#vic and savvy | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cupidkenji · 8 months ago

Text

ghost in the machine

Pairing: Unsub!Spencer Reid x Agent!Fem!reader CW: Fluff, longing, mild angst, one paragraph with heavy implications of sex, cursing, mentions of reader being in a car accident, mentions of suicide and death, suggestive Ig? idk Spencer kind of taunts reader, if I miss anything please tell me! Summary: An unsub targeting local political powers starts calling you. With virtually no memories of your life before 15, you're tasked with finding out why his voice feels like home. Disclaimer: Reader is chubby. She's not physically described in this but reader is literally always a bigger person. Anyone can read but I wanna clarify <3 WC: 7.8k I lokey feel like I fumbled this one but this idea has been in my head since I saw a post about it like last month so i'm sorry in advance if it sucks 💀 I'm not saying looping ghost in the machine by SZA while reading this will elevate the experience but just know it's strongly advised and im even giving you a link to the song for easy access.

The fourth case this month. This was the fourth battered politician you’d forced into handcuffs while ducking away from the recoil of blood spewing from his mouth. The men you’d arrested had all protested strongly - and wetly - while being walked to the back of your cruiser, demanding to know why you were arresting them even though they were the victims. They were always the victims. They’d been burgled and beaten - yes- oftentimes you were restraining them while they sat in bathrobes or pajama pants, but this unsub always jumped the gun. Somehow they managed all this damage while simultaneously kicking the dirt that had been sedentary for years out from under the rug. The men would call the police themselves - I’ve been robbed, I’ve been beaten - always astounded when you’d taken their statement then turned them around and recited their Miranda rights. This unsub was meticulous, planned down to the second. Somehow, the media always broke the story hours after the arrest with full fledged details on the crime - ones the BAU didn’t even have yet.

The first time this happened, you’d questioned every media worker from Quantico to DC. His target zone never seemed to reach beyond that, giving you an offender right in your backyard. Those were always the hardest to stomach. Journalists, Newscasters, even cameramen had been turned inside out as the team scoured for any connection. He was just too good.

“How can it be just one man?” Derek spoke first, but that was the question all of you were about to ask.

“Wife and kids were outta town. It was a sleeping 50 year old man against the element of surprise.” Prentiss was right, it wasn’t a difficult job when viewed like that. “Description is consistent with all the victims. All black attire, mask over the face.” She flopped the folder down in front of her for emphasis.

“Either he has another guy or he’s incredibly tech savvy. Some of this information was encrypted, it would take weeks to compile all of this. If he’s hitting a new vic every week that’s not nearly enough planning time for something this orchestrated.” Hotch checked the time on his watch. “We’re not finding him tonight. The local PD are investigating. We don’t have clearance until tomorrow. Everybody go home and get some rest, we need to crack down on this.”

As much as you loved your job, the departure was a welcome relief. The day had drained you, you had to basically drag yourself back to the BAU for the regroup after the case. It was routine, and incredibly necessary as this unsub continued his streak, but your brain was mush, and you didn’t know if you were capable of any breakthroughs in your current state. You were grateful, currently, that at least you weren’t dealing with a serial killer. He had an agenda, that much was obvious, but chasing a serial killer for a month bred a different kind of stress than chasing an anarchist.

The AC blast that hit you upon entering your home seemed to steal the tension from your shoulders. It was summer, so on top of hunting an unsub who was essentially a ghost, you were also bearing through the violently humid nights. You locked the door, pulling up your sleeves as you walked deeper into your house. The lights were on, you never left them off for long, and your eyes locked on the pile of notes sitting on your counter. Three small papers, torn at every edge, were draped over each other. Evidence, you thought. You’d kept them for evidence. Once you told the team the unsub had been reaching out, you would show them the notes. It was that simple, you were planning to tell them. You didn’t know why the information hadn’t entered their radar yet. This unsub was clearly infatuated. You could be a valuable part of solving this case, the notes could be the reason you solved it at all. Those were words straight from the source, they would tell you more about the unsub than any crime scene analysis would. Something about them just stilled your tongue, though. You never particularly liked the feds, the cops, the higher ups. You became one of them begrudgingly, you’d been good at reading people your whole life. You wanted to solve things, see justice. It was never primarily about helping people for you, and you feared the reputational repercussions if your team members ever found out about that. You weren't ignorant, you had morals. You simply lacked the place of purity they came from, the virtue your team members carried was one you were void of. Half of the time you walked away from a case, you disagreed with the verdict, and you were ashamed.

You had only realized you zoned out when the phone rang, effectively breaking your gaze away from the notes and onto the ‘Unknown caller’ screen glaring at you from your cell. Morgan just got a new phone, you remembered. He’s probably checking in. You picked it up, stating just your last name in greeting as a reflex from almost exclusively talking to other agents.

It was quiet for a moment, reaching the period of time where your stomach knotted up and almost forced you off the phone. “Hey, Y/n.” The voice was a new one, it pulled at certain strings within you. You knew him, but you didn’t recognize him.

“Who’s this?” The spark of familiarity filled you with guilt. A car accident when you were 15 had stolen most of the memories from your childhood and left a bountiful amount of scars in their place. You barely remembered your own parents, if this man was an old relative, you definitely didn’t know who he was. As much as your family tried to be empathetic, you could tell it hurt them when you were none the wiser.

“God, it’s good to hear your voice.” The man was smiling as he spoke, you could hear it in his tone. “Your number was shockingly hard to find. Feds really don’t mess around, huh?” Your shoulders tensed, you looked around. Blinds were closed, your house was the same as when you left it. You're sure it wouldn’t be hard to find your address if he’d found your number. “I’ve been trying, believe me. I left those notes while I was looking, although it’s really not the same, is it? Phones are so revolutionary, I mean writing you a letter is one thing but it’s so underwhelming in comparison. A piece of paper doesn’t let me listen to you, doesn’t let me hear those little breaths you take when you get scared.” You didn’t even realize your breathing had changed until he called you out.

“Do I scare you?” He sounded so domestic, the contrast between the genuinity laced in his words and the actual words themselves just about knocked you over. “I hope I don’t. I’m not trying to.”

“What are you trying to do?” Your mouth felt sealed shut, just barely managing to grate out the words.

“If you’re asking about my agenda, I’m afraid that’s a private affair for now.” He was so casual about this, sarcastically sucking air in through his teeth like he was telling you he couldn’t meet for coffee next week.

“What do you need with me, then? You don’t want to share and you aren’t calling to gloat. What’s the point?”

You heard him click his tongue at the question. “Everything is so technical with you agents.” You could basically sense his lips quirk up, gaining some type of sick intuition for the man’s tendencies. “Maybe I just wanted a word with the pretty detective working my case.”

Your knees were trembling, your grip getting looser on the phone as you struggled to keep your hold through the tremors of your hands. You had to focus, you could take advantage of this. “Why politicians? What happened to you?”

“Personal grudge.”

“How do you get their data so fast?”

“I know a guy” He knew a guy?

“So you have a partner?”

“I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Why not?”

“It’s no one of importance.” Sibling, maybe?

“It’s important to me.”

He chuckled at that. You needed to hang up.

“Y/n-” Could he sense your fucking muscles tensing? “Don’t tell your friends.” He could hear your heartbeat from where he was, you were sure of it.

“Why?” You were instantaneous, barely letting him finish before responding. “You gonna hurt me?”

“No.” He scoffed. “If you tell them, I’ll have to stop reaching out.” You swore you could feel the weight of his eyes on you. “Is that really something you want?” Cold sweat pierced through the skin on the back of your neck. You yanked the phone down from your ear and hung up.

No, it wasn’t.

–

You dreadfully greeted the sun as it peeked through the slits of your blinds. You’d slept maybe a half hour in total last night, sleeping in five minute increments while bearing through a paranoid haze only comparable to the first time you’d smoked weed. The world felt unreachable. You could see it like a screen but your true consciousness sat captive in his hands. He’d known you. That was the fact stuck in your throat, that’s why you couldn’t sleep. Does that mean you knew him?

“Jesus.” If you had to guess, the sight of your sunken eyes and hunched shoulders was the trigger for Morgan’s reaction to the sight of you. Walking into work wasn’t going to be fun, you knew that, but you hadn’t expected such an immediate acknowledgement. “Someone have a rough night?”

You wished you could banter with him. Morgan always made working here feel lighter, he was fun to be around, but you were guilty. If you were tired from a one-night, insomnia, even if you were drunk and puking your guts up all night, you would have joked back with him. Now, you had to force yourself to make eye contact. A childish part of your brain was scared he'd smell it on you. At this point, you were fraternizing with the enemy, and it’s repercussions were draped over you like a curtain. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Clearly.” He handed you a mug of coffee. “Is it the case? If it’s bugging you that much, one of us can stay with you for a couple nights. It’s no trouble.”

“No, Morgan, that’s not necessary.” He was so kind it was nearly suffocating. If someone stayed, he either wouldn’t call or you’d have to decline it. Both of those options making an uncomfortable amount of unease stir inside you. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine.”

“Just tell me if you need anything.” He nodded at you, you nodded back, then you both headed into the conference room.

“Any leads?” You walked to your seat as you asked, unsure what you were hoping to receive as an answer.

“None.” Everyone else was gathered around the table, Hotch scanning through the file as he replied to you.

“We’ve pretty much ruled out the media workers.” Prentiss spoke up. “This guy’s most likely an anarchist. His previous victims haven’t belonged to a consistent party so he’s not lashing out at the opposing side.” She thought for a moment. “What path leads somebody to anarchy?”

“Maybe he’s been kept out of office.” Morgan started speculating, just trying to sweep together something they could pin to him. “If he’s been running long enough, maybe he gets angry, changes course. He could be jealous of his targets.”

Your brain was half focused on the case, half focused on him. Two sides of you were fighting, one instilling a sort of protectiveness over him, one howling at you to do your fucking job.

“I don’t think he’s an anarchist.” You leaned forward in your chair, revving up to present your theory. “He’s been described in the same outfit for every victim. Long Sleeve, cargo pants, gloves and a ski mask - all black. That’s as minimal as it gets. Some pretty low income areas are well within his safe zone.” You paused, looking around to see if they were understanding what you were getting at.

“He’s poor.” Hotch had a glint in his eyes. Almost.

“So - what?” Morgan prompted. “He’s doing this for money? This is way too elaborate for somebody needing cash.” He shook his head as he spoke. “Hotch, there was evidence of Scopolamine injections. A man who either knows how to make the chemical or already has enough money to buy it wouldn’t be in a position that warrants this. Plus, the kind of tech it would take to get the information he steals? Way more than your typical Best Buy - this is Garcia level stuff. He injects them and probably forces them to help with the robbing, he beats them senseless - he’s getting some kind of kick out of this.”

“He’s not poor” You concluded. “But I’m pretty sure he used to be.” You sat up straighter to elaborate. “A lot of times, kids who grow up homeless or with no money feel wronged by politicians. Here they are going to school hungry while the mayor rolls in cash and lets them bear the consequences of a put-off promise to help the community.”

Prentiss sat back in her chair as she considered your words. “To build this type of anger, though? This is a vendetta.” She glanced down at the crime scene photos as a reminder.

“Exactly. Anger is expected in normal cases. Something extreme clearly had to happen to explain this type of outburst.” Personal grudge, you remembered him saying. You felt like you were airing out his secrets as you spoke. A weak sense of betrayal tugged at your guts. “I’ve been thinking about this a lot, going over what type of event could cause something like this and I think I have an idea.” You pulled out your phone while talking to call Garcia, the woman answering immediately.

“Garcia, can you look up children in the Quantico to DC area who died from complications with chronic illness? Probably late 90’s to early 2000’s, I don’t think our guy is old enough to have been running for office.”

“That’s gonna be a large list. Any more parameters you can give me?”

“Look for families making less than 20,000 a year.”

“Got it. There were three families making under 20,000 that reported losing a child of illness. One was of stage 4 cancer with no plausible recovery and the other two said they couldn’t afford the medication needed for treatment. I just sent them over.”

“You’re the best.”

“Don’t I know it.” You hung up the phone, pulling up the files she found.

“What exactly are we looking for here?” Morgan looked to you.

“We can rule out the first family. Dying of cancer wouldn’t create the effect needed for our unsub.” He looked like he was about to reiterate his question. “What we’re looking for is a sibling. If your family is struggling, you already have the seed of anger that this guy has. I think a family member dying from the lack of money might just give him the motive he needs.”

“That’s good thinking, he could be avenging someone.” Praise from Hotch always felt better than others. “The Bryson family was just the mother and the daughter who died. She worked in janitorial for the local middle school.”

“Doesn’t exactly fit the profile.” Morgan was right, all the testimonies had described a man. Plus the assumption of decent financial prosperity didn’t fit someone still working at a middle school.

“Who does that leave?” You were searching for the answer to your question, but Prentiss was quicker.

“Diana Reid and her two sons. Henry had type 1, seems like they could afford the insulin for a little while but something must have happened. He went into DKA and died a week later.”

Two sons. “What about his brother?”

“Uhhhh-” She scrolled down on her tablet. “That would be one Spencer Reid who…” She scrolled just a little bit further to find the whereabouts of the man, the hope in her eyes snuffing out with the information she read. “is dead. Says he committed suicide a couple years after his brother died.” The whole table deflated a bit as she said that.

“It was a good idea.” Hotch, despite being a monotone man, usually tried to keep things optimistic. “We’ll continue pursuing that angle. Morgan and Prentiss, I want you to go back to the first crime scene. I’ll call Dave and we’ll head to the latest.” The mentioned agents nodded their heads and started making their way out the door.

Your eyebrows furrowed at your lack of instruction. “And me, sir?”

“Go home.” He looked you over for a moment. “You look like hell.” Then he was gone, calling Rossi on his way out. How mortifying.

–

It had been three days since Hotch’s dismissal of you. You managed to get some sleep, convincing your co-workers of normalcy when you went back into the office the next day. In truth, you were anything but. You had been noticeably distracted but the others chose not to mention it until it hindered your performance, which it had yet to do. You were on a timer, counting down the seconds until your next call with him. You seemed to be endlessly tugged back and forth between excitement and pure dread. Everytime you got home, you took a moment to stare at your phone, almost like you could will him to call if you glared at it long enough. The day was just shy of a week since his last attack, and you were nervous as hell. Your phone buzzed once, then it buzzed again. He was calling.

“You’re early.” You didn’t find it fitting to greet him. You knew who it was, why be friendly? “Is there another one?”

“Relax, honey.” His voice lit a fire in you. Jesus. “I didn’t know I was only permitted one call a week.”

“What are you playing at?” You tried to sound sturdy, but your voice hit your ears with more desperation than you’d ever expressed.

“I could ask you the same.” You could hear the tilt in his words, he was so sure of what he was doing. “You didn’t tell them about us.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m not in cuffs, am I?”

“You think we’d catch you if I told them?” Was it your fault he was still free?

“No.”

“Maybe they’re listening.”

“Maybe.” He was so unbothered by the notion. You were never a good bluffer.

“It wouldn’t bother you?” You narrowed your eyes at nothing, staring at your wall as you tried to read him through the phone.

“You could bring in the whole nation, Y/n.” You listened more intently than you ever had. “It wouldn’t keep me from you.” You felt like you were choking on your own heart, feeling it beat at the confines of your throat. Jesus Christ.

“Do you know where I live?” Your lips were too weak to hold back the question. It’d been the only thing on your mind since the first note had been left on your car.

“Why?” His smile bled into his words. “Are you inviting me over?”

“Answer the question.”

“Why don’t you answer a question of mine?” He was so intentional, his MO proudly showing in the way he spoke to you. “Haywood or Clancy?”

“Are those your actual choices?” You tried to analyze him, justifying your actions with the ruse of investigation. He’d tell you more if he wasn’t monitored. “Or are you trying to throw me off your trail?” It was certainly plausible. Get you running after two men not of interest, leaving his real victim neglected by your team.

He laughed, breathy and soft. “I don’t know.” You could almost picture him tilting his head, faceless and so enticing in your imagination. “Pick one for me. Maybe I’ll do him next in your honor.”

“What do you know about honor?”

“Everything I do is about honor.” What did that mean?

“The only thing that would honor me is you turning yourself in.”

“What do you know about honor, agent?” His voice was taunting, you heard his body shift. “What do you think that team of yours would think about us, hm? Those are their words, not yours. You’re the one who’s waiting on calls from the enemy.” Shock paralyzed your tongue. You felt your head pulse with the blood rushing to your ears. “You don’t have to be guilty about wanting it, honey. You don’t fit with them.”

“As opposed to what? Fitting with you?”

He chuckled. “You’ve thought about it.”

“Nightmares, maybe.”

“That’s the angle you're going with?” He saw through you. “If you dreamt of me, I doubt they were nightmares.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t know where you are.” You didn’t feel relieved. “I have no interest in hurting or robbing you. Why would I want your address?.”

You slipped your hand under your shirt to trace the scar across your chest. Gift from the accident, now a nervous habit of yours. “What do you want?” God, you were a broken record.

“It doesn’t matter what I want, Y/n.” You could barely hear him over the thrum of blood in your veins. Your entire body felt tuned into his words. You’d never felt so far away while connected. “Only what I can do.”

“You take everything from them. More than just money. Clearly you lost something.” You were so sick of asking this question but you were getting farther from the answer with every conversation. “Why are you doing this?”

“They made the first move.” Jesus what did they do to this guy? “I’m not the bad guy, honey. I’m just defending my side.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“It might as well be.” He was quick with his responses. “It’s all the same to men like them.” You stayed quiet for a moment. How did you reply to something like that? “Get some sleep. It’s late.”

“Give me less crime scenes to look at and maybe I’ll sleep more.”

He smiled, you could hear it in his tone. “Every mean has an end, agent.” You held your breath, and as if gaining consciousness, you hung up the phone. You felt the brick of the encounter sit heavy in your stomach. He wasn’t lying. You were guilty, and you wanted it beyond belief.

–

You’d talked to him four more times over the past two weeks. There’d been two more victims corresponding with those calls, continuing his routine of a new one each week. Your understanding of your feelings had become less hazy as you talked to him more. Your guilt wasn’t from withholding information from your team, it was from the fact you wanted to. It stemmed from your instinctual desire to keep him to yourself. Let him exist differently in your home life than he did in your work life. It was difficult keeping something from profilers. It made you feel worse that they definitely knew something was up, but chose not to push it because they trusted you. Did this truly make you untrustworthy? You were only human.

You’d spent what was meant to be your day off at the BAU working. When there was a case like this, rest time seemed to take the backseat. You were drained, more emotionally than physically. You were lying to your friends, but truly, you didn’t know how deeply you considered them friends. They were good people, easy to like and easy to work with. You were starting to wonder if that's where it stopped, though. Everything about their company was easy, but it lacked gratification. His company was hard on you, but it was so rewarding, so filled with feeling that you started to wonder what your morals even were. You wouldn’t find them here, you thought. You certainly tried. You stared into the chipped white paint aging poorly on the brick wall of the bar as if the pigment of the words would organize your thoughts better than your malfunctioning mind could. The liquid in your glass was nearing it’s end. The drink had loosened your joints, loosened your mind. You hadn’t come here to get drunk, you were basically still sober, you just needed the warmth of a drink. There was a certain coldness within you, there had been since the accident. You accredit the feeling with driving away any potential love interests of yours. There was always a sense of being stuck, like you were interrupted in the middle of moving on, and never fully got to close the chapter. This wasn’t hard for others to sense. You were as emotionally nonreciprocal and unresponsive as a corpse.

“Mind if I join you?” A man who’d immediately caught your eye upon entrance gestured to the barstool next to you.

You motioned to it. “Please.” A casual invitation. You didn’t know how to talk to random men in bars. You took a good look at him, something subconscious stirring beneath your skin. The minimal buzz of the drink you had making you write it off, preferring the focus of his eyes on yours.

“What’s your name?” The smoothness of his voice could have rivaled the most expensive whiskey in that place.

You told him your name. He nodded, murmuring a “pretty” under his breath as he took a sip from his glass.

“I’m Matthew.”

“Pretty.” You reiterated, raising your eyebrows slightly as you joked. He chuckled, and you asked if he was new to the area.

“I’m a local, actually. I grew up here, surprisingly never been to this bar, though.”

“Really? I grew up around here too. This place is old as dust, been here forever.” You looked down, finishing the last of your drink.

“I know. I’ve wanted to come here for a while because it’s so old.” Something about him was so off putting but so irresistible. You’d never encountered such an uncomfortable concoction. It was intoxicating. “I lost the knack for drinking I had in my teen years. Back then my friends and me would just buy a 12 pack and get drunk in the field on Fromage.”

You lacked the memories to know if you related to the man, but you weren’t going to delve into why and kill the mood, so you lied. “That field used to scare the shit out of me. Everyone at my school said there were bodies out there.”

His eyes held a certain glint in them when he looked at you, his lips perked up at the edges slightly, if you hadn’t been a profiler you might have missed it. “Really?” Maybe you imagined it all, that or he caught on to you, the look leaving his eyes after lingering for a moment. The slight promise of something more sinister pulsed throughout them. The hairs on your arm were standing. “Mine said the same thing.” He smiled, looking away, shaking his head fondly as he remembered. “My school was full of dumbasses though so I never really took it seriously.” And you laughed.

You laughed a lot throughout the time you sat there with him. A few hours, you’d guess. He lowered your guard so easily, walking leisurely through the gates of you. You’d practically rolled out the red carpet for him. You wondered if he could see how easily he got in, how much you welcomed the feel of him in your veins. He didn’t seem to mind if he could. When he’d wanted to take you home, your lips parted, and you said you’d like that. You don’t really remember driving, knowing one of you did, both of you sober by the time you’d left. He’d been so gentle, so all-consuming. He’d run his thumbs along the scars he encountered, punctuating the sensation with his lips following close after. Mumbling praises against your skin and rhetorically asking “does that feel good, honey?” as your legs shook around him. He melted you down to pure liquid gold with just his touch, knowing exactly how to map you out. You’d felt him everywhere, his fingers burning their respective shadows on your skin, seeping slowly into your soul to leave marks there too. He’d felt so safe, the pure want joining the two of you together. A euphoric distraction from all the disaster you’d let befall you. He was gone before you woke up the next morning, but you saw him in your shadow, felt him in the soreness of your legs. He’d been a deviation, something put in your path to confuse you. What a brutal fucking night.

–

The same day, you’d gone to work, gone home, and then ended up back at the BAU an hour later. There had been another victim. Two days early. This was his eighth, and up until now he hadn’t strayed from his weekly pattern. This was a bad sign, if he was ramping up, who knows how many more he wanted to hit. The story had stayed the same, and that night you were arresting another board member, this time for solid ties to human trafficking. He really knew how to pick them. You’d give him that, at least.

The meeting post-arrest basically just shared what you were all thinking. He was ramping up, and you were getting no closer to catching him. Stating the obvious was doing nothing but wasting time. He was good. One of the best you’d ever seen. Nobody really knew what to do at this point. You watched their faces get more and more helpless and you felt bad. Nothing in your calls with the man would have helped you solve this case, you were almost positive. Any aspect that could have helped was one you explored.

Emily had said the name ‘Spencer Reid’ and the way your stomach lurched made you feel like you had to be onto something. You’d never had such an intense gut feeling about something only for it to be absolutely impossible. You hadn’t told them, but you looked more into him. His death was an easy one to fake. As much as you hated speculating on what could very well have been just a heartbroken boy, you couldn’t deny the theory you were building. His mother had found a suicide note, they hauled a body out of the river a month later and just assigned Spencer’s name to it, marking it down as conclusive. You weren’t convinced.

–

You got home within the hour, locking the door and pulling out your phone. You hadn’t called him before, but it was the same number every time, and you needed to talk. The phone rang so long you were almost sure he wouldn’t pick up. Almost.

“Y/n.” He greeted you. “This is new.”

“You broke your pattern.” You started with the topic at hand. “Why did you do that?”

You heard a chair squeak slightly as he leaned back. “What can I say? You being so interested gave me some extra motivation.”

“Interested?” What the fuck was he talking about? “This isn’t - I’m not fucking interested in anything. You’re a criminal.” You were slightly out of breath. When you lied to him, no matter how small the lie, air seemed to gain a disinterest in staying within your lungs.

“Mhm.” He was smug. That wasn’t a good sign. “I don’t believe that. You seemed pretty interested last night.”

He had pulled a lever, and your stomach dropped to your shoes. “That was you?” You sounded as defeated as you felt. Your eyes were watering from the pure shock, feeling the drop of the bomb shake you down to your core.

“You kept tracing that scar on your chest, you know that?” You hadn’t known that. “Almost like you could feel it.” Feel what? He didn’t elaborate. “You sounded so pretty when I touched it, when I kissed you. Been thinking about it all day.” He was breathy, sounding like he was trying to put himself back in it as he spoke.

You steadied yourself before you opened your mouth. “You lied to me.”

“I’ve never lied to you.” He sighed. “You lied to me, though.” You hadn’t imagined it. “That field used to scare you?” He laughed slightly. “You were the one who told me about it. Took me over there once to look at the moon in the back of your dad’s pickup.”

God, this was frustrating. “Who are you?” The tears were dancing the border of your eyes, begging to run down your cheeks. “I knew you?”

“You know me.” He was so sure of it. “I’m still in there. Everything is.”

You had to ask, at this point you were near certain of it. “Spencer?”

He sighed, relief intertwining with his words. “There she is.” It was such a soft delivery, the moment he took before replying had you wondering if you’d said anything at all.

What kind of situation even was this? “Is this about your brother?”

“You know, when we were younger, my mother knew the mayor. He used to babysit my brother and me when she worked nights.” His tone was humorous, bitter, like he couldn’t believe the stupidity of what he was explaining. “I listened to him promise us he would change the community when he got the time. Get us a house with more than one bedroom, get us into a school system deserving of us. He used to call me a genius.” He scoffed at the thought. “Then my mom couldn’t afford the insulin, and he let my brother die.”

You didn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry.”

“The payments wouldn’t have even made a dent in his pockets.” You could visualize him, alone in a room somewhere, that familiar crease between his eyebrows as he talked. You were going to be sick, you thought. “One man for every year my brother got to live. Seems only fair.”

“Two more to go, then?” You couldn’t identify a single thought in your head. All of them speeding past you like bullets before you could latch onto one. “Is it helping?”

“Yeah.” He sniffled, quiet and subdued. “It is.”

“I - um” A tear finally fell, breaking the dam. You wiped it away quickly, two more taking it’s place almost immediately “I have to go.”

“Y/n-” but you were gone already. You put your hand over your mouth, laughing into it slightly at the absurdity of your situation and sobbing into a moment later as you took the cold plunge into reality. You texted your parents, knowing they were asleep, asking if you could swing by when they woke up. If anyone would know something, it was them, and you had every intention of shaking them down to find out exactly how you’d known the man. You had to know. You spent the night preparing the questions you’d ask and trying to fall asleep. You were almost paralyzed with the weight of him on you. There was no getting out of it now.

–

The outside of this house always felt alien. You knew you’d grown up here, but it lacked any sense of home. You wondered as you stood out front how much Spencer had to have meant to leave more of a mark than the place you spent your first 18 years in. The sun was nearing it’s peak in the sky, it was almost noon. Your parents had texted back at eight am, worried and eager to know what was wrong, eager to see you. You’d fallen asleep barely an hour before that, waking up at eleven and quickly getting ready after seeing the text. You were scared. These were practically strangers to you, and you were betting an ungodly amount on them. That’s not fair, you thought. But honestly, nothing was fair, and you calmed your guilt with promise of filling the void in your gut. You broke your staring contest with the front door and leaned forward to knock, the thing opening almost immediately.

“Hey.” You spoke before they did. You found that being the first to talk usually decreased the amount of warmth in their greetings. “It’s good to see you guys. Thank you for having me, I know my texts were sort of alarming. I just needed to talk about something.” You held eye contact to the best of your ability. They brought out a deep feeling of shame, knowing they didn’t blame you for the distance but still being responsible for it nonetheless.

“Of course.” Your mother talked while your father looked down. “It’s good to see you too. Come in, please.” Your father broke from her side to go sit down, while your mother opened the door to usher you in. You stepped forward, nodding at her in thanks as you passed her, joining your father where he sat.

“Um…” You faced both of them as your mom took the place by his side. How did you even start this? “Well, in a case I’ve been working on, somebody came up.” You couldn’t tell them he was alive. “And he just…seemed familiar, I guess. Did I know a boy named Spencer Reid growing up?” You watched the sparks of recognition ignite in their eyes as you said the name. Your mother’s grew teary, while your father’s seemed to harden.

“Knew him?” Your mother chuckled at the thought of it being so simple. “You two were more in love than your father and I.” She rolled her eyes as she held your father’s arm, the man laughing lightly at her words.

“He was the first friend you talked about. I remember picking you up from the first day of kindergarten and listening to you rave about the boy who was ‘smarter than the teacher’.” Her tone got lighter at the end, seemingly trying to imitate the excitement of your adolescent self. “You two were always close, you know?” She seemed to remember him fondly. “When you got older, you would get so defensive if I asked after him so eventually I stopped. But I knew. I knew you two would end up together from your first playdate.” She was on the verge of tears, giggling at her own words as the stories she told surrounded her, smiling at the past.

“His family really struggled. Such a sweet kid, him and his brother both. They were over here a lot.” Your father took the role of speaker as your mother’s emotions got the better of her. “We went back and forth for a while after the accident on whether to tell you or not. It just seemed cruel to. He died the night before you got hit, and you were such a wreck we just -” He struggled to find the words. “We considered it a blessing you didn’t remember him.” Your father’s guilt was apparent, twisting his features slowly as he explained their choices. “You were so in love, sweetheart. You didn’t know who he was when you woke up and we figured, you know, what’s the point? When the only thing that could come from it was pain, it just seemed futile.”

You don’t think you blinked the entire time they were talking to you. You only knew you were crying when your vision went blurry, completely neglecting the beading of tears down your cheeks. You remembered the day your mother was talking about, seeing the children you once were illustrate the world in front of you. You could almost see his face, how it would have looked when he died, how he used to look at you. Like he was staring at the universe’s secrets, easing his hands through the veil to touch them - to touch you. You remember the feeling he gave you, something warm and distinct, reserved for the two of you only. If you could have seen yourself in the moments you shared, you’re sure you would have worn the same look in your eyes.

You started speaking, but couldn’t manage much. “Yes, yeah, you’re right.” Reassurance usually worked well. “It was a…a good call.” You had trouble with your words, remembering the feelings of him but lacking the visuals. “Do you have any pictures?” Your mother nodded in response, detaching from your dad and going to retrieve something that held the memories you sought.

“I’m-” Your dad started. “We’re sorry.”

You shook your head. Your parents were the last people who owed an apology. “It’s ok, dad. I’m glad you did it.”

“I could never myself look back at these. Thinking about what happened to them I just…I can never look at them knowing they’re gone.” Your mother re-entered the room holding a camera, dark pink and cheap. “It was meant to document your childhood, but he was around so much, it’s basically just a compilation of you guys.”

You held the thing in your hands. It was everything you wanted to happen but you couldn’t force your fingers to move. Did you even want this? He was alive, sure, but you’re certain the boy next to you in these photos would never see the light of day again. All your birthdays for thirteen years, field trips, science fairs, even just the two of you sitting together reading. It was all here. All consumable. You felt the urge to boil them down and burn your skin with the residue. Anything to keep a semblance of this life with you. You had a right to them, they were yours. Your teeth clenched at the sting of the absence. He had been yours and you couldn’t even remember. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.” You’re sure the thoughts in your head were obvious to them, spinning like a cyclone in your eyes zoning out on the camera. “I’ve thought about giving it to you for a while now anyway.”

–

They’d made you lunch, then dinner. They told you tales of your past and you let them glance into your present. It was dark by the time you left, setting the goal to talk with them more. You walked to your car, having parked down the street, and tried to shake yourself out of the trance that house put you in. You thought you were seeing things at first, squinting slightly to focus on the chunk of passenger door that was shrouded with out of place darkness. Someone was leaning against your car. You didn’t feel defensive.

“Spencer?”

“Hey.” He pushed off the door and walked closer to you, facing you on the sidewalk. You could see him now, lit up by a streetlight. He took you in, too. Glancing at your hand and grinning. “I remember that thing.” You had forgotten you were holding the camera until now.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?”

“I don’t know, honey.” He shrugged, matching your exhaustion at the situation. “I guess I wanted to see how much you remembered.” He looked at you, his eyes just as bright as they’d been a decade ago. “How much I could make you remember.”

You sighed. God, if only it worked that way. “Do you want to-” What the fuck were you thinking? “Do you want to come over?” You’d looked through every picture on that camera. You missed him. You missed him in your space, on your bed, waiting for you at the bus stop. That knot of feeling stuck only wanted to unravel if it were his hands tugging at it. “I can drive us.”

He raised his eyebrows, surprise blending seamlessly with the undiluted hope he carried as a kid. “Ok.” He smiled, just a tiny lift at the corners of his lips. The image of that smile resting on his teenage face struck you so violently you felt it in your bones. You looked at him, starstruck. His presence was a trance of it’s own.

“Ok.” You repeated him, trying to elongate the moment. You weren’t sure when you’d be ready to look away. He’d have to move first, and he knew it, so he walked to the passenger door. You blinked, grounding yourself, and unlocked the car.

You were preparing for an awkward car ride, but clearly your subconscious was more than familiar with him, being silent with him came as second nature to you. You took the long way back to your house, trying to enjoy the comfortability as long as you could. He added an elevation to your existence that you hadn’t been aware you were lacking. You pulled into your driveway ten minutes later, parking and turning off the car.

“Did you really not know where I lived?”

“No.” He was looking out your windshield, taking in the sight of where you felt safest. “I meant what I said. I never needed to.

You walked into the house first, hearing him shut the door softly behind him. You’d been listening to see how he’d close it, not sure what it would tell you, but deeming it important regardless. He’d been nothing but respectful of your space both times he’d been here. You sat down, nodding your head to the chair near you.

He let a moment pass, waiting to see if you had something to say. You had too much to say, too much to articulate. “I want you to leave with me.”

“Spencer-”

“Don’t.” His eyes were pleading, glistening with his unique mix of hunger and control. “Don’t write me off, Y/n. Nobody would know. They’re not gonna catch me. You can quit, and we can leave.” You looked away, down towards your hands. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” It was all you’d been thinking about. Usually in dreams - obviously your mind was more up to date than you were. You were going to do it, you thought. Of course you were. You looked at him and knew you’d go anywhere he asked you to. Still, though, you had a life. One you needed time to wrap up before you could leave it. You were a federal agent, if you went missing, they’d send the entire nation to step on your heels.

“Can I think about it?

He looked at you, suppressing a smile and tilting his head slightly. “Sure, honey.” He could read you so easily. He’d known he had you from the moment he asked. “I’ve still got two more.” The burning in your stomach wasn’t a resistance to the words. It was an admiration, a feeling you could wallow in. You weren’t an opposing force to him. Had you ever been? Truly?

“What happens if I don’t go?”

His eye contact had a way of transferring, enveloping any part of you it could reach. You were testing him. “Don’t force my hand, Y/n.”

You didn’t plan on finding out what that meant.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x you #x chubby reader #x fat reader #x plus size reader #spencer reid x chubby reader #spencer reid x plus size reader #spencer reid x fat reader #spencer reid fanfiction #suggestive #probably ass #im sorry for this #cupid:SR

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reidsrambles · 5 months ago

Text

An Invisible Locket

Chapter 4: A Bad Feeling

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader // Secret relationship

Description: You work with your best friend and your boyfriend. The only problem is, nobody knows Spencer Reid is your boyfriend of over a year. When you find out that Spencer's getting sent out on a case immediately after getting back to Quantico, impulses take over. (Content/Warnings below the cut)

Content/Warnings: [18+ MDNI], smut, oral sex (M & F receiving), PIV sex, unprotected sex within an established relationship, unplanned pregnancy, discussions of abortion (in a pro-choice context, though Reader ends up choosing to stay pregnant), minor mentions of alcohol and cancer.

As for the crime subplot, much of it is very canon-typical (referenced child abuse & grooming by an extended family member (non-sexual), violence, blood/gore, drugs. As always, please feel free to let me know if I miss any CWs!

A/N: This fic is obviously heavy on the Spencer and Reader relationship, but it's also got a significant Garcia best friend plot line and crime plot line. This fic also features an unplanned Reader pregnancy. Reader debates abortion and is pro-choice, but ultimately ends up keeping the pregnancy. If any of that isn't up your alley, please feel free to skip this fic!

Names used: Baby, baby girl, good/sweet/pretty girl, daddy, good boy (once), my love.

Words (this chapter): 3.7 K

Words (total): 29.1 K

It’s been 8 days since the team landed in Florida and the situation is more tense now than it was before. After the third victim was found, you and Penelope managed to crack the case as to how these unsubs were procuring their victims.

The team profiled that the dominant either is or was in the medical field. So far, that theory has proven correct. You and Penelope gained access to the victim’s computers and, after the third one, found a particular pattern. All three victims had visited a medical advice website which gave advice on ridding the body of parasites.

It wasn’t flagged with the first two victims because James MacDermott, the victim who worked in IT, was savvy with his internet history and routed any odd or explicit searches through a VPN and TOR network.

Regardless, they eventually all wound up on some hippie, detox, and toxins, medical misinformation site: Phoenix Sage’s Healing Center, located in (you guessed it) Florida. To top it all off, they advertise a healing retreat on the website.

They most likely indoctrinated the victims into a virtual cult-like relationship, further pedaling medical misinformation and making them believe that they needed detoxing or whatever.

To search engines, this site indexes as if it’s a normal, plain old medical advice website like WebMD. The domain name was registered with fake personal details and paid for with cryptocurrency. They covered their tracks quite well, but it’s only a matter of time before you find the digital breadcrumb trail.

As for the submissive unsub, he happened to be dumb enough to leave a print on the suitcase that the third vic was found in. Thankfully, he was in the system. The team’s morale really needed a win because, by the time the lab was able to lift that print and match it, a fourth victim had been found.

The submissive was, as profiled, a young, white male. Emily pegged the age at between 16 and 30, based on how savage and amateur his attacks were.

Mason Adkins was booked yesterday. He’s 21. As evidenced by his numerous hospital visits and subsequent CPS reports, Mason was abused physically, mentally, and emotionally by his stepfather growing up.

Mason’s story is pretty standard when compared to similar psychopaths. He was kicked out at 18 for using hard drugs, racking up misdemeanors, and taking his rage out on his five younger half-siblings. His last known address is the trailer park in Cedar Key where his mom, stepfather and half-siblings still reside. He must have been either homeless or crashing with a friend.

Once the print was matched, the team was able to locate him and pick him up, but he hasn’t given up the dominant yet. The victim pool should be limited to those they’ve already indoctrinated, but until you can crack any direct communications, you won’t know who else they’ve had contact with. You and Penelope have continued working from Quantico, attempting to dig into Mason’s digital footprint, but you’ve gotten nowhere substantial. It’s hard to not feel a little dejected.

Mason was definitely the techie between the two of them. According to Penelope, “It’s like he learned from the same guys I did when I was underground, except now, they’ve all gotten even better. This kid is S-M-A-R-T, smart. Well, obviously tech-smart and not street-smart, since he left prints at the scene and all… If he wasn’t a killer, they probably would have recruited him to replace you.”

“Oh, is my fancy master’s degree suddenly not good enough for the FBI?”

“I mean, I dropped out and now I’m basically your boss, and I’m student debt-free.”

“Hey, don’t bring my massive student-debt into this! Plus, I think Hotch would beg to differ on you being my boss,” you smirk.

***

Down in Florida, Spencer’s been sharing a room with Derek, so you’re primarily only able to text him. He calls one evening while you’re at home and hearing his voice feels like a little slice of heaven in this shitstorm of case.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers.

“Good evening, my love. Where’s Derek?”

“He said he was running down to the convenience store down the street. I should have about 20 minutes.”

“So… I have to tell you something that I didn’t want to get into over text. It’s not a huge deal, but I needed to tell you before you got back.”

You’re scratching at the skin around your nails; a nervous tic of yours. You grab one of your throw pillows and hug it to your chest.

“The day you guys left,” you continue, “when we had our little lunch break, Penelope saw us leaving together and connected the dots. Well, she saw us leaving together and then tracked our phones to my place and then connected the dots. So, now she knows everything.”

He sighs, not seeming to be the least bit surprised. “Do you think maybe it’s time to tell the rest of the team? If we don’t tell them soon, you know she’s going to slip up. They’ll find out one way or another.”

“She promised me she’s going to try her absolute hardest to keep it a secret.”

“Has she ever been able to keep any sort of secret that the team didn’t figure out almost immediately?”

You can hear the sarcasm dripping from his voice and you suppress a giggle.

“Very good point, Dr. Reid.”

“So, maybe we should tell them? After we get back?” he asks.

“Well, there’s another thing.” You think of how to phrase it to avoid upsetting Spencer. “The morning that you guys left for Florida, Penelope was MIA for like, over an hour. It turns out she had a meeting with Hotch and Strauss because Strauss wanted to know if the team really needs two technical analysts. That said, Hotch and Penelope defended me, and Penelope said that nobody on the team would ever let her sack me.”

“That bitch,” Spencer mutters.

“Spencer Reid! How dare you speak of our beloved Penelope Garcia in such a manner!?” you joke.

You can hear him holding back a laugh. “Yeah, well, if Strauss lets you go, she’s losing me as well. But that would be after dealing with the rest of the team. Nobody in the unit is letting you go anywhere. You’re too valuable to the team. Plus, you’re part of the family.” Spencer pauses for a moment before adding, “You’re my family.”

A warmth spreads through your chest. He’s so protective of the people he loves, which is something you’ve always admired about him.

“I know,” you say. “I just don’t want everyone to go to bat for me. Hotch and Penelope already had to. Emily’s already threatened me in the past if I tried to leave. She said that she’d personally hunt me down and drag me back if I got another job.”

“That sounds about right for Emily.” You hear in Spencer’s voice that he’s smiling at your anecdote. “We knew that this time would come and maybe we should get ahead of it and tell them ourselves.”

“I’ll think about it, and we can talk about it more when you get back, okay? It feels like all I can think about is this case right now, even when I leave work.”

“Try to distract yourself or have Penelope come over to keep you company. You can’t be thinking about the case 24/7.”

“Hypocrite,” you mutter, causing Spencer to bite down a laugh.

The silence between topics is both anxious and peaceful. Talking to Spencer as his girlfriend and not his coworker is rejuvenating your soul. But you don’t want to hang up.

“Hey,” he says, his tone shifting in that single word, instantly darkening, “when I get back, I’m going to do some very bad things to you.”

You roll your head to the side with a loud groan.

“Don’t go getting me all worked up right now,” you whine. “I need to sleep!”

“Fine, fine! You keep working hard up there so we can close this case. I’ll be home before you know it and then you can fall asleep in my arms. Okay, baby?”

“Okay. Catch this son of a bitch, Spence.”

“I can only do that with your help.”

“You’re giving me too much credit.”

“Like I said, this team needs you. Garcia alone was great, obviously, but you and Garcia together are the dream team of technical analysts.”

You allow yourself pride for a moment.

“We kind of are, aren’t we?”

He giggles and you just wish you could squeeze his cheeks and kiss him endlessly.

“I love you,” he says.

“Love you, Spence. Sweet dreams.”

***

After hanging up the phone, you head back into your bathroom, picking up the unused pregnancy test from the counter. Your period is 2 days late. Periods are late or missed for all sorts of reasons, though, right?

Your cycle is usually pretty regular, but there were a few days this month where you forgot to take your pill until later in the day. Maybe that threw off your hormones? Stress can throw off your cycle too, right? What if you have some sort of cancer? Flashes of possible yet improbable future timelines whisk through your head as you repeatedly tap the unopened test against the palm of your hand. The rattle of the foil wrapper is both soothing and grating.

Okay, focus.

Taking a test will be good peace of mind. Let’s just rule that one possibility out, to start. The test will be negative and then you can worry about hormonal imbalances and cancer later. Irony says that your period will come as soon as you finish taking this thing, anyway.

You take the test out of its wrapper and grab the small plastic cup you’d already prepared before Spencer called.

You pee into the cup, filling it about halfway before setting it onto some paper towel on the counter.

You wipe, pull your underwear back up, and stare at the yellow liquid in the cup on your counter. This test will either bring you a ton of relief or it will…

That’s a train of thought that you can’t entertain right now.

“Breathe, Y/N,” you whisper into the empty apartment. A silent prayer to your body, asking it to calm down so you don’t have a panic attack.

Basically every woman has taken a pregnancy test when their period was late. It’s no big deal. The stick goes into the pee. Easy as that.

You pick up the warm plastic cup in one hand and the test in the other. It’s as if you have tunnel vision right now. You watch as the urine is rapidly wicked up the test before flowing across the display portion. After the seven seconds have passed (as per the instructions) you put the cap back on the test and place it on the counter, covering it with its wrapper.

You set a 5-minute timer and dump the rest of the cup’s contents into the toilet. You press the handle on the toilet and with the whoosh of the flush, you realize that you can hear your blood pumping in your ears; the thump, thump, thump of your heart pounding.

You wash your hands and grab your phone off the counter, trying not to catch a glance at the time left.

4 minutes, 19 seconds.

In just your comfy, oversized sleep t-shirt and your underwear, you flop down onto your bed. Your head feels like spinning with a dizzying whir.

Before you can even fully register what you’re doing or stop yourself, you’re dialing Penelope.

“This better be important because you made me lose track of how many stitches I was at in this row!”

You can’t even begin to stop the words from flowing out of you.

“I took a pregnancy test, and it’s probably negative, but can you please come over because I can hear my heart beating in my head, and I can just really use the moral support right now—”

“Y/N.” Her demeanor has entirely shifted from only a moment ago. “Hey, it’s okay. I can be over in a jiffy. Just let me throw my shoes on and grab my purse. Don’t look at it until I get there, okay?”

Penelope hangs up the phone before you even have a chance to respond. She’s always extremely quick to action when needed, which is a part of why she’s so good at her job. You’re the one who’s more likely to freeze up first. This is a great example of that.

She uses her key to let herself into your apartment and finds you laying on your bed—in the same spot you called her from.

“You didn’t look yet, did you?” she yells.

“No. I waited for you. The timer went off like three minutes ago.”

She sits down on the bed beside you, and you sit up to meet her.

“Do you feel ready to look?” she asks, quietly.

“I don’t know. I know it’s just nerves, but as soon as I took that test, I felt like I was going to pass out.” You take a deep breath and attempt to collect yourself a bit more before asking the question you know you need to. “Do you think you could look at it for me, Pen?”

“Oh, Y/N, of course.”

She wraps you in a big, warm hug, allowing you to focus on relaxing your breathing and slowing your heart rate. These big, long, calming hugs are something else you two came up with as a tool for managing the nature of your job. Huddle hugs, you call them. The time and space for connection with each other, and for calming your bodies. You know that she won’t pull away until you do, so once you feel some of the tension in your chest ease and the fog in your brain lift, you pull away and give her a thankful smile.

She goes into the bathroom and grabs the test off the counter, bringing the wrapper with it in order to keep it covered. She takes her spot next to you again and that shaky, tense feeling in your chest is quickly flooding back in. Your eyes are locked forward, purposefully keeping your gaze away from the test in her hands.

She gently places a hand on your back and rubs small, calming circles. “How do you want me to do this?”

“I just can’t look.” You grab a pillow from the head of your bed and clutch it to your chest. “I think you need to just rip the Band-Aid off before I lose my mind.”

You shut your eyes and bury your face in the pillow. Attempting to focus on calming yourself is only mildly successful for a moment, but as soon as you hear the crinkle of the wrapper, all bets are off.

The thuds of your speeding heart pumping blood throughout your body flood your hearing once again. Are you even breathing? You suddenly become aware that you’re not getting any fresh air with your face in this pillow.

The one time you don’t want to think about Spencer, memories of him clutter your consciousness. His perfect lips, even when they’re a bit chapped because he doesn’t listen to your advice about carrying lip balm. He always kisses you as if he’s thanking you for loving him, simultaneously telling you how much he loves you. The peaceful warmth that fills your chest when he’s holding you. Hearing him say your name first thing, every single morning—without fail—in his groggy, deep morning voice.

All you can think about is Spencer.

Penelope’s voice barely cuts through the fog, but once it does, your mind quiets completely.

“Honey…”

You immediately knew. You didn’t have to look at the test to know it was positive. She didn’t even have to say it outright. One word. Her single word was all you needed.

Tears immediately break free and flood your vision as you lift your head, only to turn and hide it in Penelope’s neck as she engulfs you in a big hug. Her shed tears drip onto your neck and you both start sobbing at the same time.

“It’s gonna be okay,” she struggles to get her words out through jagged breaths, “I promise, Y/N.”

You just hug her tighter in response.

Penelope knows that you have hopes to become a mother one day. But she also knows that your life is chaotic right now. Hell, she only found out about your secret relationship a little over a week ago. Regardless of whether this pregnancy is wanted or not, she knows that it’s definitely unplanned.

As she holds you, you silently thank the universe for Penelope figuring out your secret when she did, because you can’t imagine you going through this alone.

“We’ve almost caught this son of a bitch. Now, we have even more motivation to get his ass in handcuffs, because then we can throw the goddamn book at him, lock him the fuck up, and throw away the fucking key. Okay!?” Penelope says.

She never swears this much. You wipe your cheeks with your hands and nod in reply. Her impassioned pep-talk may be working, at least a little. Both of you are sniffling as you try to stop crying.

“I can’t lie and say you’re the toughest person I know, because I think we’re all aware that my pick for that title would be one, Mr. Derek Morgan.” She throws her hands up and finally gets a tiny giggle out of you. “But, after the rest of team, you’re the toughest, strongest, bravest, most resilient, most courageous, most…,” she gestures with her hands, as if the word is on the tip of her tongue, but you know she’s just trying to think of more adjectives, “most amazing, and most beautiful person I know.”

You half roll your eyes as you smile. Obviously, every member of your team, especially those in the field, are the toughest people you know. You still appreciate her sentiment and that she managed to make you laugh right now.

She lovingly brushes your hair off of your face, tucking it behind your ears. “We’ll make it through until he comes back, and then you guys can figure this out, okay?”

You let out a gigantic sigh, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes until you see static. You thought keeping this relationship a secret from the BAU for so long was a challenge. How are you going to keep this secret?

“What if Spencer calls?” you ask. “How the hell am I going to keep that in, or at minimum, not give myself away? Why are we both so bad at keeping secrets!?”

“I’m not sure, but I bet an astrologer would tell us that it’s something to do with our star signs, or something. At least we know that you’re a better secret-keeper than I am?”

Penelope thinks for a moment, but a solution comes to her fairly quickly. “How about I just stay here until the case is over and follow you around like a little lapdog? Then, if he calls, I’ll make sure you’re not giving yourself away! Easy-peasy!”

You know her forced confidence is in order to make you feel better, but it really is helping right now.

“You’ll just find any excuse to stay over at my place, huh?”

“There’s a reason that I have a second toothbrush in your bathroom already. I staked my claim here first and Spencer’s lucky I love him, because I wouldn’t be giving you up to just any man without a fight.”

You pull her in for another big hug.

“Now that I think about it,” she says, “this probably explains why you cried when we watched Finding Nemo the other night.”

“Shit,” you laugh. “That really does make more sense now. That movie has a bunch of sad parts, though!”

“It’s okay, my sweet little cherub. I don’t know a lot about pregnancy, nor do I want to, but I know that you’ve got a lot of funky hormone stuff going on right now. I’m sure Spencer will give you the rundown of exactly which hormones are doing what when he gets home.”

He probably will. Well, if he wants to keep it, that is. You aren’t even sure what you want yet. Maybe it’s just the shock and as soon as that clears, you’ll know? You just wish that Spencer was here to talk to. It’s so scary and having zero clue how he’ll feel makes it even more frightening. Without Penelope helping you down from the worst of the shock…?

“Pen, thank you.” You nod and smile, feeling your face heat as you get emotional again. “I seriously don’t know what I’d do without you right now. I probably would have passed out on the bathroom floor if you hadn’t lessened the blow for me.”

You pick the test up from the floor, where Penelope must have dropped it after seeing the result. You haven’t looked at it with your own two eyes yet. Flipping it over, your vision immediately tunnels to that little blue plus sign, everything in your peripheral a blur. It feels like you’re holding the weight of the world in your hands. Penelope wraps her arm around you and leans her head against yours.

“I was gonna say ‘Anytime!’, but then I realized that I’d hope accidental pregnancies don’t become a regular occurrence within our friendship.”

Her joke grounds you a bit and you blink yourself out of your trance. You hand the test towards her.

“You next?” you ask, a small smirk forming on your face. She takes it from you and places it on the bed beside her.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. Not unless another coworker of ours finally gives in to his desires for me, because we would have some gorgeous babies.”

“If we were at work, you’d be getting the time-out bean bag chair right now for that,” you say.

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