on the table.
He briefly considered going back inside, back to his quiet corner to watch his friends enjoying himself but before he could turn, the sight of the pool, glistening under the dim patio lighting caught his eye.
He slowly approached the edge, slipping off his shoes in the process. He lowered himself to sit on the concrete, slowly slipping his legs into the moon lit water. He let out a quiet sigh, looking out at the dark sky as his mind wandered back through the events of the night. The ones that led him to here, sitting on his own.
“You look like a Dan.” A voice cut through his thoughts,
He turned slowly, the water rippling slightly from the movement. Behind him, he saw you approaching. His brow furrowed in confusion.
“You never told me your name.” You continued, as you stepped closer, slowly sitting a few feet away from him. You crossed your legs lightly, looking down at the water, holding a half drunk beer bottle in your lap.
Jamie huffed out a light laugh, “Did I not?”
You shook your head slightly, “Nope…”
Silence settled over the two of you. You looking down at the water. Him looking up at the sky, feeling your presence beside him.
After a moment, Jamie’s thoughts got the best of him and he spoke up again.
“Do you really not know who I am?” He turned to face you properly,
You glanced up at him, shrugging, “Am I supposed to?”
Jamie huffed out another laugh, running a hand through his hair, “You’re in my house.”
You shook your head, “I’m in Nick’s house.”
Jamie shook is head lightly, “Is that what he told you? That this was his house?”“Yup…” You nodded,
“Christ…” Jamie muttered a quietly, “I don’t know why I keep inviting that guy to things.” He fell quiet for a moment before asking, “How do you know him?”
You looked down at the pool again, before replying, “I don’t.” You paused before adding, “Not really anyway… I met him at a coffee shop this morning. Told me about some party he was throwing and here I am…”
Jamie nodded slowly, “Right, so he meets some random at a coffee shop, pretends its his house and invites her hoping for a chance. Sounds like Nick.”
The silence that fell over you both was thick as Jamie realised what he just said, “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”
You cut him off, laughing lightly, “It’s okay. I know what you meant.”
You held your hand out towards him, “Y/N.”
Jamie hesitated a second before shaking your hand, “I’m…”
“Dan.” You quickly cut him off, “For tonight, you’re Dan.”
He smirked, nodding, “Alright, I’m Dan. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” You replied as he released your hand. “So Dan, what do you do… aside from throwing parties your friends take credit for?”
“I’m a musician…” He began, hesitating before adding, “And an actor.”
“Ah,” You nodded, looking back out over the water, “So tortured artist vibe.”
“Hang on a minute!” He huffed out a laugh, “What gave you that impression?”
“You’ve thrown a party… a pretty good one, might I add,” You began, “Yet here you are, sitting alone in the garden, staring at the sky like it might give you all the answers.”
Jamie shook his head slowly, “I’m not tortured…” He paused again, considering what he wanted to say next. “Everyone’s at the point of messy drunk or close to the edge. This is usually where I disappear.”
“Not a fan of drunk people?” You asked, glancing at him again.
His eyes remained fixed on the sky as he replied, “I don’t drink… I don’t have a problem with people drinking but I…” He paused, sighing lightly, “Seeing the things people do while drunk reminds me of who I was when I did…” He paused again, looking at you properly, “I wasn’t the nicest person then.”
You nodded slowly, the tension from his words lingered around you.
“Sorry,” He muttered looking away from you again, “I don’t know why I told you that.”
You let the silence sit for a moment before replying, “Because tonight you’re Dan. You can say what you want to me, knowing that tomorrow, I’ll remember this interaction, but I won’t know who you are…”
“And what if you find out who I am?” He asked gently,
“Wowww…” You muttered amused, “You’re really that big of a deal that you think you can’t stay anonymous?”
Jamie nodded slowly, “I kind of am… not to be vein but a lot of people know who I am.” The way he spoke showed no hint of ego. Instead it seemed laced with a quiet bitterness. “You get cast in a popular Netflix show and people tend to know your name.”
You slowly looked up at him, the space between you felt somehow larger, though neither of you had moved.
“So you really are an actor?” You asked.
Jamie just nodded in response.
“What about you? What do you do?”
You faltered slightly, “I… I travel, I guess.”
“Let me guess, flight attendant?” Jamie asked, a small smile on his face,
“No… no.” You laughed, “I just… I like to go places, see as much as I can so I kind of just do…”
“And for work?” Jamie asked, “What funds your travels?”
“Woahhh… take a girl to dinner first before you ask about her finances.” You joked, deflecting his question.
You raised the bottle to your lips, taking a sip. After a second of hesitation you hold it out to him, inviting him to share it.
“I just told you I don’t drink?” He questioned lightly,
“It’s not alcohol.” You replied, “I just put it in a glass bottle so people can’t tell.”
Jamie raised an eye brow, slowly taking the bottle from you, he tentatively took a sip. The act feeling strangely intimate.
“See,” You continued, “Just water.”
Jamie handed the bottle back to you, your fingers brushing lightly.
“So why don’t you drink?” He suddenly asked,
You look at him, catching his eyes with yours, “In my experience, one drink is never just one and if I go back down that path I don’t think I’d ever be sober…” You paused as he nodded, “So I put water in an empty beer bottle to stop people from offering me just one drink.” You huffed out a wry laugh, looking down at the bottle in your hand, “It’s kind of sad really.”
“No, no… I get it.” He replied slowly, “I guess the benefit of people knowing who you are is they know what you do and don’t do. No one’s offering me drinks or pressuring me because they know my stance on it.”
“You’re one of the lucky ones.” You said, no hint of humour in your tone.
“Yeah… lucky.” He replied simply.
You fall into an easy silence again. Neither one of you really moving as your eyes once again become fixed on the water.
The quiet is cut off by the ding of your phone. You quickly pulled it out of your pocket, looking at the screen.
“Shit,” You muttered, beginning to stand.
“S’eveything alright?” Jamie asked, watching you move.
“I’ve gotta go. I have a flight in an hour, didn’t realise the time.” Jamie quietly notes the panic on your face as you put your phone back in your pocket.
You look at the bottle still in your hand before handing it to him, “Here. I can’t exactly take this with me. Consider it a parting gift.”
Jamie took the bottle, huffing out a gentle laugh as you began to walk away. However, just as you got to the door you paused, turning back to him a gentle smile on your face.
“It was good meeting you, Dan!” With that, you turned back, disappearing into his house.
Once again he was alone by the pool, the water gently lapping against his legs as he held the bottle in his hand as a reminder of you.
Jamie stayed outside until the sun started coming up over the hills. He hadn’t intended to but for him, time had slipped away the moment you left. His mind stuck replaying your conversation over again.
Finally, with a sigh he moved, pulling his legs from the water, briefly shaking them to remove excess water before turning and slowly making his way back inside to see what damage had been done without him there to supervise.
He was pleasantly surprised to find his house relatively empty. A few of his mates were passed out on his furniture but other than that it was pretty clean, no strangers passed out in weird places. He considered that a success.
Deciding he should get some sleep he wandered towards the stairs. However, as he passed through the kitchen he stopped in his tracks. He turned to his fridge covered in miss matched magnets. In the centre, pinned up by a magnet of the Eiffel Tower he got the first time he visited Paris, was a small post-it. He carefully moved the magnet, taking the post-it in his hand. Across the paper was scribbled writing, as if it was written in a hurry.
I liked talking to you, Dan. Call me if you want to talk again sometime. Below it was a number.
Jamie smiled to himself, pulling out his phone. He tucked the post-it into his phone case before continuing through the kitchen, heading up to his bedroom to get some much needed sleep.
The short film I wrote and directed last year, Move Me, has been selected as a monthly pick in the Rome Prisma Film Awards!
I don't really post much of my personal life on here, mainly because I write fanfiction as a personal creative release away from my more serious writing career. However, I'm really proud of this achievement and see it as a step in the right direction (that direction being, getting away from making my living as a bar manager 🤣).
While people told me getting a degree in film wouldn't help me get into the indusrty, I wouldn't have been able to make this film without my degree, nor would I have had the time to hone my writing skills. The writing skills so many of you see on here. If you go through my Ao3 account you can really see the improvement between what I wrote when I was thirteen and what I'm writing now, on here.
Anyway, I digress... below is a compilation of clips from the short. I really hope you like what you see.
I just wanted to share something I'm proud of, with all of you.
The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Ten
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
The cab pulled to a stop with a crunch of gravel, the sound startlingly loud in the vast, open quiet of the desert. Heat shimmered off the cracked asphalt, warping the horizon into wavering ghosts. There was nothing around them but scrubland, sun-bleached earth, and a sky so wide and mercilessly blue it felt like it pressed down on him.
Reid paid the driver, his fingers stiff as he passed the cash through the open window.
“Thank you,” he said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
The driver gave him a strange look, eyes flicking from Reid to the empty stretch of road ahead, then back again. “You sure about this place, man?”
Reid nodded once. “Yes.”
The window rolled up. The engine revved. The cab turned around in an awkward arc and drove off, the sound of it fading quickly, swallowed by distance. Within seconds, Reid was alone.
The silence rushed in to fill the space the car had left behind.
He stood there for a moment, the late-afternoon heat clinging to his skin like a second, suffocating layer. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to the bruises still blooming beneath. His ribs ached with every breath, a dull, constant reminder of how recently his body had failed him. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and turned away from the road.
A narrow dust track stretched out ahead, barely more than two tire ruts carved into the earth. Reid stepped onto it, his shoes kicking up pale clouds of powder that clung to his pant legs. Each footfall sounded too loud, too deliberate, as if the desert itself were listening.
The air smelled dry and mineral, tinged faintly with rust and old oil. Cicadas buzzed somewhere unseen, their droning pulse rising and falling like an erratic heartbeat. With every step, the sun seemed heavier, pressing against his skull, flattening thought into sensation.
Up ahead, the concrete building began to emerge from the heat-haze.
At first it was only a suggestion, an angular shadow interrupting the horizon. Then the lines sharpened. A squat, brutal structure of grey concrete, windowless on the side facing him, its edges cracked and crumbling as if the desert were slowly reclaiming it. Rusted fencing sagged around the perimeter, half-buried in sand, warning signs bleached so thoroughly they were unreadable.
Reid slowed without meaning to.
His hand drifted instinctively toward his chest, fingers brushing the chain hidden beneath his shirt. The rings rested there, cool and solid, an anchor and a weight all at once. His breath hitched, a faint, involuntary tremor passing through him before he could stop it.
This is it.
The thought settled heavy and absolute.
Each step closer made the building feel larger, more oppressive, as though it were leaning toward him, waiting. His pulse thudded loudly in his ears, syncing with the crunch of gravel underfoot. Memories pressed in at the edges of his mind, fragmented, sharp, unwanted, faces without edges, voices bleeding into one another, the echo of a child’s cry that didn’t belong to the desert but followed him anyway.
Reid let out a shaky breath, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too small. He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the ache in his ribs, ignoring the instinct screaming at him to turn around.
By the time he reached the edge of the property, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. The concrete loomed in front of him now, scarred and silent, holding its secrets close.
Reid stopped.
For one suspended moment, he stood there in the heat and dust, the past and present colliding painfully in his chest. Then, with a quiet resolve that felt more like surrender than courage, he took another step forward and crossed the threshold.
The interior swallowed him whole.
The moment Reid stepped inside, the heat shifted, no longer pressing down from above, but radiating up from the concrete itself, trapped and stale. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of abandonment, old oil and something sour that had soaked too deeply into the walls to ever leave. His footsteps echoed sharply, each one ricocheting down the empty corridors as though the building were answering him back.
He didn’t hesitate.
He moved with a quiet certainty that surprised even him, turning left, then right, then down a narrow passage where the ceiling dipped low and the lights had long since been torn from their housings. His memory guided him more surely than sight ever could. He knew this place, not the way one knows a map, but the way one knows a scar. His body remembered before his mind caught up.
The corridors stretched on, concrete ribs of a dead thing, doors hanging open on rusted hinges, rooms stripped bare. As he walked, the present began to thin, reality loosening its grip at the edges.
A gunshot cracked through the silence.
Reid flinched despite himself, his muscles locking, heart slamming hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. The sound wasn’t real, he knew that, but it rang just as loudly in his skull, sharp and concussive, bouncing off the walls of memory instead of concrete.
Then came the crying.
A child’s wail, high and raw, cutting straight through him. It seemed to seep from the walls themselves, echoing down the corridor, rising and falling with desperate, inconsolable grief. Reid’s steps faltered, his hand brushing the wall for balance as his vision blurred for a heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he whispered automatically, the words torn from him without thought. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The crying faded, but the weight of it stayed lodged in his chest.
Further down the hall, his foot brushed something loose, sending a small stone skittering across the floor. The sound triggered another echo, different this time. Quieter. Closer.
A man’s voice, low and almost amused.
“You fell for a snake.”
The words slithered through the corridor, curling around Reid’s spine like cold fingers. His breath caught, every nerve in his body lighting up at once. He could hear the cadence of it, the cruel satisfaction threaded through each syllable. He’d heard it here before. Standing in this exact place. Helpless in a way he’d never learned how to articulate.
Reid stopped walking.
The corridor ahead stretched long and empty, shadows pooling at its far end like ink. His reflection stared back at him from a cracked metal panel on the wall, pale, drawn, eyes too bright in his hollowed face.
This building wasn’t just abandoned. It was waiting and Reid, heart pounding and memories clawing their way to the surface, knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
The footsteps came again.
Measured. Unhurried. Too deliberate to be debris shifting or the building settling in the heat. The sound echoed down the corridor in soft, hollow taps, the unmistakable rhythm of shoes striking concrete. Reid’s breath stilled, every muscle in his body going taut as his mind raced to catalogue the possibilities. Auditory memory. Stress-induced hallucination. Hyper-vigilance.
Or someone else was here.
He stood perfectly still, listening, counting the space between each step. The sound wavered, then continued, drifting farther down the corridor, just out of sight. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough that for a moment he wondered if it might drown the footsteps out entirely.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered, though the words lacked conviction.
The footsteps turned a corner.
Something in his chest tightened, not fear exactly, but a gravitational pull, the same inexorable force that had drawn him back to this place in the first place. Before he could fully decide whether following the sound was rational or reckless, his body had already chosen for him.
Reid moved.
His steps were slow, controlled, his breathing shallow as he followed the echo down the corridor. The concrete beneath his shoes was uneven, grit crunching softly despite his care. Each sound felt amplified, magnified by the cavernous silence pressing in around him. The footsteps ahead remained steady, never speeding up, never retreating, as if whoever, or whatever, was making them knew he was there and saw no need to hide.
The corridor opened suddenly into a wide room.
Reid halted at the threshold, raising his gun instinctively, both hands tight around the grip. The room was vast and bare, its ceiling arched high above, sunlight bleeding in through shattered windows near the roof and striping the floor in pale gold. Dust hung in the air, suspended and glittering, disturbed by his presence.
The footsteps stopped.
Reid’s heart hammered as his eyes swept the room, tracking every shadow, every broken beam and overturned crate. His finger hovered near the trigger, not quite resting on it, tension coiled tight through his arms and shoulders.
“Hello?” His voice echoed back at him, thin and fragile against the room’s vastness.
No answer.
Only the faint creak of cooling metal and the whisper of wind threading through the broken windows. Yet the feeling remained, thick and electric, like he had stepped into the centre of a held breath.
Whatever had been walking ahead of him was close.
And for the first time since he’d arrived, Reid wasn’t sure whether he was chasing a memory… or about to meet it face to face.
“Hello?” Reid called again, his voice stronger this time, pushing outward into the cavernous space.
It came back to him in fragments, broken by distance and dust, swallowed by the building’s hollow ribs. No reply followed. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he really had been following nothing more than the echo of his own unraveling thoughts.
He took a step forward.
The impact came without warning.
A brutal, precise blow struck the back of his head, white-hot and disorienting, snapping his world violently sideways. His knees buckled before he could even cry out, his gun slipping from his grasp as he crashed hard against the concrete. Pain detonated behind his eyes, his vision smearing into streaks of light and shadow.
He tried to push himself up. Failed.
The room tilted and spun, the ceiling warping above him as darkness bled into the edges of his sight. Through the ringing in his ears, he sensed movement, a presence looming closer. Heavy footsteps. A shadow falling across him.
Reid squinted, fighting to focus, and just barely made out the shape of a man standing over him, face blurred, features indistinct in the haze.
“I thought they’d have trained you better than that,” the man said calmly.
The voice was steady. Familiar in a way that made something cold twist in Reid’s gut.
Reid tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick and uncooperative, his thoughts scattering faster than he could catch them. The room dimmed further, the man’s shape dissolving into darkness as consciousness slipped through his fingers.
The last thing Reid felt was the hard bite of concrete against his cheek…
…and then the dark swallowed him whole.
--------------------
The darkness rolled over him in waves, heavy and suffocating. Sounds blurred, stretching and warping until it lost meaning. Light, smeared into dull flashes behind his eyes. Thought fractured last, splintering into pieces that refused to stay in the present.
His mind reached instinctively for something solid and found the past instead.
He was younger.
Not younger in the soft, nostalgic way memory sometimes offered, but raw and unsettled, his body tight with vigilance. The room was small and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. A man sat across from him, FBI badge clipped neatly to his belt, his voice careful and controlled.
You understand what we’re asking of you, Doctor Reid.
A folder slid across the table. Even now, Reid could feel the weight of it in his hands, the crisp edges of classified pages, the starkness of maps and photographs he hadn’t been allowed to keep. Names he’d been told not to memorise. Faces he would never forget.
He had said yes too quickly.
The realisation landed with a dull ache, hindsight pressing in like a physical force. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d told himself it was logic, duty, the chance to make a difference. He hadn’t recognised the quiet arrogance in believing he could walk into hell and come back unchanged.
The memory shifted before he could dwell on it.
A mirror replaced the table, cracked and bolted to a stained wall. He stared at his reflection, barely recognising the man looking back at him. His hair was shorter. The glasses were gone. His posture was different, still, deliberate. He practiced holding himself that way, practicing silence.
Matthew Cruz, he repeated in his head.
The name felt awkward at first, then functional, then necessary. Cruz didn’t fidget. Cruz didn’t fill silence with nervous explanations. Cruz watched. Cruz waited. Cruz survived.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed, low and rough, the sound of someone unafraid of consequences. Reid felt his stomach tighten, his body reacting even now, years later, as though the threat still hovered just out of sight.
Heat bled into the memory next. Thick, oppressive. Arizona heat, though he hadn’t known it by name then. Dust clung to his boots. The air smelled of oil, metal, and sweat baked into concrete. He stood at the edge of a warehouse, arms loose at his sides, pulse steady despite the gunshot that echoed through the space.
It had been a test.
A man lay on the floor, bleeding and screaming, not dead, not yet. Reid remembered the way the noise had cut off abruptly when the gun was placed in his hand.
Do it, someone had said. Calm. Curious. Almost bored.
His finger hadn’t trembled.
That memory twisted something deep in his chest. Even now, it terrified him more than the gun ever had.
The images began to bleed together after that. New language settled into his mouth, harsher syllables and slower cadence. New rules replaced the old ones. Don’t ask questions. Don’t hesitate. Loyalty is currency. Fear is weakness.
He remembered the first night he couldn’t sleep.
Then the first night he didn’t want to.
A softer presence tried to surface, something warm, something human. A woman’s voice, intelligent and steady. She had challenged him once, over something small and inconsequential, and instead of punishing her for it, he had laughed.
The sound of it had startled him.
The memory fractured before her face could fully take shape, retreating as if his mind refused to let it come into focus just yet.
Pain surged suddenly, sharp and immediate, pulling him closer to the present. His head throbbed, each pulse sending sparks through his skull. He became dimly aware of cold concrete beneath him, the metallic taste at the back of his throat.
But his mind resisted waking.
It curled back toward the past, toward the place where the rules were clear and the role was defined. Toward the man he had been taught to become.
The last thought that surfaced before the darkness closed in again was heavy and unmistakably his own:
This is where it started.
And then the blackness reclaimed him, carrying with it the echoes of a life he had never truly escaped.
--------------------
Consciousness returned to him in slow, painful layers.
The first thing Reid became aware of was pressure, unyielding and wrong, biting into his wrists. Then the cold. Then the ache, deep and nauseating, blooming at the base of his skull and radiating forward until the world throbbed in time with his pulse.
He inhaled sharply and hissed through his teeth.
Leather creaked beneath him.
That alone snapped him fully awake.
Reid’s eyes flew open, his vision swimming as the room lurched into focus. Harsh light bled into the edges of his sight, illuminating cracked concrete floors and stained walls that disappeared into shadow. He was upright, too upright. His back was pressed against something rigid, arms pulled behind him at an unnatural angle.
A chair.
Panic flared hot and immediate.
His wrists were bound tightly to the backrest with thick rope, circulation already tingling unpleasantly. His ankles were secured as well, legs immobile, the chair heavy enough that shifting his weight did nothing but scrape it uselessly against the floor. A strip of coarse fabric was tied cruelly tight across his mouth, the knot digging into his jaw.
He tried to speak. The sound came out as a muffled, broken noise that barely resembled a word.
“Ah.”
The voice came from directly in front of him.
Reid’s head snapped up, sending a fresh wave of dizziness crashing through him. A man stood a few feet away, hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture loose, relaxed, like this was exactly where he’d expected to be.
The man smiled.
It was sharp and deliberate, all teeth and no warmth.
“Well,” he drawled, tilting his head, “look who’s finally decided to join us.”
Reid strained against his restraints, muscles burning as he tested them, instinct overriding pain. The chair shuddered but held firm. The man watched with open amusement, eyes tracking every movement.
He laughed softly. “Still got fight in you. Good. I’d hate for this to be boring.”
He took a few unhurried steps closer, boots echoing through the open space. “I’ll admit,” he continued conversationally, “I wasn’t sure the letter would work. People don’t usually chase ghosts anymore. But you always did have a talent for unfinished business.”
He stopped directly in front of Reid and crouched, bringing them eye to eye. Reid could see it clearly now, the calculation behind the grin, the familiarity that didn’t belong.
“You walked right into this,” the man said quietly. “All alone. No team. No backup.”
His smile widened, wicked and satisfied.
“Honestly?” he added. “They should’ve trained you better than that.”
Reid’s chest rose and fell too fast beneath the gag, anger and fear tangling tight in his ribs as the man straightened again.
“But don’t worry,” the man said lightly, already turning away. “You’re awake now.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, grin returning.
“And we’ve got plenty of time.”
Reid tried to speak again, forcing words past the tight strip of fabric, but they dissolved into a hoarse, muffled sound that scraped uselessly against the gag. His jaw ached with the effort. Frustration flared hot in his chest, sharp enough to cut through the haze still clinging to his thoughts.
The man’s eyes flicked to his mouth.
“Oh, don’t strain yourself,” he said, and then laughed, low and delighted, like he’d just been handed a private joke.
Before Reid could brace, the man stepped in close and grabbed the gag. He yanked it free in one brutal motion. The fabric tore away from Reid’s face, skin stinging, jaw snapping shut hard enough to make his teeth click. Reid sucked in a breath, air burning his throat as he coughed once, chest heaving.
He lifted his head despite the pain, eyes locking onto the man’s.
“What do you want?” Reid demanded, his voice rough but steady, the calm reflex snapping into place even as his pulse thundered.
The man’s grin widened.
The man’s smile sharpened as he straightened, circling the chair with slow, unhurried steps, as if time itself belonged to him. His boots scraped softly against the concrete, each sound deliberate, measured.
“You always did make things more complicated than they needed to be,” he said lightly. “People think this is about money. Or power. Or payback.” He let out a quiet, amused breath. “Those are just side effects.”
He stopped directly in front of Reid and leaned down until they were eye level.
“What I want,” he said, voice lowering, thick with certainty, “is you.”
Reid’s jaw tightened.
The man’s expression shifted, something reverent slipping into the cruelty, as if he were addressing something sacred and profane all at once.
“Michael Cruz,” he said slowly, savouring the name. Then, after a beat, “Michael Donovan.”
The way he said it made it clear he believed both names belonged to the same man, two truths, not a mask and the face beneath it.
“You don’t get to disappear,” the man continued quietly. “You don’t get to walk away and pretend one of those men died.”
He straightened, his shadow stretching long over Reid and the chair.
“I want all of you,” he finished. “Every version you ever were.”
Reid’s eyes stayed locked on the man, searching for any hint of recognition, any weakness, but found none. His mind raced, fragments of memory flickering behind his gaze, but nothing solid enough to grasp.
The man leaned closer, his voice low, almost reverent in its menace. “You know what I’ll never understand? How you walked away that day. How everyone… everyone who mattered, who stood in your way, ended up dead… and you just… disappeared.”
He shook his head slowly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it himself. “Like a ghost. Like you were never there at all.”
Reid swallowed hard, the taste of copper sharp in his mouth, but he said nothing. The silence became a weight, pressing down from the walls around them, as the man circled him like a predator savouring the moment before the strike.
“You think you can hide behind shadows, Michael,” the man continued, voice tightening with a mix of anger and awe, “but shadows can’t save you forever.”
Reid’s chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled breaths. Finally, he forced words past the lingering tension in his throat. “I… I don’t know who you are,” he said, each syllable deliberate, measured, as if repeating a mantra might make it true.
The man froze mid-step, eyes narrowing in disbelief, a flash of hurt flickering across his face. “You… you don’t remember?” he asked, voice trembling with a mix of shock and wounded incredulity. “After everything… you really don’t?”
Reid’s mind clawed at fragments, fleeting shapes of memory, snatches of voices, the sharp tang of fear and adrenaline, but nothing solid formed. There was a strange familiarity in the man’s face, a pull he couldn’t place, a shadow of recognition that hovered just out of reach. He shook his head subtly, forcing a distance he didn’t quite feel.
The man stepped closer, intensity radiating from him. “I thought… I thought you’d never forget, Michael. After what we went through… after everything you did, how could you forget me?”
Reid’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening again. He said nothing, letting the silence stretch, a fragile barrier between himself and the man whose face teased the edges of memory.
The man’s eyes darkened, heat flickering across his face as disbelief curdled into fury. He stepped closer, the chair creaking under Reid’s shifting weight, and his voice rose, sharp and raw. “You don’t remember me?!” he spat, each word punctuated with venom. “After everything we survived… everything we lost… and you just… don’t remember?”
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. “I thought… I knew you, Michael! I trusted you! And now, you act like I’m a stranger standing in front of you?”
Reid flinched at the intensity, the heat of the man’s anger searing through the cool, stale air of the room. He opened his mouth to respond, but words stuck in his throat, swallowed by the knot of dread tightening in his chest. The man’s face loomed closer, a storm barely contained, and the familiarity that Reid couldn’t place pressed like a phantom weight against his mind.
Reid’s eyes narrowed, the knot of fear and confusion in his chest tightening further. “If you trusted me,” he asked, voice strained but steady, “then why am I tied up?”
The man let out a short, sharp laugh, more bitter than amused. “Trust?” he scoffed, pacing slowly in front of Reid. “I wanted to trust you. But you disappeared. Not once… but twice. And this time? I can’t take that risk. Not again. Not this time.”
His gaze locked onto Reid’s, intense and unrelenting, as if burning through the fog of Reid’s fractured memory. “You think I’d let you just walk away after what happened?” he said, voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate. “No. Not you. Not now.”
Reid swallowed hard, the bindings digging into his wrists, and for the first time, the faint pulse of memory, fleeting, chaotic, stirred in the back of his mind, teasing at the edges of recognition.
The man turned away from him, moving toward the far side of the room. Only then did Reid notice the table, metal, scarred, half-lost in shadow, its surface cluttered with indistinct shapes he hadn’t been able to focus on before. His vision tracked the movement automatically, dread coiling tighter with each step the man took.
He reached down and picked something up.
Reid’s breath hitched.
A syringe caught the light as the man turned back toward him, the needle glinting dully, impossibly sharp. The clear barrel was already filled, the liquid inside catching reflections as it shifted.
“Maybe this will remind you,” the man said lightly, almost conversational, as if he were offering coffee instead of a threat.
Reid froze.
The room seemed to tilt, reality slipping a fraction out of alignment as his pulse roared in his ears. The air felt suddenly too thick to breathe, pressing down on his chest. His hands clenched uselessly against the restraints as his mind betrayed him, dragging him backward without permission.
Concrete walls. A dim farmhouse. A needle piercing skin. Tobias Hankel’s voice, warped and echoing, layered over itself. Pain. Confusion. The slow unraveling of thought.
“No,” The word stuck in his throat, barely forming as his vision blurred at the edges. His breathing turned shallow, rapid, each inhale scraping like broken glass. He could feel it again, the helplessness, the chemical fog swallowing him whole, the terror of losing himself piece by piece while someone else watched.
His eyes snapped back to the present, locking onto the syringe as if staring hard enough could will it out of existence.
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, the plea escaping before he could stop it.
The man tilted his head, studying Reid’s reaction with sharp interest, a cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of his smile.
“Oh,” he murmured. “So that still works.”
Reid’s heart hammered violently against his ribs as the past and present bled together, and for the first time since waking up bound to the chair, pure, unfiltered panic cracked through the numbness he’d been clinging to.
The man stepped closer, each movement deliberate, the syringe still glinting in his hand. Reid’s bound arms tensed, his fingers straining uselessly against the restraints as panic surged through him.
“I, I don’t know who you are! Why are you doing this? Please, stop!” Reid’s voice cracked, muffled at first, then rising in desperation. He thrashed slightly in the chair, but the cords bit into his wrists, anchoring him immovably.
The man’s eyes were cold, unyielding, trained solely on Reid. He leaned in, his voice low and unnervingly calm. “I don’t care what you think you know.”
Reid’s pleas became frantic, repeating the words over and over, voice breaking, sweat beading on his forehead. His chest heaved as adrenaline screamed through him, but it did nothing to loosen the ropes or dissuade the man.
With a precise, almost clinical motion, the man pressed the needle against Reid’s arm. The point pierced skin with a subtle, almost inaudible click. Reid jerked instinctively, the cords holding him tight, and the man’s hand was steady, immovable.
A hiss of injected liquid slid into Reid’s veins. His muscles seized as the chemical spread, a burning, twisting sensation climbing through his limbs and spine. The room seemed to tilt violently, walls bending, shadows stretching unnaturally. Reid’s mind screamed, panic and confusion mingling with the creeping, unnatural calm the drug forced over him.
“Please… no… I don’t know… I don’t…” His voice faltered, the edges of his vision darkening, sound distorting, heartbeat thundering in his ears as the world slipped away.
The man stepped back, watching with a small, satisfied smile as Reid’s struggles slowed, body sagging, eyes widening in terror, and consciousness began to slip from him. The room swayed and blurred, past and present colliding as Reid’s mind began its descent into the chemical fog.
Reid’s vision blurred immediately, the edges of the room softening, melting like wax under heat. The drug raced through his veins with an almost liquid fire, hot and cold at once, twisting his muscles, seizing his joints, coiling around his heart. His lungs felt heavy, as if each breath was dragging through molasses, and the air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against his chest, pressing against his skull.
Thoughts fragmented, scattering like shards of glass. Panic tried to claw its way through, but the chemical fog was faster, dulled his senses, dulled his will. Every sound stretched, echoed, then dampened into a hollow, distant hum. His skin burned, tingled, then went numb, and a deep, crawling weakness seeped into his bones.
Fear mixed with a surreal detachment. He could feel his heartbeat, fast and chaotic, yet it felt unreal, like he was observing it from somewhere outside himself. Memories, flashes of light, shadowed faces, and broken voices, collided in his mind, jagged fragments he could almost grasp but could not hold. The gunshots, the child’s cry, the icy water, Alvara’s voice, Luca’s laugh, all swirled together, dissolving into a haze of pain and grief, each beat of his heart dragging him deeper into the fog.
His limbs no longer obeyed him, the chair a rigid anchor as his body slumped, twitching involuntarily. Thought slowed, then stuttered, until even the frantic questioning of “Why? Who are you? What’s happening?” became muted whispers, echoes in a cavern he could no longer access. A heavy, dark calm settled over him, unnatural and suffocating, lulling him toward unconsciousness, dragging him down like a tide he could not fight.
From the corner of the room, the man stepped back, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. A thin, cruel smile twisted across his face. He watched Reid’s body go slack, the faint tremor of resistance fading as the drug took full hold.
“Goodnight, Michael,” the man said softly, almost tenderly, the words sliding into the quiet room with a sinister finality. And then Reid was gone, swallowed entirely by the creeping black haze that had claimed him.
When it's posted, you can find Chapter Eleven here!
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The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Ten
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
The cab pulled to a stop with a crunch of gravel, the sound startlingly loud in the vast, open quiet of the desert. Heat shimmered off the cracked asphalt, warping the horizon into wavering ghosts. There was nothing around them but scrubland, sun-bleached earth, and a sky so wide and mercilessly blue it felt like it pressed down on him.
Reid paid the driver, his fingers stiff as he passed the cash through the open window.
“Thank you,” he said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.
The driver gave him a strange look, eyes flicking from Reid to the empty stretch of road ahead, then back again. “You sure about this place, man?”
Reid nodded once. “Yes.”
The window rolled up. The engine revved. The cab turned around in an awkward arc and drove off, the sound of it fading quickly, swallowed by distance. Within seconds, Reid was alone.
The silence rushed in to fill the space the car had left behind.
He stood there for a moment, the late-afternoon heat clinging to his skin like a second, suffocating layer. Sweat dampened the collar of his shirt, the fabric sticking uncomfortably to the bruises still blooming beneath. His ribs ached with every breath, a dull, constant reminder of how recently his body had failed him. He adjusted the strap of his bag on his shoulder and turned away from the road.
A narrow dust track stretched out ahead, barely more than two tire ruts carved into the earth. Reid stepped onto it, his shoes kicking up pale clouds of powder that clung to his pant legs. Each footfall sounded too loud, too deliberate, as if the desert itself were listening.
The air smelled dry and mineral, tinged faintly with rust and old oil. Cicadas buzzed somewhere unseen, their droning pulse rising and falling like an erratic heartbeat. With every step, the sun seemed heavier, pressing against his skull, flattening thought into sensation.
Up ahead, the concrete building began to emerge from the heat-haze.
At first it was only a suggestion, an angular shadow interrupting the horizon. Then the lines sharpened. A squat, brutal structure of grey concrete, windowless on the side facing him, its edges cracked and crumbling as if the desert were slowly reclaiming it. Rusted fencing sagged around the perimeter, half-buried in sand, warning signs bleached so thoroughly they were unreadable.
Reid slowed without meaning to.
His hand drifted instinctively toward his chest, fingers brushing the chain hidden beneath his shirt. The rings rested there, cool and solid, an anchor and a weight all at once. His breath hitched, a faint, involuntary tremor passing through him before he could stop it.
This is it.
The thought settled heavy and absolute.
Each step closer made the building feel larger, more oppressive, as though it were leaning toward him, waiting. His pulse thudded loudly in his ears, syncing with the crunch of gravel underfoot. Memories pressed in at the edges of his mind, fragmented, sharp, unwanted, faces without edges, voices bleeding into one another, the echo of a child’s cry that didn’t belong to the desert but followed him anyway.
Reid let out a shaky breath, forcing air into lungs that suddenly felt too small. He straightened his shoulders, ignoring the ache in his ribs, ignoring the instinct screaming at him to turn around.
By the time he reached the edge of the property, the sun was beginning its slow descent, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. The concrete loomed in front of him now, scarred and silent, holding its secrets close.
Reid stopped.
For one suspended moment, he stood there in the heat and dust, the past and present colliding painfully in his chest. Then, with a quiet resolve that felt more like surrender than courage, he took another step forward and crossed the threshold.
The interior swallowed him whole.
The moment Reid stepped inside, the heat shifted, no longer pressing down from above, but radiating up from the concrete itself, trapped and stale. The air was thick with dust and the metallic tang of abandonment, old oil and something sour that had soaked too deeply into the walls to ever leave. His footsteps echoed sharply, each one ricocheting down the empty corridors as though the building were answering him back.
He didn’t hesitate.
He moved with a quiet certainty that surprised even him, turning left, then right, then down a narrow passage where the ceiling dipped low and the lights had long since been torn from their housings. His memory guided him more surely than sight ever could. He knew this place, not the way one knows a map, but the way one knows a scar. His body remembered before his mind caught up.
The corridors stretched on, concrete ribs of a dead thing, doors hanging open on rusted hinges, rooms stripped bare. As he walked, the present began to thin, reality loosening its grip at the edges.
A gunshot cracked through the silence.
Reid flinched despite himself, his muscles locking, heart slamming hard enough to steal the air from his lungs. The sound wasn’t real, he knew that, but it rang just as loudly in his skull, sharp and concussive, bouncing off the walls of memory instead of concrete.
Then came the crying.
A child’s wail, high and raw, cutting straight through him. It seemed to seep from the walls themselves, echoing down the corridor, rising and falling with desperate, inconsolable grief. Reid’s steps faltered, his hand brushing the wall for balance as his vision blurred for a heartbeat.
“I’m here,” he whispered automatically, the words torn from him without thought. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
The crying faded, but the weight of it stayed lodged in his chest.
Further down the hall, his foot brushed something loose, sending a small stone skittering across the floor. The sound triggered another echo, different this time. Quieter. Closer.
A man’s voice, low and almost amused.
“You fell for a snake.”
The words slithered through the corridor, curling around Reid’s spine like cold fingers. His breath caught, every nerve in his body lighting up at once. He could hear the cadence of it, the cruel satisfaction threaded through each syllable. He’d heard it here before. Standing in this exact place. Helpless in a way he’d never learned how to articulate.
Reid stopped walking.
The corridor ahead stretched long and empty, shadows pooling at its far end like ink. His reflection stared back at him from a cracked metal panel on the wall, pale, drawn, eyes too bright in his hollowed face.
This building wasn’t just abandoned. It was waiting and Reid, heart pounding and memories clawing their way to the surface, knew he was exactly where he was meant to be.
The footsteps came again.
Measured. Unhurried. Too deliberate to be debris shifting or the building settling in the heat. The sound echoed down the corridor in soft, hollow taps, the unmistakable rhythm of shoes striking concrete. Reid’s breath stilled, every muscle in his body going taut as his mind raced to catalogue the possibilities. Auditory memory. Stress-induced hallucination. Hyper-vigilance.
Or someone else was here.
He stood perfectly still, listening, counting the space between each step. The sound wavered, then continued, drifting farther down the corridor, just out of sight. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud enough that for a moment he wondered if it might drown the footsteps out entirely.
“This isn’t real,” he whispered, though the words lacked conviction.
The footsteps turned a corner.
Something in his chest tightened, not fear exactly, but a gravitational pull, the same inexorable force that had drawn him back to this place in the first place. Before he could fully decide whether following the sound was rational or reckless, his body had already chosen for him.
Reid moved.
His steps were slow, controlled, his breathing shallow as he followed the echo down the corridor. The concrete beneath his shoes was uneven, grit crunching softly despite his care. Each sound felt amplified, magnified by the cavernous silence pressing in around him. The footsteps ahead remained steady, never speeding up, never retreating, as if whoever, or whatever, was making them knew he was there and saw no need to hide.
The corridor opened suddenly into a wide room.
Reid halted at the threshold, raising his gun instinctively, both hands tight around the grip. The room was vast and bare, its ceiling arched high above, sunlight bleeding in through shattered windows near the roof and striping the floor in pale gold. Dust hung in the air, suspended and glittering, disturbed by his presence.
The footsteps stopped.
Reid’s heart hammered as his eyes swept the room, tracking every shadow, every broken beam and overturned crate. His finger hovered near the trigger, not quite resting on it, tension coiled tight through his arms and shoulders.
“Hello?” His voice echoed back at him, thin and fragile against the room’s vastness.
No answer.
Only the faint creak of cooling metal and the whisper of wind threading through the broken windows. Yet the feeling remained, thick and electric, like he had stepped into the centre of a held breath.
Whatever had been walking ahead of him was close.
And for the first time since he’d arrived, Reid wasn’t sure whether he was chasing a memory… or about to meet it face to face.
“Hello?” Reid called again, his voice stronger this time, pushing outward into the cavernous space.
It came back to him in fragments, broken by distance and dust, swallowed by the building’s hollow ribs. No reply followed. The silence pressed in, thick and expectant, and for a fleeting moment he wondered if he really had been following nothing more than the echo of his own unraveling thoughts.
He took a step forward.
The impact came without warning.
A brutal, precise blow struck the back of his head, white-hot and disorienting, snapping his world violently sideways. His knees buckled before he could even cry out, his gun slipping from his grasp as he crashed hard against the concrete. Pain detonated behind his eyes, his vision smearing into streaks of light and shadow.
He tried to push himself up. Failed.
The room tilted and spun, the ceiling warping above him as darkness bled into the edges of his sight. Through the ringing in his ears, he sensed movement, a presence looming closer. Heavy footsteps. A shadow falling across him.
Reid squinted, fighting to focus, and just barely made out the shape of a man standing over him, face blurred, features indistinct in the haze.
“I thought they’d have trained you better than that,” the man said calmly.
The voice was steady. Familiar in a way that made something cold twist in Reid’s gut.
Reid tried to speak, but his tongue felt thick and uncooperative, his thoughts scattering faster than he could catch them. The room dimmed further, the man’s shape dissolving into darkness as consciousness slipped through his fingers.
The last thing Reid felt was the hard bite of concrete against his cheek…
…and then the dark swallowed him whole.
***
The darkness rolled over him in waves, heavy and suffocating. Sounds blurred, stretching and warping until it lost meaning. Light, smeared into dull flashes behind his eyes. Thought fractured last, splintering into pieces that refused to stay in the present.
His mind reached instinctively for something solid and found the past instead.
He was younger.
Not younger in the soft, nostalgic way memory sometimes offered, but raw and unsettled, his body tight with vigilance. The room was small and windowless, lit by flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed faintly overhead. A man sat across from him, FBI badge clipped neatly to his belt, his voice careful and controlled.
You understand what we’re asking of you, Doctor Reid.
A folder slid across the table. Even now, Reid could feel the weight of it in his hands, the crisp edges of classified pages, the starkness of maps and photographs he hadn’t been allowed to keep. Names he’d been told not to memorise. Faces he would never forget.
He had said yes too quickly.
The realisation landed with a dull ache, hindsight pressing in like a physical force. He hadn’t hesitated. He’d told himself it was logic, duty, the chance to make a difference. He hadn’t recognised the quiet arrogance in believing he could walk into hell and come back unchanged.
The memory shifted before he could dwell on it.
A mirror replaced the table, cracked and bolted to a stained wall. He stared at his reflection, barely recognising the man looking back at him. His hair was shorter. The glasses were gone. His posture was different, still, deliberate. He practiced holding himself that way, practicing silence.
Matthew Cruz, he repeated in his head.
The name felt awkward at first, then functional, then necessary. Cruz didn’t fidget. Cruz didn’t fill silence with nervous explanations. Cruz watched. Cruz waited. Cruz survived.
Somewhere nearby, someone laughed, low and rough, the sound of someone unafraid of consequences. Reid felt his stomach tighten, his body reacting even now, years later, as though the threat still hovered just out of sight.
Heat bled into the memory next. Thick, oppressive. Arizona heat, though he hadn’t known it by name then. Dust clung to his boots. The air smelled of oil, metal, and sweat baked into concrete. He stood at the edge of a warehouse, arms loose at his sides, pulse steady despite the gunshot that echoed through the space.
It had been a test.
A man lay on the floor, bleeding and screaming, not dead, not yet. Reid remembered the way the noise had cut off abruptly when the gun was placed in his hand.
Do it, someone had said. Calm. Curious. Almost bored.
His finger hadn’t trembled.
That memory twisted something deep in his chest. Even now, it terrified him more than the gun ever had.
The images began to bleed together after that. New language settled into his mouth, harsher syllables and slower cadence. New rules replaced the old ones. Don’t ask questions. Don’t hesitate. Loyalty is currency. Fear is weakness.
He remembered the first night he couldn’t sleep.
Then the first night he didn’t want to.
A softer presence tried to surface, something warm, something human. A woman’s voice, intelligent and steady. She had challenged him once, over something small and inconsequential, and instead of punishing her for it, he had laughed.
The sound of it had startled him.
The memory fractured before her face could fully take shape, retreating as if his mind refused to let it come into focus just yet.
Pain surged suddenly, sharp and immediate, pulling him closer to the present. His head throbbed, each pulse sending sparks through his skull. He became dimly aware of cold concrete beneath him, the metallic taste at the back of his throat.
But his mind resisted waking.
It curled back toward the past, toward the place where the rules were clear and the role was defined. Toward the man he had been taught to become.
The last thought that surfaced before the darkness closed in again was heavy and unmistakably his own:
This is where it started.
And then the blackness reclaimed him, carrying with it the echoes of a life he had never truly escaped.
***
Consciousness returned to him in slow, painful layers.
The first thing Reid became aware of was pressure, unyielding and wrong, biting into his wrists. Then the cold. Then the ache, deep and nauseating, blooming at the base of his skull and radiating forward until the world throbbed in time with his pulse.
He inhaled sharply and hissed through his teeth.
Leather creaked beneath him.
That alone snapped him fully awake.
Reid’s eyes flew open, his vision swimming as the room lurched into focus. Harsh light bled into the edges of his sight, illuminating cracked concrete floors and stained walls that disappeared into shadow. He was upright, too upright. His back was pressed against something rigid, arms pulled behind him at an unnatural angle.
A chair.
Panic flared hot and immediate.
His wrists were bound tightly to the backrest with thick rope, circulation already tingling unpleasantly. His ankles were secured as well, legs immobile, the chair heavy enough that shifting his weight did nothing but scrape it uselessly against the floor. A strip of coarse fabric was tied cruelly tight across his mouth, the knot digging into his jaw.
He tried to speak. The sound came out as a muffled, broken noise that barely resembled a word.
“Ah.”
The voice came from directly in front of him.
Reid’s head snapped up, sending a fresh wave of dizziness crashing through him. A man stood a few feet away, hands tucked casually into his pockets, posture loose, relaxed, like this was exactly where he’d expected to be.
The man smiled.
It was sharp and deliberate, all teeth and no warmth.
“Well,” he drawled, tilting his head, “look who’s finally decided to join us.”
Reid strained against his restraints, muscles burning as he tested them, instinct overriding pain. The chair shuddered but held firm. The man watched with open amusement, eyes tracking every movement.
He laughed softly. “Still got fight in you. Good. I’d hate for this to be boring.”
He took a few unhurried steps closer, boots echoing through the open space. “I’ll admit,” he continued conversationally, “I wasn’t sure the letter would work. People don’t usually chase ghosts anymore. But you always did have a talent for unfinished business.”
He stopped directly in front of Reid and crouched, bringing them eye to eye. Reid could see it clearly now, the calculation behind the grin, the familiarity that didn’t belong.
“You walked right into this,” the man said quietly. “All alone. No team. No backup.”
His smile widened, wicked and satisfied.
“Honestly?” he added. “They should’ve trained you better than that.”
Reid’s chest rose and fell too fast beneath the gag, anger and fear tangling tight in his ribs as the man straightened again.
“But don’t worry,” the man said lightly, already turning away. “You’re awake now.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, grin returning.
“And we’ve got plenty of time.”
Reid tried to speak again, forcing words past the tight strip of fabric, but they dissolved into a hoarse, muffled sound that scraped uselessly against the gag. His jaw ached with the effort. Frustration flared hot in his chest, sharp enough to cut through the haze still clinging to his thoughts.
The man’s eyes flicked to his mouth.
“Oh, don’t strain yourself,” he said, and then laughed, low and delighted, like he’d just been handed a private joke.
Before Reid could brace, the man stepped in close and grabbed the gag. He yanked it free in one brutal motion. The fabric tore away from Reid’s face, skin stinging, jaw snapping shut hard enough to make his teeth click. Reid sucked in a breath, air burning his throat as he coughed once, chest heaving.
He lifted his head despite the pain, eyes locking onto the man’s.
“What do you want?” Reid demanded, his voice rough but steady, the calm reflex snapping into place even as his pulse thundered.
The man’s grin widened.
The man’s smile sharpened as he straightened, circling the chair with slow, unhurried steps, as if time itself belonged to him. His boots scraped softly against the concrete, each sound deliberate, measured.
“You always did make things more complicated than they needed to be,” he said lightly. “People think this is about money. Or power. Or payback.” He let out a quiet, amused breath. “Those are just side effects.”
He stopped directly in front of Reid and leaned down until they were eye level.
“What I want,” he said, voice lowering, thick with certainty, “is you.”
Reid’s jaw tightened.
The man’s expression shifted, something reverent slipping into the cruelty, as if he were addressing something sacred and profane all at once.
“Michael Cruz,” he said slowly, savouring the name. Then, after a beat, “Michael Donovan.”
The way he said it made it clear he believed both names belonged to the same man, two truths, not a mask and the face beneath it.
“You don’t get to disappear,” the man continued quietly. “You don’t get to walk away and pretend one of those men died.”
He straightened, his shadow stretching long over Reid and the chair.
“I want all of you,” he finished. “Every version you ever were.”
Reid’s eyes stayed locked on the man, searching for any hint of recognition, any weakness, but found none. His mind raced, fragments of memory flickering behind his gaze, but nothing solid enough to grasp.
The man leaned closer, his voice low, almost reverent in its menace. “You know what I’ll never understand? How you walked away that day. How everyone… everyone who mattered, who stood in your way, ended up dead… and you just… disappeared.”
He shook his head slowly, as if still trying to wrap his mind around it himself. “Like a ghost. Like you were never there at all.”
Reid swallowed hard, the taste of copper sharp in his mouth, but he said nothing. The silence became a weight, pressing down from the walls around them, as the man circled him like a predator savouring the moment before the strike.
“You think you can hide behind shadows, Michael,” the man continued, voice tightening with a mix of anger and awe, “but shadows can’t save you forever.”
Reid’s chest rose and fell in shallow, controlled breaths. Finally, he forced words past the lingering tension in his throat. “I… I don’t know who you are,” he said, each syllable deliberate, measured, as if repeating a mantra might make it true.
The man froze mid-step, eyes narrowing in disbelief, a flash of hurt flickering across his face. “You… you don’t remember?” he asked, voice trembling with a mix of shock and wounded incredulity. “After everything… you really don’t?”
Reid’s mind clawed at fragments, fleeting shapes of memory, snatches of voices, the sharp tang of fear and adrenaline, but nothing solid formed. There was a strange familiarity in the man’s face, a pull he couldn’t place, a shadow of recognition that hovered just out of reach. He shook his head subtly, forcing a distance he didn’t quite feel.
The man stepped closer, intensity radiating from him. “I thought… I thought you’d never forget, Michael. After what we went through… after everything you did, how could you forget me?”
Reid’s gaze faltered for a fraction of a second before hardening again. He said nothing, letting the silence stretch, a fragile barrier between himself and the man whose face teased the edges of memory.
The man’s eyes darkened, heat flickering across his face as disbelief curdled into fury. He stepped closer, the chair creaking under Reid’s shifting weight, and his voice rose, sharp and raw. “You don’t remember me?!” he spat, each word punctuated with venom. “After everything we survived… everything we lost… and you just… don’t remember?”
His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening. “I thought… I knew you, Michael! I trusted you! And now, you act like I’m a stranger standing in front of you?”
Reid flinched at the intensity, the heat of the man’s anger searing through the cool, stale air of the room. He opened his mouth to respond, but words stuck in his throat, swallowed by the knot of dread tightening in his chest. The man’s face loomed closer, a storm barely contained, and the familiarity that Reid couldn’t place pressed like a phantom weight against his mind.
Reid’s eyes narrowed, the knot of fear and confusion in his chest tightening further. “If you trusted me,” he asked, voice strained but steady, “then why am I tied up?”
The man let out a short, sharp laugh, more bitter than amused. “Trust?” he scoffed, pacing slowly in front of Reid. “I wanted to trust you. But you disappeared. Not once… but twice. And this time? I can’t take that risk. Not again. Not this time.”
His gaze locked onto Reid’s, intense and unrelenting, as if burning through the fog of Reid’s fractured memory. “You think I’d let you just walk away after what happened?” he said, voice low and dangerous, each word deliberate. “No. Not you. Not now.”
Reid swallowed hard, the bindings digging into his wrists, and for the first time, the faint pulse of memory, fleeting, chaotic, stirred in the back of his mind, teasing at the edges of recognition.
The man turned away from him, moving toward the far side of the room. Only then did Reid notice the table, metal, scarred, half-lost in shadow, its surface cluttered with indistinct shapes he hadn’t been able to focus on before. His vision tracked the movement automatically, dread coiling tighter with each step the man took.
He reached down and picked something up.
Reid’s breath hitched.
A syringe caught the light as the man turned back toward him, the needle glinting dully, impossibly sharp. The clear barrel was already filled, the liquid inside catching reflections as it shifted.
“Maybe this will remind you,” the man said lightly, almost conversational, as if he were offering coffee instead of a threat.
Reid froze.
The room seemed to tilt, reality slipping a fraction out of alignment as his pulse roared in his ears. The air felt suddenly too thick to breathe, pressing down on his chest. His hands clenched uselessly against the restraints as his mind betrayed him, dragging him backward without permission.
Concrete walls. A dim farmhouse. A needle piercing skin. Tobias Hankel’s voice, warped and echoing, layered over itself. Pain. Confusion. The slow unraveling of thought.
“No,” The word stuck in his throat, barely forming as his vision blurred at the edges. His breathing turned shallow, rapid, each inhale scraping like broken glass. He could feel it again, the helplessness, the chemical fog swallowing him whole, the terror of losing himself piece by piece while someone else watched.
His eyes snapped back to the present, locking onto the syringe as if staring hard enough could will it out of existence.
“Don’t,” he said hoarsely, the plea escaping before he could stop it.
The man tilted his head, studying Reid’s reaction with sharp interest, a cruel satisfaction curling at the edge of his smile.
“Oh,” he murmured. “So that still works.”
Reid’s heart hammered violently against his ribs as the past and present bled together, and for the first time since waking up bound to the chair, pure, unfiltered panic cracked through the numbness he’d been clinging to.
The man stepped closer, each movement deliberate, the syringe still glinting in his hand. Reid’s bound arms tensed, his fingers straining uselessly against the restraints as panic surged through him.
“I, I don’t know who you are! Why are you doing this? Please, stop!” Reid’s voice cracked, muffled at first, then rising in desperation. He thrashed slightly in the chair, but the cords bit into his wrists, anchoring him immovably.
The man’s eyes were cold, unyielding, trained solely on Reid. He leaned in, his voice low and unnervingly calm. “I don’t care what you think you know.”
Reid’s pleas became frantic, repeating the words over and over, voice breaking, sweat beading on his forehead. His chest heaved as adrenaline screamed through him, but it did nothing to loosen the ropes or dissuade the man.
With a precise, almost clinical motion, the man pressed the needle against Reid’s arm. The point pierced skin with a subtle, almost inaudible click. Reid jerked instinctively, the cords holding him tight, and the man’s hand was steady, immovable.
A hiss of injected liquid slid into Reid’s veins. His muscles seized as the chemical spread, a burning, twisting sensation climbing through his limbs and spine. The room seemed to tilt violently, walls bending, shadows stretching unnaturally. Reid’s mind screamed, panic and confusion mingling with the creeping, unnatural calm the drug forced over him.
“Please… no… I don’t know… I don’t…” His voice faltered, the edges of his vision darkening, sound distorting, heartbeat thundering in his ears as the world slipped away.
The man stepped back, watching with a small, satisfied smile as Reid’s struggles slowed, body sagging, eyes widening in terror, and consciousness began to slip from him. The room swayed and blurred, past and present colliding as Reid’s mind began its descent into the chemical fog.
Reid’s vision blurred immediately, the edges of the room softening, melting like wax under heat. The drug raced through his veins with an almost liquid fire, hot and cold at once, twisting his muscles, seizing his joints, coiling around his heart. His lungs felt heavy, as if each breath was dragging through molasses, and the air itself seemed to thicken, pressing against his chest, pressing against his skull.
Thoughts fragmented, scattering like shards of glass. Panic tried to claw its way through, but the chemical fog was faster, dulled his senses, dulled his will. Every sound stretched, echoed, then dampened into a hollow, distant hum. His skin burned, tingled, then went numb, and a deep, crawling weakness seeped into his bones.
Fear mixed with a surreal detachment. He could feel his heartbeat, fast and chaotic, yet it felt unreal, like he was observing it from somewhere outside himself. Memories, flashes of light, shadowed faces, and broken voices, collided in his mind, jagged fragments he could almost grasp but could not hold. The gunshots, the child’s cry, the icy water, Alvara’s voice, Luca’s laugh, all swirled together, dissolving into a haze of pain and grief, each beat of his heart dragging him deeper into the fog.
His limbs no longer obeyed him, the chair a rigid anchor as his body slumped, twitching involuntarily. Thought slowed, then stuttered, until even the frantic questioning of “Why? Who are you? What’s happening?” became muted whispers, echoes in a cavern he could no longer access. A heavy, dark calm settled over him, unnatural and suffocating, lulling him toward unconsciousness, dragging him down like a tide he could not fight.
From the corner of the room, the man stepped back, his eyes gleaming with dark satisfaction. A thin, cruel smile twisted across his face. He watched Reid’s body go slack, the faint tremor of resistance fading as the drug took full hold.
“Goodnight, Michael,” the man said softly, almost tenderly, the words sliding into the quiet room with a sinister finality. And then Reid was gone, swallowed entirely by the creeping black haze that had claimed him.
When it's posted, you can find Chapter Eleven here!
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The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Nine
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
Reid sat in the half-dark of his apartment, the only light a thin silver wash leaking in through the blinds, striping the room in pale, uneven bands. The air felt still, heavy, as if even the dust motes were reluctant to move. He barely sank into the leather sofa, back straight, shoulders tense, every breath shallow against the bruises blooming under his ribs. The silence pressed close around him, thick enough to feel, soft enough to suffocate. His gaze was unfocused, fixed on nothing, on everything, on the distance between the man he’d been and the one sitting here now.
Slowly, almost unconsciously, his fingers rose to the hollow of his throat. They slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, brushing over tender skin until they found the chain. He drew it out with a faint metallic whisper. The rings fell into his palm, cool, familiar weight, two small circles of metal that held more memory than any file ever could. He closed his hand around them, knuckles whitening, breath trembling. A single tear broke free, silent and unacknowledged, tracing a thin path down his cheek as he bowed his head over the fragile comfort of what little he had left.
Reid felt the tremor begin somewhere deep inside him, small, almost imperceptible at first. Just a faint loosening of the tight, numb shell he had been living inside for months. Sitting alone on his leather sofa, bruises aching, ribs throbbing with every breath, he let his fingers curl around the chain at his neck. He pulled it free, the metal rings slipping into his palm with a soft, familiar weight.
He closed his eyes. For once, he didn’t try to steady his breathing. He didn’t force the world back into clean lines. He didn’t pretend he was fine. He just sat there, quiet and trembling, while emotion cracked through him like ice giving way underfoot. A single tear broke free, warm against his cheek, dropping to the rings he clutched so tightly his knuckles blanched.
He exhaled shakily…
…and that was when he heard it.
The click of the key in the lock. The soft scrape of metal turning. The gentle thud of the door opening.
Reid’s eyes snapped open. His head lifted.
A woman stepped inside as if it were the most natural thing in the world, long dark hair tumbling over her shoulders, her expression instantly brightening with relief when she saw him.
“There you are,” she breathed, shutting the door behind her before rushing to him. “God, Spencer, you scared me. What’s wrong?”
Her voice was warm. Soft. Familiar in a way that hit him like a physical force as she knelt in front of him, concern etched deep into her features. Her hand came to rest gently on his knee, warm, steadying, real.
Reid’s breath caught.He knew that face. He shouldn’t. He couldn’t…
…but he did.
“Hey,” she murmured, thumb brushing lightly over his cheek, wiping the tear he hadn’t even realised was still falling. “It’s okay. Whatever it is… it’s never so bad we can’t face it together.”
Together.
The word cut straight through him.
His chest tightened and for a moment, he forgot to breathe. She moved to sit beside him on the sofa, her arm curling around him, guiding him gently until his head rested against her shoulder.
He let her. He didn’t even think. His muscles loosened for the first time in months, sinking into the warmth of her embrace, the scent of her hair, the rhythmic rise and fall of her breathing.
She began to speak softly, light, sweet distractions about her afternoon.
“I picked Luca up from pre-school,” she said, fingers drifting absentmindedly through his hair. “Dropped him off at my sister’s so I could come check on you. He’s so excited to show you the little paper sun he made today. It’s adorable, you’re going to love it when you pick him up later.”
Reid’s entire body went still.
He lifted his head, just enough to see her properly. Her face. Her eyes. Her smile.
“…Are you really here?” he whispered.
Her expression shifted into confusion, gentle, amused confusion. “Of course I’m here.”
She pressed the back of her hand to his forehead with easy affection, checking him the way someone who knew him intimately would. “You feel warm. Are you getting sick?”
He shook his head, barely. He took her hand instead, holding it between both of his as if anchoring himself.
“I love you,” he said.
She laughed softly. A warm, musical sound he felt in his chest. “I love you too.”
He squeezed her hand harder. “No. I… really love you.”
Her brows lifted, teasing affection lighting her expression. “Okay, what’s brought this on?”
He opened his mouth, but he didn’t know. He couldn’t explain the ache, the longing, the grief bleeding into relief, or the fear that if he looked away for even a moment she would disappear.
Before he could try, something clattered in the kitchen.
Reid jerked violently upright, heart slamming, breath catching, blinking hard at the sudden emptiness around him.
The sofa was cold. The room silent. The door still locked from the inside. The woman was gone…
…There was no sign she had ever been there.
Reid sat frozen, chest heaving, rings cutting into his palm. The silence pressed in, heavy and absolute and for the first time, the fear that he was slipping, truly slipping, settled over him like a shadow he couldn’t outrun.
Reid pushed himself up from the sofa, his movements stiff, the ghost of the woman’s touch still tingling faintly along his skin. The apartment felt colder now, too quiet, too still, as if the world itself were holding its breath around him. He took a few steps toward the kitchen, toward the sound that had jolted him awake, when something pale on the floor near the front door caught his eye.
An envelope.
Thin. Off-white. Slipped halfway beneath the threshold.
He went still.
Slowly, he reached for the gun resting on the side table, fingers curling around the grip with practiced familiarity. The weight grounded him, barely. He held it low but ready as he approached the door, the air sharpening with each step.
He crouched, pausing just beside the peephole, listening.
The hallway was silent.
Reid inhaled once, shallow and tense as he slipped the chain off the door and released the bolt, then eased open the door a few inches. Gun first, he swept the hall left, then right. Nothing. No footsteps. No doors closing. No elevator ding. Just the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the quiet hum of an empty corridor.
His pulse didn’t slow.
He shut the door quickly, sliding the deadbolt and chain into place with sharp metallic clicks that sounded too loud in the stillness. Only when every lock was secured did he bend to retrieve the envelope.
His stomach dropped the moment he saw the handwriting.
Michael Donovan
Scrawled fast, hurried, the letters sharp and slanted like they’d been written by someone with shaking hands, or by someone impatient.
The room seemed to tilt. Reid tore it open, breath caught in his throat. Inside was a single slip of paper. No greeting. No threat. No explanation.
Just an address. A date. A time. All written in the same quick, jagged script.
Reid’s blood ran cold.
He stared at the paper as if it might vanish too, like everything else that was real and unreal and slipping through his fingers. His hand tightened around the note until the edges bit into his skin, and still he didn’t move.
The date was soon. Too soon and the address… he knew it. Even though he wished he didn’t.
Reid stood alone in the dim hush of his apartment, the silence humming with the weight of something he could no longer outrun.
***
Quantico had fallen into that uneasy lull that came after a case closed badly and before the next one announced itself. The bullpen was alive with paperwork rather than urgency, reports being finalised, evidence logged, loose ends tied off with methodical precision. Keyboards clicked in uneven rhythms. Coffee went untouched.
Reid’s desk sat empty.
No one commented on it, but its absence cast a longer shadow than usual, a quiet wrongness that tugged at the edges of everyone’s attention.
Hotch emerged from his office and stopped just short of the bullpen. His gaze swept the room once before he spoke.
“Conference room. All of you.”
The tone alone was enough to still the room. JJ capped her pen. Morgan straightened. Rossi’s fingers paused over his keyboard mid-keystroke.
They gathered quickly, the door closing behind them with a soft but final click. Hotch didn’t waste time. He stepped to the table and placed an envelope at its centre.
Plain. Unremarkable.
Except for the name written across the front in fast, slanted handwriting.
Michael Donovan
The room seemed to collectively inhale.
“That was delivered to the BAU this morning,” Hotch said evenly.
Morgan leaned forward, eyes locked on the envelope. “Addressed to him?”
Hotch nodded once. “No return address.”
Rossi reached out and opened it carefully, as if expecting something volatile. Inside was a single sheet of paper. No message. No explanation.
Just an address and beneath it, a date and time.
JJ’s voice was quiet. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” Hotch confirmed.
Emily exhaled slowly. “That’s not random.”
“No,” Rossi agreed. “It’s an invitation. Or a summons.”
Garcia was already moving, laptop open, fingers flying. “Okay, let’s see where this rabbit hole leads.” Her expression shifted as results populated her screen. “The address is real. Residential. Middle of nowhere by the looks of it.”
She glanced up, unease creeping into her voice. “It’s in Arizona.”
The room fell silent again, the significance of the location settling heavily among them. Arizona, where the only solid thread they had so far had led. Where names disappeared. Where lives ended.
Morgan ran a hand over his face. “This is connected. It has to be.”
Hotch looked down at the paper once more, jaw tightening. “And whoever sent this knows exactly what they’re doing.”
No one argued.
The letter sat between them like a ticking clock, counting down to something none of them could yet see, but all of them felt coming.
Morgan broke the silence first, his eyes never leaving the slip of paper at the centre of the table.
“Something about this feels wrong to keep from him,” he said slowly. “Whatever this is… something tells me we should call Reid in for this.”
Hotch didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the envelope, fingers resting flat against the table beside it, his expression carefully controlled. “He’s on medical leave,” he said at last. “Physically and psychologically. Pulling him back in now could do more harm than good.”
Emily shifted in her chair, folding her arms. “I understand that. But how far do we really think we can get without him?” Her eyes flicked to the name written across the envelope. “This already involves his past. If this goes where it looks like it’s going, we’re going to hit a wall…and Reid is on the other side of it.”
JJ nodded quietly. “And if he finds out we knew and didn’t tell him…”
Morgan let out a low breath. “That won’t end well.”
Hotch studied the group, weighing the risk, the ethics, the consequences. Finally, he gave a small, reluctant nod. “Call him.”
Garcia didn’t route it through the system. She used her phone instead, her movements careful, almost reverent, as if calling too loudly might spook something fragile.
The line rang.
Once…
Twice…
Three times…
The room held its breath.
Then the call slid to voicemail.
Reid’s voice filled the space, measured, even and too calm.
“Hi, you’ve reached Spencer Reid. I’m out of state for a while. Leave a message and I’ll call you when I’m back.”
The call ended with a soft click that felt far too loud.
No one spoke at first.
Morgan straightened slowly. “Out of state?”
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving.”
JJ frowned. “Medical leave doesn’t usually include disappearing.”
Garcia stared down at her phone, unsettled. “That message sounded… prepared. Like he knew he wouldn’t be reachable.”
Rossi leaned back, crossing his arms. “Which means wherever he went, he went intentionally.”
Hotch looked back down at the letter, at the neat, minimal information inside, then at the address Garcia had already confirmed sat squarely in Arizona.
The connection hovered in the air, unspoken but heavy.
“He didn’t wait for us,” Morgan said quietly. “He went alone.”
Silence stretched, tightening the room around them.
Then Morgan spoke again, slower this time, a new edge creeping into his voice. “There’s something else.”
Everyone turned to him.
He nodded toward the envelope. “We’re assuming this is the only letter. That whoever sent it meant for us to see it.”
Hotch’s jaw set. “And you think…”
“I think,” Morgan interrupted gently, “that Reid got one too. Or maybe he got his first.” His gaze dropped to the date and address again. “And by the time this showed up here… he was already gone.”
The room went still.
Garcia swallowed hard. “Which means this wasn’t a warning.”
Emily’s voice was barely above a whisper. “It was an invitation.”
Hotch closed the file slowly, decisively. “Then we’re already behind.” He straightened, resolve hardening across his features as the weight of the decision settled into place.
“We’re going to Arizona,” he said. “Wheels up in twenty.”
No one questioned it.
Morgan was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket. JJ nodded once and headed for the door, her expression focused and tight. Emily followed close behind, reaching for her go-bag, while Garcia murmured something under her breath about rerouting satellites and booking hotels she absolutely would not be using.
Within seconds the room emptied, urgency snapping into motion like a pulled trigger.
All except Rossi.
He lingered near the table, hands braced on the back of a chair, watching Hotch gather the file and slide the letter back into its envelope. For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the lights overhead.
Rossi finally spoke. “You do realise you’re going to have to explain this.”
Hotch didn’t look up. “Explain what?”
Rossi arched an eyebrow. “Using the jet. Crossing state lines. Chasing a ghost with no open case and no official request from local law enforcement.” He paused. “On paper, this looks bad.”
Hotch placed the envelope carefully into the file, then met Rossi’s gaze, his expression calm but unyielding.
“On paper, yes,” he agreed.
Rossi exhaled through his nose. “So what’s the plan when the higher-ups start asking questions?”
Hotch closed the file with a soft, decisive snap. “There isn’t one.”
Rossi studied him for a long beat, then gave a slow, knowing nod. “That’s what I thought.”
Hotch stood, shrugging into his jacket. “If I ask for permission, I’ll get denied and if I get denied, Reid is on his own out there.” His voice dropped, firm and absolute. “I’m not letting that happen.”
A faint, grim smile tugged at the corner of Rossi’s mouth. “Better to act and ask for forgiveness later.”
Hotch didn’t smile back. “Exactly.”
Rossi reached for his own jacket. “Alright then. Let’s go find our kid.”
They left the room together, the decision already made, the consequences waiting somewhere down the line, but for now, all that mattered was the ticking clock and the long stretch of desert ahead.
***
The jet cut through the sky in a steady, muted roar, the cabin lights dimmed against the pale afternoon sun streaming through the narrow windows. The team had settled into their seats, laptops open, files spread across the small tables, the atmosphere taut with focus and unspoken concern.
Garcia sat hunched over her screen, fingers flying as streams of data scrolled past. “Okay, so,” she said, pushing her glasses up her nose, “the address from the letter is real. It’s in Arizona, about thirty miles outside Phoenix. Middle of nowhere, sunbaked, dust-for-days kind of nowhere.”
Emily leaned forward. “Residential?”
Garcia shook her head. “Nope. Industrial. Or… it was. Old industrial estate, warehouses, processing plants, the whole bleak concrete nightmare package.” She tapped a key and pulled up a satellite image on the shared monitor. A greyed-out sprawl appeared, boxy shapes half-swallowed by desert.
Morgan frowned. “Why does it look like that?”
“Because,” Garcia said slowly, “someone really doesn’t want us looking at it.” She zoomed in. The image pixelated further, dissolving into a deliberate blur. “Bird’s-eye view is scrubbed. Not low resolution, blocked. Every angle. Every date.”
Hotch straightened slightly. “Can you get around it?”
Garcia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “I can try.” Her fingers flew faster, code stacking on code as she tunnelled through backdoors and proxy layers. Seconds stretched, then minutes. Finally, she leaned back with a frustrated huff. “No. Whoever put this up is running military-grade firewalls. This isn’t some bored hacker with a grudge. This is… institutional.”
Rossi exchanged a look with Morgan. “So someone official.”
“Or someone with friends in very official places,” Garcia said quietly.
JJ glanced at the letter on the table between them. “What kind of abandoned industrial site needs that level of protection?”
Garcia’s eyes flicked back to her screen. “That’s the million-dollar question.” She hesitated, then clicked into another database. “Wait. Okay. There’s something else.” Her brow furrowed as a single entry populated. “Old FBI file attached to the location. Not recent. Years old.”
Hotch stepped closer. “Can you open it?”
Garcia tried. Once. Twice. Her screen flashed red.
“Access denied,” she said softly. “Full lockout. I don’t even get the courtesy of a redacted preview.”
Silence settled over the cabin, heavy and uneasy.
Rossi leaned back in his seat. “So we’ve got a location that’s been abandoned long enough to be forgotten, but protected enough to be untouchable.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “And Reid went out of state right after a letter with that address showed up.”
Hotch looked out the window at the endless stretch of sky, his reflection faint in the glass. “Which means whatever’s waiting for us out there,” he said evenly, “is something someone went to great lengths to hide.”
The jet surged forward, Arizona drawing closer with every mile, carrying them toward a place buried not just in sand and concrete, but in secrets the Bureau itself seemed determined to forget.
Hotch’s gaze shifted back to Garcia, sharp and assessing. “That file,” he said evenly. “Can you get into it?”
Garcia looked up at him, really looked this time. Her fingers stilled above the keyboard, the hum of the jet suddenly too loud in the pause. “I… probably could,” she said carefully. “Not cleanly. Not fast. But if I had time and the right access points, yeah. I could get in.”
Morgan let out a low breath. “Just to be clear,” he said, glancing between them, “that would be a federal crime. Like, capital-F, no-coming-back-from-it crime.”
Hotch nodded once, unflinching. “I know.”
The weight of that answer settled heavily in the cabin.
“I’m not asking you to do it,” Hotch continued, his voice calm but deliberate. “I just need to know whether it’s possible.”
Garcia studied him for a long moment, searching his expression for the line he hadn’t crossed yet. Finally, she gave a small, uneasy nod.
“It’s possible,” she said. “That’s all I’m saying.”
Hotch accepted that without comment, turning his attention back to the thin folder on the table. Garcia’s hands hovered over her keyboard again, restless, the knowledge of what she could do pressing against her ribs like a held breath.
No one spoke, but the understanding was there, unspoken and shared: if this went far enough, if Reid’s silence led them somewhere dark enough, then lines they’d sworn never to cross might start to blur, just like the satellite images they couldn’t see.
The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, cutting through the low murmur of the cabin.
“We’ll be beginning our descent shortly.”
The shift was immediate. Spines straightened, conversations died off, and Hotch rose from his seat with the quiet authority that snapped everyone into focus. He moved to the small table between them, resting his hands on its edge as the jet dipped slightly beneath their feet.
“Alright,” he said evenly. “Here’s how this plays out.”
The hum of the engines underscored his words as he glanced down at the copy of the letter, the sparse details burned into all of their minds. “The date and time listed are late afternoon tomorrow. That gives us less than twenty-four hours.”
He looked up, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
“When we land, Garcia, JJ, and I will head to a hotel near the site. We’ll set up a temporary base in one of the rooms, communications, research, coordination. If anything changes, we need to be able to pivot fast.”
Garcia nodded, already mentally rearranging screens and power strips. JJ mirrored her, calm and focused.
Hotch turned to the others. “Morgan, Prentiss, Rossi, you’ll take a car and head into the nearest town to the address. Talk to locals. Shop owners, bartenders, law enforcement if we can do it quietly. Anything unusual about the location, anyone who’s been asking questions, any activity that doesn’t fit.”
Morgan leaned forward. “You want us low-profile or badge-first?”
“Low-profile,” Hotch replied without hesitation. “If someone went to this much effort to stay hidden, I don’t want them spooked before we know what we’re walking into.”
Emily nodded. “We’ll keep it subtle.”
Rossi exhaled slowly. “Industrial estate, blurred satellite images, sealed FBI file,” he muttered. “That place has bad history written all over it.”
Hotch didn’t disagree. “Which is why no one goes alone. Check in every hour. If anything feels off, you pull back.”
The jet shuddered gently as it angled downward, the desert landscape beginning to rise beneath them.
Hotch straightened, his voice firm, resolute. “Whatever this address leads to, Reid may already be there or on his way. We assume we’re behind him until proven otherwise.”
The unspoken fear rippled through the team, settling in their chests.
“Let’s move,” Hotch finished quietly.
The jet dipped through a veil of thinning clouds, sunlight breaking apart around the wings in sharp, blinding fragments. Below them, Arizona stretched out in vast, unforgiving hues, burnt ochre, rust, and pale gold, an endless sprawl of desert that seemed to swallow secrets whole. Heat shimmered even from this height, the land looking old and patient, as if it had been waiting far longer than any of them realised. The engines’ steady roar filled the cabin, a low, relentless hum that matched the tension coiled tight in every seat.
As the plane descended, the sky gave way to earth, and with it came the uneasy sense that whatever waited below was already in motion, hidden somewhere in the dust, counting down the seconds until their arrival.
When it's posted, you can find Chapter Ten here!
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The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Eight
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
The dream began the way all impossible things did, quietly, without warning, slipping over Reid like a warm tide that he did not notice until he was already submerged.
He stood in the centre of a dim, undefined space, an endless twilight grey that hummed at the edges, neither room nor void. A phone receiver was in his hand, heavy, old-fashioned, rotary-era plastic that pressed cold into his palm. He lifted it to his ear without remembering dialling, without remembering bringing it to his face. The line crackled softly at first, like someone exhaling directly into the speaker.
Then Kyle’s voice broke through.
“Spencer? … Spence, I…I don’t know what to do…”
Panic warped every syllable, breath hitching, words tumbling over each other too quickly to make proper sense. Reid felt the familiar wash of adrenaline rise in his chest, that instinctive shift into calm, the kind forged through years of talking people down from the edges of collapse. His voice found its steadiness before he consciously shaped it.
“Kyle,” he said softly, “I need you to slow down. Take a breath for me.”
On the other end, Kyle’s ragged inhale wavered. Reid could almost see him, the trembling hands, the frantic pacing, the frantic darting eyes unable to land anywhere safe. The dream wasn’t showing him, but it didn’t need to. Reid knew the man’s fear like he knew the sound of his own pulse.
“That’s it,” Reid murmured, grounding his voice even further. “Whatever’s happening… you’re not alone. Just tell me what you’re feeling.”
“I, I messed up,” Kyle whispered. “He’s gonna be so mad, and I can’t… I can’t think straight, I can’t…”
“You’re okay,” Reid interrupted gently. “You’re talking to me, remember? Slow breaths, in through your nose, just like that.” He inhaled deliberately, letting Kyle hear it through the phone. “You’re doing well.”
Gradually, imperceptibly at first, Kyle’s breathing evened out. The tremors in his voice faded to a faint residue of fear.
“I don’t…” Kyle swallowed. “I don’t know how you do that, man… but thanks. Really.”
A faint, fragile calm settled on the line, like dust floating quietly in sunbeams.
Reid opened his mouth to respond when the world shuddered.
The phone dissolved in his hand, crumbling into drifting black ash. The grey space around him rippled like disturbed water, then tore open, peeling itself into a new shape, a familiar shape. A bridge. Steel beams. A railing slick with cold mist. A river roaring somewhere far below.
Reid stood on one side.
Kyle stood on the other.
But this Kyle wasn’t the shaky, grateful voice from the phone. His eyes were wild again, frantic and hollow, and in his hand he clutched a gun, raised, aimed directly at Reid’s chest.
Reid tried to speak, but the air thickened like tar, sealing his throat. He couldn’t step forward. Couldn’t raise a hand. Even the wind seemed to freeze mid-gust, suspended around them.
Kyle smiled, a thin, broken thing that didn’t belong on any human face.
“Ricky don’t take kindly to no rats,” he said coldly.
The words slithered through the silence, wrong in their cadence, warped like a recording played through damaged speakers.
Then Kyle pulled the trigger.
The gunshot split the world.
But the bullet didn’t fly, it drifted.
Suspended in impossible slow motion, it glided toward Reid through the thickened air, spinning lazily, casing catching the light as if proud of its own trajectory. Reid watched it approach, unable to move, unable even to blink. The dream held him captive inside his own body, every instinct screaming, every limb dead weight.
He felt the moment before impact, the faintest kiss of cold metal brushing the fibres of his shirt and then…
…a child’s cry echoed across the bridge.
Soft at first. Fragile. Then rising, sharpening, splitting the air with a sound too visceral, too familiar, too wrong to ignore. It reverberated in his ribs, in his skull, a wailing grief that didn’t belong anywhere near Kyle or the river or the bridge but it clung to him, wrapping around his lungs like hands.
The bullet hit.
A white-hot bloom of pain erupted in his chest, blinding, cracking through him with the force of a falling star…
And Reid tore awake.
He lurched upright in bed, breath knifing out of him, one hand clutching the front of his shirt where phantom pain still pulsed.
No bridge.
No gun.
No child crying…
But the echo of that sound lingered in him, faint and devastating, long after the dream had vanished.
***
Reid blinked against the harsh hospital lighting, the dull throb in his ribs syncing with the frantic rhythm still lingering in his chest. Morgan stood beside the bed, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw clenched hard enough to crack.
“You scared the hell out of us, kid,” Morgan said, voice low but trembling with the weight of everything he wasn’t yet saying.
Reid’s expression shifted, subtly, almost imperceptibly, his features drawing inward, settling into the familiar, unnervingly blank detachment he’d worn like armour since returning from leave. The tension drained from his panic-stricken muscles, replaced by something quiet, closed-off, unreachable.
“What’s the damage?” Reid asked, his tone flat, clinical.
Morgan stared at him for a moment before answering. “A lot less than it could’ve been. Bullet didn’t get through your vest, thank God. You’ve got some bruising from the impact, a few scrapes from the river.” He hesitated. “Your ribs’ll be sore for a while.”
Reid nodded once, slow and methodical, already withdrawing into himself.
Morgan waited for a beat. Then another. “You okay?” he asked gently.
Reid didn’t look at him. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even acknowledge the question. “When can I leave?”
Morgan exhaled sharply and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Are you…” He broke off, disbelief flaring hot. “Are you being serious right now?”
Reid finally looked at him. Blank. Almost confused. “What?”
And that was it. The match to the powder keg.
Morgan stepped closer, not looming, but firmly anchoring himself in Reid’s line of sight. “What?” he repeated, incredulous. “Reid, you come back from leave a completely different person. You don’t talk. You don’t look anyone in the eye. You won’t let anybody near you physically or emotionally.”
Reid’s jaw tightened, but he still said nothing.
Morgan’s voice rose, not in anger, but in urgency, in fear. “You’re keeping secrets from us. Big ones. Dangerous ones. You pulled a gun on me, man. On me and you acted like it was normal.” His hand dropped to the rail of the hospital bed, gripping it hard. “Then you rush into danger without telling a soul what you’re thinking, you get shot, you fall off a damn bridge, you nearly drown…”
His voice cracked, just for a second. Just enough for Reid’s eyes to flicker, barely.
“…and while we’re all pacing the halls wondering if you’re gonna wake up, the first thing out of your mouth is ‘when can I leave?’”
Reid looked away, his breath thinning, that wall slamming down again, cold, rigid and suffocating.
Morgan’s tone softened, but the words struck harder for it. “We’re worried about you. All of us. But you don’t seem to care. You won’t let us in. You won’t let anyone help you.”
He leaned closer, trying to catch Reid’s eyes, trying to hold them.
“Kid… what’s going on with you?”
Reid’s throat worked. A single, silent swallow, but still, he didn’t answer. He didn’t even try.
The silence settled between them like fog, thick and unmoving. His eyes fixed on some distant point past Morgan’s shoulder, unfocused, hollow. Whatever was going on behind them wasn’t here, wasn’t now. He looked like he was listening to something Morgan couldn’t hear, seeing something Morgan couldn’t see.
Morgan’s shoulders slumped, the last of his frustration dissolving into something heavier, something helpless. He dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard.
“Alright,” he muttered, the fight bleeding out of him. “You can leave later today. Nurse just has to check your vitals again and clear you.”
Reid didn’t nod. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react at all.
His breathing was steady, too steady, like he was deliberately keeping himself anchored to something far away instead of here. His expression had gone slack, distant, dissociated in a way that made Morgan’s stomach twist with a quiet, creeping dread.
“Reid,” Morgan said softly.
No response.
Not even a flicker.
For a moment, Morgan just stood there, watching him, watching the man he used to know sitting upright in a hospital bed looking like a ghost trapped between worlds. Something in Morgan’s chest pulled tight, a silent ache of fear he couldn’t voice.
“Okay,” he said finally, stepping back. “I’m gonna… I’m gonna go tell the others you’re awake.”
Still nothing.
Morgan lingered a second longer, hoping, just hoping, for even a blink or a shift in his expression, a sign that Reid was still reachable, but Reid sat there, still as stone, lost in some internal storm he refused to share.
Morgan’s jaw tightened. He turned toward the door. As he stepped out into the hallway, he cast one last glance back.
Reid didn’t move. Didn’t look up. Didn’t seem to know he’d been left alone. Morgan swallowed hard and closed the door gently behind him.
***
The jet touched down in Virginia just after noon, the sky over Quantico a cold, washed-out grey. The team moved through the familiar halls with the heavy steps of people who had held their breath far too long. No one spoke much. No one needed to. The absence in their formation said enough.
Reid wasn’t with them.
He’d been put on mandatory medical leave, bruised ribs, water inhalation, a concussion blooming somewhere behind his quiet eyes and he hadn’t protested. Not once. Not even out of habit.
That alone had rattled all of them.
Hotch waited until they’d stowed their go-bags before calling, “Conference room. All of you.”
The tone in his voice made them exchange uneasy glances.
JJ, Emily, Morgan, Rossi, and Garcia filed in. The blinds were half-closed, muted light striping across the table where Hotch had laid out the redacted file from Reid’s undercover assignment, pages thick with black bars and beside it, two photos: one of the rings resting on their chain, the other a close-up of the inscription.
Luca Donavan.
Garcia hovered near the table, hands twisting nervously. JJ stood stiffly beside Emily, eyes flicking from the papers to Hotch’s face. Rossi settled into a chair, unreadable. Morgan stood with his arms crossed tight over his chest.
Hotch waited for the door to swing shut behind them before speaking.
“I’ve had enough of being in the dark,” he said, his voice low but edged with something sharp. “We’ve given Reid space. We’ve asked. We’ve waited. And whatever this is, it’s only getting worse.”
JJ shifted uncomfortably. “Hotch… going through his private files, digging into his personal life, I don’t know if this is the right way to help him.”
Morgan let out a humourless huff. “JJ, I get it. Believe me, I do. But you didn’t see him this morning.”
Everyone turned to look at him.
Morgan’s jaw clenched. “He woke up from a nightmare in full panic. Sat bolt upright, couldn’t breathe.” He shook his head. “And then he went right back to that… that cold, distant place he’s been stuck in since he came back. Asked when he could leave. Like nothing that happened even mattered.”
Emily’s brows pinched, concern darkening her features. “He doesn’t even want to talk about the rescue?”
Morgan shook his head. “Wouldn’t even look at me.”
The room fell quiet. Heavy. Thick.
Garcia, who rarely lost her sunshine even on the darkest cases, stepped closer to the photos. Her fingers hovered above them without touching.
“They found the chain around his neck when he was brought into the hospital,” Hotch clarified as Garcia’s face morphed into confusion.
“These were really around his neck? The whole time?” she asked quietly.
“Yes,” Hotch said. “The nurse confirmed it.”
Garcia’s eyes sharpened, a shift from empathy to pure, focused curiosity. “Okay. And… this Luca Donavan, who is he?”
Morgan exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was hoping you could tell us.”
Garcia straightened, pushing her glasses up with her knuckle. “Well then.” She slid into a chair, pulling her laptop closer. “Let’s find out who’s important enough for Spencer to keep literally over his heart.”
As the rhythmic clack of her typing filled the room, Rossi picked up the redacted file again, the pages crackling as he flipped through the heavy censorship. “We don’t even know what this assignment really entailed,” he muttered. “Whatever happened out there… it didn’t end when he came home.”
Emily nodded slowly. “His behaviour, his panic attacks, the way he reacted any time someone touched him, pulling a gun on Morgan… it all fits. Something broke him out there.”
JJ swallowed hard. “But he won’t tell us what.”
Hotch looked around the table, meeting each of their eyes in turn.
“Then we find out ourselves,” he said quietly but firmly. “Before whatever this is destroys him.”
Garcia’s fingers were already flying, her eyes narrowed behind her glasses as line after line of data flickered across her screens. The room stayed quiet, everyone feeling the tension twist tighter with each second she didn’t speak.
“Alright…” she murmured, leaning in. “I’m not finding anything current. No school records, no medical notes, no digital footprint at all. But,” Her breath caught. “There is a birth certificate. Three years ago. For a Luca Donovan.”
She pulled it up on the main monitor. The document was old, worn, and oddly corrupted. Where the parents’ names should have been, the text was smeared into illegibility, like someone had intentionally blurred it.
“Someone tried to wipe the parental information,” Garcia said softly. “Not a glitch. Not age. Someone did this on purpose.”
She exhaled through her nose, sat up straighter, and cracked her fingers.
“Fortunately, that somebody did not anticipate me.”
A few rapid keystrokes later, she bypassed an archived firewall, diving into a deeper vault. The original file flashed onto the screen.
Two names appeared clearly now:
Alvara Donovan and Michael Donovan
The air left the room.
Morgan was the first to speak, incredulous. “Michael Donovan… You don’t think that’s the same Michael Kyle wouldn’t stop talking about? The guy he said was looking out for him?”
JJ let out a shaky breath. “That would be a huge coincidence.”
Emily shook her head immediately. “Not impossible. Not with Reid.” She glanced at Hotch, then back to the others. “Remember how he reacted when Ross asked to speak to Michael? He shut down completely… he literally smashed a phone. And with Kyle, Reid looked like he’d seen a ghost.”
Rossi nodded slowly. “She’s right. Whatever name this is… Reid’s connected to it.”
Hotch straightened. “Now that we have Michael’s full name, Garcia, find everything you can on him.”
“You got it, boss.” Garcia dove back in, her typing almost frantic as she scoured every database she knew, legal, illegal, federal, medical, financial, educational. Then she widened the search. International. Buried archives. Old identity registries. Criminal databases.
One by one, the searches came up empty.
Finally, her fingers stilled. She stared at the screen, baffled.
“There’s… nothing,” she whispered. “No records. No credit history. No arrest logs. Not even a utility bill. It’s like Michael Donovan never existed at all.”
The team exchanged grim, unsettled looks.
Emily turned toward Garcia, her brows tightening. “What about Alvara Donovan? Anything on her?”
Garcia blinked, refocusing, and set her hands back on the keyboard. “Let’s see what our ghost mommy left behind…”
She ran a series of searches, public records, social profiles, hospital databases. One after another, each window came back empty.
Her voice dropped to a thin whisper. The team leaned in as she opened a small, outdated webpage from a local digital newspaper in Arizona, one of those tiny community bulletins that rarely got archived correctly.
A funeral notice.
Alvara Donovan – age 32. Deceased seven months ago.
A small photo accompanied the announcement: a woman with warm eyes, dark hair pulled back, smiling subtly in a way that felt both shy and proud, but the picture was wrong somehow, the edge of it looked jagged, uneven. Garcia zoomed in.
Someone had cropped the image. Not gently. Not carefully. Sliced straight through the space where another person had clearly been standing close beside her.
Only Alvara remained.
The team stared at the lonely half-photo, the missing person leaving behind a ghostly outline, an arm around her shoulders reduced to an awkward remnant of a sleeve.
“Oh my god…” JJ whispered.
Rossi’s jaw flexed, eyes narrowing. “Someone wanted her alone in that picture.”
Morgan blew out a slow breath. “Seven months ago… that’s not long.”
Emily leaned closer, her voice low, unsettled. “And whoever was cut out, there’s a reason they didn’t want us to see the other person.”
The cropped edge seemed to stare back at them like a secret, razor-sharp and deliberate.
Rossi was the first to break the heavy silence.
“Arizona,” he murmured, tapping the edge of the funeral notice as if the location itself were a clue. “That’s… far from anything we’ve looked at.”
Morgan leaned back, arms crossed. “Hotch, was Reid’s undercover mission anywhere near Arizona?”
Hotch’s expression tightened. “I don’t know.”
That admission alone sent a ripple of unease around the table. Hotch reached for the thin redacted file in front of him and slid it across the table toward Morgan.
“Here. See for yourself.”
Morgan opened it, flipping through each page. Black bars smothered entire paragraphs, whole pages swallowed under thick ink. Even dates were missing, just empty white voids where vital information should’ve been.
“Damn,” Morgan muttered under his breath. “They even redacted the redactions. This is useless. It’s like they scrubbed him out of his own case.”
He tossed the folder down with a frustrated thud.
Garcia, still staring at her laptop as if trying to will it to give her answers, finally spoke. “I mean… I could hack into the FBI’s restricted archives. The deep stuff. The stuff they lock in metaphorical, and literal, vaults.”
The room turned toward her.
She lifted her hands defensively, wiggling her fingers. “But, um, teeny tiny detail, it would be a federal crime. Like… federal-federal. I’d probably be escorted out of Quantico in handcuffs.”
Hotch shook his head immediately. “No. I’m not asking you to do that.”
Garcia nodded quickly, relieved. “Good. Because I’d do it. Obviously. For Reid. But I’m also very fond of not going to prison.”
Rossi muttered, “Yet here we are with no other leads.”
The heavily redacted pages lay fanned across the table like a silent accusation, proof of how deep Reid’s secrets ran, and how far someone had gone to bury them.
They sat there for a long moment, five profilers and one technical analyst, all staring at the scattered, redacted fragments of a life they realised they knew far less about than they thought. The hum of Quantico’s HVAC system felt louder in the silence, the fluorescent lights colder.
JJ finally exhaled, rubbing her forehead. “We’re going in circles.”
Rossi nodded grimly. “Because we have almost nothing to work with.”
Morgan leaned forward, forearms braced on the table. “We know he was undercover for four years. Four years off the grid. Then six months of leave when he came back, because whatever happened messed him up bad.”
Emily’s eyes sharpened. “And the moment he returned, he shut us out. Completely.”
JJ glanced at the redacted file, her voice quieter. “We know he has… some connection to a man named Michael Donovan. Except Michael Donovan might as well be a ghost.”
Garcia raised her hand halfway, as if in a classroom. “Correction: not a ghost. A person who has been deliberately erased. I ran the usual checks, the unusual ones, and the ‘Penelope might go to jail’ ones. Nada. It’s like he never existed.”
Rossi tapped the table. “Kyle knew him. Or thought he did. Kyle talked about him like he was real. Like he was important.”
Morgan’s jaw tightened. “But Kyle’s dead. Shot on that bridge.”
Hotch’s expression hardened, just for a moment. “And Ross is dead as well.”
Emily’s gaze lifted. “Ross knew something. He said Michael’s name and Reid smashed a phone. That’s… not nothing.”
Garcia’s fingers hovered over her keyboard, hesitation in her posture. “And Luca Donovan. A child. Three years old. Mother deceased. Father missing, if he ever existed.”
JJ’s brows pulled together. “Alvara Donovan. Dead seven months. The photo, cropped, like someone cut the other half out of her life.”
Rossi murmured, “And there’s no trace of the child?”
Garcia shook her head. “Not a single record after the birth certificate. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”
Morgan scrubbed a hand over his face. “So what do we have? A dead informant. A dead mother. A missing kid. A phantom father. A partner who’s acting like he’s possessed and every person who could’ve answered our questions is either gone or wiped off the map.”
Silence settled heavily again.
Hotch finally spoke, voice low but firm. “We may not know what happened to Reid during that undercover assignment… but we know enough now to understand one thing.”
The entire team looked at him.
“He didn’t come back alone. He came back carrying someone else’s war.”
Garcia resumed typing, the furious rhythm of her fingers the only sound in the room. Her screens cycled through databases, directories, archived files, old police logs… then suddenly her hands stilled.
“Okay… okay, hold on, look at this,” she murmured, brow furrowing as she pulled up a new window. “I finally found something. Not on Michael Donovan, but on Donovans in Arizona.”
Everyone leaned forward as a list populated her monitor, half-faded entries, old citations, forgotten digital footprints. Garcia clicked one.
“Ricky Donovan,” she read aloud.
Morgan straightened. “Ricky… Ross said his name, before he killed himself.”
Emily’s expression sharpened as she repeated the line from the call. “Tell Michael Ricky’s back.”
Garcia nodded tightly. “This guy’s got mostly petty stuff on his record, minor theft, drug possession. Nothing big… until he goes completely off-grid.” She scrolled, eyes widening slowly. “But, wait…there’s a warrant here. Old. Five years ago.”
Hotch asked, “What for?”
Garcia clicked deeper. “Assault with a deadly weapon. Intent to distribute. But, oh.” Her voice dipped. “The warrant was dismissed.”
JJ frowned. “Dismissed? Why?”
Garcia’s fingers skated across the keys, pulling up the notation. “Insufficient evidence. Someone buried it. But look, before he vanished, the local PD was trying to pin him to… well, pretty much everything.” She read off the list as it scrolled. “Petty theft. Narcotics distribution. Breaking and entering. Armed robbery. Assault and, oh god, possible involvement in two homicides.”
A quiet heaviness fell over the room.
Hotch leaned closer, his jaw tightening. “Timeline?”
Garcia’s voice softened. “The warrant was issued five months before Reid went undercover.”
Emily’s breath caught. “Five months.”
Morgan muttered, “That’s not a coincidence.”
JJ whispered, “So Reid went under right after Ricky Donovan disappeared.”
Garcia nodded, eyes still scanning the file as if it might suddenly reveal more. “Whatever this guy was tangled up in… whoever he was connected to… it was serious enough for the PD to throw everything they had at him.”
Rossi exhaled slowly. “And serious enough that someone made all the evidence disappear.”
They all looked at the redacted file spread across the conference table.
Hotch met each of their eyes in turn. “If Ricky Donovan was part of Reid’s undercover assignment…”
“Then Michael Donovan probably was too,” Emily finished quietly.
“And Alvara,” JJ added.
“And Luca,” Morgan said, voice lower.
“Which means,” Rossi concluded grimly, “the people Reid lost… weren’t just informants or criminals.”
Garcia swallowed hard. “They were a family. A family that, based on everything I’m seeing, no longer exists.”
“Or a family that someone wants everyone to believe no longer exists,” Morgan added, a look of dread on his face.
The room felt suddenly smaller and the silence that followed carried the weight of truths they were only beginning to uncover.
By the time the room finally fell still, the scattered papers and half-opened files seemed to mock them with their emptiness. They had more names now, Ricky, Michael, Alvara, Luca, but no answers, only ghosts orbiting the blank spaces where Reid’s past should have been. Every path they followed dead-ended in redactions, disappearances, or the grave and with each new revelation, the shape of Reid’s silence grew darker, heavier, threaded with losses none of them had known to grieve. As they sat surrounded by fragments of a life he’d never spoken about, one truth settled over the team with quiet, suffocating certainty: whatever had happened to Reid during those four years undercover, he hadn’t walked away from it. He had survived it and survival, they were beginning to realise, came with a price he was still paying alone.
You can find Chapter Nine here!
If you'd like to be included in the tag list, please leave a comment!
This contains Stranger Things Spoilers! If you've not watched the whole series I really wouldn't reccomend reading this! While this can kind of stand alone, it does rely on a major final episode plot point.
SUMMARY: After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became. However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
WARNINGS: Prison, blood, violence, manipulation
WORD COUNT: 1335
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five
Looking for more stories, here's my Master List!
Henry sat at the kitchen table, the chair pulled back just enough for him to lean forward over the spread of paper.
The pages covered the tabletop in a loose, uneven circle, some folded, some creased flat, others worn soft at the edges as though they’d been handled many times.
Moonlight and shadow broke them into patches of light, but the words were clear no matter where he looked.
Too clear.
He picked one up, then another, then let them fall back to the table. None of them made sense on their own. They weren’t letters in any ordinary way. There were no dates. No addresses. No beginnings or endings. Just fragments.
Each page felt like a torn-out moment, a single side of a conversation with the other half missing. The handwriting varied slightly, sometimes hurried, sometimes careful, but the tone remained the same throughout. Urgent. Emotional. Intimate in a way that made his chest tighten.
He rubbed a hand over his face and exhaled slowly.
None of it belonged to him. And yet, every page felt uncomfortably close, like overhearing something meant to be private.
Again and again, his eyes drifted back to one sheet in particular.
The map.
He pulled it closer, smoothing it flat against the table. Unlike the others, it was unmistakably deliberate. The lines were confident now, no longer blurred or evasive. The house was clearly marked at the bottom of the page. A narrow path wound its way forward, slipping into the woods, weaving between trees Henry did not remember seeing but somehow recognised all the same.
The path ended at a jagged shape just beyond the tree line.
A rock formation and there, at its centre, the red X burned vividly against the paper.
Henry stared at it for a long time.
His fingers traced the path unconsciously, following it from the house, through the woods, to the marked point beyond. The longer he looked, the more inevitable it felt, not like a suggestion, but like a conclusion he had been circling without realising it.
The rest of the letters lay scattered around him, whispering without voices but the map did not whisper.
It waited.
The decision came to him all at once.
He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly, the chair legs scraping softly against the floor. He didn’t pause to gather the other papers or look at them again. His attention narrowed to a single point, sharp and insistent.
The map.
He snatched it up, folding it once, twice, before gripping it tightly in his fist. His pulse hammered as he moved through the house with sudden purpose, climbing the stairs two at a time. In his bedroom, he pulled on clothes without care for order or neatness, the familiar calm of routine replaced by urgency he could no longer ignore.
Moments later, he was back downstairs.
The front door yielded easily beneath his hand. Cool night air rushed in as he stepped outside, the quiet stretching wide and watchful around him. He didn’t look back at the house.
The map was clenched tight in his grip as he started across the lawn, toward the darkened edge of the woods, driven by the certainty that whatever waited at the end of the path had been waiting for him all along.
He crossed the lawn with measured steps, the grass brushing softly against his ankles as he went. He kept his eyes on the tree line ahead, dark and dense against the fading night sky. Each breath steadied him, even as his heart continued to pound with purpose.
At the edge of the woods, he slowed.
The path from the map revealed itself gradually, more suggestion than certainty at first, a slight thinning of the undergrowth, a faint break between the trees. He unfolded the paper and glanced down at it, then back up again, aligning the sketch with the world in front of him. The shapes matched. The direction felt right.
He stepped forward.
The woods closed around him almost immediately, the sounds of the open yard falling away behind him. Leaves crunched softly beneath his feet. Branches brushed against his sleeves as he moved carefully, attentive to every sound, every shift of shadow. Moonlight filtered down through the canopy in fractured patches, lighting his way in brief, uncertain flashes.
He walked with caution, but he did not hesitate.
The map guided him, its path winding deeper into the trees, and with each step, his determination settled more firmly in his chest. Whatever waited ahead—whatever truth the papers had been circling, he knew he would reach it.
He had already come too far not to.
As he pressed deeper into the woods, a faint pressure began to form behind his eyes.
At first it was easy to ignore, no more than a dull tightness, like the beginning of a headache. He slowed, lifting a hand briefly to his temple, then let it fall again. The path was still there. The map was still right.
He took another step.
The pressure sharpened, spreading through his skull in a steady, insistent pulse. With it came a sudden, unwelcome urge, a pull, strong and immediate, telling him to turn back. To return to the house. To leave this place alone.
He stopped.
The woods seemed to hold their breath around him. The air felt heavier, the darkness thicker between the trees. His feet shifted unconsciously, angling back the way he had come.
No, he thought, the word firm despite the ache.
He tightened his grip on the map and forced himself to face forward again. The sensation didn’t fade, but it didn’t overpower him either. It lingered, pressing and persistent, as if something were resisting his presence, urging him away without words.
He took a steadying breath and moved on, careful but resolute, pushing past the growing pressure as he continued along the marked path.
He kept going.
The pressure in his skull intensified with each step, a steady, grinding weight that refused to fade. Beneath it, a whisper began to coil through his thoughts, soft at first, almost indistinguishable from his own inner voice.
Stop.
He clenched his jaw and pushed forward, boots sinking into damp earth, branches snapping softly underfoot. The whisper persisted, threading itself through his concentration, urging him back the way he had come. He focused on the rhythm of his breathing, on the feel of the folded map pressed tight in his hand.
Then his legs faltered.
Without warning, his knees buckled, strength draining from them as though the ground itself had shifted. He stumbled forward, catching himself just in time by grabbing hold of a nearby tree. His fingers dug into the rough bark as he gasped, vision swimming.
Pain lanced through his skull.
An image slammed into his mind, sharp, intrusive, overwhelming.
A boy stood alone beneath a vast, washed-out sky. The ground around him was pale and cracked, stretching endlessly in every direction like a desert. He couldn’t have been more than a child. His hair was cut into a severe bowl shape, framing a face that was far too serious for someone so young.
The boy was looking straight at him.
His mouth moved.
At first, Henry heard nothing. The words were swallowed by the roar of blood in his ears, by the pounding in his head. The image wavered, threatening to collapse, but then the sound broke through, clear and unmistakable.
“It wasn’t you.”
The words echoed, layered over one another, as if spoken once and remembered a thousand times.
The image shattered.
Henry cried out softly and sagged against the tree, breath ragged, his heart racing as the forest rushed back into focus around him. The whisper fell silent, leaving only the echo of the boy’s voice behind.
“It was never you.”
Henry swallowed hard, shaking, his grip still tight on the bark.
Whatever was happening to him, whatever was waiting at the end of the path, it was no longer content to stay buried.
This contains Stranger Things Spoilers! If you've not watched the whole series I really wouldn't reccomend reading this! While this can kind of stand alone, it does rely on a major final episode plot point.
SUMMARY: After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became. However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
WARNINGS: Prison, blood, violence, manipulation
WORD COUNT: 1821
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four
Looking for more stories, here's my Master List!
Henry rose to his feet and started toward the house.
The grass brushed against his shoes as he crossed the lawn, the front door growing larger with every step. As he neared the porch, something pale caught his attention, a flash of white moving where everything else stood still.
A piece of paper skittered across the yard, lifted and nudged along by the gentle breeze.
He turned, following it with his gaze as it slid over the grass, threatening to escape his view entirely. Without stopping to think, he broke into a jog, the sudden movement feeling oddly instinctive, as though his body had decided for him.
The paper slipped forward once more, then faltered.
He stepped on it, pressing his foot down just enough to keep it from being carried away. He bent and picked it up, the edges fluttering softly between his fingers as the breeze continued to tug at it.
The paper felt familiar in his hand, though he couldn’t have said why.
He slowly lifted the paper closer, angling it toward the light.
One side held a hand-drawn map or something that might have been one. The lines wavered and blurred, refusing to settle no matter how long he stared at them, as though the page itself were out of focus. Shapes hinted at paths and landmarks, but none of them resolved into anything he could recognise. Only one mark stood out with absolute clarity.
A red X, bold and unmistakable, sat near the top of the page.
It drew his eye immediately, vivid against the washed-out rest of the drawing. He traced around it with his thumb without realising he was doing so, a faint sense of significance stirring beneath his confusion.
He turned the paper over.
A short note had been written on the other side, the ink pressed hard into the page. But the words wouldn’t hold still. Letters bled into one another, strokes bending and slipping apart the longer he tried to read them. He could tell it was meant to say something, something brief, urgent even, but the meaning remained just beyond his grasp.
He lowered the paper slightly, frowning, unsettled by the way the page resisted understanding while still insisting on being seen.
The breeze tugged at the edges again, as if eager to reclaim it.
He shook his head slowly, as if the motion might dislodge the lingering confusion.
Whatever the paper was, it wasn’t something he could make sense of, not now. He turned back toward the house and walked inside, the door closing softly behind him. The familiar quiet wrapped around him at once, steady and reassuring.
Without hesitation, he crossed straight through the rooms and into the kitchen.
He moved as though following a well-worn path, even though he couldn’t remember learning it. Reaching the counter, he opened one of the drawers. Inside lay a loose collection of papers, sheets folded and unfolded, corners softened from handling, some marked with faint ink, others nearly blank.
He placed the new paper among them.
For a moment, he lingered, his hand resting on the edge of the drawer. His gaze drifted over the scattered pages, a subtle tension building in his chest. There was the strange sense that if he reached in, if he picked up even one of them, something would shift in a way he wasn’t ready for.
His fingers twitched.
A stronger feeling followed. Not fear exactly, but insistence. A pull urging him to stop, to leave the papers as they were.
Henry swallowed, then closed the drawer.
The soft click echoed faintly in the quiet kitchen. He stepped back, the urge receding as quickly as it had come, leaving only the familiar calm in its wake.
Before Henry realised it, the light outside the windows had begun to change.
The afternoon warmth faded into softer hues, gold giving way to muted orange and then to the deepening blue of evening. Shadows stretched long across the floors, settling into familiar corners. The day slipped away from him without resistance, as though time itself moved differently inside the house.
Henry made his way upstairs.
In his bedroom, the pyjamas lay neatly folded at the foot of the bed, exactly where they always were. He changed without pause, the motions automatic, practiced. The room felt calm, held in gentle stillness.
He climbed into bed and pulled the covers up around him.
Sleep found him quickly.
The house quieted as he did, settling into the soft rhythm of night, waiting patiently for morning to come again.
***
In his sleep, the darkness did not remain empty.
Images flashed without warning, sharp and disjointed, tearing through the quiet of his rest. Henry heard his own voice echoing somewhere close and impossibly distant all at once, calm, controlled, threaded with a threat he did not recognise as his own.
“Holly, sweetheart. Stop, or I’ll hurt her.”
The words reverberated, over and over, pressing in on him as the scene shifted.
Two girls ran across his vision, their movements frantic, breathless. One wore a bright blue dress, the colour vivid and unmistakable, her hair bouncing as she looked back over her shoulder in fear. The other ran beside her, wild red hair flying loose, her expression fierce and desperate as she pulled the first girl along.
They were running from him.
The realisation struck like a blow, but before it could settle, the image fractured again.
Henry stood before a mirror.
He was dressed neatly in a white shirt and white slacks, every line pristine, his hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. His reflection looked composed, immaculate, almost serene. He stared back at himself with an expression he couldn’t name.
Then the mirror changed.
The same reflection stared back, but twisted. Blood splattered across the white fabric, dark and uneven. His hair hung loose and unkempt, his face shadowed, eyes hollow and unrecognisable. The calm was gone, replaced by something feral and broken.
The images collided, overlapping and blurring, the echo of his own voice still ringing in his ears.
***
Henry shot awake.
His heart hammered violently in his chest, each beat loud enough to drown out the quiet of the room. His breath came in ragged gasps, sharp and uneven, as though he’d been running for his life. For a moment, he could do nothing but sit there, hands clenched in the sheets, trying to drag air back into his lungs.
The darkness of the room pressed in around him, broken only by the faint glow of moonlight seeping through the curtains. The house was still. Too still.
The images clung to him, the bright dress, wild red hair, blood-streaked white fabric, flickering behind his eyes no matter how hard he tried to blink them away. His own voice echoed in his head, distorted and cruel, a stranger wearing his tone.
Henry swallowed hard, his throat tight as each image felt more familiar and real than the last.
Slowly, his breathing began to steady, though his heart refused to slow. Sweat cooled on his skin. Whatever sleep had brought him, it had not let go easily.
He was awake now.
And for the first time since he could remember, the calm of the house did not immediately return.
***
Henry swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The floor was cool beneath his bare feet as he moved through the room, every sound muted, as though the house itself were holding its breath. He crossed to the door and stepped into the hallway, pausing briefly before making his way toward the stairs.
At night, the house felt… different.
Not threatening. Not wrong. Just altered, as if its familiar shape had been rearranged in the dark. Shadows stretched longer than they should have, pooling in corners that had been harmless by day. The walls seemed to press in slightly as he descended, the soft creak of the steps sounding louder than he remembered.
Downstairs, the rooms lay open and quiet.
Moonlight filtered through the windows, painting pale shapes across the floors and furniture. Familiar objects looked strange in the dim light, their outlines softened, their purpose momentarily unclear. The house no longer felt like something that belonged to him, it felt like something he was passing through.
Henry moved slowly, his heartbeat still unsteady, his senses sharpened by the lingering echo of his dream. The air seemed cooler here, heavier somehow, carrying with it a faint tension he couldn’t name.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, listening.
The house offered no answers, only silence, deep and watchful, settling around him as he stood alone in the dark.
Henry drifted into the kitchen, his movements slow and unsteady, guided more by instinct than intention.
Moonlight spilled across the counters, catching on the edges of familiar objects, and then his steps faltered.
One of the drawers stood open.
He stopped cold, the sight of it pulling him abruptly out of the haze of sleep. The drawer gaped a few inches, just enough to reveal the pale edges of paper inside. It took him a second to place it, and when he did, a chill crept up his spine.
That drawer.
He was certain he had closed it.
The certainty settled heavy and unmistakable in his chest. He remembered the soft click. Remembered the moment he’d turned away. This was not something his mind could easily smooth over.
Henry stood there, staring at the open drawer, the house silent around him. No sound explained it. No movement followed. The papers inside lay still, undisturbed, as though they had been waiting.
Slowly, cautiously, he took a step closer.
The kitchen felt different at night, less forgiving, its quiet no longer companionable but intent. Shadows pooled beneath the table and along the cabinets, and the open drawer seemed darker than it should have been, its contents obscured despite the moonlight.
Henry swallowed.
Something had changed and whatever it was, it had happened while he slept.
Henry stepped closer.
His hand hovered for a moment above the open drawer, fingers tense, as if some part of him already knew what he would find. Then he reached in and pulled out a stack of papers, the edges cool and smooth against his skin.
He brought them up into the light.
His blood ran cold.
Where before there had been confusion, blurred lines, tangled letters that refused meaning, the words now lay perfectly clear. The handwriting was sharp, deliberate, unmistakable in its intent. Sentences stretched across the pages in clean, readable lines, each one pressing into him with a terrible familiarity.
Henry’s breath caught in his throat.
The papers trembled slightly in his hands as his eyes moved from one page to the next, the truth settling in with a slow, suffocating weight.
They were no longer hiding from him and whatever had written them had been waiting for him to look.
This contains Stranger Things Spoilers! If you've not watched the whole series I really wouldn't reccomend reading this! While this can kind of stand alone, it does rely on a major final episode plot point.
SUMMARY: After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became. However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
WARNINGS: Prison, blood, violence, manipulation
WORD COUNT: 1466
Part One, Part Two, Chapter Three
Looking for more stories, here's my Master List!
Henry woke to morning light and the familiar quiet of the house.
The day began as all the others did. He dressed, went downstairs, and moved through the kitchen without thinking, setting about his routine with practiced ease. Breakfast came and went. The sun climbed higher in the windows. Everything felt as it should.
It wasn’t until he was about to leave the kitchen that something caught his eye.
A pale shape on the table. Wrong only because it hadn’t been there before.
Henry slowed, turning back. The letter lay unfurled in the centre of the table, its single page smoothed flat as if it had been deliberately placed that way. He stared at it for a moment, a quiet certainty settling over him.
He had folded it.
He crossed the room and stopped at the table. The paper didn’t move as he approached. The handwritten text sprawled across the page in the same tangled patterns as before, lines and curves that suggested meaning without ever resolving into it.
He picked it up.
He scanned the page, expecting, absurdly, for something to have changed, but the ink remained stubbornly illegible, the letters slipping out of comprehension no matter how long he stared. His brow furrowed. He turned the page once, then back again, as though the answer might be hiding in the margins.
Nothing.
He let out a slow breath and shook his head, a small, dismissive gesture. Lack of sleep, perhaps. A trick of memory. The house had a way of blurring details, and he had no reason to think otherwise.
Carefully, he folded the letter along its original crease. He slid it back into the envelope, smoothing the flap down with his thumb. After a moment’s hesitation, he opened the top drawer beside the counter and placed the envelope inside, tucking it neatly beneath a stack of folded papers.
He closed the drawer.
The kitchen returned to its quiet order. Sunlight glinted off clean surfaces. The clock ticked on.
Henry turned away and continued with his day, leaving the letter exactly where he had put it, out of sight, and, for now, out of mind.
***
Henry moved through the afternoon much as he had the day before, the hours folding neatly into one another.
He cleaned, read, drifted from room to room without purpose or hurry. The house remained bright and obliging, every surface familiar beneath his hands. Nothing pressed at him. Nothing demanded his attention. If the morning had left a faint residue of uncertainty, it faded as the day wore on, worn smooth by repetition.
Then the clock struck three.
The doorbell rang.
Henry froze.
The sound was identical to the day before, single, precise, cutting cleanly through the quiet. His breath caught as memory snapped into place. Three o’clock. Exactly. He turned toward the door, heart quickening, and crossed the hall with uncharacteristic speed.
As he reached the front, his eyes went instinctively to the glass.
There was no shadow on the porch.
No shape shifting in the light. No outline of a body waiting just beyond the doorframe.
Still, he opened the door at once.
The porch stood empty. Sunlight spilled across the steps. The yard was motionless, the air heavy with afternoon warmth. No footsteps retreated. No car waited in the drive.
Henry stepped forward, scanning the lawn… and then he saw it.
The mailbox flag was raised again.
A tight, unfamiliar tension settled in his chest. He closed the door behind him and hurried down the path, glancing around as he went. The street remained silent. The grass showed no sign of disturbance. It was as though the signal had risen on its own.
He reached the mailbox and opened it. Inside lay a folded piece of paper. There was no envelope this time.
Henry lifted it out, his fingers tightening slightly around the edges, and unfolded it where he stood. On one side was a hand-drawn map, rough but deliberate. He recognised the starting point immediately, the house, sketched simply but unmistakably. A narrow line traced its way from the front yard, slipping into the woods beyond, winding through trees and undergrowth before ending at a jagged shape marked clearly in red.
An X sat at the centre of the rocks.
His pulse thudded in his ears as he turned the paper over.
The handwriting on the back was hurried, uneven, as though written in haste. He read it once. Then again.
Holly,
I need your help.
Meet me at the X.
Please hurry.
—Henry
Henry lowered the paper slowly.
For a long moment, he simply stood there, the afternoon pressing in around him. He looked back toward the house, then toward the quiet street, then finally toward the tree line where the path on the map disappeared into shadow.
There was no one there.
No movement. No sound. No sign of anyone who might have written the message or delivered it. The woods stood still, dense and watchful, offering no indication of what lay beyond their edge.
Henry’s gaze lingered on the path’s direction, his grip tightening on the paper.
Whatever this was, it was no longer content to wait inside the house.
Henry looked at the paper again.
And again.
The map did not change. The path remained clearly marked. The red X stayed fixed at the edge of the woods. He turned the page over once more, his eyes drawn back to the signature at the bottom.
—Henry
A cold confusion spread through him. The name was his. He knew that much with certainty. But the handwriting was wrong—too sharp, too hurried, the angles unfamiliar. He had never written like that. He was sure of it in the same quiet, instinctive way he knew where the stairs creaked or how the door felt beneath his hand.
And the name above it—
Holly
He didn’t know anyone named Holly.
The thought left him hollow.
Henry lowered the paper, his fingers trembling just slightly now, and turned back toward the house. Whatever this was, he told himself, it was another oddity to be folded away, another thing to set aside and forget. The front door stood open, sunlight spilling across the threshold, patient and inviting.
He took a step toward it.
Pain detonated behind his eyes.
It was sudden and vicious, a splitting force that carved through his skull and stole the breath from his lungs. Henry gasped, the paper slipping from his fingers as his vision blurred violently. He staggered, one hand flying to his head as something tore through him from the inside out.
Images flooded in, unwanted and unstoppable.
A girl.
Young. Small. Standing on the porch of the house.
She wore bright overalls, the colour impossibly vivid against the memory’s haze. Her hair caught the light as she looked up at him, her expression open, searching. The porch boards beneath her feet were the same ones he stood on now. The house behind her was the same.
She was looking at him.
Henry cried out, the sound breaking from him as he dropped to his knees. The pain intensified, grinding and relentless, as though his mind were being forced open against its will. He clutched his head, fingers digging into his scalp, his body folding inward as the images continued to surge.
The porch. Her face. Her eyes.
The pain drove him down further until he curled into himself on the grass, instinct pulling him into a foetal position as he tried to shield what little of himself he could. His groan faded into a hoarse, breathless sound, then into nothing at all.
The world dimmed.
The last thing Henry felt was the echo of her presence, close, familiar, and unbearably important, before the pain overwhelmed him completely and darkness took him.
***
Henry woke on the grass.
He had no memory of how he had gotten there.
The ground was cold beneath his hands as he pushed himself upright, damp blades bending under his palms. For a long moment, he stayed where he was, breathing slowly, letting the world settle around him.
Above, the sky stretched wide and clear, an uninterrupted blue that felt faintly familiar, like summer afternoons spent with open windows and nowhere to be. Cicadas hummed nearby, their steady rhythm comforting in its sameness. His head throbbed dully, not with pain so much as with disorientation, the kind that followed deep sleep… Or perhaps a sleep cut too short.
He couldn’t tell which.
He frowned slightly. He didn’t remember lying down.
As he shifted his weight, his gaze drifted forward, and that was when he saw the house.
It stood before him exactly as he remembered it. Tall and clean, bathed in warm afternoon light, its white paint gleamed as though freshly tended. The windows shone. The porch steps were smooth and unbroken. Nothing sagged or decayed. Nothing looked out of place.
The house looked solid, welcoming.
Something in Henry’s chest loosened at the sight of it, a quiet certainty settling over him before he had time to question it.
Home.
The word came easily, softly, as though it had always been waiting.
This contains Stranger Things Spoilers! If you've not watched the whole series I really wouldn't reccomend reading this! While this can kind of stand alone, it does rely on a major final episode plot point.
SUMMARY: After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became. However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
WARNINGS: Prison, blood, violence, manipulation
WORD COUNT: 1466
If you haven't read part one, you can find it here!
Looking for more stories, here's my Master List!
Henry spent the early afternoon as he always did, settled into the quiet.
He sat in the armchair by the living room window, a book resting open in his hands. Sunlight fell across the pages, warming the paper beneath his fingers. He had been reading for some time, though he couldn’t recall when he’d begun, only that the words felt easy to follow, familiar in a way he didn’t need to question.
The house was still. The clock ticked on the wall.
Then, at exactly three o’clock, the doorbell rang.
The sound cut cleanly through the calm.
He looked up, startled, his finger marking his place on the page. The bell rang only once, firm but not impatient, and then fell silent. For a moment, he simply listened, expecting footsteps, a knock, anything else to follow.
Nothing did.
Slowly, he set the book aside and stood. The house felt unchanged as he crossed the living room, his footsteps echoing softly on the polished floor. He moved down the hallway toward the front door, a faint, curious tension settling in his chest. Visitors were rare. He couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, someone had rung the bell.
He opened the door.
The porch was empty.
Sunlight washed over the front steps, bright and undisturbed. No car sat in the drive. No shadow lingered at the edge of the yard. The air was still, the lawn stretching out green and quiet beneath the open sky.
He frowned slightly and was about to close the door when something caught his eye.
The mailbox.
It sat at the edge of the lawn, the small red flag raised.
He hesitated, then stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind him. The porch boards creaked faintly under his weight as he walked down the path. He glanced around as he went, toward the street that never seemed to carry traffic, toward the corners of the yard, but there was no sign anyone had been there. No footprints in the grass. No sound retreating into the distance.
At the mailbox, he paused again.
The flag was definitely up.
He opened the box. Inside lay a single envelope.
It was plain, unmarked, the paper clean and uncreased. No stamp. No return address. No indication of where it had come from or how it had arrived. On the front, written neatly in dark ink, was his name.
Henry Creel
He turned it over once, then twice, as though another glance might reveal something he’d missed. It didn’t. The envelope offered no answers.
He looked up again, scanning the quiet street, the lawn, the porch behind him. Everything looked exactly as it had before.
Bright. Peaceful. Normal.
After a moment, he lowered his gaze back to the letter, his grip tightening just slightly around the edges.
Whatever this was, it had been meant for him and it had found him without being seen.
***
Henry sat at the kitchen table, the letter placed carefully in front of him.
Sunlight streamed in through the window above the sink, illuminating the smooth surface of the wood and the pale envelope resting at its centre. For a long moment, he simply looked at it, as though waiting for it to do something on its own. The house remained quiet around him, the familiar hum of the afternoon pressing gently in on all sides.
At last, he reached out.
His fingers slid beneath the flap, slow and deliberate, and he opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded once down the middle. He unfolded it and laid it flat on the table.
There was no greeting.
No Dear Henry, no signature, no indication of who had written it or why. The page was covered in lines of handwritten text, dark ink pressed firmly into the paper, the letters looping and slanting as if written with purpose.
He leaned closer.
At first glance, it looked like ordinary handwriting—neat enough, carefully spaced. But as Henry stared at it, his brow furrowed. The shapes refused to settle into meaning. The longer he looked, the more the letters seemed to shift, their forms sliding just out of recognition.
He tried to read the first line.
Nothing resolved.
There were no words he could grasp, no sounds his mind could attach to the marks on the page. Each letter looked almost familiar, close enough to tease understanding, but wrong in small, indefinable ways. Strokes bent where they shouldn’t. Loops closed in on themselves. The spacing between lines felt inconsistent, uneven in a way that made his eyes ache.
He straightened slightly and looked away, blinking.
When he looked back, the page was the same, still filled, still deliberate, still unreadable.
A faint unease stirred in him then, not sharp enough to alarm him, but present all the same. He felt as though the letter were asking something of him, waiting for him to know how to answer.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly.
Perhaps it was written in a language he didn’t know. Perhaps his eyes were simply tired.
The house remained bright and calm. The clock continued to tick. Outside, the cicadas droned on.
He folded the letter once more and left it on the table, undecided, unsettled, but not yet afraid.
***
Henry left the letter where it was and went back to his day.
He wiped down the kitchen counters, moving slowly, methodically, polishing surfaces that were already spotless.
The familiar rhythm of the task steadied him. When he finished, he washed his hands and dried them carefully, folding the towel just as he always did before hanging it back in its place.
Later, he returned to the living room and picked up his book. He settled into the armchair, reading until the light shifted and the words began to blur slightly at the edges. He turned pages without noticing how many, letting the story carry him forward without asking where it was going.
Dinner appeared as it always did, warm and neatly arranged on the table. He ate in quiet comfort, the soft clink of cutlery against the plate the only sound in the room. When he was done, he washed the dishes and set them carefully away, each one fitting neatly into its place.
The letter remained on the kitchen table, untouched.
As evening settled in, Henry climbed the stairs, the floorboards creaking gently beneath his feet. In his bedroom, his pyjamas were already laid out at the foot of the bed, folded with care. He changed without thinking about it, moving through the motions as naturally as breathing.
He lay down, pulling the covers up around him. The house seemed to exhale, settling into stillness. The lamp cast a soft glow across the room, familiar and safe.
He closed his eyes and sleep came easily, just as it always did.
***
Moonlight spilled through the kitchen window in a pale, silvery wash, settling across the table where the letter lay folded. The light softened the edges of everything it touched, the chair backs, the counter, the smooth grain of the wood, until the room felt suspended between moments.
The air was perfectly still. No clock marked the passing of time here, no creak or whisper disturbed the silence.
For a while, the letter remained unchanged. Then, with a subtlety that defied notice, the paper began to move.
The crease along its centre slackened, fibres easing apart as if the fold itself were releasing a long-held breath. The page made no sound as it unfolded, opening with deliberate care, smoothing itself flat against the tabletop as though guided by intention rather than motion. Inked lines stretched across the page, dense, deliberate strokes pressed firmly into the paper, each one twisting into shapes that suggested language without ever becoming it.
The letter waited.
Minutes passed. Or hours. In the kitchen, there was no way to tell.
At the very bottom of the page, something shifted.
The ink there began to soften, the sharp confusion of its lines loosening, as if the meaning trapped within them were slowly seeping to the surface. Curves straightened. Angles relaxed. Letters pulled themselves free from the tangle, spacing evening out with quiet precision. What had once resisted understanding now arranged itself carefully, deliberately, into something unmistakable.
When the movement stopped, a single sentence remained, clear and dark against the pale page:
it wasn’t you… it was never you
The letter lay open and motionless once more, bathed in moonlight, waiting on the kitchen table as though it had always been meant to be seen that way.
Upstairs, Henry slept on. His breathing was slow and even, his expression untroubled, his dreams empty of shape or sound. The house held its silence around him, watchful and patient, keeping its secrets until morning.
This contains Stranger Things Spoilers! If you've not watched the whole series I really wouldn't reccomend reading this! While this can kind of stand alone, it does rely on a major final episode plot point and if I do continue this, it definitely will contain more spoilers.
SUMMARY:
After the fall of Vecna and the Mind Flayer, what remains of Henry Creel is small, human, and broken free from memory. He wakes in the Creel house as it once was, bright, pristine, frozen in the warmth of his childhood, with no knowledge of the monster he became.
However, as cracks begin to form Henry must confront the truth buried within the walls: learning that some prisons are built from memory and some ghosts wear your own face.
WARNINGS:
Prison, blood, violence, manipulation
WORD COUNT: 1279
AUTHORS NOTE:
I finished Stranger Things yesturday and this concept has been playing on my mind ever since. Honestly, I'm not sure about this story so please leave a comment letting me know what you think! I usually only write Criminal Minds fanfictions so this is a little out of my range... it's been a long time since I've written another fandom (I'm a former Glee/Flarrow/1D fic writer... if you find me on A03 you'll see that... not that you will find it). Even so, here is an opening/teaser/concept piece (IDK what to call it), let me know if you'd like this continued.
The grass was cool beneath his palms as he pushed himself upright.
For a long while, he simply sat there, squinting up at the sky. It was bright, uninterrupted blue, the kind he vaguely associated with summer afternoons and open windows. Cicadas hummed nearby, steady and familiar. His head ached faintly, but not painfully, just enough to suggest he’d been asleep for a long time, or not long enough.
He didn’t remember lying down.
He glanced around and that was when he saw the house.
His house, standing before him just as he remembered it: tall, clean and sunlit, it’s white paint glowing warmly in the afternoon light. The windows shone, the porch steps were unbroken. It looked solid and welcoming, exactly as it should.
A sense of recognition settled gently in his chest.
Home.
The thought came without hesitation, as natural as breathing.
He stood, brushing the grass from his trousers and crossed the lawn. The front door opened smoothly when he reached it, the familiar weight if it grounding and reassuring.
He stepped inside without thinking twice.
The house was immaculate.
Sunlight filtered through lace curtains, scattering soft patterns across the polished wooden floors. The air carried the faint scent of lemon polish and something sweet, like vanilla or baked goods. A clock ticked steadily in the hall, marking time in a calm, unhurried rhythm.
“Hello?” He called, more out of habit than concern.
The sound of his voice echoing gently through the space.
No one answered, but that didn’t trouble him. The house felt lived in, not abandoned—as though everyone had simply stepped out for a moment.
He wandered through the living room, running his fingers along the back of the sofa, the familiar shapes of the furniture stirring half-formed memories. Everything was exactly where it belonged. Nothing was out of place.
In the dining room, the table was set neatly, plates aligned and cutlery polished. His father’s chair sat pushed in. His sister’s place was arranged with care, her napkin folded just so. The sight filled him with a quiet, comfortable warmth, though he couldn’t quite explain why.
Upstairs, his bedroom waited for him.
He opened the door to find it just as he’d left it: sunlight spilling across the floor, the bed neatly made, his belongings arranged with careful order. His books rested on the shelves, untouched. He traced his fingers along the edge of his desk, smiling faintly at the familiarity of it all.
Everything was right.
He crossed the room and looked out the window. The lawn stretched out below, green and peaceful beneath the open sky. It felt like an ordinary afternoon, the kind that passed unnoticed until it became a memory.
He lingered there for a moment, content, before turning back into the room.
Whatever had happened before, whatever he couldn’t remember, it didn’t seem important now.
He was home.
Days passed, though he couldn’t have said how many.
Morning always arrived the same way: pale sunlight slipping through the curtains, the steady hum of cicadas drifting in from somewhere outside. He woke in his bed without remembering falling asleep, but the sheets were cool and neatly tucked, the pillow resting exactly where it always seemed to belong. That alone felt reassuring.
He dressed in clothes already laid out on the chair beside the bed. They fit him comfortably, familiar without being worn thin.
Downstairs, breakfast waited.
Some mornings it was toast, still warm, butter melting into the surface. Other days there were eggs and coffee, the mug already filled and steaming slightly. He never heard anyone moving around the kitchen, never saw signs of preparation, but the food was there, and it tasted right. Like something he’d eaten a hundred times before.
He sat at the dining table, usually in the same chair. Sunlight filtered through the windows, warming the polished wood. The house felt occupied in a quiet, unobtrusive way, as though it were meant to be shared even when he was alone.
After breakfast, he settled into the day.
He tidied rooms that never truly needed it. Straightened picture frames. Ran a cloth along banisters already smooth with care. Sometimes he sat in the living room with the radio on low, listening to music drift in and out between faint bursts of static. The melodies felt familiar, comforting, even if he couldn’t place them.
The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking time without urgency.
At midday, he found himself preparing something simple, like soup or a sandwich, without quite remembering deciding to do so. He ate slowly, savouring the quiet. There was no schedule pressing in on him, no responsibilities calling from beyond the walls of the house.
In the afternoons, he often returned to his bedroom or the study.
He read books from the shelves, some well-loved, others barely touched. The words came easily to him, even when the memories attached to them did not. Occasionally, he sat at the desk by the window, staring out across the lawn as the light shifted, thinking of nothing in particular.
The view never changed, but that didn’t strike him as odd. It felt dependable.
Evening arrived gently. The air cooled. Shadows stretched across the walls. Dinner waited on the table, warm and neatly arranged. He ate alone, yet the silence felt companionable rather than empty.
Afterward, he washed the dishes and set them carefully away, each item fitting perfectly into its place. The house seemed to approve, settling into stillness around him.
At night, he climbed the stairs, the floorboards creaking beneath his feet in places he had already learned to anticipate. He changed into pyjamas folded neatly at the foot of his bed. When he lay down, the house seemed to breathe with him, quiet and patient.
Sometimes, just before sleep claimed him, a faint thought surfaced, that he had forgotten something important.
But the thought always dissolved before it could take shape.
Sleep came easily and within the steady rhythms of the house, he lived each day in calm repetition, unaware that routine itself was gently holding him in place.
He moved through the house as he always did.
The morning passed in its familiar rhythm: breakfast at the table, the soft murmur of the radio drifting through the living room, the steady ticking of the clock marking time without demand. He wiped down the kitchen counters, straightened a chair that hadn’t truly been out of place and carried his empty mug to the sink.
It was ordinary. Comforting.
On his way back down the hall, he passed the tall mirror near the staircase.
At first, he didn’t stop.
Then something flickered at the edge of his vision, just a glimpse, no more than a flash of movement, and he hesitated. His reflection had seemed… wrong. Darker. Sharper. As if it didn’t quite belong to him.
He took a step back.
He looked directly into the mirror.
The man staring back at him was exactly as expected: neat, composed, his hair in place, his clothes clean. His face was calm, unmarked, familiar in a way that felt reassuring. No shadows clung to him. No distortion warped the glass.
He frowned faintly, studying himself for a moment longer.
Nothing was out of place.
With a small shake of his head, he turned away, chalking the moment up to a trick of the light, or fatigue he didn’t remember earning. The house was bright, after all. Mirrors caught light strangely.
He continued on with his day.
The mirror remained where it was, silent and still, reflecting nothing more than empty hallway and soft afternoon light, as though it had never shown him anything else at all.
The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Seven
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
They found Kyle Warrick faster than any of them expected.
Kyle’s escape had been sloppy, hurried footprints outside the precinct, a jacket torn on a fence and camera after camera catching him sprinting through empty streets like a man being chased by shadows only he could see. Maybe he’d been too panicked to think clearly or maybe, somewhere deep down, he wanted them to find him.
By early afternoon, they had him.
He stood on a narrow two-lane bridge at the edge of the city, the old steel span stretching over a wide, swollen river. Winter runoff churned below in violent, rapid currents, the water dragging foamy claws along rocks and support pillars as if trying to pull the whole structure down with it. The roar of the river echoed up through the girders, merging with the whine of the wind that cut across the exposed roadway.
Kyle was planted dead centre on the bridge, Detective Ortiz locked against his chest, the muzzle of his gun pressed hard beneath her jaw. Her face had gone pale, jaw clenched tight to keep from crying out.
The BAU’s SUVs screeched to a halt at the mouth of the bridge. Patrol cars angled across the road behind them, forming a barricade of metal and flashing lights that painted the steel trusses in pulses of red and blue. No civilians would be getting anywhere near the bridge.
The team climbed out, bracing against the bite of the wind. Spray from the river drifted high enough to sting their cheeks.
Hotch glanced over the scene, eyes narrowing. “Options?”
“Snipers don’t have a shot,” JJ said, pulling her coat tighter. “Ortiz is covering too much of his torso.”
Emily watched Kyle shift and jerk in small, restless movements. “He’s terrified. He’s in full survival mode. You can’t negotiate with someone who thinks every breath is a countdown.”
Morgan crossed his arms, tracking the subtle tremors running through Kyle’s arms. “And he’s following orders from someone who isn’t even here. Michael, whoever he is, he has his hooks in deep.”
Rossi murmured, “He trusts Michael. Whether Michael is real or not doesn’t matter.”
Beside them, Reid stood completely still, gaze locked on the tableau down the bridge. Wind tugged at his hair, but he didn’t blink.
Morgan noticed. Reid didn’t.
Hotch made his decision with one sharp nod. “I’ll approach. The rest of you hold position until I call.”
Before anyone could object, he stepped out from behind the SUVs and began the long, slow walk down the bridge.
The wind whipped at his coat; river spray peppered the pavement. The rushing water below echoed up through the steel, a constant, trembling heartbeat beneath his boots.
“Kyle Warrick!” Hotch’s voice carried over the roar of the river.
Kyle jerked violently, dragging Ortiz even closer. She sucked in a thin, panicked breath.
Hotch stopped several yards away, keeping his hands visible. “No one here wants to hurt you.”
“Don’t lie to me!” Kyle shouted back, voice cracking. “You don’t know anything! You can’t know what he told me!”
Wind tore pieces of his words away, scattering them over the river.
Hotch kept his voice steady. “Who told you? Michael?”
Kyle’s eyes went wide with frantic devotion. “Michael would never hurt me. He’s the only one who wouldn’t.”
The words trembled out of him like a prayer.
Hotch took another careful step. “Then why take Detective Ortiz? Why involve her at all?”
Kyle’s breath hitched, panic bubbling up like he was already drowning. “He said he’d come, Michael would come if I did.”
Hotch’s brow tensed. “Kyle, Michael doesn’t want you to die.”
Kyle’s face crumpled. “He said… he said if I mess this up… He said Michael would be here!”
Ortiz whimpered as his grip tightened.
Hotch raised his voice over the wind. “Kyle, listen to me. Focus on me, not on Michael. On me. Let her go, and we can sort this out.”
“I can’t!” Kyle sobbed. “If I do, he’ll kill me. He’ll kill all of you too! Michael can’t stop him this time!”
His panic spiralled, ricocheting off the steel beams and the roaring river below.
“Kyle,” Hotch said, voice calm but firm, “you’re the only one here with a gun. You’re the one in control. Just let her go.”
But Kyle wasn’t hearing him anymore.
He was staring past Hotch, past everything, into some fractured world only he could see, shaking his head over and over.
“No. No. No, Michael wouldn’t let you hurt me,” he whispered, voice trembling like he was answering someone who wasn’t there. “He promised he wouldn’t…”
His grip tightened again. Ortiz cried out. Hotch felt the moment slipping, the fragile control, the thin thread that held Kyle steady.
He tried again. “Kyle, just look at me,”
But Kyle’s whispered answer was lost to the river, wind, and fear.
Hotch stepped back from the edge of the standoff, the wind snapping at his coat as he returned to the cluster of agents behind the barricade. The roar of the river beneath the bridge made everything feel urgent, seconds slipping too quickly.
Rossi caught his expression immediately. “No progress?”
“None,” Hotch said, breath tight. “He’s too deep in whatever fantasy Michael built for him. Logic isn’t reaching him.”
Emily glanced toward the bridge where Kyle stood trembling, the terrified detective gripped tight against him. “If we push harder, he’ll panic.”
JJ nodded, worry tightening her voice. “Then what’s our angle? We’re running out of time.”
Hotch didn’t answer, because he didn’t have one, not one that wouldn’t risk the detective’s life. The river churned violently below, a cold, constant roar that made the moment feel like it was sliding out of their control.
And then…
Reid moved.
Morgan saw it first: the sudden, deliberate stride cutting across pavement with a sharpness Reid hadn’t shown in months.
“Reid?” Morgan called.
Reid didn’t look back. He walked straight toward the bridge.
Hotch’s head snapped up, voice cutting the air. “Reid! Stop.”
Reid didn’t. His pace remained level, purposeful, too purposeful.
Morgan swore. “Oh, hell no, kid. What are you doing?”
Rossi’s eyes narrowed as Reid ducked beneath the yellow tape. “Something he doesn’t plan on explaining.”
Hotch grabbed his radio. “Reid, stand down. That is an order.”
Reid kept walking. His jaw was tight, expression unreadable, focus locked entirely on the man holding a gun to the detective’s throat. Something in Kyle’s panic, something in his rambling devotion to a man he’d never seen, something had clicked for Reid in a way it hadn’t for the rest of them.
Reid wasn’t guessing. He knew something and he wasn’t about to wait for permission to use it.
“Reid, do not go any farther,” Hotch commanded, voice sharpening to steel, “That is an order!”
Reid reached up and pulled out his earpiece.
“No, Spencer, don’t you dare,” JJ whispered, but too late.
The little device fell to the asphalt behind him with a soft tap as Reid stepped fully past the barricade, coat snapping around him, walking straight into the open, into the crosshairs, with no weapon drawn and no backup.
Morgan stopped just behind the tape, fists clenched, his tone defeated, “Hotch, we can’t pull him back.”
“No,” Hotch said, fear tightening around his anger, “we can’t.”
But Reid didn’t slow. Didn’t look back. Didn’t react to the shouts behind him. He just stepped onto the bridge, the river roaring below, the detective’s life hanging in the balance…
…and Kyle finally saw him.
Reid moved with a slowness that felt deliberate and careful, like he was trying not to spook a wild animal. The river rushed beneath them, a constant, cold roar that swallowed half the sounds of the world. Wind tugged at his coat, at his hair, but his voice, when he finally spoke, was steady.
Softer than anyone had heard from him in days.
“Kyle,” Reid called gently, palms lifted just slightly, not enough to threaten, not enough to push. “You don’t have to do this.”
Kyle jerked, eyes flashing toward him. Panic distorted his face, sweat clinging to his temples. He dragged the detective back with him, tightening his arm around her throat. His other hand snapped the gun away from her head straight at Reid.
“No, no, don’t come closer!” Kyle’s voice cracked. “Stay back, stay back!”
Reid didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said quietly. “I’m just here to talk.”
Kyle shook his head violently, muttering under his breath, broken fragments of fear and confusion. “No, no, this, this isn’t right. He said, he said Michael would come. Not you. Not you. You’re not supposed to be here…”
“I know you’re scared,” Reid said, still soft, still calm. “And I know you feel trapped. But nobody here wants you dead. Nobody here wants that detective hurt.”
The woman whimpered, but Kyle only pressed the barrel harder toward Reid, words tangling in panic.
“You don’t understand, you don’t understand! They’ll kill me if I let her go! They’ll kill me if Michael doesn’t show! They said he’d be here, they said…”
Reid took a single step closer.
Kyle’s breath hitched. “Stop! Stop or I swear—”
“Okay,” Reid murmured, stopping instantly. “Okay, Kyle. Look. I’m standing right here. Not moving. I’m listening.”
The river wind whipped between them, cold and biting. Kyle’s hands trembled so violently the gun wavered in a jittering line across Reid’s chest. His eyes were wild, unfocused, sliding past Reid as though searching for someone else, anyone else.
“No, no, this is wrong,” Kyle hissed. “He said he’d come. He always does. He always, he always comes. You’re not him. You’re not Michael. You’re not—”
“I’m not Michael,” Reid said softly. “But I’m here. And I’m telling you that no one is going to hurt you if you put the gun down.”
Reid’s voice gentled even further, almost a whisper carried by the wind.
“I know you’re tired. I know you’re terrified. And I know you didn’t want it to go this way.”
Kyle shook his head hard, muttering incoherent scraps, “not supposed…no choice…can’t go back…Michael said…Michael’s always right—”
Each sentence stumbling into the next in a frantic, desperate tumble. Reid stayed perfectly still. Perfectly calm and for the first time in days, maybe weeks, there was something achingly familiar in his voice, something human and warm.
“Kyle,” Reid said, steady as a heartbeat, “look at me.”
Kyle did and the gun in his shaking hand twitched, wavering between fear and the last shred of hope he didn’t understand how to hold.
Kyle’s breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, each one trembling through his body like an electric current. His hands shook violently around the gun, the barrel swaying between the detective and the river below, his panic making every movement jerky and unpredictable. Words spilled from his lips in a frantic, disjointed rush, muttered pleas, stammered arguments, fragmented sentences, none of them coherent, none directed at Reid, but all aimed at survival, at holding some semblance of control as the world seemed to collapse around him.
Reid’s voice remained impossibly calm, steady and measured despite the chaos. “Kyle… you don’t have to do this. Put the gun down. We can fix this,” he said, stepping closer, eyes locked on Kyle’s, searching for the man beneath the fear.
Kyle’s eyes darted wildly, unfocused, panicked. His grip on the gun tightened reflexively, almost crushing the detective in his hold. His chest heaved, and for a moment the rushing river below seemed to swell, matching the erratic rhythm of his heart. The world around them felt unreal, sounds muted, colours dimmed, as if everything had slowed except the electric tension coiling between them.
Then, Reid’s voice broke through, soft at first, then firmer, demanding as though he could no longer contain the urge to ask,
“Kyle… where is Ricky?”
The question landed like a thunderclap. Kyle froze. The gun wavered in his hand, eyes wide and unblinking, the fragments of his panic crystallising into sheer, raw fear. His mouth opened, closed, and opened again, searching for words that wouldn’t come. The detective slipped from his grasp in the fraction of a second that his focus faltered, stumbling backward to the side, finally free.
Time seemed suspended, the wind holding its breath, the river pausing its relentless rush, the world reduced to the sharp, pounding drum of Kyle’s heart and the deadly tension between the two men.
Alvarez’s voice cut through the frozen moment. “Take the shot!”
Suddenly, chaos erupted. Gunfire split the air, a flurry of noise and motion. Kyle fired wildly, the bullets tearing through space near Reid, the sound deafening. The bridge seemed to shrink around them, the river roaring louder than before, water thrashing below.
Pain blossomed in Reid’s chest, a sudden, searing impact. He staggered, a harsh jolt ripping through him, knocking him backward. His hands clawed at the railing as the world tipped and then gravity took over. He stumbled, pitched over the edge of the bridge, arms flailing, the river rushing up to swallow him.
The last thing that cut through the chaos was the roar of the current, the echo of gunfire and the fleeting, terrifying knowledge that Reid had vanished into the icy depths below.
——————————
Reid plunged into the icy black water, the impact knocking the breath violently from his lungs. The cold was instantaneous, a shock that burned across his skin and tunnelled deep into his chest, stealing his equilibrium. For a brief, disorienting moment, he was suspended between two worlds: the solid chaos of the bridge above and the engulfing void of the river below. The current seized him, fingers of water wrapping around his limbs, dragging him sideways with relentless, cruel force.
Darkness closed in, broken only by fleeting shards of moonlight reflecting off the swirling surface. His arms thrashed instinctively, cutting through the water, but each movement was met with resistance, the river mocking him with its ceaseless pull. The sound of rushing water roared in his ears, drowning out thought, drowning out fear, leaving only the primal rhythm of survival pounding through his veins.
Air was precious and scarce, and when he finally broke the surface, gasping for it, the cold ripped through him like a living thing, clawing at his lungs and chest. Water streamed from his hair, eyes stinging, and for a moment, he could only fight to remain upright against the pull, the bridge looming above like a phantom memory of the chaos that had hurled him into this frozen hell.
The river tossed him like a rag doll, currents slamming him against rocks and unseen obstacles beneath the surface. Pain radiated through his ribs with every collision, but adrenaline overrode the ache, sharpening his senses. He could feel the undertow tugging at him mercilessly, dragging him downstream, away from solid footing, away from control, until he surrendered, letting the current guide him while he searched for a chance to breathe again, to stabilise, to survive.
Time fractured. Seconds stretched into eternities. Each breath was a victory, each stroke a desperate negotiation with the river that sought to consume him. The taste of salt and iron filled his mouth, his lungs screamed for air, and yet in the chaos, his mind was alive, calculating, noting, remembering every detail of the river’s pull, every shadow beneath the surface, every obstacle to avoid.
Above, the bridge loomed like a memory of violence. Somewhere, shouts echoed faintly, distorted by water and wind, but he couldn’t reach them yet. All he had was the cold, the current, and the singular, burning determination to fight his way back to the surface.
Then, instinct drove him forward. Head down, limbs moving with precision despite the chaos, Reid cut through the icy water, lungs screaming, chest heaving, each stroke an act of defiance against the river’s fury. The current fought him, but he met it, countering with technique honed from years of discipline, years of survival instinct sharpened to razor edge.
Somewhere ahead, a break in the water’s relentless pressure, a chance. Reid angled toward it, gasping, teeth chattering, muscles burning, refusing to let the river claim him.
The darkness of the river was absolute, but within it, a spark of clarity remained: he would not be taken. Not like this. Not now. Not ever.
——————————
The moment Reid hit the water, the world on the bridge erupted into chaos. Shouts tore through the night air, sharp and frantic, as agents scrambled to the railing, the roar of the river below filling their ears. Hotch’s voice cut through the din, clipped and commanding, but even he couldn’t contain the panic rising in his chest.
“Reid!” Morgan screamed, pounding on the railing, eyes scanning the black, churning water. His hands shook as he leaned over, trying to spot the small, struggling figure swallowed by the current. “He’s in the water! Someone get a line! NOW!”
Alvarez and the sniper team reacted instantly, pulling ropes and flotation devices from their vehicles, adrenaline sharpening every movement. Lights from the squad cars spilled across the bridge, illuminating the white froth of the river’s surface, throwing jagged shadows that danced across the rocks and eddies below.
Hotch moved with practiced efficiency, barking orders even as his mind raced. “Alvarez, get eyes on him! Morgan, you’re on the line, tie it securely! Jareau, call EMTs, tell them to prep for extraction!”
Morgan didn’t hesitate. He grabbed a coil of rope, checking the knots with trembling hands. “Hang on, Spencer! We’ve got you!” His voice cracked over the roar of the river, but it carried the weight of certainty, the promise that he wasn’t alone.
JJ’s eyes were wide as she peered over the edge, heart in her throat. “He’s being pulled under, he can’t fight the current forever!” she shouted, urgency threading every syllable. Emily’s hands clenched at her sides, face pale in the harsh light, her breath ragged as she fought to keep herself from panicking.
Down below, the river claimed Reid in surges, tossing him toward rocks and whirlpools, the water slamming against him with brutal force. His limbs flailed, trying to find footing, trying to control the pull, but the current was relentless. Morgan let out a low curse and anchored himself, leaning over the railing to throw the rope with precise force, aiming for Reid’s outstretched hand.
The rope arced through the night air, glinting in the floodlights. Reid’s hand shot up instinctively, fingers brushing the coarse fibre before grasping it with all his remaining strength. The current jerked him violently, pulling him sideways, but Morgan planted his feet, muscles straining as he fought to pull him toward the bridge.
Hotch’s gaze was sharp, calculating every movement, every potential hazard. “Steady! Don’t let him slip!” His voice carried authority, but there was an undercurrent of fear, raw and unmasked. The river howled back, mocking their control, each second stretching impossibly long as Reid fought to stay connected to the rope.
Finally, inch by inch, Morgan and Alvarez managed to drag him toward the side of the bridge. Reid’s chest heaved, coughing and sputtering as water poured from his lungs, his body trembling violently from cold and shock. JJ and Emily leaned over the railing, hands ready to help as Morgan pulled him to safety.
With a final, shuddering heave, Reid hit solid ground. Morgan collapsed beside him, gripping his shoulder. “You’re safe, Spencer. You’re safe.”
Reid’s limbs went slack, his chest heaving unevenly as the adrenaline drained from him. Morgan held him firmly, supporting his weight as his head lolled to the side, eyes fluttering once before closing.
“He’s… he’s unconscious!” Morgan shouted over the roar of the river and the chaos on the bridge, his voice tight with panic. Hotch immediately knelt beside him, assessing Reid with a trained eye, hands moving over his shoulders, checking for responsiveness.
The EMTs arrived moments later, their kits opening with practiced efficiency, the smell of antiseptic and rubber filling the air. One of them bent down, quickly scanning Reid from head to toe. Morgan, still bracing Reid, added breathlessly, “I think was shot before he went over the railing, don’t know where it hit!”
Hotch’s jaw tightened, his mind racing, but he stayed calm, his voice steady as he gave precise information. “Rope burns from the rescue, water inhalation, possible blunt trauma from the fall. Check vitals immediately.”
The EMTs worked quickly, cutting away Reid’s wet clothing and carefully unbuckling his tactical vest. One of them let out a low, relieved breath. “Bullet didn’t penetrate the vest. No signs of internal bleeding from the shot.”
Morgan exhaled, though the tension in his shoulders didn’t fully release. “Thank God,” he muttered, pressing a hand gently to Reid’s arm, ensuring he stayed stable.
Reid’s breathing remained shallow but steady and his body shivered violently from cold and shock. Hotch gave the EMTs space, his gaze never leaving Reid’s pale, bruised face. The team clustered close, silent except for the hum of the rushing river and the crackle of radios, every second stretching taut with fear and relief.
Morgan leaned down, voice low, almost a whisper. “Stay with us, Spencer… You’re okay. You hear me? You’re okay.”
For now, the immediate danger had passed, but the night’s events left an uneasy weight over them all. Reid was alive, but only just.
——————————
The sterile smell of antiseptic hit Morgan and Hotch as they stepped into the quiet hospital corridor. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead was the only sound as they approached the doctor, who was reviewing a clipboard with sharp, practiced efficiency.
“Dr. Reid?” Hotch asked, his voice low.
The doctor glanced up, eyes steady. “He’s stable. He has some bruising from the impact of the fall, a few superficial abrasions from the water. Nothing that’s showing signs of hypothermia at the moment, which is a relief, but we want to keep him under observation for the next twenty-four hours.”
Morgan exhaled, tension easing slightly from his shoulders, though his hands remained clenched at his sides. “And the gunshot?”
“Thanks to the vest, the bullet didn’t penetrate, he’ll have some bruising but there’s no evidence of internal bleeding. The trauma is mostly from the fall,” the doctor replied, closing the chart. “He’s unconscious, but that’s not unexpected. He took quite a plunge.”
Hotch nodded, expression unreadable but his eyes sharp. “Thank you, doctor.”
The doctor offered a small, reassuring nod before leaving, his shoes clicking softly against the tile floor. Morgan and Hotch paused for a moment, letting the silence of the hospital wash over them, then moved into Reid’s room.
The white walls and the steady beep of the monitors created a fragile sense of calm. Reid lay on the bed, chest rising and falling evenly, the blankets pulled up to his shoulders. His face was pale, smudged with dirt and bruises, hair damp from the river. For a long moment, neither Morgan nor Hotch spoke, just standing there, taking in the sight of him.
A nurse pushed the door open quietly, stepping inside with a small tray.
“Excuse me,” she said softly, “most of the belongings on him were unsalvageable. Water, impact… it didn’t survive.” She hesitated a fraction of a second, then held out a small chain, delicate in her small hands. On it were two wedding bands, lying side by side.
Morgan’s brow furrowed, his gaze sharpening. “Where did you find this?”
The nurse looked down at the chain. “It was around his neck when he was brought in.”
Morgan’s hand twitched slightly, almost instinctively reaching toward it, but he stopped himself. Hotch stepped closer, expression unreadable. The chain caught the light from the overhead lamp, glinting softly, the two rings resting next to each other, a silent testament to someone Reid carried with him, even through the chaos and danger.
Neither man said anything at first. Reid’s breathing was steady but shallow, his unconscious state making the room feel impossibly quiet, fragile. The chain on the nurse’s hand seemed to hang in the air like a tether to something deeper, something private.
Morgan finally broke the silence, voice low, almost reverent. “He kept them with him… even like this.”
Hotch didn’t respond immediately. He only nodded once, letting the weight of the small metal rings settle between them, a reminder of the man they were fighting to bring fully back.
The nurse gave a small, professional nod and left the chain with them on the bedside table. The two men took seats, leaning slightly forward, eyes on Reid, the quiet vigil stretching on, punctuated only by the steady, mechanical beep of the heart monitor.
Morgan couldn’t help himself. Despite the sterile quiet of the hospital room and the faint hum of the monitors, he reached forward and lifted the chain from the tray. The two rings slid softly against each other, cold metal against his palm. He held them loosely, turning them over, letting the light catch the faint scratches and imperfections from years of wear.
“They’re different sizes,” Morgan murmured, almost to himself.
Hotch leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing as he studied the rings. “One’s definitely larger,” he said carefully. “And the other… much slimmer. Most likely a woman’s wedding band.” His voice was measured, factual, but there was an undertone of concern. “That might tell us something about who Reid cared enough to carry these with him, someone important.”
Morgan kept turning the rings in his hand, feeling the weight of them. Something about the smaller one caught his attention, a faint pattern, a trace of engraving that had been worn smooth over time.
He squinted, shifting the ring in the light, careful not to disturb Reid’s unconscious rest.
He froze. His finger traced the inside of the smaller band. Tiny, deliberate letters, etched into the metal:
“Luca Donavan.”
Morgan’s stomach tightened. He glanced at Hotch, who had leaned closer, his expression a mixture of curiosity and caution.
“That’s… a name,” Morgan whispered, almost reverently. His thumb brushed over the engraving again, a chill creeping along his spine. “A real name. Not initials, not a date… a name.”
Hotch’s gaze lingered on the rings in Morgan’s hand. “That’s someone Reid wanted to keep close,” he said quietly. “Someone he carried with him, even through everything.”
Morgan’s eyes drifted back to Reid, lying still, pale and bruised, hair damp and matted from the river. The unconscious detective’s chest rose and fell evenly, yet the rings in Morgan’s hand felt like a thread pulling him into a story he wasn’t ready to tell or perhaps one he couldn’t.
Morgan twisted the chain gently, letting the two rings click softly against each other. The sound was tiny, almost insignificant in the quiet room, but it carried weight. Luca Donavan. The name lingered in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning.
Hotch remained silent, letting Morgan sit with it, letting the weight of the name, and of Reid’s secret, settle between them.
Morgan’s fingers tightened slightly around the rings. He didn’t know who Luca Donavan was, or what connection they had to Reid, but he knew one thing: whatever it was, it mattered and right now, Reid wasn’t there to explain it.
Morgan carefully set the chain down on the bedside table, letting the two rings rest together but separate, as if mirroring the fragments of Reid’s life they had glimpsed. The faint hum of the monitors and the soft beeping of the IV lines were the only sounds in the room, punctuating the quiet tension that had settled over them.
Hotch remained standing by the foot of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze fixed on Reid. “He’s stable,” he said quietly, more to himself than to Morgan, but the weight in his voice betrayed the worry he couldn’t voice aloud. “For now, but that doesn’t mean we know what we’re dealing with.”
Morgan glanced back at Reid, the steady rise and fall of his chest a small comfort amidst the uncertainty. “He’s holding onto something,” Morgan murmured, voice low. “Something big. And it’s connected to these.” He nodded toward the rings, then back at Reid.
“I just… I don’t know if he’s ready for anyone else to know yet.”
Hotch exhaled slowly, letting the tension leave his shoulders in a fraction of a second that felt like an eternity. “Then we wait,” he said. “We protect him, and we let him come back in his own time. He’s not gone, we just have to make sure he stays safe until he is.”
Morgan leaned back in the chair beside the bed, still keeping a watchful eye on Reid. His fingers brushed lightly against the chain again, almost unconsciously. “We’ll figure it out,” he said softly, though neither of them knew when or how. “We always do.”
Outside, the night pressed against the hospital windows, dark and indifferent. But inside the room, the fragile thread of hope and vigilance stretched taut between them, holding steady. Reid slept, unaware, carrying his secrets and his pain beneath the surface and Morgan and Hotch stayed, guardians in the quiet, knowing that when he woke, everything would begin again and the truth behind Luca Donavan would demand to be faced.
You can find chapter eight here!
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The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Six
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
The morning light in the BAU briefing room felt thinner than usual, watery, pale, as though the sun itself hadn’t fully committed to the day. A stack of manila files sat waiting at the centre of the conference table, their edges still crisp from being freshly assembled. The air held the faint hum of the overhead fluorescents, a low mechanical buzz underlying the quiet shuffle of the team taking their seats.
It should have felt like any other morning. It didn’t.
Hotch entered last, a step slower than usual, a folder in hand. He didn’t acknowledge the concerned glances cast his way, not from Rossi, who had spent the morning watching him pace his office; not from Morgan, who looked like he’d slept even less than Reid; not from Emily or JJ, whose worry simmered just below the surface. And Reid…
Reid sat rigidly at his usual spot, hands folded on the table, gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the walls of the office. His posture was perfect. His stillness was unnerving.
Hotch set the folder down and the soft thud felt sharp in the quiet room.
“Local PD out of Petersburg has requested our assistance,” he began. His voice was steady, all business, though it carried a grit that wasn’t usually there. “They have a suspect in custody, a career petty offender who recently escalated to armed assault. They want a psychological analysis of the escalation, as well as a risk assessment.”
He slid a photo across the table, the mugshot of a man in his mid-thirties, sallow skin, gaunt cheeks, the kind of sharpness born from too many late nights and too many bad decisions. His eyes were wild, though, darting, frantic, like something inside him was burning faster than his body could contain.
“Name is Kyle Warrick,” Hotch continued. “History of low-level theft, possession charges, distribution. Nothing particularly unusual for the area. But two weeks ago he held up a pawn shop with a military-grade pistol. Last night he opened fire on a parked car behind a liquor store. No fatalities, but only by chance.”
At the mention of his name, something in Reid froze temporarily. A tiny pause that Reid felt deep in his core.
Emily leaned forward. “So what changed?”
“That’s what they want us to find out,” Hotch said. “He’s refusing to cooperate with their interrogation, but he specifically asked to speak to federal profilers.”
Morgan snorted softly. “People don’t usually ask for us unless they want something.”
Hotch nodded. “Exactly. We need to determine what that something is.”
JJ flipped open her file. “Does he have any known gang affiliations? Connections to traffickers? Anyone who might have pressured him into using weapons he didn’t have access to before?”
“No confirmed ties,” Rossi said, scanning his own notes. “But something about this reads… off. Something’s pushing him. Or someone.”
Across the table, Reid hadn’t touched his file. He hadn’t blinked in several seconds. When Hotch paused, waiting for him to offer a thought, as he always did, Reid merely lifted his gaze, slow and almost mechanical.
“Escalation like this,” he said quietly, his tone clinical but hollow, “often indicates either desperation or indoctrination. Fear or loyalty. A perceived debt… or a threat.”
His voice didn’t waver, but the room tightened around him. Morgan watched him closely. Too closely.
Hotch cleared his throat, redirecting. “We leave in fifteen. We’ll brief further en route.”
Chairs scraped. Files shut. Agents rose but as the team filtered out toward the hallway, an unmistakable tension threaded through them, thin, taut and fragile. On the surface, they had a case. A clean one. Straightforward. Professional, but underneath, the cracks were widening and as they stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft metallic sigh, none of them could shake the feeling that whatever awaited them in Petersburg wasn’t just another case. It was a pressure point. One they were already standing too close to.
The journey to Petersburg passed beneath a low, cloud-streaked sky, the kind that muted the world into washed-out greys and made the day feel suspended, unfinished. By the time the SUVs rolled into the lot of the local precinct, the sun had vanished completely behind the clouds. The building itself was squat and utilitarian, brick faded with age, windows barred not for security but because budget cuts had left them un-replaced.
Inside, the fluorescent lighting was harsher, buzzing with a dull hum that pressed against the eardrums. The precinct smelled faintly of burnt coffee and old dust. A group of officers were already waiting, their uniforms wrinkled from long shifts, their expressions tight with unease.
A tall sergeant with thinning hair stepped forward. “SSA Hotchner? Detective Alvarez. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
Hotch shook his hand. “Walk us through what we’re dealing with.”
Alvarez exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Warrick’s been on our radar for years. Small stuff. Annoying, sure, but predictable. Then about three weeks ago something changed. He got jumpy, paranoid. Picked up a gun, we still don’t know how, and started waving it around on the street like he was looking for someone. Last night was the worst. Fired on an empty car behind a liquor store. No witnesses, no clear motive.”
“Did he say anything during the arrest?” Rossi asked.
“Yeah.” Alvarez nodded grimly. “He told the arresting officer he ‘didn’t have a choice anymore.’ Then he shut down. Won’t talk to us. Won’t talk to legal. Kept repeating he’d only talk to a profiler.”
“Which means he wants an audience,” Emily murmured. “Or leverage.”
Alvarez jerked his thumb toward the back of the precinct. “He’s in Interview Room B. But before you see him, you should know something else.”
Morgan crossed his arms. “What’s that?”
The detective hesitated. “He’s scared. Really scared. Not of prison, not of us. But of someone he won’t name. Every time we brought up who gave him the gun, he panicked. Started shaking. Hyperventilating.”
JJ exchanged a look with Rossi. “Fear is a powerful motivator for escalation.”
For a moment, the team stood in weighted silence, absorbing, aligning, calibrating.
Then Alvarez motioned toward the hallway. “This way.”
The corridor to the interview rooms was narrow, lined with peeling paint and the scent of stale air. As they walked, a hollow thud echoed from behind one of the closed steel doors, a restless shift of a chair, a foot tapping, or a man trying and failing to find calm.
They stopped outside Interview Room B.
Alvarez lowered his voice. “He’s alert. Watching the door. Like he expects someone else to come for him.”
Hotch turned to his team. “Rossi, you’re with me. Reid, I want you in the observation room. Morgan, contact Garcia, see what she can find out about Kyle Warrick.”
Reid’s head lifted slightly, eyes narrowing before he masked the reaction again. He simply nodded. “Understood.”
Morgan watched him carefully as they split, Rossi and Hotch entering the interview room, JJ and Emily stepping back and Reid drifting toward the adjacent door, the darkened glass of the observation window glowing faintly, but as Reid passed, Alvarez added quietly,
“One more thing.”
Hotch paused, hand on the door.
Alvarez glanced toward the observation window, then back. “When we booked Warrick, he asked us something strange.”
Rossi arched a brow. “Strange how?”
Alvarez swallowed. “He asked if we had anyone… named Michael in custody.”
The hallway chilled by a few degrees. Reid froze mid-step. Just enough for Morgan, watching. Enough for Rossi, calculating. Enough for Hotch to notice.
Alvarez continued, unaware of the shift around him. “No idea why. We figured it was paranoia, some delusion. But… I thought you should know.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened. Rossi’s eyes flicked briefly, sharply, toward Reid. Morgan felt his heartbeat tick up a notch. Reid didn’t speak. He didn’t move. He only blinked once, slow and deliberate, before continuing toward the observation room as though the moment had never happened.
Hotch pushed open the door to Interview Room B, his expression unreadable as he stepped inside.
Kyle Warrick sat chained to the bolted steel table, fingers tapping a frantic rhythm, eyes bloodshot and too bright. He looked up the moment they entered, like a man watching the last line of defence arrive far too late.
“Finally,” Warrick breathed out, hoarse. “You’re the ones, right? The behavioural people? You’re the ones who can help me?”
His gaze flicked anxiously toward the observation glass.
“Because he’s coming,” Warrick whispered. “They always come back for what’s theirs.”
The tap of his fingers accelerated into a panicked tremor.
“And he told me, he warned me, if I ever talked to Michael again, I’d die.”
On the other side of the glass, unseen by Warrick, Reid’s reflection stared back at him. His expression hollow. Eyes dark and unmoving.
Hotch’s chair barely creaked as he sat, posture composed, hands folded loosely atop the table. Across from him, Kyle Warrick’s leg bounced hard enough to rattle the chain clipped to the floor. Rossi took the seat beside Hotch, leaning back just enough to seem nonthreatening, his voice soft with that deceptively easy warmth he saved for the deeply frightened, or the deeply unstable.
“Kyle,” Rossi began, “you mentioned someone named Michael. Can you tell us about him?”
Kyle’s eyes flicked toward the glass again, as though expecting it to shatter inward. When he finally answered, his voice cracked with both reverence and fear:
“Michael… he’s a good guy. The best. Kind. Really kind.” He swallowed, shoulders shaking. “He always sounded calm. Strong. The kind of person you just trust, you know?”
Rossi nodded patiently. “What makes him kind, Kyle?”
“He, he listens. He never yells. He knows how to fix things. He knows when I’m upset, even if I don’t say anything.” Kyle gave a small, broken laugh. “He understands me.”
Hotch glanced down at his notes. Understands. Fixes. Listens. Words about personality. Words about presence. But nothing concrete.
“Kyle,” Hotch said carefully, “what does Michael look like?”
Kyle blinked at him, confused, genuinely confused. “What? I told you, he’s strong.”
“I understand,” Hotch said, voice still neutral, “but physically. Height? Build? Hair? Anything like that?”
Kyle frowned…and kept frowning. His gaze drifted down to the table, fingers tapping harder, faster.
“I, I don’t know,” he admitted. “But that’s not what matters. What matters is who he is. He’s protective. Loyal.”
Hotch and Rossi exchanged a silent look, Hotch’s sharp and alert, Rossi’s thoughtful, narrowing slightly.
Rossi leaned in just a fraction. “When did you first meet Michael?”
Kyle hesitated…then rubbed his palms on his jeans.
“The first time?” His voice thinned out. “On the phone. I was in trouble and he called. Said he could help.”
Hotch’s brows lifted a millimetre. “He called you?”
“Yeah. He, he said he knew what I needed.” Kyle swallowed again. “And he was right.”
Rossi kept his tone gentle. “Kyle, how did he know you? How did he find you?”
Another blank pause. Kyle’s mind raced behind his bloodshot eyes.
“He… helped me once. Years ago. He got me out of a bad situation.”
Hotch leaned forward. “How?”
Kyle’s hand froze mid-tap. His breath stuttered.
“He just, he helped,” he insisted, defensive now. “He told me what to do. He told me how to get out.”
Hotch’s voice stayed even. “And you talked on the phone?”
“Yeah.”
“And afterward?” Rossi asked quietly. “Did you ever meet? Ever see him? Even once?”
Kyle stared at the table, face contorting with concentration… then panic.
“I, I don’t…” His chest tightened. “We never, no. We didn’t meet. But that doesn’t matter. I know him.”
Hotch didn’t move, but something sharpened behind his eyes.
“You know his voice,” he corrected softly.
Kyle flinched.
Rossi let the silence stretch just long enough to settle the truth between them.
This man, the one Kyle feared, the one who had armed him, directed him, shaped him, was a ghost. A presence without a face. A voice without a body and behind the glass, Reid stood motionless, jaw rigid, eyes locked on the trembling man in chains.
Kyle’s voice dropped to a whisper.
“Michael’s real. He’s real and if he finds out I’m talking about him…” His breath hitched. “He’ll kill me. He said he would.”
Hotch’s tone remained calm, professional, steady.
“Kyle,” he said, “how do you know he wasn’t lying to you?”
Kyle’s gaze snapped up, fearful, desperate.
“Because Michael doesn’t lie.”
Rossi exhaled slowly through his nose. Hotch’s jaw tightened another fraction and on the other side of the glass, Reid, pale and silent, finally closed his eyes. As if he was remembering something that felt like a voice in the dark.
Hotch shifted forward in his chair, the small movement tightening the air in the room. Rossi sensed the change, the subtle drop in temperature, the sharpening of intent and let Hotch take the lead.
“Kyle,” Hotch said, voice no longer gentle, no longer coaxing. “You just said if he finds out you’re talking, he’ll kill you. Are you saying Michael is the one who will do that?”
Kyle’s head jerked up so fast the chain clattered against the floor.
“No!” His voice cracked, high and terrified. “No, Michael would never, he’d never hurt me.”
Hotch didn’t even blink. “Then who will?”
Kyle froze. His fingers clenched around nothing, knuckles whitening as though he were gripping an invisible lifeline. Rossi watched his chest rise too fast, too shallow, the telltale clamp of panic tightening around his ribs. The young man shook his head hard, curls bouncing.
“Kyle,” Hotch pressed, tone cold enough to frost glass, “you said someone will kill you. Who?”
“I, no…no, I can’t…”
Hotch’s voice sliced cleanly through Kyle’s sputtering breath. “Give me a name.”
Kyle’s breathing hitched into a terrified gasp. “Stop, please, don’t…”
“Who is he?” Hotch demanded, leaning in. “If it isn’t Michael, then who threatened to kill you?”
Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, hands fisting in his hair. “Please don’t make me say it, please… he’ll hear—”
“Kyle.” Hotch’s voice was unforgiving steel. “Who.”
Kyle’s whole body trembled, shoes skidding on the floor as he tried to shrink back into the chair. Tears leaked unbidden from the corners of his eyes. The microphone above them caught the smallest sound he made, a broken, animal whimper.
Rossi shifted, about to intervene, but Hotch wasn’t finished.
“Kyle,” he said, low, lethal, “is this the same person who tells you what to do? Who got you the weapons? Who told you to shoot those men?”
Kyle’s breath came in jagged bursts. He shook his head again and again, as if denying the world itself. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t say his name.”
“Why?” Hotch snapped. “Why can’t you say it?”
Kyle’s voice dropped to a trembling whisper, barely audible. “Because if I say it… he’ll come.”
Rossi’s eyes flicked to the glass, toward Reid, who stood motionless, arms folded tight across his chest, face unreadable except for the sharp edge of dread hiding at the corners of his expression.
Kyle curled inward, shaking violently. “Michael protects me,” he insisted, voice cracking. “Michael’s good. But he…” His throat closed around the word. “He’s different. He’s everywhere. He listens. He knows things. And if he hears me telling you, if he hears me say his name…”
Kyle clamped both hands over his mouth, as though the name might tear itself free on its own.
Hotch didn’t relent, not yet, not until he understood exactly what they were dealing with.
“Kyle,” he said, ice in every syllable, “tell me who he is.”
Kyle rocked forward, gripping the sides of the metal chair like he might fall through the floor.
“I can’t,” he sobbed. “I can’t. He’ll kill me. If I say it out loud, he’ll kill me.”
Hotch inhaled once, steady but grim. Rossi finally lifted a hand, a silent signal that pushing further would break the boy beyond use.
Hotch sat back, jaw flexing, eyes calculating.
Kyle kept shaking, whispering to himself, “He’ll kill me… he’ll kill me… he’ll kill me…” over and over, as if chanting might keep an unseen executioner at bay and behind the one-way glass, Reid didn’t move, but his eyes, wide, dark and haunted, never left Kyle’s trembling form.
Rossi opened the door first, letting Hotch step into the observation room ahead of him. The lights were dimmer here, the glass still glowing faintly with the image of Kyle huddled in the interrogation room, rocking and trembling like a child fearing monsters in the dark.
Reid hadn’t moved since the interview began.
He stood rigidly beside the glass, hands clasped behind his back with almost militaristic control, jaw locked so tight a muscle jumped along its line. His eyes were fixed on Kyle, not with curiosity, not with analytic focus, but with an unsettling, distant familiarity. As if he were listening to an echo.
Hotch closed the door behind them. Rossi watched the small, nearly imperceptible tightening of Reid’s shoulders at the sound.
“Reid,” Hotch said quietly.
It took a beat before Reid responded, just long enough for Rossi to exchange a glance with Hotch. Then Reid turned, slowly, his expression neutral but stretched too thin.
“What did you think?” Rossi asked, going for the gentler approach first. “About Kyle. His reaction. His fear.”
Reid blinked once, gaze flicking back to the trembling young man on the other side of the glass.
“He’s terrified,” Reid said. His voice was calm, clinical, too clinical. “Not of prison. Not of repercussions. He’s afraid of a specific individual. Someone he believes is omnipresent.”
Hotch stepped closer. “You think the fear is real.”
“I know it is,” Reid replied, almost before the question finished. “He believes this person can hear him anywhere. That saying the name aloud triggers consequences. That kind of belief doesn’t form in a vacuum.”
Rossi folded his arms. “What kind of person creates that?”
Reid hesitated. Just for half a breath. His eyes flicked downward, panic, grief or maybe in memory, before he forced his tone back into something steady.
“Someone who spent a long time conditioning him,” Reid said. “Someone who reinforced obedience and dependence. Someone who made sure Kyle understood that silence equals survival.”
Hotch watched him carefully. Too carefully. “You think this person is real.”
“I think Kyle believes he is,” Reid corrected. A neat deflection. Too neat. “And belief dictates behaviour. It doesn’t matter if this man is omnipresent in reality. What matters is that Kyle thinks he is.”
Rossi exchanged another quiet look with Hotch. He’d seen Reid perform detachment before, during difficult cases, emotionally charged scenes, confrontations with things he didn’t want to feel, but this was something different.
This was surgery: cut away anything that could expose the wound underneath.
Hotch stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Reid, Kyle said the name Michael with… reverence. As if this Michael is a protector, but the person he’s truly afraid of, he wouldn’t name. He said it would get him killed.”
Reid’s eyes sharpened. “Fear of naming someone implies a deep psychological bond. A power imbalance. Trauma bonding.”
Rossi tilted his head. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”
The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was heavy. Reid didn’t answer. Not immediately. His spine straightened as if bracing against impact.
When he finally spoke, his voice was softer, almost too quiet. “I’m speaking from understanding,” he said.
Rossi watched him closely.
Hotch stepped in, gentler this time. “Reid. Does this man Kyle’s afraid of remind you of anyone? Anything from your undercover operation?”
Reid went still. Absolutely still. A breath caught in his chest like a door slamming shut. His gaze did not leave the glass, but the muscles in his throat worked once as he swallowed.
“I told you,” Reid murmured, the smallest crack slipping through the calm, “I can’t discuss my undercover work.”
Hotch exhaled slowly. “Reid,”
“It’s need to know,” Reid said, firmer this time. “And I was told you don’t.”
Rossi took a step toward him. “We’re not asking for classified details. We’re asking if you recognise the pattern.”
Reid’s jaw tightened. For a moment, just a moment, something flickered behind his eyes. Something frightened. Something exhausted. Something that looked too much like Kyle’s panic.
Then he blinked, and the wall slammed back into place.
“The pattern,” Reid said evenly, “is consistent with cult hierarchy. A central, unseen authority. Enforced rules. Punishment for disobedience and a protector figure, Michael, who creates a false sense of safety.”
He looked directly at Rossi now, and Rossi hated the emptiness he found there.
“That’s all,” Reid finished. “Nothing more.”
Hotch studied him, long and searching, but Reid’s expression did not budge. Finally, Hotch nodded once, though it wasn’t agreement. It was recognition. Reid wasn’t going to give them anything else.
Reid dipped his head in a small nod, polite, distant, practiced, and turned back to the glass, shoulders drawn tight as wire.
As Hotch and Rossi left the room, closing the door behind them, neither said aloud the same thought running through both their minds:
Kyle wasn’t the only one still afraid of saying a name.
——————————
The team reconvened in a small, windowless conference room the local precinct had offered, an afterthought of a space with flickering fluorescent lights and a rickety table that wobbled every time someone shifted their weight. The stale smell of old coffee hung in the air, mixing unpleasantly with the stronger scent of disinfectant. It was late; the kind of late where even the walls felt tired.
Rossi placed the thin case file on the table. “Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a sigh, “that was… something.”
JJ dropped into the seat beside him, rubbing a hand over her face.
“He’s terrified. That’s clear, but terrified of who, we still don’t know.”
Emily crossed her arms, pacing slowly near the whiteboard. “He talks about Michael like a guardian angel, but he can’t, or won’t, give us anything concrete. Not a face, not a location, not even confirmation they’ve met in person.”
Garcia’s voice came through Morgan’s phone on speaker, “And the databases don’t have anything. I mean, nothing coherent. Kyle’s known associates, past employers, known addresses, none of the usual connections lead to anyone named Michael. No protectors, no benefactors, no guardian figures.”
Morgan leaned forward, elbows on the table. “And the guy he’s scared of… the one he wouldn’t name?” He shook his head. “That wasn’t just fear. That was trauma. Conditioned fear.”
Hotch nodded slowly. “Kyle’s reactions align with long-term coercion. Someone who taught him there are consequences for speaking certain truths.”
“Like Voldemort,” Garcia muttered. “But less magical and way more homicide-y.”
Morgan cracked the faintest grim smile, but it faded quickly.
Hotch’s expression remained stern, thoughtful. “Whatever structure Kyle was part of, gang, cult, trafficking network, it’s not something he feels free to speak about. Not yet.”
Emily stopped pacing. “Do we push harder?”
“No,” Rossi said firmly. “Push now and he’ll shut down completely. We need him functioning, not spiralling.”
JJ nodded. “He was already close to a panic attack when Hotch asked who would kill him.”
Hotch’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue.
Emily checked her watch. “It’s nearly midnight. We’re not getting anything else out of him tonight.”
“And Kyle’s not giving us a breadcrumb more,” Morgan added. “We might as well regroup in the morning.”
Rossi pushed to his feet with a grunt. “We get a motel, get some sleep, and come back fresh. Panic like his doesn’t just vanish overnight, maybe with rest, he’ll cooperate.”
Hotch gathered the thin folder and closed it. “We head out. Same time tomorrow morning. Maybe Kyle will be ready to talk.”
They filed out, exhausted shadows drifting down the quiet hallway, the precinct humming under dull fluorescent lights. Outside, the night was cold and heavy, a low fog clinging to the edges of the parking lot.
No one said it aloud, but they all felt it:
They were circling something bigger, something submerged, dangerous, and nameless.
And tomorrow, they’d have to face it head-on.
——————————
The next morning dawned grey and heavy, clouds hanging low over the precinct like a warning no one wanted to put into words. The team arrived just after eight, coffees in hand, ready to make another attempt with Kyle, half-hoping, half-expecting that a night’s rest might’ve loosened the grip of whatever fear held him silent, but the moment they walked through the precinct doors, they knew something was wrong.
Detective Alvarez was waiting for them in the lobby, pale and tight-jawed, clutching a folder he didn’t seem to realise he was crumpling in his hand. His eyes jumped from one member of the team to the next before he spoke.
Alvarez exhaled, the sound shaky. “We… we’ve got a situation.”
He led them down a short hallway into the operations room. The moment they stepped inside, the room’s frantic energy hit them, detectives on phones, voices raised, papers shuffled, a general atmosphere of controlled chaos.
Alvarez turned to them, bracing himself.
“Kyle’s gone.”
The words hit like a physical blow.
Emily straightened. “Gone? How?”
“That’s the problem,” Alvarez said, rubbing a hand over his face. “Someone let him out last night.”
Morgan took a step closer, voice low and sharp. “Someone on your force?”
Alvarez didn’t flinch, which somehow made it worse. “We think so.”
Rossi’s tone cooled several degrees. “And you didn’t notice until this morning?”
Alvarez swallowed. “It gets worse. One of our detectives, Detective Lena Ortiz, hasn’t shown up for shift. She was on the night rotation.”
JJ’s breath caught. “You think Kyle took her?”
“I don’t know,” Alvarez admitted. “But the timing… it’s bad.”
Hotch’s voice dropped into command. “Show us the footage.”
Alvarez nodded, gesturing to a workstation. “We would, except the CCTV from last night was scrubbed. Entire blocks of data missing.”
Morgan quickly pulled out his phone, dialling Garcia with a practiced ease.
“Good morning, Baby Girl,” He muttered into the phone, “We have a situation, Warrick’s escaped and someone’s scrubbed the precinct CCTV…”
Before Morgan could finish explaining Garcia muttered a quick “on it”, as the sound of her fingers flying across the keys, echoed down the phone. What was “scrubbed” quickly became “not scrubbed enough.”
“Boom,” Garcia muttered under her breath. “Someone tried to cover their tracks, but they did not anticipate the righteous wrath of Penelope Garcia.”
She hit a final command. A grainy video file came through to Morgan’s phone.
“Thank you,” He muttered quickly, ending the call as he pulled up the video.
Everyone leaned in.
The corridor camera flickered, and then:
Kyle appeared. Not the terrified, trembling version they’d interviewed yesterday, this Kyle moved with purpose. Fear still clung to him, but it had direction now. Meaning. In front of him he held a female officer, Detective Ortiz, a gun pressed tightly against her back.
JJ gasped. Morgan muttered a sharp curse. Reid’s jaw clenched.
On the footage, Kyle kept glancing over his shoulder, whispering something none of the microphones could catch. His hands shook violently, but the gun stayed steady.
He pushed Ortiz forward, steps jerky, terrified. Not malicious. Desperate. The video followed them down the hall, toward the back exit. Kyle paused just before the camera’s blind spot, even with the low resolution, his face was clear.
Tormented. Haunted. He mouthed something to the camera. Reid leaned closer, squinting. Emily beside him did the same.
“‘I’m sorry,’” Emily whispered, and then the pair vanished through the door.
The footage ended and silence smothered the room.
Hotch exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation settling over him like lead. “He didn’t escape,” he said quietly. “He was retrieved.”
Emily folded her arms. “Someone gave him an order.”
Reid stared at the frozen frame of Kyle’s tortured face, a muscle ticking in his jaw.
Morgan glanced at him, then at Hotch, lowering his voice. “We need to move. Fast.”
Hotch straightened, the leader in him locking into place. “Gear up. We profile as we track. Someone wanted Kyle out badly enough to risk abducting an officer. We find them and we get Ortiz back.”
He turned to Reid last. Reid didn’t speak. He didn’t have to. His expression said everything:He already had a very good idea who Kyle was running to.
You can find chapter seven here!
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The Darkness and Other Impossible Feats - Chapter Five
SUMMARY: After six months on mandated leave following an undercover case, Doctor Spencer Reid returns to the BAU a colder, altered man, silent about the mission that shattered him, and hiding a dangerous truth: somewhere out there, the cartel he infiltrated holds the last pieces of a life he’s desperate to reclaim.
WARNINGS: graphic violence, emotional avoidance, drugs, mention of drugs, use of drugs, lonliness, guns, gun violence, trauma, PTSD, murder, death, pain, injury, panic attack, nightmares (there may be more added as each chapter is posted - please check the individual warnings on each chapter just in case)
Reid’s apartment held a stagnant, hollow stillness. The lamp beside his sofa cast a faint, amber pool of light over the room, barely brushing away the shadows that clung to every surface.
Reid sat sunk into the leather sofa, his shoulders curved inwards as the dim glow glanced off the sharp planes of his face. A half-melted ice cube drifted in the whisky glass that dangled from his fingers. The drink had gone warm hours ago, but he continued to hold it anyway, like an anchor he didn’t have to think about. Beside him, on the small side table, his service weapon lay gleamingly cold under the lamp light, the harsh black metal stark against the grain of the wood.
He hadn’t meant to keep it there. He hadn’t meant to pour the drink, either, but some nights had a way of unmaking good intentions.
He took the last swallow of whiskey, more our of habit than actual desire, and leaned back further into the sofa, letting the empty glass slowly slip from his hand. It hit the rug with a muted thump and rolled slightly. Reid didn’t notice the sound. He didn’t notice anything as the exhaustion dragged him down, sudden, heavy and irresistible.
The sleep caught him hard. The darkness rushed in followed by a faint, piercing crackle of static, threading through his dreams, like a wire pulled too tight. Somewhere deep in the void, a shrill distant echo of a phone rang out. The sound vibrating against his ribs and tightening around his lungs.
Then came the shapes. Blurry and fragmented, bleeding slightly at the edges. Ross’ distorted voice, the word Michael wrapped into something sharp, that tasted like copped in the back of Reid’s throat… and then there was him. A silhouette, a man-shaped shadow rippling at the edges, faceless and impossibly still. He stepped out of the darkness as if pulled forward by Reid’s fear itself. He had no features, no eyes or mouth, but never-the-less, Reid felt like he was being watched. Scrutinised under weighted eyes, creating a cold pressure, settling between his shoulder blades.
The figure raised an arm. A gun, black and heavy in it’s hand. Reid’s breath stuttered. His fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. The faceless man tilted the gun towards him, the barrel level with Reid’s face.
The world held for one awful, suspended second.
“Tell Michael Ricky’s back.”
The voice came from everywhere and nowhere. It thrummed through the air like a warning disguised as a promise.
The gunshot exploded, loud enough to shatter the dream open like breaking glass.
Reid jerked away, his chest heaving and eyes wide, unfocused. The apartment snapped back around him: the lamp, the sofa, the unnerving quiet. His pulse pounded in his ears like footsteps racing away from him. For several seconds he couldn’t inhale enough air, the room felt too small, the light too dim, the air too thick, the silence too loud.
He pressed both hands to his face, slowly dragging them down until he could breath again. Once the world settled around him he finally spared a glance at his watch. The hands indicating it was only four in the morning. Yet it was painfully clear that sleep was done with him.
He rose stiffly, his joints aching from the twisted position he’d slept in. He padded across to the bathroom, taking a deep breath as he undressed and stepped into the shower. The scalding water steamed up the bathroom mirror as he let it burn the last tremors from his skin. Afterwards he dressed with a robotic precision, buttoning his shirt, knotting his tie, sliding into his blazer like armour.
By six o’clock he was already at Quantico.
The bullpen was a ghostly quiet at that hour. Fluorescent lights hummed quietly overhead as they cast pale, sterile streaks of light across empty desks. Reid sat at his own, stacking files, typing without purpose, doing anything to keep his hands moving. Anything to drown out the memory of the faceless silhouette raising the gun.
The others filtered in slowly, JJ first, followed by Morgan, then Emily. Their greetings were soft and cautious, but Reid acknowledged none of them, his eyes staying fixed on the paperwork he wasn’t reading.
The hours crawled by slowly. Hotch didn’t arrive until nearly ten. His entrance cut through the room with a shift in pressure, the way weather changed before a storm. He moved with sharp intent, a file tucked under his arm and an expression carved out of determination, as he approached Rossi’s desk quietly.
“You’re late,” Rossi remarked, not unkindly,
“I had a meeting,” He replied, clipped and distracted.
Rossi studied him briefly before speaking again, “Everything all right?”
“No.” Hotch’s answer was weighted and low. He flicked a glance towards Reid, who was still hunched over his keyboard working in eerie silence, before continuing quietly, “But if the next meeting goes the way I hope… we might be a step closer to fixing this.”
Rossi didn’t miss the tension in Hotch’s jaw or the way his eyes lingered on Reid.
“Be careful,” He murmured.
Hotch didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He simply nodded once and turned towards the hallway, disappearing into it with the same quiet urgency he’d arrived with.
Rossi watched him go before subconsciously letting his eyes wander over to Reid, far too still, far too quiet, and in the space between them, the unease in his chest deepened.
——————————
Morgan pushed away from his desk with a soft scrape of the chair legs, unable to shake the tight coil of concern winding beneath his ribs. Reid’s presence in the bullpen felt wrong, not tense or angry, just absent. It was like he was only there in body, his mind locked behind some invisible barricade.
Morgan needed a moment to breathe, to think. He found himself shuffling towards the break room, the room lit only by the weak fluorescent bulb buzzing overhead. The coffee pot sat half full in the corner. Morgan moved towards it automatically, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, filling it with the half warm liquid.
He didn’t drink it, just held it for a moment as his mind flicked over the memory of Reid in the alley. However, his thoughts were cut short as the door creaked open, followed by the sound of heels against the tile.
Garcia swept in first, bright cardigan and all, though the colours seemed muter under the harsh light. Emily followed close behind, her expression carved in worry.
Garcia took one look at Morgan’s face and sighed, “Oh no. That’s your brooding storm cloud look. I hate that look.”
Morgan crossed his arms, still grasping the mug in his left hand, “he didn’t say a word to us when he came in.”
“He barely blinked,” Garcia murmured. “I said ‘good morning, sunshine,’ and he didn’t even flinch. Usually I get at least an eye twitch.”
Morgan didn’t respond. Not immediately.
Emily stepped closer. “Derek… what happened with him? At the bar? You never really told us.”
Garcia nodded vigorously. “Yeah. Hotch said you found him, but then you two rode back alone.”
Morgan closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Because it wasn’t something I wanted to spread around.” His voice was rougher than he intended. “Still don’t.”
Emily’s stare was unwavering. “We’re worried too. You don’t have to protect him from us.”
He let out a long breath, setting the untouched mug down on the counter. The ceramic clinked softly.
“Fine.” He opened his eyes. “When I found him… he was in the alley behind the bar. Alone. Smoking like it was the only thing keeping him upright.”
Garcia blinked rapidly. “He, Spencer, smokes?”
“He does now.” Morgan shook his head. “But that’s not the part that matters.”
Emily waited. Patient and silent.
Morgan’s voice lowered. “He heard me come up behind him… and he pulled his gun on me.”
The shock was immediate. Garcia’s hand flew to her mouth. Emily’s eyes widened as the colour draining slightly from her face.
“He what?” Emily whispered.
“He drew on me,” Morgan repeated, each word heavy. “Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t question. Just, turned and aimed like it was instinct. And the way he did it…” Morgan swallowed. “It was clean. Automatic. Like he’s done it before.”
Silence settled like dust.
Garcia’s voice trembled. “Did he recognise you?”
“Yeah,” Morgan said quietly. “But it took a second and when he realised it was me… he didn’t apologise. Didn’t even react. Just holstered the gun and kept smoking like nothing happened.”
Emily stared at the doorway to the bullpen, her jaw tight, her eyes dark with fear. “He’s sliding,” she murmured. “Deeper than we thought.”
Garcia whispered, “He’s shutting us out. All of us.”
Emily spoke softly, dread threading her words. “Whatever happened… whatever he brought back with him… he thinks he has to carry it alone.”
Morgan crossed his arms, gaze fixed on the dark coffee swirling in the pot. “Yeah. And if we don’t figure out how to reach him soon…”
He trailed off, jaw flexing as he searched for the right words.
Garcia finished them for him, voice barely above a breath.
“…we might lose him for good.”
Garcia sank into one of the break room chairs, her bright façade dimmed to a quiet, anxious shimmer. Emily leaned back against the counter, arms folded tightly, her expression pinched with thought. Morgan stood between them, restless energy radiating off him in waves as he paced a short, agitated line.
Emily broke the silence first. “If he’s drawing his weapon out of reflex… that’s conditioning. Deep conditioning.”
“Yeah,” Morgan muttered. “That’s what scares me.”
Emily nodded slowly. “He’s dissociating. Putting distance between himself and anything that could hurt him.” She glanced at Morgan. “Or anything that could see him.”
Morgan leaned his palms against the counter, staring down at the stained laminate like it might offer answers. “He’s shutting down,” he said quietly. “Piece by piece.”
Garcia whispered, “I feel like we only have fragments of him left.”
“And he won’t let us help,” Emily added. “Not unless something forces his hand.”
Morgan grunted softly. “I’d rather not wait for that ‘something’ to be the wrong thing.”
They fell silent again, tension settling heavy and thick. The hum of the vending machine felt too loud, too sharp, like the room itself was holding its breath.
And then…
SLAM.
A door echoed through the bullpen. Hard. Final. The unmistakable sound of someone losing their patience, or their composure.
The three exchanged looks. Then moved. They stepped out of the break room and into the bullpen, the shift from dim fluorescent to open office lighting making them squint. Rossi stood alone near Hotch’s office door, hands in his pockets, looking at the closed door with the weight of someone who had witnessed something he wasn’t quite ready to unpack.
Morgan approached first. “Rossi?” he called softly. “What happened?”
Rossi tore his eyes from the door, his expression unreadable. He lifted a brow in that dry, knowing way he always did when something had gone sideways.
“Well,” he said, voice low, “if I had to guess… I’d say Hotch’s meeting this morning did not go the way he wanted it to.”
Emily frowned. “He slammed the door?”
Rossi nodded once. “Hard enough to rattle the glass.”
Garcia winced. “That’s… not usually his style.”
“No,” Rossi agreed. “Which means whatever wall he ran into today… it was a big one.”
Morgan glanced toward Reid’s empty desk. “Great,” he muttered. “Just what we need, another thing Hotch can’t talk about.”
Emily followed his gaze, her voice quiet but steeped in worry. “Everything in this place feels like it’s cracking.”
Rossi looked at each of them, then back at Hotch’s closed office door. “And it’s only a matter of time,” he said gravely, “before something gives.”
Rossi lingered there another beat, staring at the frosted glass as though trying to read the tension still vibrating through it. Then he inhaled slowly, shoulders lifting in a long, resigned breath.
“Well,” he murmured, straightening his jacket, “I suppose I’d better go see what that was about.”
Morgan let out a low whistle. “You’re a brave man, Rossi.”
Rossi flashed him a dry look. “Brave? No. Just old enough to know when someone shouldn’t be left alone with their anger.”
Emily stepped aside to let him pass. “Good luck.”
“Yeah,” Morgan added, clapping him lightly on the arm. “You’re gonna need it.”
Rossi gave a faint, humourless smile as he reached for the doorknob. “If I’m not out in ten minutes,” he murmured, “avenge my death.”
He turned the handle and slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the slam that had shaken the floor moments before.
The bullpen fell quiet again.
Morgan, Emily, and Garcia stood there, suspended in uneasy stillness, waiting for whatever would come next.
——————————
Rossi closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound seeming strangely loud in the tense quiet of Hotch’s office. Hotch stood with his back to him, hands braced against the edge of his desk, shoulders tight beneath the dark fabric of his suit. The blinds were half-drawn, slicing the room into narrow bands of shadow and winter-thin light.
Rossi approached slowly, giving Hotch a chance to acknowledge him. When he didn’t, Rossi cleared his throat.
“Whatever that was… ” he said gently, “you want to tell me what happened?”
Hotch exhaled, slow and controlled, the way someone breathes when every alternative is breaking. He lowered himself into his chair, spine straight but heavy, as if the weight of whatever happened had anchored him there.
“I made some calls,” Hotch said finally, voice clipped at the edges. “I spent all morning trying to get clearance to view the full documentation on Reid’s undercover mission. The un-redacted file.”
Rossi waited, already suspecting where this was going.
Hotch’s jaw tightened. “I was told it’s classified under a need-to-know directive.”
Rossi sank into the chair opposite him. “And apparently,” he said softly, “you don’t need to know.”
Hotch gave a sharp, humourless huff, too thin to be a laugh. “Exactly. I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I am not authorised to access any operational details. Not the mission parameters, not his handler notes, not his post-extraction debrief. Nothing.”
Rossi’s brows drew together. “You’re his unit chief. His direct supervisor. The person responsible for assessing his fitness for duty. How do you not ‘need to know’?”
Hotch’s eyes, normally unreadable, flicked with something raw, anger, frustration and fear for the young man they both cared for.
“I asked the same question,” Hotch said. “Multiple times. And I was told the same thing in response: the file is restricted. Permanently.”
Hotch rubbed a hand over his face. “Someone signed off on sending Reid into a situation so classified that I’m not even allowed to know what he was doing there and now we’re seeing the fallout. His volatility. His evasiveness. The way he reacts to certain names.” His voice dropped. “The way he looks at his own team like we’re strangers.”
Rossi let the silence settle for a moment before speaking. “So what now?”
Hotch dropped his hand, meeting Rossi’s eyes, tired, edged with resolve. “I don’t care what they say,” he murmured. “I’m going to find out what happened to him. One way or another.”
For the first time since the door slammed, Rossi realised the sound he’d heard wasn’t anger. It was determination cracking through restraint, dangerous, deliberate, and long overdue.
Rossi watched him carefully, elbows resting on his knees, hands loosely clasped. Hotch rarely let frustration breach his composure, not like this. Whatever stone wall he’d run into, it had rattled him deeper than he was admitting.
“So,” Rossi said quietly, “you’re going to find out what happened. One way or another.” He tilted his head. “All right. I’ll bite. What’s your plan?”
Hotch opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He blinked once, the silence stretching, and Rossi saw the truth hit him in real time: he’d been so focused on fighting the secrecy that he hadn’t thought a step beyond the refusal.
Finally, Hotch exhaled. “I don’t know.”
Rossi lifted a brow. “You don’t know.”
“No,” Hotch said, rubbing his thumb along the edge of a file as if grounding himself. “I don’t. I’ve spent the entire morning being redirected, stonewalled, shut out. Every number I called sent me to someone higher up the chain, until I reached a point where they wouldn’t even tell me which department held the file.”
He leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting to the blinds as though he could see past Quantico, past the bureaucratic maze that had swallowed Reid’s past whole.
“I don’t know how to access that information. I don’t know who authorised his mission. I don’t know who he reported to, who trained him, what he was exposed to, or why they sent him alone.” His voice thinned, going tight around the edges.
Rossi let that sit, heavy and cold. “And you’re not used to not knowing,” he said softly.
Hotch’s jaw worked. “It’s not about my ego.”
“I didn’t say it was,” Rossi replied. “I said you’re not used to not knowing. And when it comes to Reid?” He shook his head. “You hate not knowing.”
Hotch closed his eyes for a brief moment, and Rossi saw the exhaustion there, quiet and deep. Not physical, but emotional. The fatigue of a man trying to protect someone while blindfolded.
“I keep replaying it,” Hotch said. “Him standing there in my office, telling me I don’t need to know because I don’t have clearance, and the way he said it, like he wasn’t proud of that fact, but resigned to it.”
He opened his eyes again, meeting Rossi’s gaze.
“He’s carrying something he believes he has to keep from us.”
Rossi frowned. “Or something he was ordered to keep from us.”
Hotch didn’t deny it. Didn’t blink.
“But whatever it is,” Rossi continued, “he’s cracking under the weight of it.”
Hotch’s voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “I know.”
Another silence followed. This one more mutual, less strained, two seasoned agents acknowledging the enormity of what lay ahead.
“So,” Rossi said gently, “no plan yet.”
Hotch shook his head. “No. Not yet.”
Rossi nodded once. “Then we’ll figure one out. Together.”
Hotch’s shoulders lowered a fraction, the first sign of relief he’d shown all day. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Rossi muttered. “We’re about to go up against a brick wall built by people who enjoy having more power than we do.”
Hotch’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of grim humour. “Then we’ll use a battering ram.”
Rossi stood. “Good. I’ll start drawing up a list of who we can lean on.”
“And I’ll start making calls again,” Hotch said.
He didn’t know where to call. Didn’t know who to push. Didn’t know how to breach a wall designed to keep even him out, but for the first time since the meeting.… he had a direction and Rossi, watching him, saw something shift.
Hotch still had no plan, but he had purpose and that was far more dangerous.
You can find chapter six here!
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