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thosewickedlovelies · 3 days ago

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A guide to writing fics set in museums / with a museum worker character

Hey hi hello it’s your local museum worker here, offering you some insight and tips to writing museum-related fics! This is primarily organized as a list of different jobs you could have in a museum and what their duties entail. This post might also be useful to you if you’re considering working in museums and want to know What Goes On In There. Let’s go!

For simplicity/fic-writing purposes, I would divide museums into 2 very rough groups: large national or city museums that Have Money (think the Smithsonian or British Museums, or the Chicago Field Museum or the Royal Armouries Museum in Leeds); and smaller local museums. These could be local industry and culture/history-of-our town museums, historic houses, or really niche subject museums run by One Person With A Passion.

Big national museums have a fuckton of staff and money (museums can never have enough money. But these places are very well-off compared to somewhere small that might always be hustling and writing grant applications). If you work here you’re likely to have a specific role in a particular department, and you probably won’t do much outside this role (ex., if you work in collections management, you probably won’t also design exhibits)

The smaller the museum, the more varied your workload will be/the more likely you are to be doing a little bit of everything. You’re probably organizing collections storage, manning the front desk, and desperately running fundraising efforts, all at once.

To this end, smaller museums are more likely to be closed one or two days a week- you’ll be there, probably cleaning displays or managing storage, but visitors won’t be.

A lot of (most?) universities also have museums, so a college town setting is also doable. But the same big vs small museum disparity is still possible! At Penn State University, for example, the Palmer Art Museum is its own (recently redone iirc) building in the center of campus with a lovely plaza out front, while the Matson Museum of Anthropology is uhhhhh a couple classrooms in the Anthropology Department (which they’re currently rebuilding tbf, so we’ll see what they’ve done with it in 2025).

Types of Jobs

Curator

The one museum job that everyone can name. Nominally the person in charge. Probably laments that their job is way more admin than fun hands-on stuff now.

Actually this is the role I have the least knowledge of, but I think that’s partially because this job might vary the most from place to place? Structural organization can vary a lot between institutions, but I think the higher up you get in any field, the more your job tends to consist of meetings/overseeing, designating, and ~liaising~

A list of things a curator might do:

Planning or approving events and fundraisers, schmoozing with donors and members at said events, approving or designing a schedule of exhibits, publish outreach/advertising or research materials, oversee hiring, approve new object acquisitions (or de-acquisitions), generally make sure that the museum is working within the scope of its mission and if necessary, change or refine their mission

The curator might not necessarily control a museum’s funds; in this case they’ll liaise with the people who do, likely a Board of Executives or Board of Trustees. Once they get the money from these people, though, they could potentially redistribute it as they see fit.

If you work in a fuckoff museum like the BM, you could also be the curator of a specific department, arranged by overarching subject, geographic area, time period, or even object type (eg Curator of Archaeobotany, Curator of Korean Collections, curator of coins from the medieval period). These categories can be more or less specific depending on what kind of holdings your museum has. I think these types of curators would still be able to do interesting things, as they aren’t the ones who Oversee The Whole Place.

You can also be an assistant or associate curator, like being an assistant manager.

Education/Engagement

These are the people who design fun extra activities (esp for kids) in the galleries or relevant events/workshops/lectures the public can attend. They might be called Engagement/Education Officer or Events Manager or anything similar

Again, the bigger the museum you work at, the more specific your role is likely to be. You might focus on web content/outreach and social media, manage the ‘friends/members of the museum’ program, or engage with shareholders, etc

Or you might do things like develop content and events to engage adult audiences. Workshops or lectures connected to new exhibits, after-hours visits. These people are also probably the ones with an eye on accessibility- you’ve probably seen advertisements for museums’ early or late hours for older visitors, or ‘quiet hours’ for people who might be overstimulated by normal museum hubbub, or tactile workshops designed for visually impaired folks.

I think most places would try to have someone specific for kids activities at the very least. They’ll be designing little activities or dress-up stations for the galleries, kiddie mascots or scavenger hunt trail kind of things, as well as, potentially, activities for any digital elements in the museum. They probably also coordinate school visits and act as a tour guide for classes, and will lead the kids in specific workshops or lessons in classrooms attached to the museum.

As a note on technology- some people would probably say that integrating digital elements into exhibits is the ~next big thing~, that museums have to get with the times in this regard, but opinions vary. Big science and technology museums are the most likely to have the most digital and techy elements in their exhibits, so if this is your setting, your character could also be a generic “tech person”. I would go so far as to say the smaller/more local the museum, the less technology you’re likely to have, but smaller museums are able to get grants, some of them potentially for specifically this type of thing, so it’s totally possibly that they have a few tablets with integrated activities, or some other Digital/Screen Thing.

Engagement Officers are probably the most likely people to be drafted for out-of-hours events, so that’s a potentially fun thing for your character to do. Some museums, particularly bigger ones, have event spaces attached that anybody can rent out, for weddings, galas, markets, etc, so they might also take care of these bookings as well.

Exhibit Design

This role has a lot of nebulous terms: exhibit coordinator, design constructor, exhibit programmer- but these are the people who design the exhibits. They’ll come up with a theme or narrative, a design scheme, choose the objects, write the text. They’ll probably come up with some marketing material as well, that matches the design scheme, or they’ll liaise with the marketing people who will.

These people might not be as familiar with the collections as the collections management folk (below), depending on how strictly divided your roles are, so they’ll likely consult with the collections people on choosing objects for a particular exhibit or theme (they say that good exhibit design builds an exhibit from the objects up, but I digress).

These people will also direct and participate in the install and deinstall (the actual terms) of exhibits- putting the objects on the right plinths/stands and arranging everything just so in the cases. Genuinely there’s a lot of psychology behind exhibit design- colors, lighting, the way you might design an exhibit to be navigated vs the path people will actually take through the gallery, people’s sight lines and where their eyes go first, how the display of any given object affects people’s perception of the importance of that object. Fascinating stuff, many books on the subject.

There are also a lot of accessibility concerns to be considered here- how bright is the gallery, how large is your display text, at what height is the central eyeline of your cases?

Museums often loan objects to and from each other’s collections, so if you’re building an exhibit and you’d really like to include X type of object but your museum doesn’t have any, you can borrow some from another museum (this isn’t necessarily a guarantee- museums are allowed to say no to these requests, but I think manners would dictate that they should have a good reason)

Museums sometimes tour whole exhibitions as well- the objects, the text placards, maybe even the stands for super special or fragile items- and exhibit coordinator people are the ones who would handle those arrangements.

Potentially good opportunities for angst stories here- wow things come to life at your museum, you fall in love with a statue but oh no it’s only at your museum for three months

Collections Care

People who work in Collections Management have the most direct contact with the museum objects themselves. You probably work here if you prefer objects to people. When a museum gets new material, these are the people involved. They might not always initiate acquisitions, and the final approval is probably down to the relevant curator, but 98% of the time they’d be consulted (I hope).

A mind-boggling statistic is that most museums only have like 10% of their collections on display at any given time. Yeah. Forreal lol. But collections folk will know where the other 90% is and what’s in it (particularly the longer they’ve been there).

There’s usually a head Collections Manager. Other workers might be a Collection Assistant/Associate, Collections Officer (we like calling people Officers for some reason), Registrar, or some variant of these depending on the specific flavor of your duties.

Main job duties can be divided amongst documentation and database work, organization and storage of objects, and lite conservation. Just how much/how technical the conservation work depends on your own training, but also on the size/funding of your museum. The more money, the more likely your museum is to have its own lab with people specifically trained as conservators. More on them later.

Here’s what happens when a museum gets new stuff!:

Ideally, it goes to a ‘quarantine zone’ first. This is a separate space or room where the objects can relax for a few weeks to a few months (ultimate best practice is actually a year, but, you know. that’s a long time) to ensure that they’re not harboring anything icky (bugs, mold, etc) that will infect the rest of the collections. It’s ideally super-sealed and climate-controlled, but the primary feature should be that it’s away from the main collections store.

Collections folk do the paperwork. They’ll give each individual object a unique number (following their preexisting system that will allow it to be identified distinct from all the other objects in the collection). They’ll create a ‘collections record’ for the object- documentation containing any and all information about the object. This includes the accession paperwork (everything that says ‘we legally own this now’); provenance info (all previous owners and everywhere else the object has been in its life); measurements and description (in painful detail); and conservation history and concerns (ie ‘there’s a crack in the side so pick up with care’, ‘this was repaired in the 70s so that glue is gonna fall apart any day now’).

(I'll say as a fic writer that this would be an great time to wax poetic over a beautiful statue or painting; you can’t write “This golden crown deserved to be worn by a great king, or maybe by that broody Roman general in the painting in Gallery B” in the collections paperwork, but you can think it.)

For fiction’s sake, your collections records could be either paper or digital, but in an ideal world a museum would have both setups, for security’s sake. So you’d fill out some long forms and/or input all the information to the digital collections management system (‘the CMS’, or referred to by your specific software’s name, as there are many out there). The CMS is not a static archive, but rather a living register that’s updated every time an object is interacted with. The object records also include where an object is at any given time (‘normally in Case E in the Fancypants Gallery, currently in Conservation Lab A for repairs’).

Once the objects are done in quarantine, they’ll go to storage. If they’re being displayed immediately, they’ll probably go to some interim storage space/shelf with other objects for the same exhibit and in that case only get a temporary setting. Every object will get labeled with their object number (directly on them, with a special pen that’s safe for this. Or if it’s really tiny, like a coin or jewelry, then their own tiny box will get the label). Small or fragile items, or items grouped together, will go in their own boxes (made of acid- and lignin-free cardboard or polyethylene plastic, like Rubbermaid totes; lined with polyethylene foam and then acid-free tissue paper). Stable ceramic vessels might sit directly on lined shelving, particularly if they’re very large or heavy, like many stone objects.

Listen, every type of object has a particular way(s) of storing that’s best for them, you’re gonna have to look that up yourself or consult someone if you need that level of detail

Ideally, before being stored away, objects are also photographed. This could be part of the Collection Officer’s duty, and/or your museum could have a photographer on staff. (say it with me:) This is more likely if your museum is really huge and/or has a backlog of unphotographed collections and has hired someone specifically, even if temporarily, to improve its collections documentation.

I would say a collections person, or anyone with a museum studies degree, should have some minimum amount of conservation knowledge that includes basic storage standards for different object materials, how to spot potential preservation problems (like if your bronze axe head is actively oxidizing or if that green spot looks the same as it always has since starting and pausing decaying), and maybe how to give objects a basic clean or deal with certain types of problems. But the nitty-gritty science is more the realm of Conservators, someone with a degree that ends in -Sci or who’s done some other certification course.

The general collections store should always be dark, slightly too cool for prolonged human comfort, and labeled to high heaven. Objects will most likely be grouped by material- ceramics/pottery, metals, precious metals and stones (jewelry or beads), stone, glass, wood, bone/ivory/other organic material like feathers or teeth or anything that can be decorative, textiles, paintings. A museum often has some paper material/documents, usually part of or related to a group of objects they acquired, but generally paper and photographic material is the realm of archives and archivists. Yet again, the bigger/more well-funded the museum, the more likely it to have a separate archive department, so your character could also work as an archivist in a museum.

Another thing the collections care folk probably do is ship objects. Remember how I said that museums loan objects and exhibitions to each other? The stuff’s gotta travel somehow! If things are being shipped internationally, they’ll go in big wooden crates, with specifically dimensioned partitions inside. Then it will be lined with our favorite foam and tissue paper, cut so the objects sit snugly inside. I haven’t personally worked anywhere with a possibility of local shipments, so I can’t say where the threshold might be as to when a museum would just pay an employee to drive the objects over vs ship them with a shipping company. But the preparations would be similar, minus the big wooden crate but with extra-careful packing (and paperwork and insurance etc)

Conservation

Conservators are the people who work in labs with fancy equipment. Not every museum will have a formal conservator or a lab of any kind; sometimes the collections care person fills this role, or if something urgently needs care beyond the abilities of the museum’s equipment, they might send it away to a lab elsewhere, the same way you can send your old VHS home videos to a professional archive to be digitized.

If an object is actively deteriorating in a way that could harm itself or other objects (as opposed to like, at risk of fading bc the lighting is wrong, which is a straightforward fix related to the environment), that’s when a conservator would intervene.

Some methods/machinery by which you can analyze objects:

Ultraviolet (UV) and infrared (IR) light - Different materials absorb and react to light differently, which you can use to identify them. Useful for seeing things like the different layers of paintings

Stereo-microscopy (microscopes, of varying strengths)

At magnifications of x5-x100 you can see things like tool marks from an object’s manufacture, traces from wear, deposits, and coatings

At x50-x500, with a thin sliver of a sample, you can see (and hopefully identify) fibers, layers, particles, metallographic structures

You can get information from objects without taking samples, but samples are usually worth the information.

energy dispersive x-ray fluorescence spectrometry (EDXRF) - EDXRF allows you to identify the elemental composition of the surface layer of an object. So it might tell you what a tool is made of, and also the composition of the objects it was used on, if they left traces

scanning electron microscopy (SEM) - an SEM uses a focused beam of electrons to produce a magnified, high-resolution image of the surface of an object

X-radiography, both film and digital - X-rayy are beneficial for objects that might be covered by dirt or corrosion and can show you details of an object’s construction or hidden structural weaknesses

I’m not a conservator, so if you want more hard science-based info, ask one of them lol

Listen to me. If you take nothing else away from this post, let it be this:

Once an object is in a museum, it is never seeing natural daylight again. Sunlight is the ultimate enemy of every object’s lifespan. If you need to see an object in the sun or moon light for ~magical spell reasons~, you will straight up be stealing that object to smuggle it outside.

Okay. That being said, you do hear (and could probably google) stories about museum employees stealing things from their museums on purpose to prove a point about security or insurance to their higher-ups, so like. Depending on your type of museum, it might not be impossible to steal from lmao. (Don’t tell anyone I said that.)

Possibly the most useful advice for you to keep in mind when writing your conservator or collections care characters would be that touching objects hurts them. It might not hurt them now, it might not even hurt them in ten years, but every time you handle an object, there’s a risk that you’ll damage it. Not on purpose, obviously, but to err is human. The simplest, most effective advice my conservation professor ever gave us was “don’t handle an object if you don’t have to.” That means don’t move an object without a plan and a place to put it, first examination should always be visual, not tactile, etc. Unfortunately, that means that your character cannot walk around lovingly handling and caressing their favorite objects (unless this is a Night at the Museum situation where the objects are caressing them back, ykwim)

Museum Technician

These people probably have a lot of different names, but basically, technicians are the background muscle of the museum. They do the technical construction of bigger pieces of exhibition material, up to and including the exhibition cases themselves.

So they wouldn’t deal with the small mount that the object rests on, but they might build the big plinth that the mount sits on. They’ll help move things around the building, particularly big heavy things, hang big framed works, assist with exhibit installs, and generally do most things which might involve power tools/equipment or heavy lifting

I worked in a big museum that hired a third party company to supply their technicians; I interviewed at another place that hired their own. If you’re a small museum, you might just have a freelance person that comes in once or twice a week to help move things.

Other

Other miscellaneous roles one could have in a museum: researcher (for exhibits and/or collections), gift shop or cafe worker, security guard, room attendant, translator, archaeologist, consultant

Honestly, TL;DR? Just have your character be a consultant of some kind. “Oh no, I don’t work here, I’m Y’s friend. They called me in to provide some expertise on X subject that they’re doing an exhibit on.” This could work for literally any subject- history/archaeology/anthropology, art, transportation, science and technology, anything you might find pictures of in an archive, idk. This could get you into an office or meeting room of some kind in the ‘employee only’ space of the museum, or potentially all the way into the collections store if you’re giving them information they were missing about some objects. Otherwise you’d probably (hopefully) need a key or some other kind of security clearance to get into the collections store.

Whew, that was a ride, huh? I hope this guide was useful to someone! I’m always open to answering questions if you think I forgot something or if anyone wants more details <3

#hopefully this is useful to people as Gladiator II comes out <3 #i dont really know how to tag this lol #museums #fic advice #writing advice #reference #writing resources

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reidmarieprentiss · 1 month ago

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Lucky

Summary: Based on this request! Reader encourages Penelope to go on a date, which ends in tragedy. This event shakes the team, leading to conflict, particularly between reader and Spencer, who blames her for what happened.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x BAU fem!reader

Category: angst, fluff

Warnings/Includes: gun mention, Penelope gets shot, typical BAU crime stuff, people getting mad at reader/blaming reader, Spencer icing reader out, Spencer being questionable boyfriend, Spencer saying mean things about reader, happy ending, Penelope is okay, self doubt/blaming

Word count: 16.7k

a/n: Spencer is kind of an ass for a while but it will make sense ! He is still an angel baby

main masterlist

“So,” Derek says with that familiar smirk, “who’s the lucky guy?”

Penelope's eyes sparkle as she smiles, her fingers toying with a brightly colored pen on her desk. “His name is James. Just this sweet guy I met at the coffee shop. You know... normal, stable. No dark criminal past.” She tries to sound casual, but the happiness in her voice is unmistakable.

“Uh-huh...” Morgan leans in, tilting his head as if scrutinizing her every word. “And you’re sure you want to go out with him?”

A slight defensiveness takes over as Penelope puts her hands on her hips, feigning indignation. “Yes! Why not? Am I not allowed to date now, Derek Morgan?”

Morgan's grin widens, and he shakes his head, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say that. Just... be careful, alright?”

Rolling her eyes with a dramatic sigh, Penelope can’t help but huff. “Yes, Dad,” she quips, wondering why Derek is being so weird about this.

But then Morgan’s expression shifts, softening into something deeper, more earnest. “No, seriously.” His voice drops, gentle but firm. “Just... be careful, Baby Girl. Don’t give away your heart to some guy who hasn’t earned it.”

Penelope hardens slightly, feeling slightly hurt that Derek feels the need to lecture her. “I know, Derek. But... he seems nice. Really.”

Morgan nods slowly and walks away, still caught in the cloud of his concern and overprotectiveness. She lets out a soft sigh, looking down at the pile of case files on her desk, feeling a little bit deflated despite her earlier excitement. She loves that Derek cares, but sometimes he can be a bit... much. She starts to drum her fingers nervously against her desk, mulling over their conversation.

That's when you come in. You'd been passing by and couldn't help but notice the tense exchange. Taking a quick survey of Penelope's expression—anxiousness and longing—you decide to step in, offering a soft but encouraging smile.

"Hey, Pen," you say gently, leaning against the edge of her desk, careful not to crowd her. "You doing okay? I saw the little showdown with Morgan. He can be a bit... intense sometimes, huh?"

Penelope chuckles softly, pushing a stray curl behind her ear. “You could say that. I mean, I know he means well, but... I just want to do normal things, like go out with a guy. And James... he seems so sweet, you know?”

“James?” you say, a teasing grin spreading across your face as you lean a bit closer. “Who is this James?”

Penelope's eyes dart to yours, and for a moment, she looks like a deer caught in headlights, her surprise quickly melting into a flustered smile. “Oh, he’s... just this guy,” she says, her voice rising in pitch as she tries to sound nonchalant. “Met him at the coffee shop. He's sweet, you know... normal.”

Your grin widens, clearly unconvinced by her attempt to play it cool. “Normal, huh? And when exactly were you planning on telling me about this ‘normal’ guy?”

Penelope tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, letting out a playful huff. “Oh, come on. It’s just a date... no big deal.” But the glint in her eyes says otherwise, and you know it’s a big deal to her. And that’s exactly why you’re going to keep teasing.

“Well, it’s still a deal!” you exclaim, leaning forward in your seat, eyes wide with excitement. “Tell me all about it!”

Penelope laughs, the warmth of your enthusiasm easing away the hesitation she’s been holding onto. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater, a shy smile creeping onto her face as she starts to talk. “So... I was at my usual coffee shop, you know, the one with the really good chai lattes,” she begins, her voice picking up speed as she gets lost in the memory. “And then, out of nowhere, this ridiculously attractive man just... walks up to me, like he’s in some kind of rom-com or something. And he... he asked me out.”

You lean back, eyes wide, soaking in every detail of her story. “No way,” you whisper, your excitement infectious. “What did you do? What did you say?”

“Well, I said yes, obviously!” she chuckles, though there's an underlying nervousness. “But... I felt so... I don't know. Conflicted. This just doesn’t happen to girls like me.”

“Girls like you?” Your expression shifts from curiosity to confusion, brow furrowing as you try to make sense of her words. “Penelope Garcia, you are one of the most beautiful, kind-hearted, brilliant people I have ever met in my life.” You lean in, your voice gentle but insistent, making sure she understands every word. “ ‘Girls like you’ deserve the world and more. Don’t you dare think otherwise for a second.”

Penelope’s eyes widen, your words hitting her like a warm, unexpected wave. Her smile softens, and she blinks a few times, trying to brush off the tears welling in the corners of her eyes. “You really think so?” she whispers, her voice almost breaking with vulnerability.

“Are you kidding?” you say, a grin spreading across your face as you reach out to squeeze her hand. “James is the lucky one here, Penelope. Trust me on that.”

She squeezes your hand back, a blush creeping across her cheeks as she ducks her head a little. “So, you’re saying I should go on this date?” she asks, the nervousness wavering just slightly in her voice. “Because... Derek didn’t seem so sure.”

You roll your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair with a dramatic sigh. “Derek is a man, and men are weird,” you say with a knowing smirk. “I bet he’s got some strange alpha-male possessive thing going on. It’s like, in his DNA or something, to protect his pack. Don’t listen to him. You should absolutely go on this date.”

Penelope’s smile widens, and she lets out a soft, relieved laugh. “Well, when you put it like that... maybe you’re right. I mean, he is just one guy. And he did buy me a coffee...”

“Exactly!” you exclaim, nodding fervently. “You’ve got a very attractive guy who bought you coffee and wants to spend time with you. And, Penelope, you deserve to have fun. So don’t overthink it, okay? Go on the date, be your amazing self, and if Derek has a problem, he can take it up with me.”

She chuckles at that, the tension finally leaving her shoulders, and the smile that spreads across her face is brighter than ever. “Okay, okay. I’ll do it. I’ll go on the date.”

“Good!” you say, beaming. “And when he inevitably falls head over heels for you, I expect a full play-by-play report.”

“Deal,” Penelope says, grinning, the confidence returning to her eyes as she envisions a night filled with possibilities.

When you walked out of Penelope’s office, a spring in your step from the lighthearted conversation, you made your way back to your desk in the bullpen. As you approached your workspace, something immediately caught your eye — a fresh mug of hot coffee sitting on your desk, the steam curling upward in delicate wisps. A secret smile spread across your face as you set your things down and wrapped your fingers around the warm mug, the scent of your favorite brew filling the air.

You didn’t need to guess who’d placed it there. Glancing up, your eyes found Spencer across the bullpen, and sure enough, he was looking at you with that sweet, soft smile that always made your heart skip a beat. The quiet gesture was simple, but it spoke volumes about the thoughtful, caring man he was.

You mouthed a silent “thank you,” lifting the mug slightly as a toast of gratitude, and playfully blew him a kiss. Spencer’s cheeks flushed that adorable shade of pink that always surfaced whenever you flirted with him, and he shyly ducked his head for a moment before glancing back up to meet your eyes. With a wink and a barely contained grin, he turned back to his work, trying — and failing — to hide just how pleased he was to have made your morning a little brighter.

The sweetness of the morning, with its light teasing and the comfort of Spencer’s coffee, was short-lived. The moment Hotch called everyone into the conference room, a palpable shift in energy settled over the team. You quickly gathered your things and followed the others into the room, the coffee that had moments ago been a small joy now forgotten as you braced yourself for the case that awaited.

On the screen in the conference room was the face of a young woman — a bright, smiling 19-year-old with curly brown hair and freckles that dotted her cheeks. The smile in her photo seemed hauntingly out of place for what followed. Abby Connors, the name beneath the picture read. Hotch stepped forward, his face grave, and began the briefing.

“Abby Connors was a 19-year-old freshman at the University of Florida,” he explained. “She left home a little over a week ago to move into her dorm, but she never made it back. Her parents reported her missing, and after three days of searching, joggers found her body near a park in the Everglades, near an area the locals refer to as 'Alligator Alley.'”

A murmur rippled through the room as the next image appeared — a crime scene photo, one that showed just half of Abby’s body. You instinctively held your breath as you took in the gruesome details: everything beneath her waist was missing, consumed by the predators that roamed the swampy area. But it was the condition of the remaining part of her body that made the room go eerily silent.

“She was found with an inverted pentagram carved into her chest,” Hotch continued grimly, pointing to the markings on her torso. “Her fingers were all cut off at the second knuckle, and her throat was slit cleanly.”

You exchanged uneasy glances with your teammates, the horrifying nature of the crime setting in as you processed each detail. “So what are we dealing with?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. “Some kind of satanic cult?”

Rossi, who had been leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, shook his head. “It's not as simple as that. The idea of satanic cults operating as organized serial killer groups has been widely debunked.” He sat up, his expression thoughtful but firm. “The satanic panic of the ‘80s and ‘90s sensationalized a lot of things, but ritualistic killings like this? They don’t happen often in the way people think.”

“So, not a cult,” JJ mused aloud. “But this is still a ritualistic killing, right? The pentagram, the mutilation... it’s not random.”

“Absolutely ritualistic,” Spencer added, nodding in agreement. “The precision of the throat slitting, the removal of the fingers, the inverted pentagram... they all suggest that this was premeditated, and that the unsub wanted to send a specific message with Abby’s murder.”

“This type of ritualistic behavior can escalate,” Derek said, leaning over the table, a serious look in his eyes. “It’s got all the hallmarks of a kill that’s part of a larger motive. If we don’t catch this guy, he’s likely to do it again.”

“Which means we’re looking at a potential serial killer in the making,” Emily concluded, her voice grim. “Someone with a specific set of rituals and a willingness to mutilate and kill.”

Rossi cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him as he spoke with an almost reverent gravity. “Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch'intrate,” he quoted in a low voice, his Italian rolling off his tongue smoothly. Seeing the questioning looks on some of your faces, he translated: “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.”

A silence fell over the room as the weight of those words hung in the air. You knew, as did everyone else in the room, that this case was going to be dark, disturbing, and an all-consuming race to catch a killer who seemed to find something meaningful — perhaps even sacred — in the brutality of his crimes.

And with that, the team set into motion, knowing that every second mattered if they were going to save another girl from meeting the same fate as Abby Connors.

—

After the team closes the case, the team sits in relative silence on the jet, each member deep in thought, processing the horrors. The soft hum of the plane’s engine provides a strange comfort, and the tension of the day slowly begins to ease. Morgan sits across from Rossi, resting his elbows on his knees, staring off into the distance. Rossi watches him for a moment before speaking up.

“You did good work out there,” Rossi says, his voice steady and calm, the kind of voice that always has a way of grounding everyone.

Morgan looks up, giving a half-smile, but there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. “Yeah... but you know how it is, man. No matter how many of these cases we close, it never feels like it’s enough.” He shakes his head, running a hand over his face as if to brush away the exhaustion. “I just keep thinking about Abby’s family. They’ll never be the same.”

Rossi leans back in his seat, folding his hands in his lap, a thoughtful look on his face. “Yeah, it’s tough. But we gave them answers. And sometimes, that’s all we can do. You know as well as I do, it’s not about winning every battle. It’s about making sure we fight it.”

Morgan nods, his jaw tightening as he absorbs Rossi’s words. “I know,” he says, voice a little softer now. “It’s just... there’s so much darkness out there. And some days, it feels like it’s winning.”

Rossi’s expression shifts into something more reflective, a small, wise smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Maybe it feels like that,” he admits, “but the fact that it bothers you — the fact that it bothers all of us — that’s what makes the difference, Morgan. It means we’re still out there, shining a light in the darkness.”

Morgan's shoulders relax a little, and he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “I guess you’re right. Just gotta keep fighting, right?”

Rossi raises a glass of bourbon from his side table, offering a silent toast. “To fighting the good fight.”

Morgan grins, and they clink glasses in a quiet, shared moment of understanding. The jet continues its journey through the night, a small point of light against the vast expanse of sky.

—

Meanwhile, Penelope walks arm-in-arm with James, her laughter bright and infectious as it echoes down the sidewalk. They reach the front steps of her apartment building, and she turns to face him. “Well, this was... really nice,” she says, giving him a genuine smile.

James grins back at her, and for a second, he leans in as if he’s about to kiss her. But at the last second, he pulls back, laughing playfully. “Sorry,” he says, scratching his head sheepishly. “Didn’t want to be too forward.”

Garcia giggles, shaking her head at his little fake-out. “You almost had me there,” she teases, turning to fish for her keys in her bag. “Well, goodnight, James.”

“Goodnight, Penelope,” he says, stepping back and starting to walk away, giving her one last wave.

As she turns to unlock her door, James suddenly stops, a strange stillness in the way he holds himself. He calls out to her over his shoulder, voice casual but loud enough to make her pause. “Hey, Garcia?”

Penelope looks up, smiling as she begins to open her door. “Yeah?”

James turns fully toward her, the smile gone from his face, replaced with an unsettling calm. “I’ve been thinking about doing this all night,” he says, reaching into his jacket pocket.

Before Garcia can even process what’s happening, James pulls out a gun, his movements quick and fluid. The world seems to slow down around her — her eyes widen, her mouth opens to scream, but the sound never comes.

And then, in an instant, the gun fires. The crack of the shot echoes through the empty street, and Penelope’s body jerks back, eyes wide with shock and pain as she collapses to the ground, her keys scattering across the pavement.

James stands there for a moment, the smoke from the barrel of his gun curling into the night air. He watches as she gasps for breath, a cruel smile curling on his lips before he turns and disappears into the shadows, leaving Penelope lying there, her life slipping away on the cold, unforgiving ground.

—

Back on the jet, you lean back in your seat, facing Spencer with a thoughtful look. “You know, I keep wondering what Penelope’s date is like,” you muse aloud, spinning your half-empty cup of coffee between your hands. “I hope she’s having fun. She deserves it.”

Spencer’s brows knit in mild surprise, his mouth opening to respond, but before he can even utter a word, Derek’s voice cuts across the cabin. “Wait — hold up.” He’s leaning forward in his seat, eyes wide and brimming with concern. “Garcia actually went on that date?”

“Yeah, she did.” You nod, meeting his incredulous stare with a small smile. “I told her to go for it. She’s gotta put herself out there, right? No reason for her to hold back just because you’re all... alpha about it.”

“Alpha?” Derek echoes, looking around at the others as if searching for an ally. “I’m not... okay, look, I just want to make sure she’s safe. And how do you even know if this guy’s legit? Did you see him? Talk to him?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “No, but she deserves to have fun, Derek. She seemed excited, and it’s not like she doesn’t have a good head on her shoulders. I think it’s great that she’s taking a chance on something new.”

Emily nods along in agreement, leaning back with a relaxed smile. “I think it’s sweet. And Penelope isn’t some naïve kid — she’s a grown woman. She can take care of herself.”

JJ chimes in with a bright smile, “Yeah, and besides, it’s not like she’s going to let someone walk all over her. She’ll know if something’s up. And if he treats her right, then it’s all the better for her. Maybe it’ll turn into something special.”

Rossi, watching the whole exchange with an amused smirk, adds, “Sometimes people surprise you. And sometimes that surprise is exactly what someone needs to get out of their comfort zone. Our girl deserves someone to treat her well.”

Derek’s shoulders stay tense, and he shakes his head, letting out a sigh. “I get that, but... I just want to make sure she’s happy. That’s all. You know Garcia — she’s got a big heart, and I don’t want some guy messing with it.”

You reach over and pat Derek on the shoulder, a soft smile on your lips. “I get it, really. But maybe you should trust her on this. Penelope’s stronger than you think, and she’s allowed to take some risks. It’s not always about protecting her, Derek — sometimes it’s about letting her live.”

Spencer, who’s been listening quietly, finally speaks up. “She’ll be fine, Derek. And she’s lucky to have someone who cares as much as you do. But I think what she really needs right now is support... and maybe for us to just be happy for her.”

Derek looks around at everyone, the tension in his expression easing as he sees the genuine support in the eyes of his teammates. He lets out a reluctant chuckle, running a hand over his shaved head. “Alright, alright. I guess I’m just overprotective.”

“Just a bit,” you tease with a playful nudge.

“Fine,” Derek relents, lifting his hands in surrender. “But if this guy hurts her...”

“Then we’ll all be there to kick his ass,” Emily assures with a wink, and the team laughs, the conversation flowing into lighter banter, the tension dissipating as they talk about how much they hope Penelope enjoys her date — all of them unknowingly letting go of their worry while the truth of the night's events remains just out of reach.

You leaned into Spencer, feeling that familiar warmth spread through you as he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer until your head rested comfortably against him. You felt the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath your cheek, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, a silent show of support and affection.

The chatter of your teammates surrounded you, playful jokes about first-date jitters and guesses about how Penelope’s night might be going. It was one of those rare lighthearted moments that made the job feel less heavy. And as you closed your eyes for just a moment, feeling the calm of Spencer’s presence, everything felt okay.

The jet touched down smoothly, and you straightened up, reluctantly leaving the warmth of Spencer’s side as everyone prepared to disembark. But as soon as the wheels hit the ground, Hotch’s phone buzzed loudly against the table. He picked it up immediately, his expression going from relaxed to steely in an instant as he answered.

“Hotchner,” he said, his voice flat and professional.

The team began to gather their things, their attention still mostly on wrapping up the casual conversation, until Hotch’s face went stark white, his eyes narrowing as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line. His mouth opened slightly, and you saw the shock in his eyes before he steeled himself again.

“What happened?” he demanded, his tone shifting from its usual calm to something far more urgent. He stood up abruptly, stepping away from the team, but you could all still hear him as the rest of the plane went silent, each of you glancing at one another with rising concern. Spencer’s hand instinctively found yours, and you squeezed it, anxiety blooming in your chest.

“Where was she?” Hotch’s voice was clipped, a mixture of alarm and anger. “When?”

You exchanged quick glances with your teammates. It wasn’t normal to see Hotch like this, and that fear in his voice made the hairs on your arms stand on end.

“Is she...?” Hotch stopped, and there was a pause, a terrible pause that seemed to stretch on forever. You held your breath, waiting, every second feeling like a lifetime.

“Understood. We’re on our way.” Hotch’s voice was low, tight with a struggle to maintain control. He hung up without another word, his jaw clenched so tightly you could see the tension in his muscles.

He turned back to the team, his expression grim, and you knew, you just knew, that whatever had happened, it wasn’t good.

Hotch’s voice was like ice, cutting through the stunned silence of the jet as he delivered the news that seemed impossible to process: “Garcia’s been shot. She’s in the hospital, in surgery.”

The world seemed to tilt, a rush of chaos and confusion drowning out everything else. In an instant, you and the rest of the team scrambled to grab your bags, shock and fear flashing in everyone’s eyes. It was like all at once, the air was sucked out of the room, and before anyone could fully understand what was happening, you were rushing down the steps of the jet. The roar of the engines and the slap of your feet against the tarmac seemed distant, muffled, as adrenaline took over.

Within seconds, you piled into the SUVs, slamming the doors shut as the engines roared to life, and the cars sped off toward the hospital. The journey felt agonizingly long, despite the breakneck speed. No one spoke, but the tension in the car was palpable — every breath was shallow, every heartbeat loud in your ears. Your hand was clasped tightly in Spencer’s, and he held on as if anchoring you to reality, but all you could think about was Garcia and the thought of losing her.

When you finally pulled up to the hospital, everyone practically flew out of the cars, running toward the entrance. The white lights of the waiting room were harsh and sterile, amplifying the dread that hung over the team. Hotch was the first to speak to the receptionist, his voice firm and demanding answers, but the only thing they knew was that Penelope was in surgery — no word on her condition, no updates, and, most importantly, no word on who had done this to her.

And so you waited.

The team paced, hands running through hair, fists clenching and unclenching as they tried to contain the storm of emotions within. The minutes stretched into hours, and the silence felt heavy, like a weight pressing down on each of you. Spencer held you close, one arm wrapped tightly around you as you buried your face into his chest, tears streaming down your face. He murmured gentle reassurances, his hand rubbing slow, soothing circles on your back, but his own eyes were red-rimmed and his voice strained, betraying his fear.

Across the room, Derek’s frustration finally boiled over, and he lashed out, yelling at a nurse who could provide no new information. “What the hell do you mean, you don’t know anything? That’s our friend in there! You have to know something!” His voice was raw, the anger masking his pain, but before he could cause more of a scene, Hotch intervened, gripping his shoulder firmly and steering him outside.

The tension in the room didn't lessen, only growing heavier in Derek’s absence. Emily sat with her elbows on her knees, hands clasped tightly together, staring at the ground as if willing time to move faster. Rossi paced back and forth, his jaw tight, not a word leaving his mouth, but the anger and sorrow on his face spoke volumes. JJ stood near you, hugging her arms to her chest, eyes fixed on the swinging doors that led to the surgery wing, willing them to open with some kind of good news.

Hours passed in that awful purgatory, time stretching and distorting until it seemed like you’d been waiting an eternity. And then, finally, a nurse came out and told you that one person could go back to see her. As a unit, the decision was made for Hotch to go — Garcia had named him her emergency contact, and he was the steady hand, the one who would be able to bring back the information without being overwhelmed by the storm of emotions all of you were feeling.

The waiting resumed, and all you could do was cling to Spencer tighter, the fear and worry seeming to squeeze the breath from your lungs.

When Hotch emerged from behind the doors some time later, his face was unreadable, a mask of professionalism over whatever emotions he was truly feeling. The rest of you gathered around him quickly, every muscle tensed as you waited for him to say something, anything, about Garcia.

“Garcia’s going to make it,” he said, his voice low but firm. You let out a shuddering breath of relief, and the room seemed to collectively exhale. “She’s stable, but...” He paused, glancing at each of you, and in his eyes, you saw a darkness that made your stomach drop.

“It was her date who shot her,” he said quietly. “James. But his real name... is Jason Clark Battle.”

The name seemed to hang in the air like a curse, and it took a moment for the shock to register. And when it did, Derek’s expression twisted with a rage so violent it was almost frightening. “No,” he said, shaking his head as if refusing to believe it. “No, no, no—” His voice rose to a shout, and before anyone could react, he lunged toward you, face twisted with anger and pain. “You told her to go! You told her to go with him!”

His hands reached out to grab you, but before he could touch you, Rossi and Emily were on him, grabbing his arms and holding him back. “Derek, stop!” Rossi’s voice was sharp, his grip firm as he held Morgan in place. “This isn’t their fault!”

“Let go of me!” Derek struggled against their hold, his voice hoarse with fury, his eyes wild and filled with a grief that had no outlet. “I should’ve stopped her... I should’ve...”

Hotch stepped between you and Derek, his face set in a stern, controlled mask. “Enough,” he said, his tone brokering no argument. “This is not how we handle this. We find this man, and we make sure he never hurts anyone again.”

It felt like everything around you was falling apart, the walls closing in as the weight of the world crashed down on you, pressing in from all sides. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to the one person who could always make things feel right — Spencer. You reached out to him, seeking his comfort, his steady reassurance. But instead of the familiar warmth of his embrace, you were met with a coldness that hit you like a blow to the chest.

He stepped back, his eyes fixed on you with a look you’d never seen before — something between shock, hurt, and a kind of betrayal that cut deep. The warmth was gone, replaced by an expression that made your stomach drop.

“Spence?” you whispered, your voice trembling, barely more than a whimper. You felt your world spiraling, desperately trying to grasp onto something to steady yourself.

Spencer’s eyes darted to the floor for a moment, then back to you, and he shook his head, his expression clouded with confusion and anger. “You told her to go,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but laced with pain. It wasn’t an accusation, not quite, but it felt like one all the same. He kept backing away from you, his face crumpling into an anguish you’d never seen before, like he was fighting to hold himself together. And then, without another word, he turned and stormed out of the waiting room, his footsteps echoing.

“Spencer!” JJ called after him, her voice urgent, but he didn’t stop. Without hesitation, she rushed to follow him, leaving you standing there, frozen in place.

Your eyes welled up with tears as you tried to piece together what had just happened, a sob choking in your throat. It felt like the ground had been ripped out from under you, and you were falling, tumbling into a void. You wrapped your arms around yourself, hugging your own body, trying to stave off the cold emptiness that seemed to seep into your bones. You wanted to scream, to cry out and make sense of the look in Spencer’s eyes, the pain in his voice. But all that came out was a soft, broken whisper.

“Spencer...”

Rossi was there in an instant, a steadying hand on your shoulder, guiding you gently to a nearby chair as the reality of the situation crashed over you in relentless waves. Emily crouched down in front of you, her face tight with concern as she spoke softly, her words trying to break through the fog in your mind. But you could hardly hear her. The only thing echoing in your head were Spencer’s words — “You told her to go” — a statement that seemed to slice through your heart, over and over again.

—

You left the hospital soon after Spencer did. The cold night air hit your face as you stepped outside, but the chill did little to clear your head. Everything felt like a blur — Spencer’s words, the look on his face, Derek’s anger — it all played on a loop in your mind, each second replaying with sharper edges, digging deeper into your heart. You didn’t know how to feel, how to process the whirlwind of fear, guilt, and confusion. But one thing was clear: you had to find the man who hurt Penelope.

The next morning came all too quickly. The sun hadn’t even begun to rise when you arrived at the BAU. The bullpen was already a flurry of activity, the team moving with a frantic energy that matched your own desperate need to do something, anything, that could bring justice for Penelope. But as soon as you stepped inside, the adrenaline wasn’t enough to mask the raw pain that hit you when you saw Spencer.

He sat at his desk, fingers typing furiously at his keyboard, his face drawn tight with concentration. You stood there for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for him to look up — to give you some sign, any sign, that you could start to fix whatever had broken between you the night before. But Spencer wouldn’t look at you. It was as if you didn’t exist, like he’d built an invisible wall around himself, and you couldn’t break through. The red puffiness around your eyes was the only outward sign of the sleepless night you’d had, but the exhaustion in your soul ran much deeper.

When you walked past JJ’s desk, she reached out and touched your arm gently, her eyes full of concern, the pity unmistakable. “Hey,” she whispered, trying to offer comfort, but you shook your head, swallowing hard. The last thing you could bear right now was pity. Not when you had to keep it together for Penelope.

The rest of the team looked at you with the same expressions — sympathetic, worried, but no one knew what to say. And the truth was, neither did you. You bit down on the inside of your cheek, feeling the familiar sting of guilt rise in your throat, and forced yourself to look away, trying to focus on the task at hand. It was time to work, and that was something you could still do. Something you could control.

Well, the whole team except for Derek.

Every time he walked by, you could feel his eyes burning into you, his anger practically crackling like static in the air between you. And he didn’t hold back, either. With each passing hour, he took every chance to let you know exactly what he thought, throwing thinly-veiled digs and outright accusations whenever he could.

“This is your fault, you know,” he muttered under his breath when you passed each other in the hallway. “You’re the one who pushed her into going out with that psychopath. If she’d just listened to me, she’d be safe.”

You squeezed your eyes shut as his words stabbed into you like a knife, but you didn’t reply. You couldn’t. You just kept walking, heading back to your desk with that guilt clawing up your throat, making it hard to breathe. There was no time to argue, no room to let Derek’s words take over. But no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shut them out.

And then there were the moments when Derek couldn’t hold it in, when his anger boiled over and his voice rose loud enough for the whole team to hear. “You know that if she dies... if she dies, it’s on you,” he spat, his eyes burning with a fury so sharp it left you feeling gutted. “Her blood’s on your hands. Because you thought it was a good idea to let her go out with some random guy.”

You could feel the eyes of the rest of the team on you whenever it happened, the tension in the room growing thick and heavy as they tried to balance the grief for Penelope and the pain of watching their family fall apart. JJ would try to step in, her voice gentle but firm as she said, “Derek, now’s not the time—” or Hotch would give him a stern look, that unspoken command to drop it. But nothing seemed to get through to him, and each word he threw at you landed like a punch, his grief and fear bleeding out as anger directed at you.

You couldn’t argue with him. You didn’t know how to defend yourself. How could you, when deep down, a part of you agreed with every word he said?

So you did the only thing you could — you kept your head down and worked, staring at files until your eyes burned, listening to updates and following every lead until you were numb to everything except the hope that finding Jason Clark Battle would somehow make it right. You tried to drown out Derek’s voice, drown out the guilt, drown out the sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, if you hadn’t encouraged Penelope, things wouldn’t have gone this way. But no matter how hard you tried to bury it, Derek’s words followed you, hanging over you like a dark shadow.

And the work continued, relentless and desperate, with everyone pushing forward to find the man who’d hurt Penelope. But the team was fractured, split between their grief and their anger, and the chasm between you and Derek seemed to widen with every word he threw your way.

Even as you worked, though, you could feel Spencer nearby — that familiar presence that you could always sense, whether you were looking at him or not. But this time, it felt different, like an ache just below the surface, a heavy, unspoken rift. He still wouldn’t look at you, wouldn’t speak to you, even as you shared the same space, both working to the same goal. And no one pushed him. No one had the time or the energy to force him to talk through his emotions, not when there was a dangerous man on the loose and a life hanging in the balance.

But every time you heard Spencer’s voice — every rapid-fire observation, every note of urgency — it felt like a reminder of how things had changed in the space of a night. You worked side by side, but worlds apart, both desperate to save Garcia, but more than that, desperate to find your way back to each other.

And so, the hours wore on, a relentless, all-consuming search for Jason Clark Battle, with every member of the team driven by the same furious need to bring him to justice. Because in the midst of all the uncertainty and hurt, one thing was clear: no one was going to let him get away with what he’d done to Penelope. Not while any of you still had breath left to fight.

The team found Jason Clark Battle quickly, all things considered. The determination to bring him to justice — to make him pay for what he'd done to Penelope — fueled every moment, every step, every search through records and combing of evidence. But as the moment of his arrest neared, it became a new kind of challenge: keeping Derek Morgan away.

Hotch had to physically block him from joining the takedown, knowing all too well that if Derek got his hands on the man who shot Penelope, it wouldn’t end in an arrest. “Stand down, Morgan,” Hotch had ordered, his voice like a steel blade, cutting through the thick fog of Derek’s rage. It took Rossi and Emily to finally pull him back, their hands firm on his shoulders as Derek cursed and seethed, every inch of his body vibrating with the need to rip Battle apart. But they couldn't afford to lose two team members to the fallout, and Morgan was forced to stay back, simmering with fury as the rest of the team moved in.

When Jason Clark Battle was finally caught, subdued, and taken into custody, there was a quiet satisfaction in knowing that the man who hurt Penelope would face justice. But the victory was bitter, the relief tainted by the damage left in the wake of what had happened. The case might have been closed, but for all of you, it didn’t feel like a win — not when someone you loved was still lying in a hospital bed, healing from wounds she never should have gotten.

Once the reports were turned in and the team was officially dismissed, you watched as everyone else gathered to visit Penelope. There was a sort of reverence in how they spoke of her, quiet smiles and gentle jokes exchanged as they planned to bring flowers, chocolate, and anything else that would bring a smile to her face. But you couldn't go. The thought of stepping into that hospital room, of meeting her eyes, of seeing the pain and understanding what your advice had led to... it felt unbearable. You couldn’t face her, couldn’t let her see how broken you felt, knowing how close you’d come to losing her because you thought you were doing something good.

So, while your teammates headed to the hospital, ready to surround Penelope with love and support, you went home. The silence of your apartment was suffocating, and it took everything in you to not collapse under the weight of your own regret. The emptiness of being away from the team, from Penelope, only deepened your guilt. But it was better than showing up and making things worse — better than her having to see your face and be reminded of everything that happened.

Instead, you did what little you could from afar. You sent gift baskets filled with all of her favorite snacks — crunchy caramel popcorn, brightly wrapped candies, a couple of silly trinkets you hoped would make her laugh. You sent care packages with magazines, crossword puzzles, and soft blankets she could curl up with while she healed. You tried to send all the comfort you couldn’t bring yourself to give in person, every basket and letter a quiet apology you weren’t sure you deserved to offer. You only hoped she knew that, despite the distance, you were thinking of her. That you were sorry.

And as the days went on, and Penelope stayed in that hospital, you wondered if she could ever forgive you — if one day, when she was better and things returned to some semblance of normalcy, she might understand that all you wanted was for her to find happiness. That, even though your advice had gone so terribly wrong, it had come from a place of love. But the uncertainty of her forgiveness lingered, hanging over you like a cloud, and all you could do was hope that, in time, the rift could be healed.

Until then, you stayed away, waiting for the moment you could finally make amends — if that moment ever came.

—

The next workday, you sat at your desk, your eyes fixed on the papers in front of you, but your mind felt miles away. The sound of your own heartbeat seemed loud in the quiet of the bullpen, pounding relentlessly in your ears as you willed yourself to focus on something — anything — other than the turmoil of the last few days. You barely slept, and the fatigue sat heavy on your shoulders, making every moment feel sluggish, disconnected from reality. The tension still hung in the air, lingering after Penelope’s shooting, and it felt like every step you took was on eggshells, threatening to crack under the weight of all you hadn’t said.

You didn't hear Derek's approach at first, lost as you were in your own thoughts. But when you did catch the sight of his broad form looming in your peripheral vision, your whole body tensed up instinctively, bracing for what you knew would be another wave of anger, another round of accusations that would leave you feeling raw and exposed.

Here it comes, you thought. The guilt clenched in your chest as you waited for the onslaught, already picturing the words he’d throw at you, the blame you knew you deserved.

But then, you looked up, and the expression on Derek's face made you pause. It wasn’t what you expected. The hard lines of anger that had been etched there were gone, replaced by something softer, something regretful. He stood before you, shifting his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, his hands shoved into his pockets, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the right words.

“Hey,” he finally said, his voice low and rough with emotion.

“Hey.” You nodded back, your voice barely more than a whisper, your body still taut like a rubber band pulled too tight.

Derek glanced down for a moment, and when he looked back up, there was an apology written all over his face. “I, uh... I came to talk to you about... you know.” He trailed off, taking a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “About what I said. What I did. And... I’m sorry.”

You blinked, the words hitting you like a punch you didn’t see coming. “You’re... sorry?” you repeated, trying to make sense of it, unsure if you’d heard him right.

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. “I shouldn’t have come at you like that. I... I was angry, and scared, and I let it all out on you, and that wasn’t fair. It’s not your fault, what happened to Garcia. You were just being a good friend.” He paused, letting out a long, heavy breath. “And I guess... in a way, I’m mad at myself. Mad that I couldn’t keep her safe, that I didn’t know who this guy was, that I couldn’t stop it... so I put all that on you. And I’m sorry.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of the rage you’d seen before, but all you saw now was sincerity, and pain, and a vulnerability that you hadn’t expected to find there. Derek Morgan — the strongest person you knew — was admitting his own fear and guilt to you, and it felt like the world was tilting just a little bit on its axis.

The tightness in your throat made it hard to speak, but you forced the words out, your voice cracking around the edges. “I... I get it. I mean, I don’t blame you for being angry, Derek. And I’m sorry too. I never would’ve... I never thought something like this would happen.” You looked down, feeling your eyes burn with tears you didn’t want to shed, not here, not now. “If I could take it back, I would. All of it.”

Derek stepped closer, and before you could react, he reached out, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Hey, don’t do that. Don’t put this on yourself. Penelope’s strong. She’s gonna be okay. And you didn’t do anything wrong — you were just looking out for her, just like I was.” He gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, his voice softening. “We’re all just trying to do right by each other, you know? And sometimes we mess up. But that’s not on you.”

The tears that you’d been holding back finally spilled over, and you bit down on your lip, nodding as you tried to gather yourself. “Thanks, Derek,” you whispered, managing a small, shaky smile. “I just... I just want her to be okay.”

“She will be,” he assured you, his voice full of quiet confidence. “She’s got all of us in her corner. And I know it’s hard to believe, but... we’re gonna get through this. Together.”

He gave your shoulder one last squeeze before letting go, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small sliver of relief, like the weight pressing down on you had been lifted just slightly.

“Derek...?” you said, your voice small and timid, almost afraid to ask the question that had been weighing on your heart since you’d stepped back into the bullpen.

“Yeah, baby?” he answered, his voice gentle and warm, and the nickname — your old nickname — made you smile, if only for a moment. Spencer had been the one to call you that more often lately, and hearing it from Derek felt like a return to something familiar, something safe.

You took a breath, biting down on your lip as you looked down at your hands, your fingers nervously twisting together. “Have you... have you talked to Spencer?”

Derek’s expression darkened, and he sighed deeply, the sound heavy and full of exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, the weariness showing in the lines around his eyes, and when he looked at you again, there was a sadness there that made your heart sink even further. “No, mama,” he said softly, shaking his head. “Pretty boy hasn’t really talked to anyone. He’s got something going on in that big head of his, but he’s not letting us in yet.”

You nodded slowly, trying to keep your face neutral, but you knew Derek could see the worry in your eyes. The way Spencer had looked at you — the way he’d walked away from you — it was like losing a part of yourself, and the uncertainty of not knowing where you stood made it so much worse. And now, knowing that he wasn’t talking to anyone, wasn’t letting anyone in... it made you feel like you were watching him slip further and further away, with no way to reach him.

Derek watched you for a moment, then reached out and placed a comforting hand on your arm. “Hey,” he said softly, his voice pulling you from your thoughts. “Whatever’s going on with him, it’s not about you, alright? He’ll come around. You know how Spencer is — sometimes he just needs to get in his head before he can come out again.”

“But what if... what if he doesn't?” you asked, your voice breaking on the last word, the fear you’d been trying so hard to suppress finally spilling out. “What if he never forgives me, Derek? What if—”

“Don’t do that to yourself,” Derek cut in gently but firmly, giving your arm a reassuring squeeze. “You know how much you mean to him. He’s just... processing. And it might take him some time, but that doesn’t mean he’s gone. Just give him space to figure it out. And when he’s ready, he’ll come to you.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding, trying to hold on to Derek’s words. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right,” you said, though the doubt still lingered.

Derek smiled softly, a warmth in his eyes as he gave your arm one last squeeze. “Of course I’m right,” he said, his tone lightening. “And in the meantime, you’ve got me and the rest of the team. You’re not alone, okay?”

“Okay,” you whispered, trying to believe it. “Thanks, Derek.”

“Anytime, mama,” he said, his voice low and comforting. “Now let’s get that coffee. We’ve got a lot to do, and moping around ain’t gonna help nobody.”

And with that, he led you to the corner of the bullpen, and you did your best to push the worry from your mind, to focus on what you could do here and now, hoping that Spencer would eventually find his way back to you.

—

The day Penelope returned to work felt almost like a holiday. The bullpen was transformed, bursting with bright colors and streamers that cascaded down from the ceiling. Balloons, in every vibrant hue imaginable, were tied to the chairs, and the break room was packed with all her favorite snacks and drinks — colorful cupcakes, glittery cookies, and more caffeine than the doctor would ever allow. The team had gone all out, putting together a grand welcome fit for the one and only Penelope Garcia. The room was buzzing with laughter and excitement as she entered, everyone cheering loudly as she walked through the doors, wide-eyed and grinning.

It was exactly the kind of entrance Penelope deserved. And as she hugged each person, the joy on her face made the space feel warmer, brighter. But you stood in the back, a small smile on your lips, content to watch from a distance. You clapped along with everyone else, but you kept to yourself, too aware of the gnawing guilt that still sat in your chest. It was wonderful to see Penelope smiling, to see her back on her feet and surrounded by the love of her family. But being there, knowing what you’d encouraged her to do, left you feeling like an outsider, not quite sure where you fit in anymore.

When Penelope finally got to you, it took all your courage to step forward and pull her into a hug. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” you said, your voice trembling slightly, and you clung to her a little tighter than you’d intended. The relief of finally seeing her in person, of knowing she was safe and whole, made your throat tighten with emotion.

Penelope returned the hug with a strength that surprised you, squeezing you tightly as if she didn’t want to let go. “I’m just happy to see you, hon,” she whispered, her voice warm and forgiving. “It’s been too long.”

You pulled back, offering a small, apologetic smile, but the warmth in her eyes made it clear that there was no anger there, no bitterness — just pure gratitude and love. And for a fleeting moment, you felt the overwhelming urge to spill everything, to apologize for not visiting, to explain the guilt that had been eating away at you. But Penelope gave you a knowing look, a slight shake of her head, as if to say not now. And you understood. This moment was for her — for the joy of being back, for the healing that still needed to happen. The deeper conversation could wait.

But as the celebration continued and the week went on, you still kept your distance. You showed up, of course, participated in the day-to-day, but any time Penelope tried to engage with you beyond work matters, you found ways to cut the conversation short, to avoid anything that could bring up what happened. You didn’t want to push her; you didn’t want to burden her with the weight you were carrying, the idea that anything you say could put her in danger. And you could see she was trying to give you space, to let you come to her on your own terms. But the longer you avoided it, the harder it became to find a way back to the easy friendship you once had.

By the end of the week, it seemed Penelope had had enough. As you were leaving the office one evening, walking toward the elevators, she appeared beside you with a determined look on her face.

“Going somewhere?” she asked, planting herself firmly in your path, hands on her hips.

“Just... heading home,” you said, trying to sound casual, but the way she was looking at you made your heart skip a nervous beat.

“Well, change of plans,” Penelope said cheerfully, not giving you a chance to argue. “You’re coming over tonight. We need some serious girl talk, and I’m not taking no for an answer.”

“Penny, I—” You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on her face was unwavering, her smile patient but insistent, like she’d already made up her mind and wasn’t going to let you wriggle your way out of it.

“Ah ah ah, don’t even try it,” she said, holding up a finger in playful warning. “We’re way overdue for some quality time, and if I have to drag you to my place myself, I will. And believe me, I’ve got the strength to do it.” She gave you a pointed look, raising her eyebrows.

You let out a sigh, feeling the tension in your shoulders slowly give way. How could you say no? Penelope was right; you did need this. And no matter how afraid you were of having that conversation, of putting her in more danger, you couldn’t keep running from her. “Okay,” you said finally, giving her a small smile. “I’ll come over.”

“Good!” she exclaimed, beaming as she linked her arm with yours, pulling you into the elevator with a bounce in her step. “I’ll see you at seven. And trust me, it’s gonna be like old times. Pinky swear.”

And just like that, with Penelope by your side, the world felt just a little bit brighter again.

Being with Penelope felt so easy, so natural — just like it had always been. From the moment you stepped into her apartment, it was as though nothing had changed, as if the heavy cloud of the last few weeks wasn’t hanging over you. She’d set up her place just the way you remembered, warm colors, quirky decor, fairy lights draped over bookshelves, and the familiar scent of lavender. And Penelope, as if sensing your hesitation, knew exactly how to guide you back into a comfortable rhythm.

It started with laughter, of course. The kind only she could pull out of you, a sound that seemed to break down the walls you’d built around your heart. She leaned back on her sofa, legs curled under her as she went on about the latest gossip in her stack of magazines, her voice rising with excitement and exaggeration.

“Okay, so tell me this,” Penelope started, waving around a magazine with glossy pages. “How is it possible that Bruce Willis can just get hotter every year? It’s like the laws of nature don’t apply to this man!”

You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I guess some people are just blessed like that.”

“And don't even get me started on what I saw in the office last week,” she continued, leaning closer with a conspiratorial whisper. “I swear to you, I saw a hickey on Hotch’s neck. A hickey. On. Aaron Hotchner’s. Neck.”

You nearly choked on your drink, the image catching you completely off guard. “No way!”

“Yes way!” she nodded, her eyes wide with the thrill of gossip. “I’m telling you, our stoic unit chief has a spicy side. And speaking of spicy sides, have you seen how Emily and JJ have been looking at each other lately? I mean, come on, are they not totally vibing?”

The conversation flowed easily, effortlessly, and before long, you found yourself leaning back, laughing, the warmth of Penelope’s company soothing all those frayed edges that had been gnawing away at you for so long. For the first time in weeks, you felt like you could breathe again. It was fun to catch up, to just be with her, to hear about all the little things you’d missed — the world outside the darkness you’d been living in. And you could see how much Penelope was thriving, back in her element, glowing with that infectious positivity you’d always loved about her.

But eventually, it happened. The laughter faded, and the unspoken truth sat between you like a presence too big to ignore. Penelope’s expression softened, her eyes meeting yours with that gentle understanding you’d come to know so well. “Okay, hon,” she said softly, resting her hand on yours. “We’ve gotta talk about it. About what’s been eating you up inside.”

You opened your mouth to protest, to make an excuse, but it was like the dam broke before you could stop it. All the guilt, the fear, the shame — it all came flooding out. Tears welled up in your eyes, and you couldn’t stop the trembling as you finally voiced the things you’d been holding onto for so long.

“Penny, I... I don’t know how to say this,” you started, your voice cracking. “But I’m so sorry. I... I didn’t know, I couldn’t know what was going to happen, but I feel like it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t told you to go, if I hadn’t encouraged you to see him, then maybe you wouldn’t have...”

“Stop,” Penelope said firmly, squeezing your hand. “Just stop right there.” Her eyes were intense, her voice steady in a way that cut through all the panic you were feeling. “You didn’t know. None of us did. And what happened — what he did to me — that is not on you. Do you hear me? It is not your fault.”

“But what if it happens again?” you whispered, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “What if I give you bad advice? What if I invite you somewhere, or we’re just hanging out, and I somehow put you in the wrong place at the wrong time and you get hurt again? I don’t... I don’t think I could handle it. I can’t go through that again. I can’t lose you.”

Penelope’s eyes softened, and without missing a beat, she pulled you into a hug, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Shh,” she murmured against your hair. “You’re not going to lose me. I promise you that.”

You clung to her, the sobs coming freely now as all the fear and self-blame poured out of you. Penelope held you firmly, stroking your back, soothing you like only she could. “I know you’re scared,” she said gently. “But, sweetie, you can’t carry the weight of things you can’t control. What happened to me — that was on Jason. He was the one who did this. Not you. You were just being a friend, trying to help me find some happiness. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“But I should’ve known better,” you mumbled against her shoulder, the words muffled but filled with regret. “I shouldn’t have pushed you to go.”

“Hey, listen to me,” she said, pulling back to look you in the eyes, her hands gripping your shoulders. “You didn’t push me. I chose to go on that date. And yes, it turned out horribly. But that doesn’t mean you should stop being my friend, or stop giving me advice, or living your life like you’re walking on eggshells around me. I need you, okay? And I need you to be you, because that’s the person who’s always been there for me, the person I love. I don’t want you holding back because of fear.”

The sincerity in her voice, the love, and the forgiveness shining in her eyes broke down the last of your walls. You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat as you tried to believe her words. “I just... I don’t want to lose you,” you whispered again, your voice small and vulnerable.

“And you won’t,” Penelope said, her voice steady and resolute as she held your gaze. But then, her expression shifted, her eyes searching yours with a gentleness that only she could carry. “But I know that’s not all.”

A flicker of confusion crossed your face. “What do you mean?”

Penelope hesitated, biting down on her lip before speaking, her eyes dropping to her hands as she fidgeted with a loose thread on the blanket draped over her lap. When she finally looked up again, there was a hint of sheepishness in her expression, like she was tiptoeing into territory she wasn’t sure she should tread. “I know you were worried about me, hon,” she said softly. “And I love you so much for that, for being there for me even when you couldn’t actually be there. But… I can tell I’m not the eye of the hurricane inside your head.”

You felt your breath catch, the truth of her words hitting you with a force that left you momentarily speechless. It was as though she had seen straight through you, through all the guilt, all the fear — to the thing that lay beneath it all. And as much as you wanted to deny it, to tell her that it was just about her, you knew you couldn’t lie to Penelope.

You sighed deeply, the weight of everything you’d been holding onto crashing down on you again. You sniffled, trying to steady your voice as you nodded slowly. “Spencer,” you said, the name leaving your lips like an admission of a wound you hadn’t yet looked at directly. “Spencer hasn’t talked to me since we found out what happened.”

Penelope’s eyes widened with sympathy, and she reached out to take your hand, squeezing it tightly. “Oh, sweetie...”

“It’s like he just shut me out,” you continued, your voice trembling. “The day we found out about you, he walked out of the hospital without even looking back. He hasn’t said a word to me since, and every time I try to talk to him, he just... shuts down. I know he’s hurting. And I know he’s probably just processing everything, but...” Your voice cracked, and you shook your head as the tears welled up again. “It feels like I lost him too. Like I lost both of you. And I don’t know how to make it right.”

Penelope listened intently, her face softening with every word you spoke. She could see how much pain you were carrying, how deeply Spencer’s silence had cut you. “Have you tried talking to him? I mean, really talking to him? Not just about work or everyday stuff, but about how you’re feeling?”

You nodded, though your shoulders slumped as the hopelessness of it all settled back in. “I’ve tried, Pen. I’ve tried so many times. But every time I get close, it’s like he just... builds a wall. He won’t even look at me sometimes. And it hurts, because I don’t know what to do to fix it.”

Penelope was quiet for a moment, her expression thoughtful as she processed your words. Then she sighed softly, her fingers intertwining with yours. “You know what I think?” she said gently. “I think Spencer is hurting more than he knows how to deal with. And I think he’s taking that hurt and turning it inward — or maybe even outward. But I also know that he cares about you so, so much. He wouldn’t just turn his back on you for good.”

You shook your head, the tears finally spilling over again. “But what if he has? What if he’s blamed me for this just like everyone else did?”

“Honey, listen to me,” Penelope said, her voice firm but full of compassion. “Spencer Reid might be a genius, but he’s also a human. And sometimes, humans don’t know what to do with all the pain they carry. That doesn’t mean it’s your fault, and that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. He just needs time, and you might need to let yourself be okay with that. I know it’s hard, but you can’t carry both your own guilt and his.”

You sat there, taking in her words, trying to let them sink in. It was easier said than done, but hearing Penelope — wise, compassionate Penelope — tell you that it was okay to not have all the answers gave you a sliver of relief.

“Do you really think he’ll come around?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the vulnerability clear in your eyes.

Penelope smiled, a genuine, warm smile that seemed to light up the whole room. “I know he will. And until then, you’ve got me.”

You nodded, squeezing her hand, feeling a small, fragile hope begin to grow in your chest.

—

The kindness and warmth Penelope had shown you was not extended to Spencer when she found him in the breakroom Monday morning. You were still settling in at your desk when you saw her storm across the bullpen, determination in her eyes and anger practically sparking off of her. You didn’t think much of it at first — Penelope’s strong-willed presence was no stranger to the office. But when you saw her walk straight up to Spencer, her expression dark and unyielding, you knew something was about to happen.

Spencer, who had been stirring his coffee absently, looked up in surprise as Penelope closed the distance between them, her heels clicking sharply against the floor. And then she let him have it.

“What the hell is wrong with you, Spencer?” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ignoring Y/N for weeks? Shutting her out like she’s some stranger? After everything you’ve been through together, and everything she’s done for you, you have the nerve to treat her like this?”

Spencer flinched at her words, his face going pale as the berating continued. He opened his mouth to respond, but Penelope wasn’t letting him get a word in.

“Y/N’s been tearing herself up over what happened, blaming herself for something that wasn’t even her fault! And you know what? Instead of being the partner she needs — the person who supports her no matter what — you’re just adding to the guilt. You don’t get to treat her like that. Not after—”

“I almost lost one of the most important people in my life because of her!” Spencer choked out suddenly, his voice cracking with emotion as he interrupted Penelope’s tirade. His eyes were wide and filled with fear and frustration, and he looked like he was unraveling with every word. “I almost lost you, Penelope, because she told you to go on that date.”

Penelope’s expression shifted then, the anger replaced by a deep, aching sympathy as she let Spencer’s words sink in. There was a silence, a heavy silence that felt like it filled every inch of the breakroom. And neither of them knew that in that very moment, you’d walked up to the door, hearing Spencer’s words, and froze. The world around you seemed to fall away as his voice echoed in your head, the raw pain in his tone seeping into your bones. You stayed there, heart pounding, unable to move.

“Spencer,” Penelope said slowly, her voice gentle but firm, trying to rein in her own anger. “That was not her fault, and you know it. Do the math, genius. Jason was targeting me from the start, whether I was on that date or not. He had me in his sights long before Y/N ever said anything. Stop blaming her for something no one could control.”

Spencer scoffed, shaking his head and rolling his eyes as if trying to brush off the weight of her words. “Yeah, well, you say that, but it’s not that simple. If she hadn’t—”

“No, Spencer!” Penelope’s voice cut through his, sharper now, and she pointed a finger right in his face. “You listen to me. That is your girlfriend we’re talking about. Your life partner. Your best friend. Y/N has been there for you through everything. Do you remember when you were so drugged up that you didn’t even know what you were doing, or who you were with, when you lashed out at her in the middle of the night? And did she blame you? Did she shut you out? No. She held you, she comforted you, and she made sure you got the help you needed. She has never given up on you, not once, and you’re giving up on her?”

Spencer was silent. His mouth opened as if to respond, but nothing came out. He looked at Penelope, his eyes burning with anger and anguish and something far more complicated. And for a long moment, the silence stretched between them, his chest rising and falling with quick, shallow breaths.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely a whisper, cracking with the strain of what he was feeling. “I love Y/N more than anything else in this world. But how can I trust her to make good decisions for herself, at all, if her last one almost got you killed?”

And that was all you could take. The words hit like a blow to the chest, and before you knew what was happening, you let out a sob, loud and choked and broken. The sound tore through the silence, and both Spencer and Penelope whipped around, eyes wide in shock as they realized you’d been standing there, hearing everything.

“Y/N—” Spencer started, panic flooding his voice as he took a step toward you.

But you were already moving, already running. You turned and fled, the tears blurring your vision as you rushed down the hall, away from the breakroom, away from the words that had shattered you all over again.

“Shit!” you heard Spencer yell from behind you, followed by the sharp slap of his hand hitting the cabinet in frustration, the loud bang echoing down the hall. But you didn’t look back. You couldn’t look back. All you could do was keep running, trying to outrun the pain that seemed to chase you down with every step.

“Was it worth it, Reid?” Penelope asked, her voice breaking the silence that filled the breakroom after you’d fled. There was no anger left in her tone — only a sadness, heavy and deep, that seemed to echo around them. She looked at Spencer with a sorrowful expression, searching his eyes as if she could somehow pull out an answer that would make sense of what had just happened. “Was it worth it? To get that off your chest?”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his hand still resting on the cabinet door he’d slammed shut in frustration. The thud of it still seemed to reverberate in the air, mingling with the ghost of your sobs. His jaw clenched, his eyes staring blankly at the floor where you’d stood only moments before, now empty.

He didn't respond, and for a moment, it seemed like he couldn’t find the words. He just shook his head, unable to meet Penelope’s gaze.

“Did it help?” Penelope pressed, her voice gentle but insistent. “Did it make you feel better? Because from where I’m standing, you just broke the heart of the person you say you love more than anything else.”

Spencer’s shoulders slumped, and he closed his eyes tightly, fighting back the emotions threatening to spill over. “I don’t know,” he finally choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Penelope. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make this right. I was just... I was so angry. So scared. And I... I took it out on her.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair, his eyes squeezed shut as he let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know how to take it back.”

Penelope’s face softened, but there was no pity in her eyes, only a deep, aching understanding. “You can’t,” she said softly. “You can’t take back what you said. But you can make it right. You can own up to it. You can tell her the truth — that you were hurting, that you let the fear and anger get the best of you. That you don’t actually believe she’s to blame for any of this.”

Spencer finally looked up at her, his eyes red-rimmed, filled with regret. “But what if she doesn’t forgive me?” he asked, his voice raw with desperation. “What if I’ve lost her?”

Penelope took a step closer, reaching out to touch his arm, grounding him in her touch. “Then you fight for her, Spence,” she said, her voice steady and sure. “You do everything you can to make her see how much she means to you. You remind her that you love her, that you need her, that this — all of this — was just you not knowing how to handle almost losing two of the people you care about most.”

She paused, her voice softening even more as she gave him a sad, knowing smile. “But first, you’re going to have to forgive yourself. Because all that anger you’ve been carrying? It’s not about Y/N. It’s about you.”

Spencer let out a shaky breath, nodding, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He knew she was right — he knew it all along. But knowing it and facing it were two different things. And for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself to truly sit with the pain of it, to feel the regret for what he’d done, and the fear of what he might have just lost.

And in that moment, the truth settled in his chest like a stone: if he had any chance of making things right, he’d have to confront his demons, no matter how much they scared him. Because he loved you. And he was going to do whatever it took to get you back.

—

You found an empty office as soon as your legs carried you far enough away, stumbling inside and shutting the door behind you before you could even think of stopping the sobs that clawed their way up your throat. You leaned against the wall, your hands over your face as you let yourself cry — really cry — until the tears came freely, the weight of Spencer’s words sinking in like a stone in your chest. Every breath hurt, and the dam of emotions you’d held back for so long finally broke. It wasn’t just about what he said, but how deeply it cut.

Minutes passed, or maybe it was hours; you couldn’t be sure. You let it all out, every sob, every tremor that racked through you. And then, as the tears finally slowed and the pain dulled into exhaustion, you knew you couldn’t stay hidden forever. The team was counting on you. Penelope was counting on you. So you pulled yourself together as best as you could, taking slow, deep breaths and wiping your face with the sleeves of your shirt until your hands stopped shaking.

The mirror in the bathroom was unforgiving as you stood there, splashing cold water on your face. You ran your fingers under your eyes, trying to erase the smudges of mascara that had stained your cheeks, and did your best to fix your hair, to smooth away any evidence of your breakdown. But your eyes were still puffy, red-rimmed, the remnants of your tears clearly visible. And you knew, even as you straightened your posture, forcing a calmness you didn’t feel, that everyone would see right through it. That they’d probably all heard what happened.

But you had work to do, and you couldn’t afford to fall apart again. So, with a deep breath, you steeled yourself and walked back out into the bullpen, your head held high, your shoulders squared. Even if your composure was a fragile thing, even if you felt like you could shatter with the slightest touch, you made your way to your desk, focusing on each step as if it were the only thing holding you together.

The bullpen felt different now, the energy heavier than it had been before. Conversations were hushed, the usual buzz of the office subdued as you passed by. You knew they were watching, that they’d seen or at least heard what had happened in the breakroom. But you didn’t look around; you didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. You just sat down at your desk, opened up the stack of files in front of you, and forced your focus onto the work, letting it be the only thing that mattered in that moment.

Across the room, Spencer sat at his own desk, and as soon as you walked in, he saw you. He saw the way you held yourself together — the straight line of your back, the tightness in your expression, the way you refused to let your gaze wander to his. And he hated it. He hated knowing that he had done that to you, his love, that he’d been the reason for the pain and exhaustion etched into your face. He’d never seen you like this before — so closed off, so... dim.

He watched you bury yourself in your work, your fingers moving mechanically across the keyboard, your pen scribbling across the pages as if each word was a way to silence the hurt. And all Spencer could do was sit there, guilt and shame wracking his mind as he thought about what he’d done — how he’d let his anger and fear control him, how he’d let it spill out onto you, the one person he swore to protect, the one person who deserved none of it. His brilliant, loving, beautiful girlfriend, who had always stood by his side, even when he didn't deserve it.

He made you cry. He made you doubt yourself, blame yourself for something you had no power over. And the light that usually radiated from you — the brightness he loved so much, the joy you carried so effortlessly — was gone, dulled by the weight of the hurt he’d caused.

Every fiber of Spencer’s being screamed at him to get up, to walk over to you and wrap you in the biggest hug he could manage. He wanted to hold you, to whisper a thousand apologies, to promise that everything was going to be okay and that he’d never, ever make you feel this way again. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to move, because he knew that it would take more than that — more than a hug, more than an “I’m sorry” — to fix the damage he’d caused. It would take time, and understanding, and patience — all things he wasn’t sure he even deserved from you after what he’d said, what he’d done.

—

Later that evening, the weight of the day still clung to Spencer like a thick fog. Unable to concentrate, unable to push past the regret that gnawed at his insides, he found himself reaching for a small comfort — your favorite book. It sat on his shelf, the well-worn cover soft under his fingertips as he pulled it down. You had gifted it to him long ago, lovingly annotated with notes, doodles, and highlighted passages. Each page was filled with bits of you — your humor, your thoughts, your heart. Categories like “reminds me of you,” “our jokes,” “my favorite quotes,” and “scenes I wish I could live with you” peppered the pages, showing just how much care, time, and love you’d put into making it special for him. It had been one of the most thoughtful gifts he’d ever received.

He settled onto the couch, the book resting heavily in his lap. And as he flipped through the pages, he let himself be pulled into the memories, letting his fingers brush over your handwriting, your underlines and notes. He read the small snippets where you’d connected a moment in the book to a joke only the two of you shared, where you’d drawn silly little hearts in the margins or underlined lines that spoke to you. And he could almost hear your voice as he read your thoughts, your teasing comments, your kind words. It felt as though you were right there with him, the warmth of you emanating from every page.

The tears came slowly, silently, at first just a sting in the back of his eyes that he tried to blink away. But as he read deeper, the notes growing more tender, the love you’d put into every word more apparent, he let them fall. He let them fall because he could feel the depth of what he’d pushed away, how much you’d loved him, how much you still loved him. And how horribly, deeply he’d hurt you.

He was reading a note that simply said, “This reminds me of the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching”. He laughed softly through his tears at your handwriting, slightly wobbly from when you’d annotated it while on a train, but the joy of that memory only made the pain sharper, cutting through him like a blade. He wished he could take everything back, go back to when things were easier and he hadn’t let his fears get the better of him.

Then his phone started ringing. Spencer’s hand trembled slightly as he reached for it, and when he saw the screen light up with your contact photo, his breath caught in his throat. It was that picture — the one he’d taken when he brought you to New York City for the first time, to the MET and the New York Public Library. You’d insisted on making a goofy growling face next to the stone lions out front, hands curled into claws as you posed, trying to match their fierce stance. He’d laughed so hard as he took the photo, snapping the picture while you were mid-roar. And now, as he stared at it, the memory made him smile, even through his tears.

His thumb hovered over the answer button for a moment, heart pounding in his chest, before he finally pressed it, bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello? Y/N?” he managed, his voice cracking slightly, unsure of what to expect.

“Hi, Spence,” you sighed, your voice soft, almost hesitant. “I’m... um, I’m outside. Can I come in?”

The relief and panic hit him all at once. You were here. You’d come to him. “Y-Yeah, of course,” he said quickly, fumbling to stand as he set the book aside, the pages fluttering closed. “I’ll be right there.”

He hung up, practically stumbling to the door, his heart racing with both fear and hope. And as he reached for the door handle, he tried to steady himself, knowing that whatever came next, whatever words you had to say, he was ready to listen. Because you were here, and he wasn’t going to let this moment slip away.

As soon as Spencer swung the door open, he was met with the sight of you standing there, tears staining your cheeks, your eyes red and puffy, your breath coming out in shaky gasps.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you choked out, your hands trembling as they twisted together in front of you. “I’m so, so sorry for everything. I should have never told Penny to go on that date. I should have... I should have called to check on her, I should have thought about how all of it affected you. I’m—”

“What?” he whispered, his voice coming out strangled with confusion and pain as he cut you off. He stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours desperately, trying to make sense of your words. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I messed everything up,” you continued, the sobs making your voice tremble as you tried to hold yourself together. “I never meant to hurt you, or Penelope, or anyone, but all I did was make things worse. If I hadn’t told her to go, if I had just stayed out of it, none of this would have happened. And you—” Your voice cracked, and you struggled to find the right words, to get out everything you’d been holding inside for so long. “You wouldn’t have had to go through this, you’d still trust me, and you wouldn’t hate me. I don’t want you to hate me, Spencer. Please don’t hate me.”

Spencer’s heart shattered at the sight of you breaking down in front of him, blaming yourself for something you had no control over, something that had haunted him every day since it happened. He couldn’t stand it, couldn’t stand the thought of you carrying this burden when it was his anger, his fear, that had driven you away. And all he wanted to do in that moment was take away your pain, to make you see that you weren’t to blame, that he had been so, so wrong.

“Hey, hey, stop, stop,” he said urgently, stepping forward to close the distance between you, his hands hovering for a second before he pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly against his chest. “Please, don’t say that. Don’t be sorry.” He pressed his face into your hair, his voice desperate as he tried to find the words that would make this right. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. I love you so much. I’m the one who’s sorry, I’m the one who hurt you, who shut you out when I should’ve been there for you.”

You trembled in his hold, your tears slowing down as you clung to him, and Spencer tightened his grip, trying to convey everything he felt through the warmth of his embrace. “I was scared,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he spoke. “I was so scared of losing both of you. And I know that’s not an excuse, but I... I let that fear control me, and I took it out on you, and it was so wrong. You were trying to help Penelope, trying to be a good friend, and I blamed you for something that was never your fault.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes filled with confusion and anguish, and Spencer could see the questions there, the doubt that still lingered. “But... but I was the one who—”

“No,” he said firmly, cupping your face with his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked down your cheeks. “No, Y/N. What happened to Penelope — that’s on Jason. Not you. And I should have been there to tell you that, to support you, instead of shutting you out. I was so scared of losing you that I pushed you away and I hurt you. And I am so, so sorry.”

The sincerity in his voice, the tears that filled his eyes as he spoke, the pain of being apart, and the love that still held you together, left you breathless.

“Please don’t apologize,” Spencer said softly, his forehead pressing against yours. “You did nothing wrong. You were just being you — the caring, loving person I fell in love with. And I am so sorry for making you feel like you couldn’t be that person.”

You closed your eyes, trying to steady your breathing as you pulled away, giving yourself some space. Grabbing a tissue from the side table, you dabbed at your nose and wiped away the tears that still clung to your lashes. Spencer watched you carefully, the anxiety on his face clear as he tried to read your silence. You didn’t speak for a long moment, your gaze fixed on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you thought through everything that had happened. He stood there, holding his breath, afraid to interrupt whatever was going through your mind.

“I love you, Spence,” you whispered finally, your voice shaking but full of truth. “I love you so much.” You finally lifted your head to look at him, letting the words hang between you like a fragile thread of hope.

His shoulders relaxed slightly, a small flicker of relief crossing his face as he stepped closer to you, his eyes searching yours. “I love you too,” he murmured, the words spilling out quickly, like he was afraid you might change your mind if he didn’t say it fast enough. “More than anything. And I’m not going to let anything come between us again.” He reached out, his hands hovering just in front of yours, desperate to close the space between you. “Please... don’t leave me.”

“Leave you?” you asked, your brows furrowing in confusion as you took in the worry on his face. “Spencer, why would you say that?”

“Well, I—I treated you terribly, and we weren’t talking, and we fought, and I was so awful to you,” he stammered, his voice shaky as the fear spilled out. “I... I know what I did, and I know I hurt you, and I just... I was scared that maybe... maybe you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“Spencer,” you said softly, taking his hands in yours, your fingers intertwining as you squeezed them reassuringly. “That doesn’t mean we’re breaking up. We had a fight. A really bad one. But now we have to work through it. Together.”

His eyes met yours, and for a moment, all you saw was vulnerability — the way he was trying to hold himself together, the way he was fighting not to let the guilt and fear overwhelm him. “But what if... what if I hurt you again?” he asked, his voice so quiet it almost got lost between you. “What if I say the wrong thing, and you...”

“Then we’ll talk about it,” you said firmly, your voice steady as you spoke. “We’ll talk, we’ll talk and we’ll figure it out, and we’ll make sure we don’t let it happen again. But I’m not leaving you, Spencer. Just because we had a fight... that doesn’t mean we’re over. We’re stronger than that.” You paused, brushing your thumb over the back of his hand. “I know we have a lot to work through. I know it’s not going to be easy. But I love you, and I’m here. We’ll do it together, okay?”

He nodded, a flicker of hope brightening his eyes, and he let out a shaky breath, relief flooding through him. “Okay,” he whispered, tightening his grip on your hands. “Together.”

“And, baby?” you asked, your voice soft but steady as you tilted your head to look up at him, trying to catch his eyes and make sure he really heard you.

“Yeah?” Spencer responded, his voice barely above a whisper, eyes meeting yours with that familiar mix of love and uncertainty, as if he was afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

You squeezed his hands gently, your thumbs brushing over his knuckles, grounding both him and yourself in that touch. “You have to talk to me if something is bothering you,” you said, your tone gentle but firm, the words full of the honesty you both needed. “I can’t fix anything, and we can’t work on anything, if I don’t know what’s going on inside your head. If you’re hurting, or if you’re scared, or angry... you have to let me in. Okay?”

Spencer nodded, his eyes never leaving yours, and you could see how hard he was trying to take in your words, to let them settle in his heart. “Okay,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “I... I’ll try. I promise.”

You gave him a small smile, leaning in just a little closer. “That’s all I’m asking,” you said gently. “We have to be able to talk to each other. No matter how hard it is, no matter what’s going on — we have to do it together.”

He closed his eyes, and you watched as he took a slow, deep breath, the tension in his body finally loosening as if he’d been holding it in for far too long. When he opened his eyes again, something had changed. It was subtle, but you saw it — a spark of determination that hadn’t been there before, a promise to do better, to be there for you in all the ways you both needed. But there was something else, too — a hunger, an intensity in his eyes that you hadn’t seen in so long. It was the way he used to look at you, that mix of need and devotion that made your heart race.

“God, I missed you so much, darling,” Spencer sighed, and before you could respond, he pulled you into another hug, his arms wrapping around you so tightly you almost lost your breath. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply as if to remind himself of your scent, the comfort of your presence, the closeness he'd gone too long without. His hands gripped your back firmly, holding you as though you might disappear if he let go.

You melted into his hold, your own arms winding around him as he pulled you flush against him. It was a hug that spoke of all the longing and pain and love that had built up between you, a hug that was both desperate and grounding all at once. You could feel the way his breath hitched as he held you closer, the way his fingers dug gently into your back, and you knew that this was more than just an embrace of comfort — it was everything he’d held back for so long, all the love and want and need finally spilling over.

“I missed you too,” you whispered, your lips brushing against his ear as you pressed yourself closer to him. And for that moment, nothing else mattered but the two of you, tangled together, holding each other like you never wanted to let go.

Spencer pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and filled with a need that made your stomach flip. His hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing lightly over your cheeks as he spoke, his voice low and breathy. “Can I kiss you, Y/N?” he asked, his eyes searching yours, the words full of both desire and hesitation — a question that held the weight of all that had passed between you, of all he hoped to mend.

You giggled softly, your heart swelling at the sight of him so close, so vulnerable. “I’d be offended if you didn’t,” you teased, leaning into his touch, a smile tugging at your lips as you nodded.

Spencer’s lips twitched into a smile, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you saw that light return to his eyes — that playful, loving look he always gave you before pressing his mouth to yours. And then he was kissing you, soft at first, like he was trying to remember how it felt. But as soon as his lips met yours, you felt the relief and longing melt between you, and he kissed you deeper, his lips moving against yours with all the tenderness and passion he’d been holding back.

The world around you seemed to blur, everything fading away as you sank into him, the feeling of his mouth on yours so familiar, so perfect, like coming home. You could taste the salt of tears, his and yours mingling together, and as he tilted his head to deepen the kiss, you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, needing to feel all of him — his warmth, his love, the steady rhythm of his heart beating against yours.

He kissed you like it was the only thing that mattered, like he was trying to memorize every second, every touch, making up for every painful moment you’d spent apart. There was something so intense, yet so tender about it — a kiss filled with all the love and longing, spilling over with every movement of his lips against yours. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t slow either; it was the kind of kiss that lingered and sank deep into your bones, like a promise of something stronger, something unbreakable.

It was the sweetest kiss you think the two of you had ever shared. You felt every ounce of passion and desire radiating off him, every bit of love poured into that moment. Spencer’s hands were gentle as they rubbed your back, his fingers moving in small, slow circles, not daring to roam too far but enough to make you shiver at the warmth of his touch. Each caress was careful, as if he was both holding you close and holding himself back, trying to savor every second of feeling you close again.

You clung to him, your own hands gripping the fabric of his shirt so tightly your knuckles were turning white, and you couldn’t bear to let go. You didn’t want to lose even an inch of contact, afraid that if he pulled away, even for a moment, you’d lose this — lose him. The world seemed to dissolve around you, and all that existed was the pressure of his mouth on yours, the faint taste of coffee on his lips, the way his hair brushed against your forehead as he leaned in closer.

Spencer broke the kiss for just a second, pressing his forehead against yours, his breath mixing with yours as he let out a soft, shaky sigh. And then he was kissing you again, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t bear to be apart for even a second. You could feel the desperation in his touch, the depth of what you meant to each other — not just words, not just promises, but something tangible and real. Something that neither of you were willing to let go.

And in that kiss, you felt the world right itself, felt the cracks begin to heal, and the pieces of both your hearts start to fall back into place. You didn’t know what tomorrow would hold, but for now, this was everything. And that was enough.

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