#they do not last. the treads bald out. then they make me limp. and then they fall apart

[void-tiger]

ALRIGHT!!

I’ve got a pet-sitting gig lined up that pays well-enough, so best shoes for daily wear/walking a few miles and best shoes for running (in case I take that up), GO!!

*…also emphasis on how well they lace to fit snug around the heel and ankle. Ya girl has skinny ass ankles and very very narrow (long) feet with joints and tendons that apparently like to slip. Soooo here’s to hoping GOOD Shoes will delay the Fatigue Drain + keep things stable/aligned enough that other joints and shit Behave.

(and uh. that’ll last me at least 2+ years of heavy wear. because it’ll prolly be at least that long before they can either be replaced or have additional shoes thrown into rotation.)

[kaminobiwan]

empathy

pairing: fives x reader

summary: after the citadel, you catch him in a rare moment of vulnerability. (it’s sad i’m sorry)

a/n: the next installment of my milestone celebration! the prompt that spurred this was literally “tucking someone in bed” and I went and made it into this pain train asdlk;f anon I hope you like it still. also, this gorgeous gif was thanks to @obiwankenobiness thank you, angel, the world continues to be in your debt!

lastly, here is my taglist form. forgive me for the feels to come

You get the call just as you’re about to turn on your holoscreen to binge the latest net drama.

You don’t recognize the contact, but accept the holo regardless. A group of your friends had gone out tonight, begging you to come with them, but you’d declined in favor of a relaxing night in, telling them to let you know if they needed anything.

Maybe their comlinks had died.

Unsurprisingly, it’s a bartender from 79’s, the one your girlfriend is hooking up with. You’re about to ask if he needs help with her drunk antics when he rushes out an apology.

“Hey, sorry to bother you, but you’d better get here. We need your help.”

Your forehead furrows in concern. This doesn’t sound good. “Is everything okay with — ”

“Yeah, yeah, she’s fine. Well, she’s drunk off her ass, but I’m not talking about her. It’s Fives.”

Your eyebrows shoot up higher, curiosity piquing. “Fives?”

The handsome soldier had been off-world for a couple weeks now, and you hadn’t realized he’d returned to Coruscant. It’s not like you were together or anything, but he did tend to hit you up whenever he came home. Your friends were consistently egging you to “make it an item,” but you’d stubbornly refused. Fives wasn’t the problem, but whatever it was between you was a frustrating mystery and you weren’t going to be the one to clear it up.

If only your courage was stronger than your ego.

“He’s fucked up,” Your friend’s boy-toy explains. “And I don’t see any of his usual mates around. I didn’t know who else to call.”

You sigh, already reaching for warmer clothes as you drop the blanket that had cocooned you until now. “It’s okay. I’ll be there in a second.”

—————

By the time you reach the bar, Fives isn’t alone — another clone, bald and clad in yellow-streaked armor, is hunched over him while trying to wrestle another shot out of the ARC trooper’s hands.

“Fives?”

The two of them jump up at the same time almost comically, and a shred of amusement pulls at your lips. The bald clone blinks at you, uncertain as to who you are, but Fives erupts with enthusiasm and calls to you. Deafeningly.

“There she is!” He all but shouts, and while his companion is distracted, he gulps down the drink before anyone can stop him. “Isn’t she gorgeous, Waxer?”

Blood rushes to your face as Waxer shakes off his stupor. You approach them fully, taking in the empty bottles littering the counter. “Did you ask for me?”

Fives burps, and both you and Waxer jerk back immediately. “Said your name once or twice, you know how it is.” You didn’t, actually, but you let him continue. It’s like watching a holo on a five-second delay, his eyes turning questioning as he turns to you in slow motion. “Come to think of it, m’pretty sure I didn’t drunk call you. What’re you doing here?”

You can’t help it, but as much as you don't want to, the way he cuts himself off makes you to wonder if he had meant without me?

“Bartender commed me,” you explain, more to his friend than him. “I didn’t know you were on leave.”

His rowdiness calms a tad, and you squint at him as the smile drops off his face. “Just got back.”

“He’s pretty drunk,” Waxer speaks up, and you step forward to help him carry Fives so that both of you have an arm around each of your shoulders. “I just called a cab for him, but he’s saying he won’t go anywhere.”

As the three of you stumble towards the exit, you struggling much more than Waxer under the weight, you incline your head in understanding. “I can take him back to my place. Assuming he doesn’t have to be anywhere?”

You receive a shake of a head in answer, and an air taxi pulls up in front of your group, right on cue. “Appreciate it.” Waxer forces Fives to lean against the speeder while he opens the door. “Didn’t know Fives had a girlfriend.”

For the second time in less than ten minutes, your face heats indignantly. You shoot a quick prayer to the Maker Fives is too intoxicated to chime in. Thankfully, he’s resting his head on the roof of the taxi, seemingly enjoying the cool sensation. “I’m not his girlfriend.”

Waxer looks at you doubtfully, but says nothing. He pays the driver in advance as you commend him gratefully, but he only shrugs at you. “You’re taking the hard part. He’ll be a bitch to take care of in a couple hours, trust me.”

You murmur a sound of agreement, and go to push Fives’ limp body inside, but his arm grabs the open door and stops you from moving him further. He raises his head enough to peer at his fellow trooper, Waxer shifting uncomfortably.

“Waxer,” Fives rasps, “I’m sorry about Longshot. And the rest of ‘em.”

The other clone winces visibly, but nods in response before you manage to slide Fives into the taxi.

—————

Getting Fives out of the cab and into your apartment is a series of multiple unfortunate events, but eventually you make it. Once you’ve shut the door and locked it, you dump Fives onto your bed where your pillows are still arranged in perfect nest formation.

He’s sobered up a little, but by the way he hasn’t spoken since the bar, you’re still unconvinced to his level of sentience. As you help him with his armor, you probe him cautiously. “Rough mission?”

His face flashes with malcontent, but you’re not sure if it’s from the awkward way you pull off his pauldron or your question.

“Sorry.”

“S’okay.” Fives shakes his head quickly, then seems to regret it as his hand flies up to press against his forehead. “It was a rough mission.”

You stop in your movements, looking at him with regret. He doesn’t really talk about the war with you. Why would he, when it takes up every other facet of his life?

Before you can tell him he doesn’t have to say anything, he’s speaking again. “‘Lotta clones died.”

A thrum of contriteness reverberates in your mind, but you take his admission as an opening. Treading cautiously, you ask, “Longshot. Was he your friend?”

Fives shakes his head again, slower this time. “Well, yeah, but he’s part of the 212th. Was. We weren’t that close.”

Silence consumes the next few moments before you press on. “You lost someone close to you.”

His lack of a reaction clues you in to the accuracy of your statement, and your face twists ruefully. He waits a couple minutes, then mutters again after a few deep breaths.”

“Echo. My twin.”

“Your...?” You don’t mean to be so obvious, but your face scrunches in confusion. It wasn’t like you were an expert on biology, but you were pretty sure you knew how cloning worked. “Aren’t you all — ”

“Right, no, sorry.” Fives drags a hand down his face tiredly, and you feel bad for asking. Some job of cheering him up you were doing. “He was my squadmate. Domino Squad. It was just the two of us left.” His voice trails off, and you let him work through his silence with a sympathetic hand on his knee. For a moment, he smiles wistfully, but the look extinguishes as he’s reminded of something. “Thing is, he was the good one between us. Knew all the reg manuals by heart, had a perfect plan for everything. Always thought that out of everyone, he’d be the one to survive. That when I’d go out…” he pauses. “He’d be there with me.”

A shaky breath escapes him.

“But now he’s gone. And I’m it. The last Domino.”

His face is set in grim resignation, and your chest aches for him. You can’t imagine the pain he’s feeling — not just from the loss of his brother, but the from trauma of war that practically radiates off of him. You wonder, for a brief moment, how you’d never noticed, but soon enough it dawns on you. His usual swagger, flirtatious and carefree, was a fantastic front. It had hidden the depths of his suffering from everyone this far, but now you were finally seeing the curtain drop. And the Fives underneath it was, well.

Fives was heartbroken.

Your brain is screaming at you to do something — comfort him, hug him, anything to wipe the dull pain off his expression, but he lays his hand in his hands before you can. He gives a small groan. “Think m’feeling that hangover already.”

That spurs you to jump up and grab a cup of water for him from the kitchenette, glad to at least be of some service. When you give it to him, he takes it without looking at you, neck bowed in what seems like embarrassment — you’re not completely sure. It’s not like you’d ever seen anything close to embarrassment on Fives prior to this.

“Sorry for...all this.” He croaks out a wry laugh, but you can tell there’s no humor behind it. It’s so strange to hear, when his normal one is loud and boisterous. He’d always been the one to light up the room. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”

“Fives.” You crouch next to him on the bed again, inching closer. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” The cup returns to your hand, and you place it on the table without breaking eye contact. “I’m only sorry I can’t help more.”

“You help plenty, sweetheart, with that pretty face of yours,” he tries, but you see completely through his attempt at brushing everything off. You reach out gently, exuding as much care as you can without a word.

“Fives…” He lets you touch him, pulling his head gradually to you to hold him against your chest. He freezes for a simple second, but immediately slumps in your embrace afterwards, leaning fully into you. You feel his breath falter, but his arms rest contentedly around your waist as you register just how tired he seems.

Guiding him delicately to lay down, you free one hand to pull up a cover over him. Just as you’re about to extract yourself from his hold, he spreads a beseeching hand at the small of your back. You catch his gaze, pleading and vulnerable.

“Stay. Can you…” he hiccups between his words. “It’ll help if you’re here.”

You stare at him tentatively, but eventually nod. “Sure, Fives.”

It’s only a couple minutes until you’ve changed and returned to bed, and when you slip under the covers next to him, his lids are already half closed. You brush a stray eyelash from his cheek, and lay your palm there as his eyes droop slowly. This look is new, too, but it’s a tender one as you see the strain ebb from his body for the first time in front of you. As he falls asleep, you lift yourself up to press a feather-light kiss to his temple, just below his tattoo.

If he remembers it in the morning, he doesn’t let it show.

[iamwhelmed]

For Whom the Bell Tolls: Chapter 12

After last night’s update, I was SO INCREDIBLY PUMPED TO EDIT THIS CHAPTER. Seriously, this is all I’ve wanted the entirety of Chapter 5!!! And it looks like we’re finally getting it!

Anyway, this is also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net!

Summary: When monsters start to invade Mayview, the morality of the connection between a medium and their spirit comes into question. Is killing a spirit any different from taking the life of another human? Relationships between club members become strained, and if Max thought the club was coming apart before, it certainly is now.

"So.. son. Light of my life. My cherished child. My namesake. My-"

"Yeah, could we… cut on that?"

"Oh, right. Sorry." Cough cough. "What did you want to talk about?"

Max hummed and chewed on his bottom lip, twiddling his thumbs and looking anywhere but right in front of him. "I wanted to talk about…"

"Yes?"

"I wanted… to talk about…" He sighed. "I wanted to talk about… mom? And you dating again?"

"Yes, mine loinfruit?"

"Stop that. Look, I just wanted to talk about mom."

"Swell woman she was, love of my life. Bearer of my children! My sweet, sensual temptress-!"

"Yeah. Uh, I just wanted to say that, um, maybe…" Max tugged at the collar of his shirt, clearing his throat. "Maybe it's too… early? Yeah, maybe it's too early to be dating other women, ya know? I just think-?" He grunted and ran a hand over his face. "All right, Pj, this isn't working."

Pj sat across from him, blinking behind Lefty, who was posing as his mustache- even if his dad didn't have a mustache. "It's not?"

"No. You're really, really bad at being a father figure," Max paused and blinked into the hand at his forehead. "Which is ironic because my dad is also really, really bad at being a father figure." He squinted at Pj. "Where did you learn the word 'sensual'?"

Pj shrugged. "When your dad fell asleep with the movie station on, another movie came on called-"

"You know what? I just decided I don't wanna know."

There were three quiet knocks at the door, and they both turned their attention as it slid open. Zoe stood on the other side, raising an eyebrow at Max as she took her first steps into the room. "Are you talking to yourself?"

Max snuck a look in Pj's direction, then leaned forward, one elbow resting on his crossed legs. "No. What's up?"

She scrunched her nose and blew air into one of her cheeks, gaze falling to the side as she slipped entirely into his bedroom and shut the door behind her. "I just wanted to ask, since you seem so cool with this and everything." Zoe raised a finger to twist a strand of hair, playing with it, watching it go round and round and round until she couldn't anymore- it'd become too tangled. "How are you okay with Dad moving on? I mean, I really want to be but…" She paused, then tugged at the strand instead. "Every time I think about it, I just get so mad!" He could have sworn she was going to tear a lock of hair straight off her head. Zoe bit down on the inside of her cheek. "So… what's your secret?"

Max frowned and looked at the floor, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "The truth is," he sighed and turned his eyes in the other direction, looking to his bedroom window instead of Pj, who sat patiently still, watching the conversation that could potentially strengthen his sibling bond with Zoe or, well, not. He sighed. "I'm not okay with it, Zoe. It bothers me- a lot, but if it makes Dad happy, especially after all he's done for us, then I'll just keep my mouth shut about it."

"But," She tilted her head, brows furrowing in uncharacteristic concern. "Won't you hate Dad?"

He blinked and turned to face her. "Huh?"

"If you let your feelings bottle up, and you never tell him, aren't you gonna start to hate Dad for not considering how you're feeling?"

He took a moment to think that over. Logically? That wouldn't have made any sense- he'd told Dad he was fine with it, so it wouldn't really be Dad's fault, right? But Max knew as well as the next guy that emotions didn't always make sense, didn't follow logic the way everything else did- he'd feel what he'd feel, regardless of how he should have been feeling. If he kept lying and brushing it all off, would it really blow up? Would he do something stupid and lose his cool? Keeping his feelings to himself, waiting to see if Dad noticed them on his own- that wouldn't really work, and he knew that. He wanted to spare Dad the grief, but...

The thought of causing more harm than good left a sour taste on his mouth. There was something familiar about the situation he couldn't quite put his finger on.

Max hummed. "You're annoyingly right."

Zoe stuck her tongue out, but he could see the beginnings of a smile, for the first time in two weeks, inching across her pursed lips. He grinned back at her and stood up, subtly waving to Pj, who nodded and faded through the floor. "Let's go play a game together or something. Up for Super Smash Sis?"

Thursday

"Guys, seriously. I'm fine."

"You have a chunk out the side of your head, dude! You are not fine!"

"See?" Isabel hoisted Ed's arm further into hers, intertwining them so that he couldn't pull away again. "Max is worried, too."

Ed groaned and threw back his head, momentarily making his body slack in their clutches so that they'd have a harder time dragging him to school. They both yelped and tugged at either arm with more force. "I'm fiiine~! I am perfectly capable of walking on my own!"

"You say as" Max grunted and wrenched him further up the hill "you play the limp noodle game. C'mon man, you're gonna hurt yourself. Straighten up."

He sighed and did as asked, adjusting to walk like a normal human being again- well, as normal as he could get with a slight (very slight) limp. Zarei had done a masterful job on him; he'd have to thank her later. He hardly felt a single bite mark, aside from the slight indents where the teeth had sunken in. Isabel told him it was normal, that it'd be regular skin again in another week. He didn't much mind it, of course, he got to walk away with all his limbs and all of his brain, not to mention the sweet satisfactory of winning a fight with what had to have been the most ferocious, terrifying thing he'd ever seen in his life. He would have taken Master Guerra over that monster in a heartbeat had he been given the choice.

"So, what was that thing like?" Max mumbled the question, like he was pondering asking even as the words left his mouth. Ed felt a familiar shiver running down his spine. "I didn't really get a chance to see the other one Mister Spender took down."

"Uh, it was pretty creepy." Creepy was an understatement. He wouldn't get the image of that thing out of his head for at least five years. "Scary, actually. Horrifying. I'm still not sure how I managed to land a hit." He frowned and leaned further into Isabel, who read his shift in weight and squeezed his arm with a small smile. "I guess I just kept my mind on something else… it had, like, twenty pairs of teeth, and the biggest mouth, the one that actually looked like a human's? Its teeth were chattering, all the time, never stopped, except to, uh, scream." The screaming was another thing, even through the fight he'd heard the man's voice echoing in his ears, begging with him, pleading for help he couldn't give, not from the mercy of three different tentacles holding him in the air as they chomped at his body. His eye twitched. "Yeah it uh, it screamed. It screamed a lot. It sounded like a man. He kept" Max readjusted so that his ear was closer to Ed's face. He must have gotten quieter on accident. "He kept asking me to help him, but I couldn't. It, um, it wasn't… it wasn't great."

Isabel's thumb traced one of the indents in his skin, running soothing circles into the marred flesh. "Ed," her voice was softer than usual. "You know they're not human anymore, right? There was nothing you could've done-?"

"Yeah, Izzy, I know." But still…

They arrived at school, then, treading as smoothly up the hill as they could with Ed's (he swore it was slight) limp. "How exactly are you going to make it through a day of school like this?"

Ed turned to look at Max, face destitute of emotion.

"I'm going to crawl around the hallways and hope somebody has mercy on my poor mangled body."

"Guys!"

The three turned to the top of the hill where Dimitri, of all people, stood. From the distance, he almost looked… frantic? Ed quirked an eyebrow. He came rushing down the hill toward them, moving so fast his heels hardly even met the ground with each step. His eyes were wide and panicked, hands moving so spastically it was hard to follow either one- Ed tried. "Turn back! Turn back now!"

"What? Why?"

"Don't ask, just go!" He slowed to stand in front of them, bending over and heaving for air, wincing back at them as they stood glancing at each other. "Go before-!"

"Dimitri Danger?" He swallowed hard and turned around to look at the trail he'd just taken.

Two men in dark suits stood at the top of the hill, looking laughably like the ones from the Men in Black movies. One stood with his hands behind his back, gray hair combed back neatly so that it didn't fall in his eyes. The other one held a clipboard and a pen, marking off something, Ed couldn't tell. Dimitri seemed to take a moment to collect himself, slowly straightening his posture, clenched hands slipping almost casually into his pockets. He turned around with a tightened gaze, voice low and cool with a dangerous undertone Ed was positive only they could hear. "Yeah?"

"You'll be coming with us." The other man, the one holding the clipboard, turned his shade-covered eyes on the three of them, voice oddly similar to Will Smith's. Where the other man had a head full of grey hair, he was bald. "You three are…?"

"Um," Max went to shrug, then remembered Ed around his arm and huffed. "I'm Maxwell Puckett."

"Ed Burger?"

"Isabel Guerra?"

"Right." The gray-haired man, who actually didn't look remotely old enough to have gray hair, once Ed looked a little closer, nodded. "You'll be coming with us, as well."

There were caution tapes bordering the front entrance to the school, mobs of students lined up on the other side, watching and chattering. They'd almost thought it was because of the obvious unusual men escorting them to a large black van, but on second glance, each student held what appeared to be a school newspaper, more than any of them had ever seen Suzy sell. The other kids fell into a hushed silence as they looked up, the crowd's eyes falling on the four of them as they came up the hill. Some whispered when they saw them, and some backed away slowly. Caution and fear swept the student body in varying forms, and every student that fell victim to it as they passed left the foursome with a twisted suspicion forming in their heavy stomachs. It took the men a few moments, directing curious student after unsettled student to stand behind the tape- or else, but eventually they lead them over to the van. Spender and Isaac were already there, Spender looking pensive, Isaac looking anxious. Upon arrival, they were all stripped of their bags, more importantly their tools, each discarded somewhere into the front of the vehicle.

Isabel had only just began to ask what was going on when a pair of cold handcuffs slipped around her wrists. She jumped and turned around, but not fast enough to escape the shackles cutting into her skin. The other man in black went to working handcuffs onto Spender, as well, while the other one slapped some onto Ed. "What is the meaning of this!" Spender moved so that he stood between one man and the rest of his students. "Uncuff us! We've done nothing wrong!"

"Nothing aside from harbor mutant powers." The man with the clean-shaven head frowned and brushed by Spender, locking cuffs on Max just as his partner locked a set on Dimitri.

Spender's voice dropped, anger fading to timid disbelief. "What?" They all looked to each other, eyes wide, hearts stopping, faces collapsing as the world around them followed suit. Spender growled and dug his heels into the ground, not that it would help them now. "Who has been spreading such lies about us!"

Dimitri's eyes fell to the side, sharp and murderous. His nails dug into his own palms with such sheer resentment that he broke skin. In a voice thick with death-dealing intent, he hissed: "Look at the mess you've made."

The rest of the club followed his line of vision, breaths hitched, until their eyes finally fell upon one of their own.

They fell upon Isaac.

He'd been glancing away,hands shoved in his pockets, lips thin and eyes distant. He looked up when Dimitri spoke, met their gazes with uncertainty. He seemed contemplative before settling on one emotion. His face turned dark, flushed of all color, leaving only skin as cold as his freezing eyes, so pale and blue he might as well have been dead. The circles under his eyes were darker than his lashes, and his body shivered at their gaze, but he stood taller than before, a scowl on his lips. His voice was hoarse, and slick with indifference, each word as icy as the frozen blue sleet in his eyes.

"You wanted a traitor? You got one."

One by one, reality hit each of them. Max and Ed and Spender fell slack with grief, shoulders falling as far as their faces. Isabel's face grew vicious, bloodthirsty, lips curled in a snarl. "You-!"

The two men began roughly escorting them into the truck, one turning to look at Isaac as he shoved the last person, Max, behind the shutting doors. "I wouldn't be too happy if I were you, mutant. The only reason you're allowed to walk is because your little friend pulled some strings." As he said this, the other man shivered.

"How could a little girl be so… scary?"

Isaac nodded and turned away, intent on shoving the unfathomable guilt fighting for control of his body into the deepest pits of himself.

They won. They got to watch from the third floor of the school as the van rolled away, presumably never to be seen again. She should have been jumping for joy, but all Suzy could manage was a hand against the window, other tucked at her heart. Collin stood beside her, as always. Him. Her one comfort. He'd been good to her- too good, and she knew it. He didn't deserve the share the weight on her shoulders this time, and still, he did. She swallowed hard and rested her head against the glass near her palm, letting the tips of her nails slide as her worst enemies drove down the hill of Mayview, out of sight, but not out of mind.

"Collin?"

He took a moment to respond. "Yeah?"

"Did we…" she licked her lips. She'd never thought she'd question anything she'd do in the name of the truth, in the name of her dream, but there she was, wondering if she was even cut out to be a journalist if she was so heavy with guilt. "Did we do the right thing?"

He didn't respond right away. Instead he fell silent, shoulder brushing against hers as he shifted his weight. Collin sighed, and from the side, she could see him shake his head.

"I don't know, Suzy. I really, honestly don't know."

"How could you be so careless?" Doorman's voice had risen higher than Isaac had ever imagined it might go. He took a step back, but forced himself to stay put. Doorman was his friend. "Not only have you committed several acts of needless violence, no matter how provoked, but you've betrayed your friends-!"

Isaac bit back. "They're not my friends!"

"Teammates, then! Isaac," he bent lower so that their faces were inches apart. Isaac saw his face reflected back at him, and for the first time, he could see how utterly lifeless he looked, how pale his eyes were, how white his skin was, and how his dull hair sat lifeless atop his head. He glanced away. "Do you not see what you have done? You have hurt Richard Spender and your peers once again, the very opposite of the redemption you seek!"

"Well maybe I don't care about redemption anymore!"

"You do."

Isaac flinched.

Doorman continued, folding his hands politely, as if trying to make up for the way he'd lost his temper, though he truly had nothing to be sorry for. "I know you. You are a remoresful, caring person with a heart larger than most people could dream of. You tend to love with every inch of it, Young Master Isaac." Doorman kept his attention locked on him, but he'd long since decided he wouldn't be looking back. "So it is painful for you when others do not reflect that love." He paused, and once again bent down to Isaac's level, hands setting gently, kindly, upon his shoulders. "That is why the club pains you so."

Isaac winced, fists tightening enough to draw blood.

"It is not too late to fix things, Isaac."

"Well I don't want to!" With a light, pleading push to Doorman's chest, Isaac turned on his heel and sped for the door, slamming it open so harshly that it came apart from the moldy wall. As soon as the first foot hit the ground, he was off running. He pushed past twigs and branches and ignored the cuts each passing tree left on him, as though pleading with him to turn around- go back; but he couldn't.

They deserved it! They deserved what they got! He wouldn't raise a finger to help them, not when they'd left him high and dry, left him to figure things out and nearly die trying every single day. They'd leave me there, wouldn't they? So they can stay there! They can stay there and die for all I care!

He just needed to get home.

[stunudo]

Prayer is not asking. It is a longing of the soul. It is daily admission of one's weakness. It is better in prayer to have a heart without words than words without a heart.

Mahatma Gandhi

The River Bends Us: A Criminal Minds Fanfiction

Spencer Reid x Reader

Rating: Mature   Setting: Season 9

Your name: submit What is this?

The woman dragged herself across the grass by her elbows, each handful of blades slipping through her shaking fists. Her dark natural hair was full of debris, her legs trailing behind were bare with the exception of the panties that were stuck on her ankles and pants lodged in her sensible heeled sandals. A dark figure had been following her, she couldn’t see or hear where they were now. She just knew she had to get away.

“Help me!” She pleaded into the swampy night; her voice coming out in rattled whispers. The night creatures moved on, calling in croaks and buzzes to their kind. Suddenly something grabbed her limp ankle and dragged her backwards into the night. She looked up to see the cloudless June sky as the fist connected with her temporal bone one last time.

David Rossi was burning the midnight oil, he had started another book and he was typing furiously on his laptop. His luxurious study was ablaze, despite the late hour. He had started the evening enjoying a cigar, but inspiration had taken his attention away from his humidor. The surround sound played a swinging big band number and he hummed under his breath. The buzzing of his cell was hidden against the latest crescendo. The voicemail was finally listened to around 2 am when Agent Rossi got up to stretch his legs.

The BAU was ready and waiting on the jet, when Rossi finally joined the team. The older night owl made his apologies and you were all in the air, heading to St Louis. Garcia had filled you in before you boarded: three bodies found in a ten mile radius of the city’s south-side. All victims were in various states of decomposition, but all were found within twenty four hours of each other. The flight was a quick one, but the M.E. wouldn’t be ready for the team right away.

You hide a wide yawn behind your right hand and bunch up your hoodie as a pillow for the short nap the flight allows you. It had been a quiet week of filing reports and parole hearings for you, but it was still too damn late for a flight. You said a quick thank you to the universe as the lights dimmed.

The huddled man muttered into his clasped hands. His room was stark and he was bent over a simple flannel comforter. The night outside brought sounds of festivities: voices and music were on the air. He cringed at the frivolity and continued his prayers. Meanwhile the woman in the corner struggled against her gag.

A rousing sensation tucks the hair behind your ear. You shrug your shoulder to your ear, pinning Spencer’s hand to your cheek. He bends down and quickly kisses your head before leaving the jet. You smile to yourself for the sweet wake up gesture. You quickly unfurl yourself from your seat and grab your go bag.

The standard black SUVs were waiting for you in the early morning air. The humidity coated your skin, but your waking nerves still shivered in the heat. Since you were the last agent off the tarmac, you filed into the closest vehicle with an open door. You slid in beside Derek, who was keeping his drowsy eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. 

You pause when you realize the team has pulled into a diner instead of the local FBI field office. 

“Hotch, you’re a gentleman and a scholar!” You exclaim as you pat the back of the unit cheif’s seat. As you exit the backseat, the grease from the restaurant fills your nose, your stomach rumbles in response.

The parking lot is filled with trucks for the overnight stay; you are all eyed like unsubs walking in. Hotch and Rossi nodded their way into the diner and found a corner booth waiting. You purposely sit across from Spencer, to keep yourself from absentmindedly touching him. You had been seeing each other for a few months, but were trying desperately to keep work and personal time separate.

A waitress with huge bangs fills your mugs and takes your orders. As soon as she leaves, Hotch put Garcia on the line, but not on speaker to keep the case confidential.

“Greetings captain, my captain, “ she piped out in a rush, “the local field office has been at the dumpsites all night. They have confirmed that the bodies were all killed in a secondary location and disposed of within hours of each other. They will be waiting for you, not you personally sir, someone at the final site. They have i.d.’ed one of the victims from missing persons, a one Lenny Evans, 28. He went missing after a local June-teenth celebration, his mother reported him missing a week ago. The other victims were females, also African American are awaiting I.D.”

“Alright, thanks Garcia, we will catch up at the office soon.” Hotch hung up and turned back to the team, “We are going to go from here. Morgan I want you to take Y/L/N to the remaining dumpsite and see what you can gather on how the unsub is moving these bodies. Dave, I want you and Reid to head over the the M.E. I doubt they have gotten through more than one autopsy yet, but we need a report to start building this profile. JJ and I will head to the St Louis field office and get the geographic profile started.”

The Bangs had returned with an extra waitress to hand out the abundant breakfast the BAU had ordered. The silent frenzy of overtired agents made you think of a documentary you had Spencer over to watch the week before, on spotted hyenas. You looked up from your biscuits and gravy to catch his eye. His eyes found yours over his coffee mug, and you blush. He slowly blows on his fresh refill; you forced yourself to look away. Now was not the time to get distracted by Spencer’s mouth. 

Morgan held up the crime scene tape and you ducked below it. The sun was up and the heat was rising. You continued down the hill to the bank of the river to investigate the last body. You wrinkle your nose in disgust as the smell hits you. The body is bagged as you and Morgan pace the process of the unsub’s ingress.

“There are tire tracks leading to the river, but with the amount of traffic on this patch of beach, and the sand content, we won’t be able to pull up any one set of treads.” Morgan shook his head.

“Nope,” you replied,”The unsub just backed up and dragged the weighted body of victim #3 off into the water. And no one saw it?”

“This area is only busy during the day, anytime after dark the unsub could have been here. Now we just need to find someone who would know when each dumpsite would be abandoned.” Morgan speculated.

You twitch your head across the street, letting Morgan know where you are headed. You walk back across the street to check out the salvage yard, grabbing your cell to check in with Garcia. “ Hiya Pen, hows the magic coming?”

“Slowly, m’dear,” Garcia bubbled, “What are you in need of?”

“I need you to check the areas surrounding the other dumpsites. Look for salvage yards, recycling centers or pawn shops. I am heading to interview the owner of the yard nearest victim #3. What are the chances that there are traffic cams around here?”

“ Negative for your location, but there were some two blocks from the first site. I will hit you back when confirm your spectacular gut is right again.” Garcia click clacked on.

“You rock!”

Spencer slipped blue latex gloves onto his large hands as Rossi made the introductions with the M.E. and her assistant.

“Ya’ll are up and at ‘em, “ Dr. Burrows observed. “We now have three bodies that have been in the Mississippi overnight. By saturation level of the clothing and animal life it appears the first body dumped was the one furthest south; our victim #3. The killer then worked up the river dropping off the other two bodies within three hours of each other.”

“Have you established cause of death?” Dr. Reid questioned as he did a cursory exam of the male victim on the table before them.

“I have only completed one autopsy, the victim: last name Evans, first name Lenny. C.O.D. is blunt force trauma to the head. He has defensive wounds on his arms and hands. He was clearly restrained for sometime before being beaten to death.” Burrows points out the ligature marks on his ankles and wrists.

“It takes a lot to take down a guy this size.” Rossi noted, “What is he 6′, 220?”

“235″ Reid corrected.

The M.E. looked at the young doctor in front of her, then back at the senior agent. “Didya pick this kid up at a carnival?”

“No, Cal Tech” Rossi deadpanned.

“So Mr. French, you say your lot is cleared of workers by 7pm each night?” You keep your notepad open, but only make general comments on the pages.

“Yes, ma’am, my boys are out as soon as they can be. Some of them out even before I know it. I am the last to leave and that is well before sundown.” The aging man answers earnestly while he is hauling metal tubing from a nearby trailer.

“Do you know of anyone who uses the river access point across the street? Is it ever busy at night?” You continue, the sweat starting to drip down your neck.

“No, ma’am, I don’t think anyone even goes out over there. It belongs to the plant across the way, doubt they give anyone permission neither.”

“Alright, that is good to know. Now, is it possible to get a list of customers or suppliers, especially those that would be making late deliveries or very early pick ups?” You ask, finally getting to the heart of your questioning.

“Let me go talk to Tilly, she does all the phones and such. It will take me a few minutes, ma’am.” The man wiped his hands on a old rag from his back pocket.

“Thank you, sir, that is so helpful.” You flash a smile, solidifying his offer to aid in the case. “May I follow you in to meet her?” He nods you onward.

The praying man is in coveralls, hauling metal tool boxes to the side rack of the old truck. In the light of the day, his balding gray head is visible. He hums to the music from the radio; old choral pieces on a fading AM station. He looks back at the cellar door and checks his watch, nodding to himself.

The girl in the corner, is still held there. She is gagged, chained, and sitting in the dank darkness of the unlit basement. She knows the praying man leaves for hours during the day. “Even evil has a day job,” she thought bitterly. Today she would get free, she told her self. She quietly tried to push her hands through the heavy metal shackles, there was a sudden crunch and she squealed in pain. She had broken her metacarpal bone of her thumb, freeing her left hand. She is dizzied by the outline of her disfigured hand in the faint light and slowly she slumps back on to the floor, unconscious.

After Morgan and you visit each dumpsite, in the order you believe the unsub dropped each one into the river, you are drenched in sweat. You find the other two locations to be even harder to dump a body undetected, but still no witnesses. Garcia is running the street cam footage and a million other requests from the team. It is time to meet back at the precinct and get things ready for the profile, but first the all important coffee run.

You and Morgan roll into the field office’s parking lot behind Reid and Rossi’s SUV. You got extra generic coffees for the local agents, just in case, so you put Morgan to work carrying two trays while you have the BAU’s memorized orders in your two trays. Spencer, always the gentleman, holds the door for you guys and follows you in. As you pass him, you catch the sent of the autopsies he had been observing and hold back a gag. You cough and remind yourself that you smell like sweat and salvage yards at the moment too. Not quite the romantic reunion on this bright summer afternoon, but coffee needed to be drunk and profiles needed to be delivered.

Hotch and JJ had been busy filling in the gaps of the case. The last two victims had been identified by doing a missing persons search including nearby Illinois residents. Sharriel Smith, 24 and Janette Higgins, 30 from East St. Louis. According to Spencer, the bodies had all been bludgeoned to death and showed signs of heavy restraints. Though the bodies had been dumped within hours of each other, the deaths were all 48 to 72 hours apart.

“Unlike Lenny Evans, the female victims did have very clear evidence of sexual assault. That coupled with the restraints and the amount of time spent with the victims alive, we are looking at a sexual sadist. “

“Any DNA found?” JJ asked Spencer.

“None, this unsub is too organized.” He responded.

“What I don’t get is, why Lenny Evans? Clearly there is a racial connection between the victims, but this dude was solid. It would take a lot of work to subdue and transport him.” Derek tapped on the DMV picture of the male victim.

“Blitz attack?” You asked the group, “He was last seen at a festival, chances are he was drunk?”

“Even if that is the case, this guys would have to be strong, mobile and ready for anything.” Rossi interjected.

“We are looking at a team.” Hotch concluded. “Two unsubs could have handled Evans, one wouldn’t be able to. No matter how organized he was.”

You had to get out of this outfit, it was stiff and itchy from the dried sweat. In order to make a professional and intimidating impression on the scrap men the locals were bringing in for questioning; you just had to change. Luckily Hotch gave you the okay to head back to the hotel before breaking off into teams for interviews. You didn’t ask anyone to tag along, but Rossi made a point about driving you, citing a desire to check out the gift shop for his grandson, Kai.

“You know, Rossi, I can go with Y/N, if you would like.” Spencer’s soft voice suggested as you were grabbing your bag. “I was hoping to grab something I had sent with the go bags.”

“Something?” Rossi mused. He smirked at Spencer’s earnest eyes and nodded. “Okay, kid, but find something for me to get Kai, while you’re there?” Rossi handed Reid some cash and strolled off. Leaving you in an unexpected break in your day, with your less than subtle boyfriend.

“But, I really need a shower!, “ You pleaded into his shirt collar. Spencer’s mouth was on your neck, he had one hand on your waist and the other cupping your jawline.

“I could use a shower,” he muttered in a low voice,”the humidity here is stifling.”

You hadn’t even made into a hotel room yet, there you were like a couple of kids making out in the hallway. His large frame boxing you against the door to the room you and JJ shared. After a few more moments of stolen kisses, you sigh.

“Hmmmm,” You hum in exasperation, as Spencer continues to distract you, “Alright, you go to your room, sir. Go shower, get all that death off of you.” You make a circling motion with your opened hand indicating all of him.

He smirks down at your authoritative streak. “Why do I have to go to my room? When there is a perfectly good shower right through there?” He drums the tips of his long fingers against the door next to your ear.

There was not time for this; you grab his face in both of your hands and plant a firm kiss on his now pouting lips. “Because we do not have time to explain to Hotch why you broke my collarbone falling out of a shower.” You raise your eyebrows in mock seriousness. “We will get to shower-fun when we have more than a minute in a tiny hotel bathtub to start.” You promise.

“What scenario would result in you breaking your collarbone, Y/N?” Spencer was clearly visualizing the physics of the two of you in different positions until one became the clear possibility. He was so hot when he did calculations in his head. “You don’t have any past shower related injuries, that could have formed that argument, do you?” He was baiting you, with his chess face on.

“It was on a case, suspected domestic violence turned out to be nothing of the sort.” You clarified, grinning and pushing your Doctor down the hall towards his room. He backed away, kissing the back of your hand as he went; melting you with those crafty brown eyes.

“Sir?” Agent Bald-guy approached the group and addressed Hotch, “There has been a hit on a new missing persons case. A one Amile Turner, African American female, mid-twenties has not reported to work as a CNA for the past two days. The nursing home she works at contacted her mother, who has since filed a report.”

“Thank you, agent.” Hotch responded, alarmed, “ Can you have your team bring the mother in for questioning as soon as possible?”

“I already have a car out.” Agent Bald-guy nodded and headed back to his cluttered desk.

Hotch turned to Morgan, “Take Reid and check out the missing woman’s apartment, see if we can establish a timeline.” He turned to you, “Y/L/N I want you and Rossi to speak with the mother when she arrives. JJ and I will go to back to the festival site where Lenny Evans was abducted. Garcia?”

“Present! Well, digitally, “ chirped Penelope’s eager voice.

“Keep working on the street footage near the first and second dumpsites, cross reference it with any grounds crew or registered vendors from the festival grounds.”

“Consider it searched,” Garcia clicked away.

“One more thing,” Hotch continued, “see if you can ping the phone of Amile Turner, keep us posted.”

“Over and out!” Garcia ended the call.

Amile Turner awoke much later that afternoon. The basement was still and quiet, her hand throbbed from the self-inflicted break. She slowly sat up, allowing her eyes time to adjust to the consuming darkness. With her uninjured fingers, she was able to slip her gag down to her neck. Her jaw was stiff and her mouth was cracked from dehydration. The heavy chain that had held her wrists to the wall was linked to a metal loop in the wall; her newly freed hand allowed two extra feet of motion with her right arm. Carefully she tried to stand, though her legs were bound with similar chained cuffs, these were not secured to the wall or floor.

Once she stood, she realized what she must do. She took the empty cuff in her good hand and slung it over her shoulder. Carefully she started to pull over her shoulder. She strode forward in a lunge, using her body weight against the bolt in the wall. She moaned with the effort, but slowly the metal began to come loose. She stumbled, but she persisted. She turned to face the wall and spun her still cuffed right hand like she was playing double dutch, willing the motion to continue to loosen the bolt further.

Suddenly a large thud sounded overhead. Amile gasped and fell on her back, she was free. She held her breath, not knowing what or who was in the house above her. There was only silence stretching before her again. Amile  hobbled towards the door, the only light source beckoning her onward. She didn’t have time to waste, she had to get out of here. She had no idea what the praying man was keeping her for, she also didn’t want to find out.

 “No, Penny, I did not!” You were getting hounded about slipping away for a quicky while on a case. Of course, everyone assumed it was your idea to sneak off, since no one would suspect Spencer to be the instigator.

“Uh-huh, sure you didn’t. I mean, there was a lull in the case, Spencer drove you back to the hotel, alone.” Garcia was smirking at you, you could hear it through her inflection.

“And I sent him to his room to shower, because he smelled like autopsies and I smelled liked scrappers.” You glanced around to see if any was listening to your unprofessional conversation.

“Eww, okay, yeah that’s a no go for me too.” Garcia finally accepted reality. “But seriously, if you guys, like ever do it on a case, I totally want details.”

“Um, no, I am not going to even entertain the idea. I have a job to do here. Now what have you got for me?”

“Fine, Amile Turner’s cell phone was found in a park about a mile from her apartment. Other personal items also retrieved there, she had been walking back from a monthly jazz show they hold. Is it me or is it weird how this guy, guys, whoever, are grabbing people in super crowded places?”

“That, your tech-nificence, is a very good question.”

“Dude, are you hearing me?” Morgan raised his voice, finally getting Spencer’s attention. Spencer turned and regarded his friend, squinting his eyes in distracted surprise. “Man, where were you? No, let me guess, your mind took you back to Y/N’s hotel room?” Morgan chuckled.

“Not funny, Morgan” Spencer blushed. “Just to clarify, nothing happened.” He cleared his throat. “Y/N is very professional.”

“Oh? And you’re not?” Morgan raised his intense eyebrows. Morgan laughed, “I have seen you in some tough spots, man, but never like this.”

“I have never felt like this,” Spencer quietly conceded, “Morgan, does this get easier?” He couldn’t make eye contact, he just looked at his hands.

“How so?” Derek turned the corner, returning to the local FBI office.

“Does it get easier being around her?” Spencer wondered while staring out the window, “I feel out of myself. As if something else is controlling my body and suddenly I am touching her. I have never felt myself so distracted by the sheer presence of another human being, it is almost infuriating.”

Derek let the younger man talk, knowing there was no easy answer. His friend had been so advanced in so many arenas of life, that this one lagging piece weighed on him. Now that he could move forward with his life, Derek wondered if Spencer would be able to keep up after all. He reached across the seat and patted Spencer on the leg. “Yeah, man, it gets easier.”

Amile had made her way to the top of the stairs, but the cellar door was locked from the outside. She had screamed until she had no voice, she had pushed herself beyond exhaustion. She now slid back down the stairs, defeated. She knew the praying man would return soon, she had to prepare for when he did. She began searching the dim basement for any sort of weapon.

The truck’s roaring engine and squealing belts made its way back outside the house. Times up.

Amile shuffled around the table in the center of the room to hide behind the praying man’s bed. She waited. The undisguised opening of the double door to freedom pierced the silence. The man stomped down the aged steps, glancing to the corner of her former confinement. He dropped the bags he had been carrying in shock. The praying man screamed, “Not again!”

Amile shook with fear in her hiding spot. The contents of the bags now toppling down the stairs in odd rhythmic clanks. But the praying man did not continue into his basement dwelling, he stormed back up into the world. Amile exhaled, but still waited.

“I found it!” Garcia bellowed over the speakerphone on Morgan’s cell. “The same truck was seen outside the jazz concert, the second dumpsite and the June-teenth celebration. Sending info to your tablets.”

“Truck belongs to a handyman, Vincent Givens, 42.” Spencer read over JJ’s shoulder. “His address is right in the comfort zone.”

“All right, let’s roll,” Hotch nodded the team back to the parking lot.

The ride in the SUVs was a quiet and tense one. There were two BAU agents in each, paired with the local agents, you were in the backseat while Rossi sat in the front seat. You ran over the details Garcia had sent you all in your head. Givens, white male, 42, had some minor offenses in his early twenties, but nothing violent. His residence is the basement of a 100 year old house, located on about a half acre of land. Only one entrance to the basement, which means you could be walking into an ambush.

“Y/L/N and Rossi, copy?” Hotch’s voice came over the coms.

“We hear ya, Hotch.” You replied.

“I need you to go to the upstairs neighbors, check that the unsub isn’t leaving any surprises with them. Remember we still don’t have a name for the partner, after you secure the top floors, get some answers.”

“Hotch, what does Garcia have on the main house’s residents?” Rossi inquired.

“Retired parochial school teacher, Doris Bridgeport, 73, never married” Garcia responded herself. “Oh, man, is she scary looking.”

“Guessing a ruler to the knuckles won’t be enough for Mr. Givens’ infractions.” You mutter underneath your breath. After a sweaty car ride, you finally pull up to the Bridgeport/ Givens’ residence.

Immediately, you can tell something is amiss. The gate to the backyard is swinging unsecured, the sprawling front porch has weeks worth of papers collected upon it. You turn to glance at your teammates, Hotch takes point towards the back of the house. You hold back, watching as one by one they pass you and Rossi in the front yard. As you catch Spencer’s eyes, they dilate ever so slightly. You shake your head slightly and wink. His bottom lip curls up, just enough to show he is focused. Then he is gone, flanking the opposite side of the house as Hotch and Morgan.

You wait to kick in the front door, wanting the surprise meant for Givens, to hit its mark. As you wait, there is shouting.

“Vincent Givens, FBI” Morgan calls out.

“Mr. Givens, hands up!” JJ follows up.

You make eye contact with Rossi, he nods you onward. You knock on the front door, as expected, no answer. You try the door, it opens with a creak that would run chills up the crypt keeper’s spine. You enter the old house first, secure the first room, the parlor as it was once called, and move around the house. After Rossi gives the okay to the kitchen, finishing the first floor, you hear Spencer on the coms.

“We need medics to the basement, unconscious female, seems to be dehydrated and suffering a broken hand. Pulse is slow.” You head out the side door of the kitchen.

Morgan rounded the house with a sputtering Givens in handcuffs, “Where was she?! I didn’t lose her? I didn’t lose her!” He was twisting to look behind him, almost giddy that the victim wasn’t gone. Morgan got him into the backseat of a cruiser, but the (now known) subject watched the scene unfold through the reinforced glass.

Amile Turner was alive, the paramedics had her on a gurney. Spencer and JJ followed her to the ambulance. Your tenderhearted boyfriend, squeezed her hand as they loaded her upwards.

“Nice job, Doc.” You teased and bumped into him with your shoulder, allowing yourself to rest on him for two beats.

“Thanks, Agent Y/L/N” Spencer returned. “Anyone inside the upstairs?”

You shake your head, but realize, you never finished searching the house. You look at Spencer and JJ in horror; Rossi never came back outside. You scramble back toward the rotting porch, your gun aimed and reenter the house. Spencer followed you with JJ on his heels.

“Rossi!” You bark. “You upstairs, yet?”

No answer.

“What’s happening in there?” Hotch chimes in on the coms.

“I didn’t finish sweeping the second floor, I went to check on the victim. Oh, Christ, Hotch, I left Rossi without backup.”

“Y/L/N, do you have visual on Rossi?”

“Negative, first floor secure.” Morgan had come in the kitchen door and met the three of you. You head up the stairs, knowing that you were to blame for where ever or however you find Rossi. The stairway cuts back onto a sliver of a landing and sharply ascends again. You pivot, watching each of the three doors as you climb. You slide into the first room, as Morgan, JJ and Spencer file past you. An old desk covered in boxes sits in the corner, no one is here.

You call out, “Clear!” Just as you hear JJ yell, “Hands up!”

Morgan and Spencer run from the middle room of the second floor towards JJ’s voice. You are the last there, Rossi is on the floor, unconscious. A hulking woman is standing behind his crumpled form. She is holding a cane like a baseball bat.

“Doris Bridgeport?” Morgan ventures.

“Ms. Bridgeport, we don’t want to hurt you. Can you put the cane down?” You ask calmly, as you holster your weapon. You catch a look from Spencer, he keeps his weapon ready.

“He attacked me!” Doris boomed, “What was I supposed to do?!”

“It was a mistake,” You placated the old woman, hands raised in surrender. “Let’s help you outside, we have paramedics who can check you out.” You smile encouragingly up at her, she was tall for a septuagenarian.

The old woman looked around at all of the guns still pointed at her and she dropped the cane. Morgan was checking Rossi’s pulse, before you could even bend over.

“Hotch, we need medics upstairs, Rossi is down. Head wound.” He relayed to the unit chief.

JJ and Spencer helped Ms. Bridgeport over Rossi’s limp body. You suck in a ragged breath, pulling yourself back to composure. Something was bothering you, and not just torrential guilt over Rossi. Your gut knew this wasn’t over.

“Morgan, if she was so scared of Rossi, why didn’t we hear her scream?”

You hovered around Rossi as the paramedics got him onto a board and maneuvered him down the steep stairway. You climbed into the back of the ambulance with him; leaving the team to regroup after the bizarre turn of events. JJ was meeting you at the hospital, she was going to stay with Amile for protection and eventually questioning. You remained quiet on the ride, letting the EMTs take care of your mentor. Rossi was conscious, but not yet talking. Your stomach was in knots with guilt, anger and worry.

Once you got to the E.R., you were asked to stay in the waiting area, a nonthreatening corner in an overly bright space. You watched the families around you, profiling them as they filled out their forms and squabbled over if they should have come at all. You were eavesdropping on a Puerto Rican couple worried about their toddler’s fever when your phone buzzed. You stared at the screen, hesitating, on the fourth buzz you slid open the call.

“Y/L/N” you answered, overly professionally.

“It’s Hotch. How is he?” Your boss clipped.

“Stable, no word since we arrived though.” You answered succinctly. “JJ says it will be awhile until we can get to question the victim, sir.”

“Y/N?,” Hotch never used your first name.

“Sir?” You felt the phone become slick with the sweat on your palm.

“Are you alright?” Hotch asked softly. You pause, but power through the surprise.

“I’m fine, thank you.” You try not to over sell it. “I just want you to know, that I messed up and I am sorry. I broke protocol and I accept whatever consequences I will need to.”

“I am not seeking disciplinary action at this time, but we will talk about this when we return to Quantico.” Hotch added calmly. “What we need now is intel, once Rossi is awake, get him talking. This Bridgeport woman knows something, but we haven’t gotten to speak with her yet. We need anything we can use on her.”

“Of course, of course.” You agree, nodding your head dutifully. “Thank you, sir.” He hung up. You fell back into the chair you had been pacing around. After a few moments of quiet, you decided to meditate to get centered before Rossi was ready to see you. There was no way you were taking your shoes off in a hospital waiting room, but you got as comfortable as possible.

The room disappeared around you, you were on a pier at a lake and the sun was behind you. The light lapping of the waves against the wooden posts calmed you and you were at peace. A blue heron was foraging in the tall grass around the bend, it watched you from time to time. The sun was warm on your shoulders. A river otter had found its way into your lake, it floated by enjoying the sun’s rays as you did. You glanced down at the otter, you realized it was a water moccasin, heading directly towards you. The blue heron flapped its wings in alarm and took flight. Suddenly you return to the waiting room.

“Agent Y/L/N?” A concerned nurse had been talking to you.

“Um, yes?” You focus your eyes up at her bespectacled face.

“Agent Rossi is ready to see you, he has a slight concussion with some contusions. He will be fine in a few days.” Nurse Glasses reassured you. “We can get him discharged in a few hours.”

“Wow, thank you,” You directed her with your hands like Vanna White, finally standing to follow her back to Rossi and towards some answers.

Spencer knew he had his choice of interrogations; Y/N and Rossi were still at the hospital and JJ had only stopped in briefly before returning to the surviving victim’s bedside. Did he want to speak with the man who had shackled at least four separate African Americans in his basement or did he want to speak with the upstairs neighbor, who had struck Rossi down flat, despite her age. If curiosity was a resource, Spencer Reid ran the market.

He stood behind the faux mirror in the annex to the second interrogation room. He was absently, yet consistently checking his phone. He was concerned about Y/N. She had made a mistake in the field and Rossi had been the consequence. He knew she was beating herself up over it. All Spencer wanted was for her to call him, to let him know she was alright, and let him help her feel better. He sighed and squinted his eyes back through the glass, landing them upon Doris Bridgeport.

She was a large person who had sat quietly in the room alone for ten minutes. Most people would have been annoyed at being ignored or left alone for so long. Doris just sat there with her hands on the table, fingers intertwined. Her eyes were closed as if she had dozed off, but her mouth would twitch every so often. She’s praying, Spencer realized.

“Mr. Givens, this is SSA Morgan, I am SSA Hotchner.” Hotch entered the first interrogation room and sat down in front of the cuffed suspect. “Can you tell me why you had Amile Turner chained in your apartment?” Hotch’s no nonsense approach was legendary, the fact that Derek was sitting in on this interview was intentional.

Vincent Givens, was hunched over in his seat, he was wringing his hands below the table. “Well, uh, sir, I was trying to save her.”

“Save her?” Derek chimed in, honestly surprised by the response, more specifically its genuineness.

“Yes, I found her on my truck, like the others. So I bring them in, and pray for them. If I can get the demons gone; Ms. Bridgeport will take them upstairs and feed them and get them all cleaned up.”

“Has Ms. Bridgeport taken anyone upstairs lately?” Hotch asked, understanding the dominant/ submissive partnership in action.

“Um, no, sir. You see, I have been losing folks. The Lord has trusted me with his lost sheep, and I have been weak.” Vincent was truly ashamed. He was tearing up.

“How have you been weak, Vincent?” Morgan asked.

“I get angry at the sinners, the temptations around at night. So I leave my prayers, those I am supposed to protect and walk around at night.”

“And when you get home, they are gone?” Hotch concluded.

Vincent nodded, crying openly now. Hotch glanced at Morgan, they both knew this man was not lying.

Rossi was shaking his bandaged head at you as you sheepishly made your way to the lone taupe chair by his bedside.

“I am not going to let this one go for awhile, ya know.” Rossi teased, you welcomed its reassurance. “An old lady took me down with her cane? Yeah, just because my partner left me high and dry. Oh, Christ, who is going to believe that?”

“Dave, you know I would have not done that intentionally. I was just caught up in finding a victim alive after all these bodies.” You pleaded. “I really messed up today and I am sorry.”

He smiled over at you, “I know, kid. Now, what do we know about this Bridgeport broad? Do you want to do a cognitive?”

You sit up, resting your elbows on your knees. “Alright, I want you to close your eyes...”

Spencer had not gone in to question the landlady yet. Instead he was now outside Hotch’s and Morgan’s interrogation room, certain he had made the right choice in waiting. He stood with one arm a crossed his chest while his hair slipped into his eyes. He clutched at his pocket, his phone was actually buzzing this time. Relief flooded through him as he saw it was your picture on the incoming call screen. “Hey, Spence.” You began cautiously.

“Y/N? How are you, darling?” He asked, so casually, so sweetly.

“I’m alright, just got through a cognitive with Rossi.” You share, pleased with yourself. You could hear the anticipation over the line. “He was blinded sided by Bridgeport, Doc. She didn’t hit him out of self-defense, it was a trap.”

Spencer smiled into the phone, you could hear the “eureka” in his voice,”Of course, Doris must have seen us pull up. She had been hiding out from the outside world. But to Givens, their world was pure and safe. She just used him for a scapegoat.”

Hotch and Morgan had finally left the room with Givens in it. They both approached Spencer while he was on the phone, sensing his incoming revelation. He caught their eye, but he spoke to you. “Doris Bridgeport is a man.”

You texted Garcia while you paced the hallways, awaiting Rossi’s discharge to go through. She had figured out that Doris Bridgeport was actually her brother, Dennis. Who had a record for sexual assault, theft, B&E and mail fraud. It was unclear exactly when Dennis had taken over Doris’ identity, but it had been before the very devout and very impressionable Vincent Givens had become a tenant six months earlier.

The locals were searching the Bridgeport property for Doris’ remains. Spencer and Morgan had gone in to interrogate Dennis together. The racist, sexual sadist couldn’t have seen what was coming. They praised “her” on taking care of Vincent, on being so devote and of course reassured her that she was not at fault for what happened to Agent Rossi. Then they dropped the ‘ma’am’s and the ‘Ms’s.

Derek looked the suspect in the eye and asked, “Now, Dennis, do you want to tell me why you have been beating down a brother and doing a whole lot worse to sisters?”

The man being questioned froze.

“Or perhaps you would like to tell us why you let Vincent babysit them so long before you killed them?” Spencer prodded.

The man’s nose was flaring. He was trying to keep from exploding at the agents across the table.

“Did you need to dress up like your sister to feel in control, Dennis?” Morgan asked in a suggestive whisper, “Maybe, a guy like you, you need a beaten up, helpless black girl waiting, just for those two minutes you can keep it up.”

Dennis Bridgeport dove at Morgan, his meaty hands still in cuffs. “ I will show you control, boy!” He bellowed.

Spencer stood, projecting himself between Bridgeport and Morgan. “That’s enough!” He nodded Derek out of the room. He calmly sat back down at the table. Bridgeport finally sat back down, eying the two way mirror behind Dr. Reid’s head.

“Mr. Bridgeport, here is what is going to happen. You are going to start writing your confession, that way I can tell the DA that you have cooperated. Otherwise, we will guarantee you will be standing trial in Missouri AND Illinois, not to mention be charged with hate crimes. Something that is not forgotten when you get to prison, especially for a man your age.”

Spencer dropped the legal pad on the table and left the suspect to his writing.

Rossi was sitting in a wheelchair when you got back to his room. You hid your excitement in being the one to whisk him away from the awful decorating job. “Dr. Reid got a full confession out of Bridgeport.”

“Of course he did.” Rossi mused. “Morgan play the belligerent black man?”

“It was more emasculating than belligerent.” You admitted, stepping through the double automatic doors and out into the muggy night.

“Emasculating?” Rossi chuckled, “Man they are good.”

“So?” You pause, “Whats the new book about?”

Rossi, turns to look back at you. “How’d you know?”

“You never miss your phone, unless those expensive speakers are on full blast at your “estate”. You use air quotes and a snobby voice. You lean down and offer the best selling author your arm. He takes it, patting your hand in both of his.

“Team building.” Rossi admitted, as the convoy of two black SUVs pull up to drive you both off to the hotel. You laugh at your mentor, knowing his veiled jokes better than most.

Back at the hotel, you find JJ already showered and talking to Will on the phone. You slide the door gently closed and wave at her. She gives you an appreciative smile. You don’t want to eavesdrop, so you get out of your gear and into your hoodie and some sleep pants. You know the guys aren’t asleep yet, so you walk barefoot down the hushed corridor and knock on Spencer and Rossi’s room. You wait, knowing that Spencer is checking the peep hole. You hear the chain drop and swiftly the door opens in to reveal the best part about your day, “Hiya, Y/N” He whispers.

He is out of his shirt and tie, in just a plain white tee and his loose fitting dress pants, that hang low on his narrow hips. Spencer stands in his mix matched stocking feet, looking down at you with such care. “Would you accompany me on a midnight stroll, Doctor?”

“Yes, yes, I would.” Spencer smiles. He checks in with Rossi before heading out the door with you.

The ice machine closet is not a romantic rendezvous spot, it is however a good place to mask noises from a romantic rendezvous. You had slipped into the space between the wall and the hulking ice maker and Spencer had followed. You had stood on your tip toes and closed your eyes, waiting for his mouth to crash into yours. It had been twelve hours since you were alone together and you needed him tonight.

He obliged and bent down to match your kiss, caressing your face in his outstretched hands. His hands moved into your hair, your back, he pulled you up, so he was bracing you against the wall. There was a decorative edging to the middle of the wall that dug into your back, but you did nothing, but kiss him back, hungrily.

His skillful hands found your bare skin below your hoodie, he gently outlined just below your breast with his right thumb. Your back arched in pleasure, you wrapped your legs around his sure hips, needing to feel him against you. He was agonizingly wanting, you purred at the base of his neck and nibbled up to his ear. He froze. You realize you had been grinding against him, your wetness on his pants and shirt front. Slowly you peer over his shoulder, knowing some external force would only get him to freeze now.

Glancing over the door to the ice machine, you see Derek Morgan, with his ear buds in. You whisper into your Doctor’s ear, “Its Derek, but he hasn’t seen us yet. He must have been at the gym, he’s listening to music.” Spencer drops his forehead to the wall behind you, in defeated embarrassment. This simply will not stand. You get an idea.

Keeping your voice as a whisper, “Spencer, let’s show him how its done.” He pulls back to see your face, perplexed. You grind back into him, slipping your hand between your thighs and into his pants. You feel his desire in your hand and your own against your arm. He moans at your touch, you kiss him to keep him quiet.

The crash of the ice machine lid is lost in the distance as you keep pumping Spencer. You know you are in an impossible position, your pants are a barrier that must be dealt with.  Carefully you push off the wall, sliding down the length of his lean body. As you untie the drawstring to your sleep pants, both your phones buzz.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You stage whisper in defeat. You grab your phone from your pouch and check the text. And recheck it. It’s from Hotch, stating that Rossi would be staying with he and Morgan, since they needed to wake him up every two hours due to his concussion. You glance up at your boyfriend, biting your lip. “I am guessing you got the same message I did?”

“Yes, Y/N, I received the message.” He answered all breathy, grinning down at you. You, pull down his tee shirt, rubbing your hand over your remnants. He adjusts himself, so his pants stay on for the hall length walk to his hotel room.

The jet leaves the air strip at 0900, you smile lazily out the window. JJ and Hotch are going over reports. Rossi and Reid are playing chess. Derek strolls up to sit opposite you, kicking the toe of your boot, teasingly. “Well, doesn’t someone look all tired and content this morning.”

You roll your eyes at the comedian before you. “I suppose I owe you a thank you?” You ask Morgan.

“I have no idea what you are talking about, Y/L/N” Derek smirked at you. “I got to give you mad props though, never thought my boy would be into public indecency.”

You smirk back. You arch your back because it was sore, where a bruise had formed from a certain piece of decorative edging. “I guess you never know what can be drawn out of a person, until they meet their match.”

“No man ever steps in the same river twice, for it’s not the same river and he’s not the same man.” - Heraclitus

[theampreviews]

Fast & Furious 8

To be eight movies in is long in the tooth for any franchise, let alone one that was never meant to be and is being made up as it goes along (seemingly as you’re watching at times). The Fast series definitely seemed to run out o[don’t do it], err, feel a little tired in its seventh outing. It had two of its most audacious/ridiculous stunts yet (the reason we keep going to watch them, it has nothing to do with Family, sorry Vin) but it also sagged like hell inbetween the stunt work and limped to the finish line with the least inspired finale yet. And this is in spite of adding America’s Greatest Living Actor into the mix. Of course, production had to contend with the loss of Paul Walker, so it feels like a dick move to criticize it too much. That said, it did make me wonder how much this particular well had to offer an audience that can be quenched week in and week out elsewhere. Fast 8? I wasn’t so sure.    

As is tradition, Fast 8 kicks off with a road race, a nod to the franchise origins and a reminder that some films will not submit to the red flag shown the Male Gaze in more forward thinking times (so. much. ass.). This one is as bullshit ridiculous as any they’ve filmed yet, ending with Dom (Vin) quite literally blowing his car up whilst driving it, backwards, to victory. The best thing about this cold open is that it shows Vin doing his Happy Acting again, something he’s done exponentially less of as the series has progressed and become more dramatically serious. It’s a shame because Diesel is quite likable when he’s acting loose, and quite insufferable when doing his brooding shtick. It doesn’t help that he now has Dwayne Johnson acting charisma-circles around him in these latter installments. It’s been the problem since Johnson entered the cast in Fast 5; we’ve now got two huge, bald muscle-men to enjoy, and Diesel comes of second best. It was fine when it was just him and Walker, they’re both shit actors who made the dumb dialogue seem OK with their flat deliveries, now we’ve got someone who can add some colour to this drivel.  

The good news is, Vin seems to have done some night classes. He’s still a little off in expecting these films to get Oscar attention, but to be fair to him, he puts in his best performance since the first time he growled about living life a quarter mile at a time. He shows a little range and regains a bit of that glint in his eye, despite being saddled with the usual woeful, preachy dialogue about Family. Thankfully he’s kept apart from The Rock the entire movie (adding fuel to the rumors about them hating each other maybe?) and instead Dwayne is paired off with Jason Statham, who is more than up to the challenge of sparring with The Great One. Please, please let this not be the last time these two trade quips/punches. In fact, whilst Johnson yet again proves infallible as a Superstar of the Screen, it’s Statham who walks away with the movie, much as he did Paul Feig’s wonderful SPY. In both he treads a fine line between taking this shit seriously and outright parody, in both cases he’s absolutely gold.

As for the action and stunts, Fast 8 is a mixed bag. The aforementioned opener is a daft and exhilarating appetizer, followed by a fun but forgettable bit involving a wrecking ball (good in concept, lacking in execution). Then there’s  a brief but awesome prison break/riot scene in which The Rock goes full Hulk and throws people about the place with abandon before we get to the major set-piece at the half way point. This starts terribly (lots of CGI cars being driven by a joystick - it did nothing for me) but morphs into this intense situation in which Dom’s crew (he’s a baddy at this point) harpoon his car with their cars and he has to muscle his way out of it. In his car. It’s an absolute beauty, quite different to anything these films have come up with yet.   

The final sequence involves a submarine, a frozen lake and HOLY SHIT, JERI JUST GRABBED MY HAND AND PUT IT ON HER STOMACH AND WE FELT OUR BABY KICK FOR THE FIRST TIME!! IN FAST AND FURIOUS 8!! THIS FILM HAS KING KURT IN IT!! THIS. IS. A. SIGN!! Seriously though, that happened. It was amazing. It took us out of the movie for a bit; when I turned back to the screen Jason Statham and Luke Evans were flying, like actually flying, with wings. I didn’t get it, but this is a Fast & Furious film so I just went along with it. But the baby kicking thing was real and it was amazing and, truth be told, a little creepy. It’s unnerving feeling something moving inside of someone else. I’ve never felt that before, and never will again for the first time, and my first time feeling my child move in its mother was during Fast & Furious 8. If you know me, you know how happy I am about this. 

It all had a kind of symmetry to it because, whilst Dom & Co. were doing some fairly forgettable stuff on the ground, Statham was embarking on the films crowning glory; a delightful homage to John Woo/Chow Yun Fat’s Hard Boiled climax that sees him fight his way across an aeroplane with a baby (in a car seat), laying waste to goons left and right. The comedy is brilliantly dorky and Statham sells it to perfection.

So, huge life moment aside, what did I think of Fast & Furious 8? I loved it. It’s certainly a franchise in danger of over staying its welcome, but so long as they can pitch the fun stuff as well as they did here, lighten up on the drama (which honestly, no one gives a fuck about) and keep introducing actors like Johnson and Statham to the mix, they could see in episode 10 with a smile, not a frown. 

And, we’re definitely calling our baby Kurt, if it’s a boy.