awordsmith

[awordsmith]

i'm so so so so soooooo mad right now. i can't believe they just killed off oberyn

[awordsmith]

AHHHG THANK YOU ☺️

french perfume 𝜗𝜚 s.r

when the ASIO–calls the FBI for reinforcements, y𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿 are chosen to go undercover as boarding school students to figure out why prestigious teenagers are mysteriously disappearing.

you only have each other on the inside, but interacting means the possibility of getting caught, and getting caught would blow the entire operation.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s10 genre: angst (thriller) content warning: heavy mentions of mass SA on teenagers/disappearing teenagers/ Spencer identity crisis/sa(not too graphic) on reader, very much dark academia-gloomy castle aesthetic. . .reid with incredible care !! word count: 18.8k a/n: boarding school by lana del rey is all i have to say for this one... enjoy!!

The uniform fit just right…as if it had been altered to fit your particular body. Per further inspection, you noticed the gray blazer’s sleeves hitting your wrists just above your palms and the gray pleated skirt hitting the middle of your knees, you were inclined to believe this detail confidently.

Your frown held still, a blank expression registered to everyone around you that you were not the everyday school girl, though in America, uniforms always seemed to differentiate the poor from the wealthy, so perhaps it was that as well as the two men behind you, dressed in all black with earpieces slightly evident in their ear.

Earbuds in your ear connected to an iPod, playing one of your favorite albums. Though it was just for show, it was all for show. You were undercover and your name was no longer — —, but — —. 

You’d been training your acting skills, away from the rest of the team. You needed to be her. This character that you’d made up the day you had gotten the case. You weren’t just playing the American Rich Girl, you were the American Rich Girl. You had to be or else everything everyone had been working for up until this point went to shit.

You ignored the man in brown and the woman in bright green. They were no one, the moment you stepped into the mini limousine outside your home in Atherton, they’d been lost to your memory.

Your black Mary Janes clicked past the line of people riding coach and business. You focussed on the silver iPod in your hand, heading toward first class. Four others were riding with you, you disregarded their presence as well. The bodyguards in black stayed behind, saying something into their earpieces. It caught the attention of the other first-class riders, one woman approached you. It’d be great for your first real interaction as her.

There were no cameras on board, so as you settled into one of the middle-row seats, you plucked an earbud out and settled your small backpack on the cushion, “sorry, could you repeat that one more time?” Your voice took on an airy tone, it didn’t sound foreign–you wondered–no. You forced that thought down and after the woman asked, “Where are you flying to?” you’d forgotten all about it.

“Australia,” you smiled, taking out the other earbud and wrapping the wiring around the iPod.

“For school?” She took her seat across from you.

“Boarding school,” you frowned, “Father says it’s better than anything in America.” Your eyes rolled as you settled into your own space.

“That’s a cute uniform.” You nodded to agree, “And your father is probably right, what school?”

Right. “That’s private information,” you reassessed her with a raised brow.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, then she nodded. You had to hide the small smile the slid across your face. She was probably wondering who you were to be thinking of yourself so highly. You would be lying if you’d said you didn’t get a kick ut of making heads turn in such a way.

Two more bodyguards were waiting for you when you landed and a limousine–normal length this time–waiting for you outside the airport. When you stepped inside you were finally able to breathe. The windows were tinted, though you hadn’t begun moving. 

“— —, I presume?” The blonde man dressed in a neatly pressed suit did not match the surfer accent he had.

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.” A sly grin stretched across your mouth and you brushed a lock of hair behind your pierced ear, showing off the white pearls.

He chuckled, “You know who I am, then?”

“The Head of the ASIO?” You raised a brow, noting the largeness of the vehicle.

“Spot on,” he winked, “the uniform fits better than expected.” He motioned with a hand.

“So I’ve been told,” you tugged on the sleeves and feeling a bit childish, sat further upward to show your maturity, he noticed, but neglected to comment. “And my counterpart, do you think his fits just as well?”

“Ah, yes,” he glanced at the ceiling, “your partner in this investigation, he should have gotten off his flight from Russia right about now, he’ll be on his way to the school just as sufficiently.” 

The agent checked his watch, a more serious expression taking over his features right before he pounded on the window separating the front from the back–and like that, the limousine began moving.

“You know your objective, I assume, but I’d like to go over it with you.” He crossed a leg over the other, his pants riding up his ankle, showing the cutoff of his finely polished shoes.

“We go in, collect evidence, and get out.”

“Without busting your cover.” He stated, leaning forward slightly, “Now…what about the other thing?”

“You mean the objective only I was assigned?”

“Precisely. It’d be,” he shook slightly, “discouraging if anyone else got wind out it–from my knowledge only you, I, and your boss know the details.”

You nodded, refining your face toward a colder version of what it once was, “I know exactly what I’m doing and I have given my full consent.”

“Do you remember his name?” The agent raised a blonde brow, his blue eyes piercing your gaze to the point of making you shift uncomfortably.

“I do.”

“Good,” he leaned back, pulling out a bottle of wine, “do you prefer white?”

“Red is fine,” you took the glass willingly, you wouldn’t have access for God knew how long. One last glass wouldn’t hurt.

The car came to a stop, “We’re here,” he sighed and glanced toward the large gate to outside the window closest him. You handed back your glass and reached for the door, but one of his hands shot out and stopped you, “remember we will not be with you on the inside. The only person you have is…him–and even then–”

“I know,” you waved your arm in font of yoru face after snatching it out of his, feeling your gaze harden–you could do this. “This isn’t about proving myself, Director. Trust me, I know what’s at stake.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, he looked pitiful. He couldn’t have been older than 40, barely a 12-year age gap, but you could tell he was worried if this was the right thing. The ASIO has been trying to crack down on this school for over a year–just one slip-up would send the entire operation overboard.

“The Australian government wants our help,” your eyebrows furrowed, “ why?” You were spinning in your chair before Penelope’s hands were firmly planted on either side of your shoulders, forcing the chair to come to a halt.

“Oh sweetie, you’re gonna want a coffee for this one.”

The Head of the ASIO helped you with your luggage, he was tall for an Australian, which was tall. He also looked pretty well for his age, you noted the slight red spot that circled high around his ring finger, though the ring in question was missing. He didn’t look the part of a recently divorced husband, so perhaps he took it off when he was on the job. He was smart.

“This is where I see you off,” he leaned against the car, hands tucked neatly into his pants pockets.

You pulled your suitcase toward you, finding it a struggle with the duffle bag on top. You pressed your lips together, saluting him–chills. The hair on your neck standing up. Someone was watching you. Your hand gripped the handle of the suitcase, trying your best to not look for the eyes that were surely on you.

“Good luck,” he said, opening the door the the limousine and slipping inside. It took off not long after, leaving you to spin around.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw a short, sallow man, his back bent in ways you didn’t think possible to mimic–and his skin pale–un-ordinarily pale for someone who looked once very tan. “You’re one of the new students, yes?” He had a croaky accent, maybe Old Romanian?

You shook your head, if ever there was a time you needed to focus this was it. “Yes, my name is — —.”

He sighed and averted his eyes, “…follow me.”

You rounded the corner of the gate, and the old man pulled a jangle of keys from around his belt that you only now noticed. “I’m the grounds keeper here, if you ever need anything, I’d advise not coming to me for it…I wouldn’t be able to do much.”

You swallowed, it was only now just hitting you–you were walking into a graveyard dressed up like a school, and you were doing it willingly.

The place looked like it had jumped out of a Renaissance painting, the muted-colored murals on the higher walls and ceilings were chipping and the dull white pillars you saw around almost every corner looked to be falling apart–but past that, you felt like Alice walking through the rabbit hole. “There is one more student supposed to be arriving today. Usually, we never get two new students on the same day–so excuse the abruptness. You’ll have to wait for him in the Headmaster’s Office.”

You kept quiet, unsure if you should respond. In the end, you didn’t, and the maintenance man, whose name you never received, left you in a small room with four chairs, a small, squared table in the middle of each chair, and two chairs sitting against each wall, facing each other.

There was no receptionist at the desk, the entire building seemed vacant. It was a Thursday. Weren’t there supposed to be classes? You folded in on yourself, the curvy, white concrete walls pulled you into a momentary depression. Your anxiety grew and as the minutes ticked by, you felt like you would die here, in this cold, concrete room–alone.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” Came a voice moments after you’d heard the creaking of a door. 

Familiar notes had your ears twitching, your hands moved from your lap to your knees as you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. The accent he’d been perfecting sounded like he’d always spoken that way. You ignored the way it sent a shiver down your spine. “Not at all,” you smiled and stood, dusting nonexistent dust off your newly pressed skirt. “You must be the other student, I’m — —,” you held out a hand, batting your eyelashes.

He was cute��the way his brown curls pulled attention to his big, puppy eyes. His hair looked recently cut, and though it gave him a somewhat boyish charm, the guy in front of you remained too serious for your liking.

He glanced at your hand briefly, ignoring it. Your eyes rolled and you planted a hand on your hip, “not the physical type, I suppose.”

“I apologize,” his voice was deep, it’d rear you into a wall if you weren’t careful. 

You blinked, and took a second to breathe, “It’s alright, I suppose.”

“Have you seen anyone yet?”

You shrugged, “Just the grounds keeper, everyone must be in class.”

He nodded, pulling his luggage toward the side opposite of you, and took up the chair in front of yours. You huffed and sat back down. “You’re Russian?” The boy nodded, it irked you slightly, perhaps his social skills were not all there? “What’s your name?”

“Savino,” he murmured, raising a brow at you, “you’re American.” It was more of an observation than a question and it made your lips thin.

“Ah!” You startled, holding in your scream. Savino smiled slightly, which had you narrowing your eyes. A door creaked open–not the entrance, but one behind the receptionist's desk–and a young-old man filed into the room–if such a crossover were ever possible, it was in front of you.

He was different from the one you’d met at the gate, this one was tall, and a bit on the heavier side. “There you are, my beloved new students.” He held his hands out, you recoiled–as if you’d hug him willingly. He just looked like he smelled horridly.

“I suppose I should show you to your dorms first.” He lips pulled back in what you suppose was meant to be a smile. Yellow, cracked teeth could be noted and somehow, you found yourself wondering just how atrocious his breath must be. 

Your eyes ran over the walls that seemed to twist throughout the school, doing your best to listen to Headmaster Bobefitz as he rambled on about the history of the school. 

Originally it was a castle built for a small king centuries ago–about 40 years prior, the land was bought and turned into a private transnational boarding school, as it was secluded high up in the mountains and had multiple rooms, it seemed the ideal use. Up until the number of students disappearing began raising suspicion with the local police, that is. 

Though, it was private property, and nothing much could be done without a warrant or great cause–and even then, the owners could challenge the police in court. This wasn’t America–yoou had to remember that.

You blinked, almost bumping into the back of Headmaster Bobefitz. He gave you an unnerving smile, “Watch it little mouse, you just might go stumbling into the wrong trap.”

You smiled, though it was awkward, and took a few more steps toward Savino. He noticed and tried to put himself between you and the headmaster, subtly, to be sure.

“This is the East Wing, where male students sleep, female students are not allowed on this side after 18:00 and the same goes for male students in the West Wing, where the female students reside. We will head there next.”

“Will I have a roommate?”

“Did your father not give you the details, Miss —?” He chuckled, and stretched across Savino to pat you on the shoulder, “That’s alright.” You shifted uncomfortably but didn’t move away. This must be a cakewalk to whatever else was going on inside this school.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Savino stepped in front of you, stealing the Headmaster’s attention away, “where are the other students, it seems rather quiet for a school around this time.”

“Yes, well, we have more of a handle on the students here at Gentry Prep–we take the education we give our students very seriously, so to answer your question, your classmates are in class,” he lifted his wrist to his eyes, showing off a brown leather strapped watch. “They are in their second hour now.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you teetered on your heels, looking over the ledge of the hall.

Headmaster Bobefitz laughed, “Be careful now, you don’t want to go toppling over.” His jokes left a wretched taste in your mouth, but you managed a half-laugh.

“Where are they, then?”  You eyed the still empty halls.

“At our school, students have one class assigned to them based on how well they did on their entry exam, you two are in the same class.” He eyed Savino with a slight frown, but smiled when his gaze met yours once more.

“I see…”

You did not join the rest of the students that day but rather walked around the premises with the headmaster as your guide. Savino kept his distance from you. As if he was afraid of getting close, though when the headmaster evidently had you feeling uneasy, Savino always said something to deter his attention, and you took that as his way of showing he cared.

It was odd, pretending you were strangers. You had to ignore the butterflies in your stomach as well–you had to remember this was a job, and you were an agent undercover–at the same time, youhad to maintain the Rich Girl facade. It hurt you brain every time those thoughts collided, a sickness overtook you and only a part of you had an inkling of an idea of why that was.

You met your roommate, Cairo. She was a petite and her hair was black on the verge of looking blue if it were any darker. The dorm held two beds pushed against opposite walls, Cairo slept on the right, so you ended up with the left.

Very soon on, you found she was deaf, and you–unable to speak sign language, suggested using paper.

𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨

You passed the open notebook toward Cairo. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes passed over the two words. She looked up, her black eyes containing a weird sort of glow thanks to the lamps that dimly lit up the room. 

Cairo scribbled something with the number two pencil she’d taken out of her pencil pouch. 

Your eyes tracked over the room, locking on the dresser that had been given to you. Cairo had her own, closer to her bed across the lofty area. Each bed had white concrete railings at each corner, holding up a canopy. Cairo’s curtains were sage green, yours were blue, just a shade away from gray.

𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵

read the line under your own handwriting.

Your head tilted and you frowned, “why not?–Oh, sorry,” you nearly smacked yourself before writing your words down and handing it back to her.

She audibly sighed and shook her head, taking the pencil from you. 

𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘥

noting that you understood her message, Cairo took back the notebook and ripped the page out, walking toward the fireplace. Your eyebrows raised watching her drop the paper into the flames. Her body language seemed too relaxed for a teenage girl tossing papers into fires.

She grabbed a poker and moved the wood away, soon, the fire died out and all that was left were the lamps at your bedside tables. Though, with one final glance toward you, Cairo too, shut off her lamp. You could hear her rustling in the sheets, and ultimately, you flicked the last source of light off and submerged yourself under the sheets.

As your head hit the back of the one of pillows, you let your thoughts drift. He came to mind. He was so good at acting, it unnerved you. You wondered how detrimental this case would be after it was over.

During the day, you did not claim the name you grew up with, but rather the one that had been given to you four weeks ago. And at night, you weren’t sure what you claimed. Though, when you were secure in the confines of warmth and surrounded by nothing but darkness, you though perhaps you could let her out–just for a moment.

You were already starting to lose your grip on reality, moments when you allowed yourself to come back were the only thing saving you. You turned on your side, your eyes shutting hesitantly. Despite the day's events, you did not feel at all tired. You hadn't met any other students, though you’d seen a few girls milling about the West Wing. You hadn’t known what you were expecting, nor how well it matched with what you had seen.

They looked happy, for the most part, quiet to be sure, but a collective calm had settled over them and they had looked content. Other than the headmaster being a massive creep, you hadn’t seen anything noteworthy. 

…that old guy, the maintenance worker, what was his name again? You couldn’t recall, had you gotten his name? It seemed rather important, but–a yawn escaped you and you nuzzled into the pillow, tugging the blankets tighter around you–that could wait until tomorrow.

The hall was gloomy as you Cairo led you toward your class. Bolted, you thought, glancing at the windows that popped up now and then, perhaps to keep the cold out? Cairo stopped and spun around, motioning toward the door with a few students piling in.

You jabbed a thumb at yourself; she nodded, smiled, and waved, heading toward her class. You knew everything the ASIO had gathered within their months of investigation, they had gathered–probably by illegal means–that the school had a hierarchy. Regardless of what year you were in, you were sorted into a class. Class 1A, 1B, 1C, and 1D for first years. The number altered depending on your year and the letter altered depending on how well you did on the entrance exam. A being the highest ranking.

You noted the swirled print on the plaque attached to the wall near the large lumber door and hid a smirk,  wondering if he was already inside.

The room smelled of old things. Old books, old parchment, old walls, old everything. A few heads turned up when you walked in, but most ignored your presence. No one looked you in the eye, you stuck your hands into the pockets of your blazer, wondering if they could somehow sense you were different.

There was something wrong with the people here, they all acted strangely, Cairo was friendly, but you could tell she was keeping something from you–there wasn’t a need to say–or write–it, you knew just by watching her. Other than that, there was that weirdo headmaster–he’d been a little too touchy, your heart sank…was he? No, someone would’ve–but that’s not–

You fisted your hands, trying to freeze and clear your thoughts, if they were jumping at you all at once, you wouldn’t be able to make any sense of them a single one. An empty seat in the back caught your eye, and as you filed the assumptions creeping in into the cabinet at the back of your head, you steered for it and sat, better to observe this way.

You pulled a notebook from your bag, trying to pass the time, there wasn’t much talk, though it was early, you’d been expecting some burst of excitement, it was Friday, but the buzz in the room made it feel like Monday. You found your eyes drooping, they fe–

“Good morning class.” A firm voice took over the room. You fixated your attention on the woman before you. Mumbled replies were all that came from it, but she seemed to ignore them as she turned her back and began marking up the chalkboard.

There was that same tingling feeling on the back of your neck, subtly, you glanced around the room, and there you found him, second row nearest the door, third seat in the line. He seemed worlds away now, even as he scribbled into his notebook mere feet sepretaring you.

Chills.

Who was watching you? You felt your eyes narrow and your patience growing thinner by the second–but you had to keep your cool. You omitted to the fact that you were being monitored, There wasn’t much you could do about it now, you theorized while you jotted down bullet points on subjects you’d already been taught.

Lunch was the only time you were allowed outside of the classroom since first entering. He stayed close despite his previous actions, it was comforting to know he was always there, keeping an eye out for you should something go wrong.

You wondered if he had noticed anything strange since yesterday… He was better, he always had been–you and everyone else were counting on that now, but outside, people were betting their work on you as well. This is where your skill could come into usage, you wouldn’t call yourself mastered in the art of deception, but you’d never failed an assignment, so perhaps you didn’t need to speak for your psychological skills.

“Excuse me, do you think you could show me where the bathroom is?” 

Blonde bangs swished back and forth as she looked up at you. “Me?” Her accent added to her beauty, it was french, though you couldn’t tell which country it was from, it didn’t sound Parisain, he’d know–you stopped the thought before it was complete and focussed back on the girl in front if you

“Yeah,” you smiled and swayed on your feet, “Who else?” You scoured the empty courtyard, catching Savino in the second floor window, sitting on the small ledge protruding out on the ther side. He gave you a quick once over, and you didn’t miss that raised brow–but rather than allowing the rest of his reaction to show, Savino twisted his body and leaned his back against the window, probably rereading the book evident in his hands.

You bit back a smile, moving closer the girl, “Sure, I don’t see why not,” she collected her things as quickly as she could, “sorry,” she kept her head down, her voice was quiet and incredibly soft, she was a bit shorter than you, an inch or maybe half. When she stood next to you, her scent hit you so vividly. 

She painted a scenery with that fragrance: sitting at your kitchen table on a gloomy, rainy day, looking out the window as you drink vanilla coffee and eat cherries, spitting the pits into a glass bowl.

She spoke very timidly and mostly refused to meet your eyes, you tried to move away from the topic of what she smelled like, but it stuck with you, leaving an impression you were sure even he couldn’t explain away. “You’re very quiet.” You wanted to ask if she had any friends, but you thought you rather knew the answer already.

“Oh,” was all she said. You thought it queer and wondered perhaps if she knew something about what Cairo was keeping, perhaps she knew exactly what your roommate seemed to not want to talk about. 

As this girl led you down a path made of stones, you let your eyes roam across the grassy area, “is this the closest bathroom?’

“Out here? Yeah.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind a pale ear.

“Your earrings are cute, where’d you get them?”

“Oh,” she stumbled over the word, “uhm–they were a gift…” 

You nodded, though her gaze was centered elsewhere. They looked pretty expensive, though you had to remind yourself that here–it was normal to be able to afford things like white-gold, dangled diamond earrings. You sighed–a bit depressed at the thought–and hummed, “So, do you come out here often?”

“Every day except–” she paused, “most of the time, yeah.”

You wanted to ask, but you knew it was too soon. You were still the new girl, everyone had yet to drop their guard. “What’s your name? Forgive me, I forgot to ask.”

“Avice,” she said, a bit louder this time and–he abruptly crossed your mind just then, you wondered how he was fairing, you were no longer in sight of the school, he must have noted your disappearance. If you weren’t back within half an hour, he’d probably make up some excuse to come to search for you–your heart swelled and you tried to shake off the hotness that had grown on your cheeks. “We’ve arrived.”

The day withered, growing dark and cold. Classes went on as usual, Avice smiled at you during two instances, and Savino glanced at you from time to time, but not long enough for anyone to notice–other than you, of course. He was keeping a safe distance, as you kept reminding yourself that was needed for this operation to end successfully. Your brain knew that and your body knew that, but your heart ached to talk to him again. 

You wondered if it was as hard on him as it was on you, to be so close and yet so far. You were once inseparable, you hadn’t seen or spoken to him in over a month–he’d been in Russia obtaining his new identity because as soon as your team had gotten the case, you had both instantly taken on the roles assigned to you. Though a clean and neat infiltration took time, it was a priority and had been fast-tracked.

It would be a lie to say the school didn’t have its fair share of normalcy, but the odd-to-normal ratio was stark. Your second day at Gentry Prep was over, yet as you turned on your side under the sheets, you couldn’t help noting the moon peeking through the window’s curtains–it looked to be a waning crescent, reminding you that this was only the beginning. 

The school bell rang its last warning, it had still been dark outside when you had walked down the halls with Cairo this morning, the shutters were now shut in the classroom, you could smell the rain that had stopped earlier this morning, it was much colder than the day before. You shivered and pressed your legs together.

Avice had waved to you on your way in, taking a whiff of that perfume she seemed oto exude from her skin. A deep blue headband pulled back her hair, and you noted the same earrings she’d worn yesterday adorning her. Something pulling you toward them, as if they were keeping a secret. She sat in the front–unexpected for someone so quiet. But perhaps that wasn’t who she really was.

You couldn’t be sure when it came to the students here, there was only one person you could trust, but he–you glanced toward him, a different book today. You wondered what he was reading, the cover didn’t match one from yesterday. You’d done your best to keep track of him, but that wasn’t your job–just an extra precaution because of your history. Were it anyone else, you wouldn’t have taken such an interest.

An hour went by, then came a knock on the door and a man walked in. He wore a white coat and held a clipboard. No one said anything when Avice stood. She kept her head down when she walked out, the professor went back to her lesson as soon as the briefly opened door was shut once more.

Savino glanced at you, eyes a bit wide, but he didn’t look like Savino. His face was schooled into a normal calm mere seconds later and Spencer switched his identity again, but he had been there. You focussed on the notebook below you, grinning from ear to ear, he was there. Any doubt that had resided within you was now gone. He was there.

Students weren’t allowed in the courtyard because of the rain. Savino had taken off as soon as you were released into the halls, thoughts of him floated around the back of your mind as you slipped your way toward the Hospital Wing, toward the south of the school. That was where Avice had to have been taken unless she was in the office across campus. You didn’t think she would have be taken all the way down there, but it wasn’t in your place to assume.

And then there was the other part of your objective. The one assigned especially for you. You had to find a man named J—. That was all the ASIO had given you because that was all J— had given them. He’d been feeding the police information, albeit slowly–but it was more than they ever could have hoped for. 

He was cautious and never showed his face. He was your informant. Though he’d made it obvious he wouldn’t seek you out–and he hadn’t been given the specific details about whom he was meeting. It was your job to figure him out.

There was quiet chatter in the air as you passed other students, some gave you odd looks, the remainders didn’t acknowledge you at all. 

The vibe, you noted, did not seem to shift, everyone had the same energy, and it freaked you out. Why were students sporadically disappearing? Why were there some students that cared to look at you and some that didn't? Why were the staff so weird and why did some of the students seem to know more than what they were letting on?

You couldn’t corner Cairo and force her to tell you, but you could snoop around and keep an open ear on any conversation that rang bells. Whatever was going on here had to be worse than what you’d initially expected. You wondered if he had been able to obtain anything out yet, so far it seemed he’d only been reading books, but you knew Spencer better than that.

The south side of the school was desolate, you’d left the quiet bustling of the rest of the students a few hallways ago. The gloominess didn’t escape you, hospitals weren’t your favorite place, but to have one in a school made from an old castle high up in the mountains where there was no one but the faculty and the students seemed rather…extra.

“What are you doing down here?” A voice halted you. It was loud and stern. 

Your hands started sweating and you swallowed before turning around, it was the same man who’d taken Avice. Perhaps he’d know where she was, “just looking for my friend,” you rubbed your neck and smiled, “you took her out of class early…I thought she might be sick.”

“Avice doesn’t have any friends.” he quickly backtracked when he saw your frown, “What I mean to say–” he cleared his throat, “–no, she is not down here, run along now.” He motioned with his hands.

Your mouth pressed into a tight frown but regardless, you nodded and walked away. That was defensive. 

You weren’t friends, per se, but you were familiar, weren’t you? You were more than strangers to be sure–you weren’t certain how long you were going to be in this place, but you knew you had until summer break, you just hoped it wouldn’t get to that point. Though your need to continue your search for Avice tugged at you, you knew it would be better to let it go…for now at least.

Perhaps she really did do something to get herself in trouble, perhaps she was back in her room, safe and sound and you had nothing to worry about. Yeah, right.

Avice has no friends, what did he mean by that? It was so…random.

You shook your head, pausing when you realized there were no students around you? Did you get lost? You turned around, trying to recall where you’d been coming from, but there were no signs on the walls. Okay, try to recall the building plan in your head. You pictured the fresh paper and the old fonts that swirled in black print. How many times had you looked at the school’s blueprints? You knew this, come on–

Chatter…hushed chatter. 

You pressed yourself against the wall across from the windows and listened, there were no footsteps and the volume of the conversations stayed the same. The gray sky darkened in pigment and the clouds drew together, it looked like it might start thundering. Perhaps classes would be canceled early? 

There was no 21th-century heating system, so being in the classroom at these temperatures could prove hurtful to the students–shut up. Gosh, you couldn’t stand your ramblings. You’d been away from him for too long, from the rest of your team members. You missed them–you weren’t made for things like this.

You felt the tears brimming in your eyes, but they stopped suddenly when a word caught your attention. You followed the sounds of the voices, there were two, maybe three. You rounded a corner and paused…that was the faculty room. You had gotten lost, but now you knew precisely where you were. You reached out your hand as if the blueprints were in front of you–as if you could feel your finger dragging across the old, worn map.

You moved a bit closer and listened. It was quiet and for a second you thought possibly someone had heard you. But a second later, “You know very well why we can’t.”

“This has gone on for long enough–”

“There’s too many of them–

“But if we–

“J— I said no.” You scrambled to hide behind the corner from which you had just come, and a woman–hold on that was your prefessor–Ms. Dowynger. What were they arguing about? You made yourself smaller on instinct when a man placed his hand on the door and stepped out, looking around the hall–he found no one, of course. He was tall–extremely tall. He wore thick black glasses and his hair was clean cut–just shaven, it was black, as he turned, you caught the sight of a nametag.

He was another professor–and not only that–he was your informant! Questions on top of questions piled up in your inventory, unfortunately, that was the first warning bell and class was starting up again, you were supposed to keep your head down, and your profile low–but you would get nowhere if you did that!

Tonight then, your expression grew serious as you found your way around the twisting halls of Genrty Prep, tonight you would make your first move. You rounded the final hall toward 4A, almost colliding with a guy. “Sorry about that,” you sighed. The guy–though he was in your class–took one look at you and walked into the classroom without saying anything.

You couldn’t tell if it was the weather or if there really were students who knew more about the disappearances of their fellow classmates than it seemed at a first glance, but if that were true, why stay quiet? Did their parents not have connections? Were they not the Elite of the Elite? 

You wanted to scrub your brain of all the things that were not making sense–and then there was that oddity–you eyed Savino as he rounded the corner at the other end of the hall. He fixed his metal glasses, looking ever the Russian schoolboy, and nodded at you. What was he doing? Where had he been this whole time?  

Dreadfully, you did not have the privilege of acquiring answers to those types of questions because there were more precedent matters that needed your concerning.

You did not make it to the library that night, nor the night after. Things just never seemed to go your way, and eventually, two days became a week and a half. Savino could always be found somewhere around you, but he too–at times–vanished. 

A few things you’d gathered with mild conversation. A few nights, including the first night you’d arrived, you’d heard a noise, that sounded much like blacksmith melding weapons. At it turned out, the grounds keeper you’d met worked in one of the rooms on the first floor. He never seemed to sleep, it had creeped some of the girls out, though the ones that never spoke to you looked on with an unnerved amount of indifference.

Your body twitched and your eyes shut briefly as the sound of metal against metal found your ears. Your eyes snapped toward Cairo’s bed in brief envy. Darkness was the room and cold was the night, you sat up shivering and tiptoed across the large dorm, careful not to wake the ghosts of the castle.

The white night dress you wore billowed when you pulled the creaky old door open, small lanterns were hanging on the wall that lit a path, and every other one was blown out, creating a dimness to the already heavy atmosphere.

You had two obstacles, one being the dorm lady who circled back and forth throughout the night. You hadn’t seen her, but the girls talked in hushed whispers, and you were pretty well-versed in connecting dots. Reaching out, you felt the wall's eccentric carvings as you floated throughout the West Wing.

The building plans appeared before you in your head again, and as you slipped passed corner after corner, you were finally at the grand stairs. You hadsuccessfully missed the dorm lady! But now you had to get passed the that creepy old grounds keeper–or rather, not draw his attention. For somer reason, he seemed to be working on things all throughout the night every night.

You wondered if perhaps it was a coincidence, but it seemed to bug the girls who spoke to you immensely. No one had acquired a good rest in quite a while. He came to your mind then, as you hunched down, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Has he noticed? A frown fell to your lips, rather sad than curious, that she’s disappeared?

A cold wind rushed passed you when you reached the bottom, the noise was louder now, coming from the right, the library was on the left, so you were sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting in and out. Your silk slippers skated across the marble floor, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up when you reached the library and the door was ajar.

You felt it again. That cold presnece that seemed to follow you everywhere. You felt like Mary and the gaze to which pressed up against your back was your lamb. You did a onceover of the hall behind you–no one. Your palms made fists and a repetition began.

A slight noise, perhaps the sound of a book falling to the floor or a person bumping into a shelf. Someone was inside. But who?

Your eyes fluttered shut and your chest tightened. Carefully you slipped between the crack created by the door and its frame. The glow of the moonlight on the books and every wooden surface reverberated through you–it was astonishing if you didn’t think about the underlying actions recurring within its walls.

There was no candlelight, but the curtains had been drawn. The wind, you realized. You paced forward and pulled the window shut. There was no sign of her, a sigh escaped you, and your gaze turned downward, where you caught sight of a few scattered papers on one of the large, rectangular tables litterd across the library.

Before approaching it, you scanned the room a second time, assuring yourself that you were alone. The papers were a few different colors, some creamy white, others beige, showing their old age, some in between, and some darker than that. Shaken as you were, your hands found a steady rhythm as they ran across the strewn out papers. A few writing utensils sat a little further down near a large manila folder.

You ignored it and took a seat, keeping your ears open for any sudden noise whilst your eyes passed over word by word as quickly as they could. Oh–this was–and then you found it, a photo, a school photo. It looked recent, it must have been taken, she looked so… there were no words to explain her expression. 

Avice stared the camera down, one side of her hair tucked behind her ear–showing a very clean–very not pierced ear. Where was her earring? And why was she making that face? This wasn’t how you’d remembered her. She didn’t–that wasn’t–those weren’t–you didn’t recognize her, but that had to be her…right? 

You found the student ID number, 590-882 below that showed her country of birth, Belgium, Liège–and below that, her full name. Avice Dierickx.

The paper fell from your hand, its texture bringing it down on the table slightly harder. You jumped out of the seat as the door to the library creaked open fully and murmuring broke through the silent fog. You twisted in the heavy chair and all but but ran into a wall, your first thought was to scream, your second was to stifle that scream, and your third was to fight off your attacker.

The library had gotten smaller somehow, there were two walls all around you and they both seemed within reach. A hand pressed firmly against your mouth and your fingers dug into the arms of the person in front of you, soon, you felt flesh break. A low hiss came from the man’s mouth and he let you go.

You pushed him back, though he caught himself before making a sound, and just as the door to wherever you’d been stolen off to came into view, he threw an arm out against the wall, blocking the way with his body, glaring down at you. “What are you doing?”

Your feet moved backward until you hit a window you hadn’t known was there. There were no curtains, but upon assessing the tapestry-made reality before you, you were glad there wasn’t. “Sorry,” you turned away, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Well, that’s obvious.” He huffed, attempting to his mend wounds.

There were three bookshelves along the wall opposite you, but it wasn’t far. If you stuck your hand out and leaned a bit, you’d be able to reach them. The room was more of a long corridor, though it was skinny rather than the ideal wideness of one. Unlike a regular room, it fel like an American hallway. The concrete carvings continued around the visible parts of the wall. 

It felt like a secret room to nowhere, you breathed in the air that slipped through the old rickety paned glass, glancing downward. There were trees, but they looked odd, almost slanted. Your eyes widened and you stumbled back again, away from the window.

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, his chest catching your back. You looked up, watching him look out at the cliff, “it scared me the first time too.”

You wondered who he was this time, the safest answer would be Savino. You loomed over the window again, moving closer toward the shelves of books rather than the carved wall. “What are you doing down here?”

“The same thing you’re doing.” He raised a brow as if it were as clear as the missing light from the sky. It was a new moon tonight, but you thought it looked to be closing in on a waxing crescent, you could see him come to the same conclusion.

Perhaps speaking about your names was too risky, you shouldn’t be anywhere near him, you knew that, but you–“Is your arm okay?” He let you tug his blood-stained sleeve upward to analyze his flesh. His eyes clouded over as he watched you, fighting the urge to yank you further into him and inhale your scent.

He missed everyone, but he missed her especially. He hated the fact that though she was right here, right here in front of him, he couldn’t do anything. This was the assignment they’d both agreed upon, right? Could he really just pretend he didn’t know her?

“Did you see the documents out on the table?” He recognized her face, but everything else seemed off about her. He was starting to lose himself with each passing day, but he knew–he just knew if he solved the mystery and collected enough evidence to prove it, he’d be free from the torment that was every day in this prison. 

But they were alone, so why was she still acting this way?

A logical part of him knew it was her job, this was a job, only a job. He repeated the mantra over and over again. “Yeah, was able to get a few photos.” He waved the cellular device around, watching her mouth drop in a gape.

“They didn’t take it from you?”

“I was smart enough not to let it be seen.” Well, that would’ve been smart–but then again, wouldn’t have been believable enough for your persona.

“Whatever.” she dropped his arm, and spun around, pacing in the tiny space she had, “why would those papers just be on display like that?” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “They’re way too cocky.” 

He had to stay away from her if he wanted this to work. Though he knew a rendezvous would be necessary, he hadn’t expected it to happen this fast. Perhaps when they needed to put what had together and discuss whether or not it was enough, or when they found someone suspicious, though they knew the other was better suited to take them on.

“What are you thinking about?” Her voice trickled into his head like hot coffee. Oh, how he missed his sugary sweet addiction, he swore he used to drink it every day, now it felt like a foreign concept, but if he tried hard enough, he could almost taste the liquid. 

He flexed his hands, he was Spencer. That was his name. But right now he had to pretend to be Savino, her classmate–wait! He grabbed her wrist as she tried pulling away, his eyes breaking the illusion he hadn’t realized he’d been creating, it felt like a innate thing now, he didn’t have to try anymore… 

Savino was slowly gaining more power.

The stars shined down on her skin through the window, creating a translucent aura around her, he felt like he was leisurely falling into a grave, one he wouldn’t be able to climb out if he lingered there much longer.

“We can’t do this–” she hissed and it was her, not —, not the Spoiled American Rich Girl, but her, his teammate, his tether to reality. “Savino, it’s dangerous.”

His breath caught, that wasn’t his name. It had only been a month in Russia, but he’d taken on this identity with full transformation. No one had referred to him by his name–his real name–in over a month. It may have seemed like a short period, but in that house in Russia, there were baby photos of him and class photos, he had to walk past the murals of his parents who weren’t his parents, hear people his didn’t recognize tell stories of what he was like when he was younger. And he wasn’t allowed to speak English nor could he reference his old life–it was always Savino.

He wondered if that was how she was conditioned and if so, how she was still as sane as she was beautiful. — frowned, where had that come from? He trained his eyes on her, she did not move, nor did she show any signs of opposing him. He leaned forward, cupping her face into his hands, tears brimmed his eyes but refused to fall, “Say my name.”

Fingers brushed against your mouth–his fingers. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to hold in all the emotions threatening to break free. That wasn’t how — would react, and you couldn’t be anyone but her. You pushed him against the wall, pulling his face up to yours, eyes still on his, glancing back and forth between brown irises. But it’s just us, right?

He waited for her lips, but they never pressed against his, rather tickled his left ear with more love and grace than any kiss could have shown him.

“……Spencer……”

You jumped away from him, but he caught your wrists and tugged you back, careful not to make a sound as footsteps passed the very door that was hiding you. You breathed a sigh of relief, gripping the loose parts of his silk button-up, your hands were shaking, he pulled them into his, squeezing them in a silent comfort.

The muffled voices grew a bit louder as they grew closer to the table with the papers, no doubt. “Is that…”

“Bobefitz.” He whispered, his warm breath a stark contrast to the cold surrounding draft.

“Someone’s with him.” You murmured.

He nodded and hesitantly let you go. You tiptoed toward the beginning of the hall, holding your breath as you did so. You felt your blood pumping throughout your body at a higher rate than normal, you felt for his arm–he was there, you kept still even as he turned his gaze on you, ignoring his small smile, unsure of what it was suppose to mean.

The sky was clearer today so you ate outside, where you first spoke to Avice. Though your lunch looked incredibly appetizing, you were unable to think about anything else since that night in the library four days ago. Those documents that you’d seen, what did they mean? Why were they spread across the table? So far you’d stolen a few essays from the students and had begun your evidence file.

Keeping it under your mattress would be stupid, it’d be the first place they’d look should they find out who you were. You kept it hidden behind a painting on Cairo’s side. Okay, yes, you knew it was wrong, but she would never know, and you were doing this for her more than for you–right?

You had to continuously cnvicne yourself this was all for the students sake. You were in a dangerous position–you were taking a very high risk, but then who wasn’t? This was the career you had chosen, you can’t deter from the path you knew you were meant to walk because you’re scared. An idiot wouldn’t be, you knew that–but at times it just felt so…substantial. 

You’d take the fall if it were ever found, but you were sure that it never would be. Cairo wasn’t the type to go knocking things over, you rolled your neck–freezing up when you felt goosebumps run across your skin. There it was again. That same feeling of being watched.

Where the hell is it coming from? You felt like screaming–it seemed to always happen out of nowhere–you fisted your palms and stood, turning to clean your mess up while you got a good view of the court–there. What was–hey! Where did he think he was going?

You packed and tossed your things in the bin that sat near the fountain, rushing after the grounds keeper. He heard your footsteps through the grass–you could tell because you could hear the sound of your own footfalls. He didn’t turn around though, even when you called out to him.

“Hello?” You tapped his shoulders and jumped when he spun around, his face twisting into a nasty frown. He wore the same blue jumpsuit from the day you arrived, though now that you inspected it, there was no nametag.

“What do you want?” His accent was gruff but subtle, one might miss it if they weren’t listening hard enough, but you recognized it from your first day.

“You were watching me.” You crossed your arms, “I want to know why.”

He shook his head, an undesirable smirk claiming his frown. You hardened your face, feeling your eyes narrow. “It’s not funny. It’s creepy–”

“Look little miss,” he sighed, “I’m not watching you. I apologize if that’s what you thought.” He frowned again, genuine concern crossing his gaze as he held a hand to his heart. No, this wasn’t right. He was lying–but then– “And even if I were,” he said, having you pause and raise a questioning brow, “…it wouldn’t be for the reasons I’m sure your little brain is concocting.”

“Why do you say that?” He began to walk away again, but you chases after him.

He glanced over your shoulder and dropped his head, “You should get going now, little miss.”

“I’m not done talking to you!”

“–yeah, well I am, now leave me alone.” You huffed but stood by as he grabbed a dusty old bag of tools near his feat and walked off into the forest. How irritating. 

You needed to talk to Savino, sooner rather than later, you hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to do your job with limited resources, you’d never been in this situation before, the multitude of mock simulations you’d gone through couldn’t even begin to be compared to real life. 

Tapping your finger as you sat in class, you did your best to avoid staring at the back of his head. How. How could you communicate with him without–your thoughts came to a halt because Cairo couldn’t hear you, but she could read and write…but passing notes wouldn’t cut it, you had a better idea.

Cairo went to bed later than usual, studying for a quiz the next day; midterms were still a month away, though you were hoping to finish your job before you had to relive the worst anxiety of your life. 

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, threw the sheets off your legs, and stood, wincing when the door to the room creaked.

Footsteps, not loud, but not quiet sounded right down the hall, it must’ve been the Dorm Lady, damn why was your timing so bad!? Slipping back into your room would make too much noise, she was too close now–a few feet away from turning the corner. You heard the hum the girls in your class had mentioned.

You were cornered–there was nothing but a window on the back wall and the hall your dorm was on led to a dead end. You sped toward the window, looking to hide behind the large dresser below it when the wall to the side of you began moving–you held your breath, confusion wrapped itself around you when the grounds keeper appeared, “Well don’t just stand there!” His shout was hushed.

Less than three seconds later, you heard the Dorm Lady round the corner. Relief fled your system, but before you could rest, the grounds keeper grabbed your hand and attempted to pull you down–the inside of the hall? “What is this place?” You snatched your hand back–a flash of Spencer and the small room in the library appeared in your mind, the memory put you off balance for a moment–you couldn’t think about that now. 

“Who are you?” The small lamp he was holding barely lit enough of the closed space to allow you to see each other. Behind him was pure emptiness.   

Your mouth clamped shut, you glanced away and swallowed, “I’m a student–”

“–No–you’re not,” he shook his head and made a face. 

He stared you down a moment longer, lips pressed together in thought.

Eventually, he sighed, “it doesn’t matter who you are. Why are you here?”

“I snuck out of my–

“Don’t crap on me kid. Whoever you are, if you’re sneaking out of your dorm at night you’re either stupid or up to something. Now which is it.”

Were you sure you could trust him? No. You couldn’t trust anyone. Those were the rules. You’d gone over them several times. It was the first thing you were told when you had received this mission. “I’m not stupid.” Was what you settled for.

He watched you, his chest heaving up and down five times before he nodded, “thought so. You a cop?”

You stood your ground, watching for any reaction that might indicate your cover had been blown. Another sigh, he pulled his hat off, and turned his gaze to the floor before nodding, “Alright.”

A little bit of your heart lifted, but you had to remember. The only person you could trust–other than yourself–was Spencer. “What’s your name?”

He shook his head, “that doesn’t matter.”

“What do I call you then?”

He was quiet for a moment, then a small smile slid across his mouth, “Nonno.”

Well, that was an odd name, but it didn’t make much of a difference. “You going to help me?” He went silent, eyes fixed on the ground he couldn’t possibly see. “Why?”

The whites of his eyes darkened, his gaze grew heavy, and his shadow seemed to enlarge. “It’s gone on long enough.”

He didn’t say more on the subject, but you had to ask. You had a sinking feeling it was worse than anything you could’ve imagined. But this was crazy–but then again, people do crazy things. He looked uncomfortable–he didn’t have to elaborate much, you both knew what he meant in the end.

A moment of silence passed as he led you through the hidden passages within the school, “Where’s Avice, the girl that disappeared from my class?” You still kept a safe distance. This was stupid. You shouldn’t have followed him without a weapon, he could turn on you at any moment. Perhaps he was leading you into a trap, you couldn’t be sure. But it was worth the risk, was it not?

These were the things you had to decide for yourself Hotch wasn’t here to tell you what the best course of action was–Rossi wasn’t here to school you the history of what, why, and how.

Nonno huffed and halted his walking. His ears perked up, when he heard nothing but the sound of shutters swinging back and forth, he continued. “The Hospital Wing.”

“But–I already–

“She wasn’t there before. She’s there now. She’s sedated.” He shifted the lamp to his other hand, coming to another stop. You kept silent, trying to control your breathing. He glanced back at you and locomoted to the side, “Look.”

Hesitantly, you stepped forward and peeped through the small hole. You swallowed a gasp, watching the doctor–the ghostly one from before–looming over a bed. Your view was crooked, you must’ve been in the wall nearest the door. You waited for him to move, but he didn’t–but you didn’t need him to because you caught a lock of blonde hair spilling over the side of the bed and you knew.

“Where was she before? When she wasn’t here?” You smelled her…the perfume was strong, even when you were feet away. Your eyes bagan watering at the smell, though you couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t unpleasant, it just…had you in tears.

“The dungeons,” came his gruss reply, “below the school.”

You slowed your breathing in an attempt to calm yourself. How–you didn’t want to even think about the possibilities. “How is it accessed?”

Nonno shifted uncomfortably, you spun around, eyes red-rimmed. His heart sunk knowing the things he’d been keeping–though he hand’t been apart of it, he’d done his fair share in ignoring the comings of goings throughout the years. He knew it was wrong, so he opened his mouth.        

You accepted the information, gulping down the bile that had built up. You fixed your gaze back on the peephole, but made no move to look through it again. “They’re being drugged, but why?”

Nonno’s face contorted, but now was’t time for bullshitting. Where the hell were these kids going? Voices echoed throughout and filtered in through the little cracks of the wall. His face dropped, “It’s time to go.” He began pulling on your wrist, but you still had questions.

A glare passed over you face and you pulled back, “Why? What don’t you want me to see?” 

He slapped a hand over your mouth, his eyes wild, but not like a predators. He looked almost…fearful…“Shhhh.”

Slowly, he released you, allowing you to head back to the peephole, there was a group of men you didn’t recognize–but one you did. Headmaster Bobefitz. “Oh my God.” your voice shuddered and you stumbled back, “They’re marketing them?”

His grim frown told you more than that. You didn’t question why he took so long to do something. You didn’t shame or lecture him. It wasn’t your place, to be sure you found it madness how a person could sit back and watch it happen to innocent children, but there was a part of you that feared his answer.

“What happens after it’s over?” A heavy sigh fell from the old mans lips; you were getting tired of hearing them. “What happens–”

“–I don’t know, I…I really don’t know. They take them down to the dungeons again and…”

You could conclude the end of his sentence on your own, you toppled over, holding a hand to your mouth, there was that french perfume–growing stronger somehow as it mixed with the scent of your vomit.

𝟷𝟻; 𝙲𝙳; 𝙻

You left the note in the machine before heading back to bed. Nonno had set up a typewriter in the hidden room Savino had found. He confirmed no one ever entered or left that room other than, “your friend”.

Telling Nonno about Savino was a higher risk than you’d ever intended on taking. But you were ready. You were ready to go home. 

There was one more thing you had to check off your list. With Nonno’s testimony, the evidence from the essays the students had written–to which you could barely look at–you had to get to J—.

He had access to the faculty room–you needed to get inside that room, but more than that–you had to convince him to testify against the school. That was the incomplete part. If you could only get a second alone with him–if you could convince him–you could and you would. You had no doubt….

……but what if I can’t?

Your eyes squeezed shut and you smacked your hands against your cheeks–this was no time for hesitation. You had coworkers counting on you–mothers and fathers [even if they were oblivious]. These students too–God, they were just children, you couldn't even begin to imagine.

A tear slipped from you eyes. You wiped it with your bedsheet.

Nonno would be able to get you a moment alone with J—, but it would take a bit of time, you had to share with Spencer what you knew before then so he’d be on the same page. Nonno explained he had seen Savino slipping through the secret passages the day you’d arrived.

The old grounds keeper had his suspicions then, but had kept them to himself and avoided Savino the best he could. “He’s been in that room every day around noon, he spends a lot of time in there.” Was what he’d said as he had led you back to your room. You hoped that Savino would see the typewriter, know it wasn’t meant to be there, approach it, and understand the letter was from you.

You’d shoved it between Dostoyevsky and Wordsworth, which you knew would catch his attention as he had seemed to have organized the books back there by author, though you knew it had been Spencer, not Savino that had been compelled to sort them that way–you were anticipating the old philosophers would draw him out once more. 

He’d be okay, you were sure…you had to be sure.

Nonno was stalking J—, learning his patterns in order to find the right time you could speak with him alone and unnoticed. You weren’t sure how long it would take, it’d only been last night that you’d found the secret looming over this boarding school. There’d been 12 students over the course of a decade. How did parents not notice? The townspeople? The staff? Who was all in on it?

That’s what you had to figure out. The lunch bell rang and you wondered if the rest of the day would be this agonizing. Avice was counting on you–every student seemed to have a target on their backs. You were sure there was more to the story, multiple students didn’t avoid your eyes because a student they barely knew disappeared–there was something deeper rotting within this place.

Sweating seemed impossible at the altitudes you were at, and yet even as the sky was a cold blue, here you were wiping sweat from your forehead. You had a sick feeling watching your professor. She knew something, it wouldn’t be a stretch to think they all did. 

There was something about the uneasiness of the day. You wondered what happened. Just last night, you were exhilarated, you felt like the end was approaching. When this was all over, you could give everyone peace, you could give Avice peace. You hated the fact that you had to leave her, but Nonno had assured you they wouldn’t settle so easily.

Though it sounded horrible, Bobefitz being a money-hungry monster meant Avice had a few more days. That was all you needed. You would save her. You would. 

Your eyes grew heavy and you shut them for a few seconds, inhaling the ghost of a scent. Your eyes opened, she was there and then she wasn’t. Your stomach dropped to your feet when the warning bell rang. How had an hour passed already? You felt like you were losing time, and maybe you were.

The clocks seemed to move differently in this place, where was the White Rabbit when you needed him?

Only when his hands touched her did he relax. He felt like he could breathe again. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. Scared of his own mind, scared that his mind wouldn’t be his when he got out of here. He didn’t want to think about that. Nevertheless, when she was in front of him–and oh so tangible, he was safe.

“I have something to say,” she pulled away. She looked…Spencer couldn’t find the words. But he knew he was Spencer. Whenever he looked at her, he was taken back to that night–he felt the bristling of her voice tickle his ears, the way she whispered his name grounded him.

“You’ve found something?”

“More than something, I think you should see it for yourself.” She looked behind him, and when he heard the scraping he blocked her with his body. It was the grounds keeper. Shit was he in on it too? Of course. Of course, they’d be found out now. Spencer didn’t know how he’d proceed, but he knew it was them or this guy, and he wouldn’t let it be her. Not her.

“Spencer,” his body sagged at the way his name rolled off her tongue, it was soft and soothing; understanding. She tugged at his arm slightly and said, “It’s okay, he’s with me.”

Spencer wasn’t prepared for what he was about to see, nor for what he was about to be told. He’d successfully gathered the names of each staff member and had sorted them into three groups. The Oblivious, The Knowing, and The Disgusting Pieces of Trash That Committed. He hated knowing the oblivious had the least amount of names on it, at just three.

Spencer didn’t know how many students had been sexually assaulted and he didn’t know how many other students knew about the assaults. What he did know was that no amount of therapy would allow these kids to forget what happened here, no amount of therapy would give back the fours years they spent–and the worst part was that ther was more out there. Students from the past years–over ten years. 

And now there was a sex trafficking ring on top of the sexual assault these students have had to edure becasue the adults that were suppose to be protecting them looked the other way. It was leading him to question if what he did at the BAU was really ever making a difference.

It was, to be sure it was. That was a stupid question, the logical part of him said, but it’s never dumb to ask that question, is it? The other part pressed. Jesus, what was becoming of his world?

A tremendous number of trauma. He was a grown adult and even he had trouble sleeping at night knowing everything he did, he couldn’t imagine going through puberty knowing everything and knowing there was nothing you could do–not to mention having absent parents that dropped a wad of cash in your bank account every week in turn for their presence.

No, Spencer could not imagine that at all. A shiver curled up his spine. He was cold, she was in her nightdress so she must be cold as well. But everything would be over soon. He believed that. He had to.

You had grown accustomed to walking down darkened hallways. You no longer waited for ghosts to jump out at you because ghosts were not the scariest thing that tormented this place, unfortunately, the terror showed itself in people that were very much alive.

“Stay quiet.”

“I will.”

“Watch yourself.”

“I will!” He hushed you even though you didn’t think you were that loud.

“And be careful.”

You huffed, but you knew he was only worried. He shouldn’t be though, this was your job, you wanted to be here–this is exactly what you were meant to be doing, and as the key passed between his hand to yours, you knew you wouldn’t have traded this life for anything else.

You stepped out from the hidden passage and swept toward the large wooden door. The key went it and upon slightly twisting it, clicked. Your heart almost jumped out of your chest with how loud the noise was. It bounced off the walls and you were sure someone who catch you–but the hall remained empty. 

You knew Nonno was watching you and that you had nothing to worry about, but for some reason, his stare still sent a shiver up your spine. You pushed and the barrier gave way, though dark. You held up the lamp Nonno let you borrow, here it was. The faculty room.

And there in the corner, waiting in the dark, was J—.

You slowed the speed of the door shutting, allowing it a light thud before spinning around and acknowledging him. “Agent, I’ce been expecting you,” he pushed up his glasses, and shoved the papers he seemed to be grading away, “though to be honest…I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

“Why?” You raised a brow.

“Just,” he waved a hand and shrugged, “I believe we have mor pressing matters to discuss.”

“Yes,” you licked your lips, noting the filing cabinets that stood against the back wall behind him. You moved forward and settled the lamp on a nearby table. “Would you like to begin?”

Your informant shifted, and his hand bended, almost like a twitch. “I want to be clear on something,” his voice was low and croaky, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “I want ful protectin. Before anything, I am a schoolteacher. I took on this job without knowing….it, and I’ve been doing my best to keep a low profile while simultaneously feeding the government information.” He crossed his hands, “I want to know when this is all over, I won’t be arrested.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and scoffed. This felt familiar. Very familiar. “I’m in no position to assure such a thing, but what I can tell you is that the head of the ASIO has no ill intent toward you–ysomeone should have told you this already, but,” you leaned for ward, glancing at the old candle hlder near him, he had little wax left, “so far, you have done everything the ASIO has asked of you–you’ll be in protective custody for a while when this is over”

“Good,” he pushed his glasses up again, though they would undoubtedly slide down the bridge of his nose continuously during your conversatin. “Then,” he slid his chair out and spun, running a hand up and dow the drawers until he found th eone he was looking for, “you should take a look at these.

You’d promised to keep this part of your mission a secret, but right now you were really wishing you had Spencer’s reading abilities. You sifted through each file, reading through the reports. 

You wondered just many student complaints had been filed about it. “Huh,” your eyes scanned over names you both recognized and didn’t. “These have all been ignored, I assume?”

“These are all relatively old, to be honest. I think all the students know by now they’re useless.”

“How many do you think…would be willing to testify?” You leaned back.

J— sighed, and leaned agains this chair. His eyes, though flickering in the candle light, seemed dimmer than they did suring the day. Perhaps because this was the real J—, he was a narcissist, but he cared about his job. He chose this career for a reason, maybe something signofcant happened with a teacher in his childhood–you forced yoru mind to pause. Profiling him wasn’t something you could add into your evidence file. 

“I don’t know,” he finally said. He was young, possible your age, but the bags under his eyes added more than a few years. You knew it’d be a big ask, but perhaps some of them would be willing–hold on, what a was that? You ran your fingers back through the list of names again–her name was pretty broad, and yes,this was an international boarding school, but something told you this was her. “What is it?” He leaned forward, eyeing the parchment in your hands.

You bit your lip–you wouldn’t put it past these animals–but would someone really…? It would explain that way she acted when you began to ask too personal questions. You felt the brimming of tears, you had to keep your cool, but as you tugged out the file, your chest shuddered. “I know this person.”

What did this mean? You read over the document again, Oh Cairo… your heart felt for her. You recognized the girl sh’de named; Hadee had been the 10th student to go missing, that was just last year. The being pulled out during classes lined up with what happened to Avice.

You gripped the form, you could use this as evidence. You set it down before you made a dent larger dent in the paper. You would be the one to explain to Cairo what happened. You would–you would–breath in. Breath out. Come on, you can do this. 

Water streamed down your puffy cheeks. You wanted to be home. You wanted to go home. You needed–you needed arms. His arms. You needed someone–not just anyone–you needed him to hold you. Now more than anything you needed to keep it together.

Keep it together.

Your eyes closed for a moment. When they fluttered open again, you wiped the remaining water with your the sleeve of your nightdress and got back to work, ignoring J—’s stare as he pretended to continue grading papers.

Back and forth, you eyes ran up and down through the paper trail–it was amazing what you could do when your motivation was strong enough. You knew Spencer wanted to go home. You could see it in his tired eyes. Nonno’s too. You didn’t know his story, though there was this curiosity in you that wondered if there would come a time where you ever would. Regardless, you could see the burden of guilt weighing down on his shoulders, figuring it must have been a long since he’d smiled.

He didn’t need to go to prison, he was already in one. He had been for the last decade. You wouldn’t be the one to ask, but you knew he’d have to explain why he kept quiet all these years to someone.

You supposed it didn’t matter the age, anyone would lose their mind if they stayed in this gloom long enough. You knew you were tipping over the edge with every passing day. You couldn’t imagine a year living in this place let alone ten. 

You couldn’t read through all of them, but you grabbed every single one and added it to the growing pile beside the lamp on the table. Soon, your sight grew weak and your yawns were no longer just an actions to pass the time.

You stood, stretched, and cleared the mess you’d made. Someone was bound to notice the number of missing reports sooner or later, but you were putting your faith in the ASIO that they’d storm the place before then. Your job was supposed to get out–not wait for their signal, but it was starting to feel like that would be harder. Only one of you could leave. That would keep suspicions low. 

You slide the chair you’d been using back in and grabbed the lamp–the candle was almost completely gone, “done?” J— raised a brow.

“Will you testify?” The stack of papers you held in a death grip hit your chest as you pusehd your chair in.

“Do I have a choice?” It seemed like he ha tried ot make a joke, but you weren’t in the mood for jokes. J— cleared his throat, shifting under your piercing gaze,“yeah, yeah I’ll testify.”

“Then, yes, I am.” You walked to the door, pressed your ears against it, and listened. 

When you deemed it safe, you held in a breath and pulled it open, wincing at the loud squeak. You held your cheeks between you teeth and forced yourself into the cloud of darkness.

“Nonno?” Your breath blew out like fire. The floors were ice-cold, you could feel it through your slippers. You scanned the hall, looking for him behind the walls. As the silence grew, so did the pace of your heartbeat. 

Then, a slight shift in the concret wall and there Nonna stood. Relief hit you like a wave and you began breathing regularly again. “Come on,” he waved a hand.

A weary smile tugged your mouth up slightly as you moved forward. Your body went rigide, your eyes went wide, and you shivered. Slowly, you craned your neck, but there was no one. You turned back to Nonno. He was in front of you. He wasn’t hiding, you could see him as clear as the light in your lamp would allow you. So who? Who in the hell was watching you? If it wasn’t Nonno, then who?

Seconds later you found yourself once again hidden behind the walls of the school. “What took you so long?” You shouted in a whisper, your body jolted as if you had been shocked, the cold was getting to you.

“Nevermind that,” he waved a hand, “let’s get you back before anyone notices you’re gone.” He frowned at your disheveled frame, “let me see that.” He grabbed the lamp from you, and you–now free–ran your right hand up and down your left shoulder, trying to create some sort of friction.

Nonno led you through the halls, but you stopped him before he left you near your dorm. “There’s one last thing I have to ask you to do.”

He took a step back, evaluated you, and sighed, “What is it?”

A month and a half. A month and a half you had been in this school. You had learned the comings and goings of the staff, of the students, you had adapted–had become part of the system. You were in the clear–but just in case–just as a counter mesaasure–

No, you shouldn’t think about that because it only mattered if you were caught. And you weren’t. You hadn’t been, today was the day. Tonight you would call the number J— used and he would deliver the message. He was smart–smarter than you’d imagine. You’d seen the cryptic messages he’d elft the ASIO before leaving to begin your training. It was ovr–almsot–it was so close you could practically feel the sweet victory in the air.

Avice would be saved, Nonno had assured you she was still in the Hospital Wing, she was still there–she hadn’t been auctioned off yet. You thought had water brimming the corenrs of your eyes, but you blinked them back.

You thought of the countermeasure you had instilled last night. And the second favor you had asked of Nonno. At first it was just one, but as you were setting up the first favor, a thought occurred to you, and it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Spinning a black pen in your fingers, you bit the inside of you cheek and leaned on your right palm, glancing out the window to your left. Bolted, as always. You noted your reflection, it looked somehward warped, you shivereda nd leaned forward, analyzing the mirror just a bit harder. 

The sun was a bit more noticeable today, but the air was just as cold. You blew a thin lock of hair out of your face and shifted in your seat. Was that? No, you must be seeing things. A sigh fell from your lips and you let you relaxed a bit more. Crossing one leg over the other and letting your eyes fall shut, everything almost felt like a dream. You couldn’t have asked for anything better last night. Nothing had gone wrong, it seemed almost too easy–though you were doing your best to act as casual as you could, it was hard. Because everything had gone so right, you felt a bit lighter.

It sounded wrong, knowing Avice was being drugged hourly and she must have gone through so much to get to that point–you were hoping she didn’t remember any of it when everything was over. You didn’t know if it’d be better to remember or to forget it all–so maybe you weren’t the best person to be suggesting or giving advice on the matter.

Your back straightened and your hands fell onto your desk when that guy in the white labcoat–the one who had whisked Avice away, appeared in the doorway of the classroom. Savino’s eyes found yours briefly, but before anyone else could notice, he diverted them. “Miss —,” the guy called–you hadn’t deduced whether or not he was an actual doctor, regardless, his licence would definitely be revoked withing the coming hours. His eyes landed on your professors, then yours, “please come with me.”

Fear. 

You stomach dropped, you felt sick. Not a single student would look at you. Nonno hadn’t spoken much about what happened when the students were first taken, he’d actually neglected to say much at all. And you were partially thankful because you didn’t think you could handle knowing whilst mere probabilities away from being their next target.

You stood numbly, your chair scraping the floor extra loudly–or maybe that was all just in your head. Your hands grew clammy and your movements were rigid as you walked. “What is this for?” You forced out, though you knew it was better not to draw any more attention to yourself than already had been. 

The doctor eyed your person, his thin, pink lips were cracked, they pursed together in a way that looked like it hurt. “The Headmaster has requested your presence.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, chilling the rest of your body. Every step forward took effort. Savino caught your gaze when you passed his desk, and almost instinctively, grabbed your hand. Squeeze squeeze Spencer squeeze squeeze I’m scared squeeze squeeze what do I do?

“Now, please.” The unnamed man called briskly, his voice wavering on annoyance. 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before you could stop yourself, you shook your head and snatched your hand away, following the man out. This wasn’t his battle, and even if it were–you loved him too much to throw him under the bus. Underneath all that Russian coolness, he was still your nerdy, beloved coworker.

Gone. Gone. She was gone. She was gone and he had let her go. He should have done something. Why did he just watch? Why didn’t he stand? Why? Why? Why?

He had to get out. Spencer bit the fingernail attached to his thumb. He had to escape. He had to alert everyone on the outside. He had to do it now.

They knew. They knew! Spencer wasn’t dumb. By standing up–by doing anything other than letting her go, he too would have been caught. The operation would be compromised and perhaps neither him nor her made it out of this alive. It was as clear as to why he had stayed silent. That didn’t make it any less bearable. If he lost her. If he lost her–Spencer would–he would……what would he do?

Nothing. He couldn’t possibly know what he’d do because he couldn’t imagine ever possibly losing her. She was him teamate, his literal partner in crime–or rather in fighting crime. That sounded studpid. Why couldn’t a single coherent though come form him?

He needed to focus on getting her back. Right? He was useless without her because she had information the Australian government needed. She had evidence he didn’t, half assed evidence whouldn’t fly in court, would it? He stopped, his eyes tracing over the type writer, there was another note. Another letter. He’d burned the previous one in his dormroom’s built in fireplace.

He followd the words with his eyes as he stepped closer. The page ripped neatly, making a crisp sound Savino in that moment couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟻𝟶/𝟻𝟶 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛’𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗. 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍? 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜. 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍. 𝙳𝚛. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍.

It wasn’t written. But he felt like she wanted to write more, to say more. And if he was right, then she was more selfless than he could ever be.

He allowed himself a few seconds, when the warning bell rang, he took a breath, wiped his tears, and folded the piece of stock paper, tucking it into the pocket on his blazer.

You stepped into the school’s office. It felt like decades had past since the last you’d been here. The room was as sullen as you had remembered it. The man in the white labcoat stood with you in the suffocating room until the doors behind the desk opened and Headmaster Bobefitz came into view.

His name tasted sour even in to the voice in your mind, you held in the urge to make a cross face. His smile was shuddersome, you wanted to run–to hide–to be as far away from this man as possible. The man in the labcoat began to walk away and you turned, almost as if to ask him to stay.

You didn’t and when you face Bobefitz again, he had his eyebrows raised in mockery. They seemed to say, go ahead. You found your eyes narrowing and though sweaty, your palms compacted into fists. “Don’t make that face,” his voice trickled through the closed area, low and haughty.

It was disgusting.

“Follow me, let’s talk.”

You quivered, held your breath, and put one foot in front of the other. It didn’t matter that you were trapped. Spencer had everything he needed to call, and that was enough for you. If it had to come down to you or them, well, you had chosen the second option the instant you had taken on this operation–you couldn’t walk away now, just because you were afraid. He would understand, wouldn’t he?

A large desktop computer sat on a desk in the dark corner of the tight room. It was smaller that the one outside, he was closer now, but he took his seat across from you and motioned for you to sit. The room was decorated with flags of over 30 countries, a picute frame sat facing away from you.

You held your arms and hunched your shoulders, “you wanted to see me?”

You jerked at the way he stared at you. Pure evilness. His balding head might have been shiny in another sort of light, his black eyes peirced you. There was nothing there. No soul. It wasn’t human–whatever sat across from you. “I want to show you something.” His voice sounded sticky, dirty, and cruel.

His clammy, pale skin seemed to seep into the wall behind him, he melted in his chair, hands on his beer belly as he watched you analyze the screen. Horror dawned on you–image after image. In your room, in the halls, in the classroom, in the hospital wing and the faculty office–a close up of you leaning toward the camera unknowing–oh my God…this picture had been taken just moments prior.

Panic hit you from every angle as one photo in particular caught your eye. Your fingers flexed open and closed several times while your eyes ran through every detail.

There you were–talking to Nonno outside of the gates. The date read 02/16/07. It hadn’t been Nonno watching you, it had been Bobefitz. He had cameras all over the school…

He’d been watching you since the very beginning.

His hand connected with a line of books. A few of them came off the shelves. His angry eyes darkened at the sight of the files tucked safely behind Notes from Underground, the book that had led him to this secret room. He didn’t have time to wait until tonight. He had no idea what they were doing to her and even if he did, he was useless. God, why did he have to be so weak?

The grounds keeper–whose name he still didn’t know–appeared on the other end of the hall near the door. “We need to get a message to your friends.”

“You think I don’t know that?” His eyes narrowed as he came face to face with the old man. His average height gave Spencer somewhat of an advantage, and as he towered over the old man–a thought occurred to him– “If I find out you had anything to do with–

“I didn’t.” The man held up a hand, “you need to calm down.”

“Calm down? Don’t tell me to…fucking calm down!” His voice cracked–Spencer never cursed–but what if he wasn’t Spencer? What if he was Savino? With her, he knew who he was–he knew what was real and what wasn’t. But she wasn’t here, and he couldn’t remember what he had to do again–

Savino’s back hit the shelves behind him, he’d been shoved– “You need to get yourself together. You want to save these kids? You want to save the little miss?” His accent sounded slavic–no that was Savino’s own accent. Spencer held his head, a grimace colliding with his face as he moved to a crouch.

“I know who I am,” he whispered, “I know who I am.”

The grounds keeper sighed–Savino looked up, his brain was splitting in two. It was safer to default back to Savino. It was more comfortable to not fight back–but he had a mission. He couldn’t just let hismelf go–he couldn’t because he had a job to do–and Savino didn’t care about those things–that wasn’t in his conscience.

—

The name reverberated in his head. But was it her name or the fake name she had been given? They were the same person, right? He didn’t know–he didn’t–

—

That was Savino’s priority. He didn’t care about anyone or anything else. But she would never forgive him if–dangerous. This was a dangerous situation–a dangerous game of reality. 

“Get me ug–” He pushed himself onto his feet. It hurt–it hurt mentally. He wanted to sleep; he didn’t.

“A phone?” His head tilted upward, standing behind the old grounds keeper was the  frame of a short man pushing up glasses too thick for his face.

The unnamed man stepped further into the room, sliding out a mobile, and clicking a few buttons on the device. It rang through the small hall-made room,a nd eventually a click. The other line had picked up. The man nodded, a grim expression floating across his face, “one’s been taken, the other looks like he’s losing his shit You shouldn’t have sent them if they weren’t ready.”

“We didn’t have that privilege.” He stood, not knowing who the man in front of him was, only knowing he didn’t like him enough to fully trust him. The final bell for classes rang. He didn’t care, all that mattered was getting the evidence into safe hands. He had multiple battles ahead of him and he’d have to fight them all while simultaneously not knowing who the real him was.

The halls of Genry looked odd. Everything was blurring–or perhaps that was just your vision–the windows were bolted as usual–but something else caught your eyes. You took pause at the chains hanging from each lock. Those weren’t there before–if they had been you would have no doubt noticed them.

“Where are you taking me?” These weren’t the normall halls–they were replicas. “Get off of me!” You shook whomever held your hands behind your back.

Your jaw mentally hit the floor and you stumbled backward, “d…dad?”

“Hello, sweety,” tears pooled in your eyes, what was going on? Why–

“Oh, dad…” he opened his arms and motioned you forward with is hands. You felt his hug before you took your first step.

You took another and another–halting just before his hands wrapped around you. A flash of dark brown down the halls–but behind your father weren’t the halls you’d just been walking down–it was a large, floor to ceiling mirror that extended the entire space behind him like an icicle made from magic.

Your body jerked to the side–though when you turned around no one was there, you gazed around once more, but your father was gone. You were alone–you were all alone. The sky outside the bolted and chain-linked windows grew dark, clouding your vision once more. You stumbled and grabbed onto the chains to keep yourself from falling. 

You were falling–the building was falling, it was slanted it–where were you?

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You blinked and everything returned to you. Your father was dead–had been for about six years now. You were dreaming–you had been dreaming. None of it was real. Then what is. You felt tears spring to your face. This was madness–you were delving into it every second you were here. 

None of it is real.

You hoped Spencer had gotten your letter. You hoped he was out of here, perhaps the ASIO were deploying their teams now–readying to take the school.

“Well, you’re a bit older than the usual ones.”

“Can we sell her?”

“Oh, I think you’ll be alright.” The beady eyed doctor in his stupid white lab coat fixed his only working eye that hid behind a monocle on you, “there’s bound to be a buyer for everything–though you could probably pass her off as younger, if you wanted.”

“You bastards,” you seethed, snatching your wrist to your stomach–you head turned–it was chained. The space around you was dark–darker than normal, there were no white carvings in the walls–no it was all–it was gray–deep, ugly grays filled your vision.

A cynical laugh echoaed throughout the room–a few followed. You tried to get a good look them all, you might have to identity them later. You better enjoy this. You’ll rot in prison for the rest of your lives when the system is through with you. You jerked the handcuffs and beared your teeth, I’ll make sure of it.

An hour before classes ended, Savino heard the sirens. The moutains were an hour drive from the closest town–the school was about 30 minutes up hill–frankly he was surprised they had gotten here so quickly. Surprised–and grateful.

“So, how does this work?” The old man asked gruffly, “I’ve heard them through the walls, they’re looking for a missing student.”

“Yeah,” he wasn’t dumb. He knew he should have gone back to class to keep from drawing attention to himself, but Savino didn’t need to care about suck things. Some part–maybe both of them–knew that if he went back to class he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had holed up in this room.

But then, that would mean Savino and Spencer both knew that Spencer was the real him, right? Because why else would they both know that it was better to stay hidden? “Are you crying?”

“No,” but his voice wavered and he felt hot despite the weather.

He felt he should have someone–someone other than her–someone on the outside. Someone he could turn to–but he couldn’t–“Ugh,” he groaned.

“Are you sick, what–what’s wrong with you?” Old Man leaned over him and helped him sit upwards. “Oh, Son…that’s not good…” he shook his head and he didn’t know what the old man was referring to.

“Wait,” Savino turned his head to the right, toward the door, “do you hear that?”

“Is it them? Is it safe?”

He stumbled toward the door, “let’s go through the walls just to be sure…”

Old Man hesitated for just a second, then with tight lips, nodded, “come on then.”

The grimy walls were of no concern to Savino–though he’d been in much nicer conditions, they served a more significant purpose now–they hid him.

Footsteps–several sets of them–then a voice–a voice he thought he recognized. “Stop–” he whispered, holding out a hand.

“What–what is it, do you know them?”

“I don’t know…” he pressed his ear against the the wall, then, slowly, lifted a piece of concrete that had seemed to have been cracked ages ago.

Black gelled hair, a menacing frown, and set eyes–where did he knew that face from? What ws his name? A woman walked beside him, she looked familiar. Short cropped hair, ghostly pale skin, and high cheekbones–he knew these people.

Or did Spencer know these people?

Who was the real version of himself? Savino. He always resorted back to Savino because that was the safest option…right?

“Do you knw them?” Came the question again, but he didn’t know how to respond to that. Did he know these people? Or did he only think he knew these people. He needed–he needed her. He needed to find her. She would know–she could tell him. He wasn’t confused when he was with her…

But who was she again? A schoolmate? When did he first meet her? She had two names. Two names…why… Why could he not figure this out on his own? His mind was playing tricks on him, why couldn’t he trust his own mind?

“Spencer…”

Savino glanced up–catching Old Man’s eyes, “how do you know that name?”

“She…she told me. Last night–before everything…she asked me…for two favors…” Savino felt worlds pass through him.

“I’m Spencer… Spencer.” he whispered to himself. His hands pushed off the concrete and he held out his hands, “give them to me.” This wasn’t how it was suppose to go, but neither of them were suppose to get caught either. That wasn’t the plan and neither was this, but fuck the plan.

Spencer stepped out from a secret passage down the hall of the main wing near the office, he turned back to the unknown man and waved. The walls casted over him and he was gone just like that. 

He stepped into the office, it was quiet at first, but then all three people turned their heads to look at him, he only looked at two, “do it now.”

The man glacned at the stack in his hands, the woman radioed someone, turned around, and handcuffed the baffled man–who was evidently not the headmaster. Where was that son of a bitch?

“Spencer,” the serious man stepped in front of him, but Spencer didn’t care. He shoved the stack of files into his bosses hand and stopped Emily.

“Where is she?”

“I–I don’t–

“I’m going to ask you one more time–

“Reid–”

“Hotch–” Spencer glanced back at his boss, he didn’t know what he looked like, but he assumed a bit messy; he was sure there were bags under his eyes, and even so he didn’t know how deep they went. “Where is she?”

The doctor that had taken her out of class earlier–Spencer had seen around the halls and he he knew by his nametage–this man had been sorted under The Scumbags Involved–or whatever he’d labled it. The doctor lowered his head, “they had her takne to the dungeon–”

“That’s where they keep them before the bidding,” he said, more to himself now–his mind was running at a million miles per second, a small smile fell to his face. He wass starting to feel just a bit like his old self–though he knew he’d been altered in some way.

Spencer he spun around, “REID!” Hotch called after him, but Hotch could go fuck himslef if he thought he’d leave her alone any longer.

Without a gun. Without a knife or any other sort of weapon, Spencer booked it throughout the school; the old Spencer never would have though tot do something so stupid, but times changed a person, so perhaps he now would under the right circumstances.

The ogling you could handle, the messing with your head wasn’t ideal, but you were still okay. You knew who you were–where you were–and that a rescue team would burst through those door in any moment now.

But the not knowing was killing you. You had smelled her perfume. You could just make it out–and then a second later you had seen a flash of blonde hair–all wrinkled, like it had been in the same position for days–it was dry, but a brush would fix it–that’s what you hoped. 

Your first concern was why was she down here? To be sure, your deduction was spot on–you were in the dungeons beneath this wreck of a school.

The second was where she’d vanished off to. Where had they taken her? She was there and then she wasn’t– gone, just like that. That’s when your crying began. You couldn’t stop it. Where–was she? You couldn’t have been too late. You couldn’t have been–

That pig sat at your bedside any chance he got. When the doctor wasn’t around making sure your blood preassure was stable and the right amount of doses of whatever drug they were giving you were keeping you in your bed. You were sure it was diazepam, otherwise known as valium–a date rape drug.

Though you were afraid it could be something much more worse like flunitrazepam–being motionless left you with nothing to do but think–you felt like your mind had been running for ages. The thoughts that coerced through your mind weren’t pretty, paired with the only smell being rot and Bobefitz–you wanted nothing more than to breathe in Avice perfume. You didn’t have the mental capacity in the state you were in to think of something happy–to take yourself somewhere else. But more than that, you had to remember her. 

They would need to find her…wherever they’d taken her.

You didn’t know how long ago you’d seen her, but you couldn’t smell her fragernece anymore and the day was sure to be getting later and later. It was fire to your skin, like you snorted chili sauce. Your mouth watered–when was the last time you’d had a drink of water–God you were starting to lose it.

You closed your eyes-but only for a second, you assured yourself. Cold fingertips padded across you collarbone. You shuddered, your eyes fluttered open to a nightmare. Bobefitz’ face hovered above yours, his breath had your breakfast receding and his beady black eyes had that same souless suggestion that felt like there were bugs beneath your skin, itching at your flesh to get out.

“I suppose they wouldn’t really know anything if I were to–” he cut himself off, laughing. A sinister thing you wantes no part in. Your chest huffed as his eyes landed back on yours, “I mean, when he’s done with you, you’ll join the others anyway.” He leaned forward, his belly folding in roles you couldn’t wince away from, “tell me, my dear, did you know those missing studnets you were investigating never actually left the premises?” 

Whimpers fell through the cell they’d placed you in right as his thick, stubby fingers slid over the buttons on your shirt. A noise sounded somehwere down the hall–someone apparated in the entrance of the chamber and Bobefitz’ head snapped upward. 

You couldn’t see who it was, but sooner rather than later the tubes attaching to you were ripped out and the cell was overtaken. Someone lifted you up from the bedyour eyes scanned the room, though slow and docile [you were still incapicated]. 

There was no one else–Avice wasn’t–“Youhaveto–”you wheezed, “–gettohershe–” another wheeze.

“Whoah whoah–slow down,” his breath coated your neck as he move you into his arms. Your words were sloppy–almost like you were drunk.

“Find���her–” 

Spencer’s eyes never left yours as he carried you up the stairwells and through the halls of the castle. There were men in black, guns pulled out in front of them. Further down the hall you started to gain movement in lower your joints, it wasn’t anything like a miracle–but it was something. You could hear the comotion of classes being stopped, you tried to remember everything in order to put things in order for yourself–but it was so…hard.

Everything was just–

Smoke in the air had your eyes watering, a medic was adjusting the mask around your head–your mouth. Your pupils dilated and you tried to sit up, but it hurt–you felt around, realzing you were on a gurney. “It’s okay–you're alright.” Another medic was getting the ambulance open and ready behind you.

Burnt ash–oh that’s foul! You coughed, heaving in breaths, “just calm down, it’ll be alright.” A third medic rubbed your arm, you twitched–feeling uncomfortable. Eventually, she stepped away when you seemed to have settled down. 

What was that? What the hell–where was he? Spencer you had to find–Avice, was she okay? Did they find her?

Your vision was clouded by the vapor and the graying sky–it was late and you were high up in the mountains. You could hear people milling about–a swarm of people were in front of you, there were cars, there was a gate, there–oh my gosh.

Groups of people–mostly students and police–surrounded the outside of the school. It was burning–the school was on fire–the entire thing, it was burning down–and you smelled it–the little oxygen you had access to caught in your throat.

Her perfume. The fregernce was so strong you turned your head because she must have been beside you. There–a lock of blonde hair…disspearing behind the walls of the school, toward the…the courtyard. You jerked away from the medics, why were there tubes in you? You’d had enoug of that–you sat up, holding your head.

“Hey, you can’t–you have to sit so we can help you.” Her gentle voice wasn’t soothing any part of your headache. What happened?

“Get off me,” you pushed and rolled yourself off the gurney, hitting the floor with a thud. There waere shouting, more people circling you–God why couldn’t they just give you a moment? You ignored the blood trickling from the sleeve of your button up.

You shivered–though you didn’t know why. You had to get to her, people watched you go around them–probably wondering where you were headed and why you would want to go back into that wretched sinful. 

A hand caught your arm and though your first instinct was to jerk it back–you hated being touched, though you didn’t think to question why that was in the moment–you kept your cool when you noted who it was.

She held up a piece of paper, blocking line of sight, you caught the black ink scribbled down–the smoke grew stronger, filling the space between you and the paper. You pulled it out of her hold and help it closer to your face.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢��𝘦...𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺?

Cairo’s thick hair appeared in you peripheral secons afterward. You gripped the pen she extended toward you and clicked the top.

𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘁𝗼𝗼

You smelled it. Her scent mixed with the smoke–adn she wasn’t here. You’re heart fell to your feet and cupped your mouth to keep the bile down as the memory of what that things had last said resurfaced …those missing studnets you were investigating never actually left the premise…

You slide to the floor near the gate and screamed–it was deafening to you–and though she couldn’t hear you, you could tell Cairo understood. She held you for a moment which was weird because you were the adult. You were the one who should be comforting her.

She walked you toward the gurneys again, doing her best to conceal you from the media that somehow found there way up here even though you were sure the roads were being blocked off. 

She handed you back the paper after a moment–it was dirty, you now noticed–and wrinkled. You read over the paper, and her frown turned into somewhat of a griamce as she tried to smile–though it only seemed to deepen her expression. 

𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪'𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦

Though everything hurt and you felt dirty in your own skin, you did took the pen and paper back.

𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁

You thought that would be the end of it, Cairo had turned, seemingly ready to walk away–but she hesitated. A second later, she was sliding another piece of paper into your hands–you felt something between the folds. Your hands gripped the paper, though they began shaking uncontrollably, so you had to set it down. 

Cairo was lost in the crowds when you gazed up again.

It was a bit of a struggle, but ultimately the corners of the pages were flattened on your lap. You felt another wave of tears spring into your eyes when you took in the object. A single earring you could never dream to afford captured your attention–and the words on the page behind it,

𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶

your head jerked up, you eyes searching through the crowd for any sign of the girl. She was there and then she wasn’t–just like….you couldn’t bring yourself to even think her name. 

And then, almost fundamentally, your eyes caught tussles of brown…when his face came into view, a new kind of sadness came over you–it hit hard and heavy. He smiled, already making his way toward you–and you knew then–that you were safe. Though abruptly, you smelled that fragrance and you knew this was only the end of the beginning.

a/n: genuinely so proud of this fic–i was very excited to write this, i also tried something different with Cairo's report–please let me know if you liked that or not and stay updated for part two !!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody@kennedy-brooke @maisyyyyyy

[awordsmith]

AHHGGGGGG QUESTO ERA i have no wordsss

𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐥 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: in which spencer can’t believe he ended up in an art class, you can’t believe you ended up in an art class, and neither of you can believe you both ended up in the same art class

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, banter at its finest <3

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.2k

𝐚/𝐧: anon's request marathon masterlist

Spencer never considered himself particularly talented in the field of art.

His biggest problem was that, while creating, he had trouble switching off and simply focusing on what he wanted to express. When he painted, images of Van Gogh, Picasso, Dalí crossed through his mind—their characteristics and information about the movements they represented—and he would immediately start wondering whether what he was creating truly fit into expressionism, or maybe leaned more toward fauvism. No one should be surprised that he did much better with technical drawing.

He once talked about it with JJ—the topic came up when Henry talked them all into a group drawing session. What he said then somehow stuck in his friend’s mind—enough that for his birthday, she decided to give him…a pass for creative art classes.

He kept postponing going until the very last moment. However, the deadline for using the pass was approaching, and he felt a little guilty about potentially wasting the gift from JJ. So, one Saturday, he physically forced himself to go, even though there were dozens of other things he would have preferred to do in the meantime. In fact, on that particular day, he even had more desire to do laundry than to play at being an artist, but he knew that if he didn’t go then, he wouldn’t get around to it anytime soon—and the pass would expire.

So, he found himself in the painting studio, the entrance of which he could spot even before stepping inside thanks to the glass doors—beige walls, student easels arranged in a circle, a crocheted orange rug on the floor, and plenty of flowers and other props seemingly designed to spark their imagination. Taking in the room with his eyes, Spencer opened the door, allowing a woman who had arrived around the same time to pass in front of him.

Without a thank you, she crossed the threshold confidently, brushing past him—but before she fully entered, Reid widened his eyes…recognizing her.

"What are you doing here?"

His, well... acquaintance from work (the one he'd once ended up in bed with, went on an undercover mission with, and even saved a cat together, but  couldn't spend more than five minutes with each other without at least once threatening each other's throats, so overall, they didn’t get along that well) reacted similarly, though with a more outraged expression on her face.

"What are you doing here?" she put her hands on her hips.

Unconsciously, he glanced at her outfit. The dress code for the class was to wear something you wouldn’t mind getting dirty, so she had veered a bit away from her usual stylish outfits, wearing something much simpler. But that wasn’t why he didn’t recognize her—her attractiveness was unmistakable, no matter what she was wearing, she still looked just as good. It was simply in her.

She sounded outraged, but he didn’t feel guilty, because he felt the same way. The purpose of these classes was relaxation, clearing the mind, releasing stress...which was impossible when they were both within a mile of each other.

"I asked first," he stated.

She sighed in irritation, then quickly forced a wide smile onto her face. It looked terrifying, just so you know.

"I'm spending my free Saturday afternoon," she explained stiffly. "And you, Doctor Genius? Did you get lost on the way to a chess tournament?"

Reid snorted.

"If I had the chance to be at a chess tournament right now, trust me, I wouldn’t be here..."

"You two for the painting class?" A woman who must have been the instructor caught their attention.

She kept her hands clasped in a basket-like gesture, quite friendly, though her expression showed concern. Some random duo had just started arguing at the entrance to her studio. Who knows, they might be some vandals…

"That's right," his acquaintance said, completely changing her tone when she wasn’t talking to him. As if she were making an effort to emphasize the difference. He already felt like rolling his eyes—and they had met, what, maybe... eighty seconds ago?

"Oh, in that case, welcome to the creative art class. My name is Carla, and I’ll be leading it. It’s best if you just take a seat, and I’ll explain more about what we’ll be doing shortly..."

They arrived as two of the last people, so the only available seats...were right next to each other. Their exasperated sighs synchronized almost perfectly, and they exchanged glances that weren’t any more enthusiastic. Maybe later they could switch seats with someone, or maybe they just wouldn’t talk...

He spoke to her a minute after they sat down on adjacent stools.

"Are you here out of a passion for painting, or out of a passion for making my life miserable with your presence?"

She slowly turned her head in his direction.

"You might not be aware of it yet, but my presence is the brightest point of your miserable life."

"Oh, you're right. Bright from radioactive radiation—"

"Excuse me, could you please not talk to me for now?" she said intentionally louder, drawing the attention of everyone present, including Carla, who had just been explaining some introductory topics and what they would be doing. With feigned concern, she continued, "I'm trying to focus to understand the basics."

Spencer pressed his lips together, feeling the weight of so many unfriendly eyes on him.

"We know each other from work," he added, sliding his finger between them.

He didn’t want to be seen as some creep, harassing a random woman!

"This is the first time I see this man in my life," she lied without hesitation.

A bit of sarcasm crept into her voice, confusing everyone around them. Carla ran her fingers through her platinum, short hair and cleared her throat before continuing from where she had been interrupted.

They were kind of being jerks—both of them. The bickering and snide remarks were fine when they stayed between the two of them, not when they involved over a dozen other people. Strangely enough, she seemed to come to the same conclusion—when he caught her gaze again, there was something in it that looked suspiciously like a proposal for a ceasefire. He gave a barely noticeable nod in return.

Carla kept talking for a few more minutes before suggesting they start with a few simple exercises. As she launched into the basics of color theory, Spencer couldn’t help but feel like he’d regressed all the way back to a crib.

“I get explaining the fundamentals, but this is…” he muttered under his breath.

He didn’t expect anyone to hear him.

But of course—she did.

"You don’t get to talk," she replied, just as quietly. "You’d probably say the same thing during a lecture on quantum physics."

"If that lecture started with explaining what an atom is, then yes, I absolutely would—"

“And now that you’re familiar with the basics,” Carla said, shooting Spencer a meaningful look that clearly suggested he should, kindly, shut up. He did.

“I want you to try a little exercise. Mostly for fun—because that’s what we’re here for, right? You’ll be drawing portraits of each other, in pairs. Or at least, you’ll try. A few classes from now, we’ll do the same thing again and compare how much you’ve improved…”

Reid glanced around, hoping to catch the eye of someone willing to team up. But everyone had already paired off—almost instantly, like they were afraid of ending up with either of them. The two of them, constantly hissing at each other like stray cats, radiating more hostility than friendliness. Honestly, he couldn’t blame them.

So they were left with no other choice but to sit across from each other and start drawing.

He actually decided to take the assignment seriously. Better that than the realization he'd wasted his entire afternoon on something completely unproductive.

Glancing at the woman across from him—already hard at work, barely sparing him a glance—he spent a moment just studying her features. Analyzing the proportions, tracing imaginary angles across her face like some kind of invisible protractor.

At first, purely out of spite, he planned to exaggerate that perpetually annoyed look she wore like a second skin. But she kept smiling while she worked—so absentmindedly, so genuinely—that he found himself accidentally transferring that softness onto his sketch without even thinking.

He was only halfway done when a small giggle reached his ears from across the table.

She had set her brush down and was staring at her work, visibly amused.

“You’re done?” he asked, incredulous.

Was he really that easy to draw?

“Almost,” she replied vaguely, leaning over the canvas to add a final touch. Then, biting her lip, she studied it a moment longer—before finally presenting it to him with a proud little flourish. “Voilá. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you…Doctor Spencer Reid.”

He was silent for a moment.

“…What is that?”

“It’s you, silly!”

The sound he made was somewhere between a scoff, a snort, and a defeated sigh. He’d actually tried…

“Are you fucking serious…”

Her laughter.

“I swear, you’re the most insufferable—”

More laughter.

“—spiteful, venomous little—”

Her laughter only grew louder with every word, especially as her eyes flicked back and forth between the portrait and his very unamused face.

“How’s it going over here?” Carla materialized beside them, clearly drawn over by their very audible presence.

She glanced at Spencer’s portrait and gave a small nod of approval. Then she turned to look at hers—and her lips parted in stunned silence.

The figure on the canvas bore only a vague resemblance to Spencer. The oversized brown eyes were exaggerated into near cartoonish black holes, like twin collapsing stars. His hair had been rendered into a wild mess of scribbled brown, aggressively unkempt.

Beyond that, his body had been minimized to Lego-figure proportions while his head—a massive balloon-shaped monstrosity—was adorned with stress veins sketched on either temple.

The cherry on top? A single, disproportionately large hand raised with one finger pointed dramatically upward, as if delivering an unsolicited lecture.

A speech bubble floated from his mouth containing just two words:

Um, actually…

“I’ve always had a passion for comic art,” the artist of the masterpiece finally explained after a short silence, nodding with mock seriousness.

Carla tapped her chin thoughtfully, then gave her some kind of critique—though Spencer had stopped listening. His attention drifted back to his own work. The portrait wasn’t finished yet, but it did resemble her—he’d actually tried, unlike some people in the room.

On a sudden impulse, he grabbed his brush and with two swift strokes, added a pair of curly mustaches and a full Viking beard to her face.

Her eyebrows shot up.

Carla wandered off to check on another pair.

“Wow, I’d be such a hot guy,” she said, dramatically sighing as she pointed at the updated painting. “I wouldn’t be able to walk ten feet without getting hit on.”

“And are you now?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Twelve, last time I counted,” she replied nonchalantly.

Honestly, he was inclined to believe her. Before he could rush into a response, however, she suddenly straightened up on the wooden stool, as if struck by some sudden idea. From her pocket, she pulled out an intensely red lipstick, and to his utter bewilderment, began applying it to her lips.

“I’m leaving my signature,” she explained, puckering up and blowing him a kiss. Then, she kissed the corner of her painting, leaving a bright red lipstick print. Without missing a beat, she took it off the easel, practically shoving it into Reid’s hands.

“Here you go. If you ever go bankrupt, you can sell it. I won’t be offended.”

Spencer stared at the lipstick mark on the painting for a moment before shifting his gaze to her face, which still radiated so much self-satisfaction. He sighed, giving in, and a fleeting, amused smile appeared on his lips.

“Do you think it’s worth that much to pull me out of debt?”

“People don’t pay for art. They pay for the artist’s name,” she said, casually folding her hands over her knee in a comfortable pose. “So yes, that’s exactly what I think.”

On Monday, Morgan asked him what he had been up to over the weekend, and Spencer, adding a fifth spoonful of sugar to his coffee, shrugged and replied nothing interesting.

[awordsmith]

Hey could you write a fic with post prison Reid where the reader has a crush on him and she doesn’t think he likes her so she keeps it to herself and when they are on a case she she’s Spencer manhandle the unsub and she gets kinda distracted because she wants him to manhandle her and then he finds out about her crush and then he kinda teases her about it then he fucks her like really rough sorry if that doesn’t make sense 😭 also could you make the reader have a thing for his hands lmao

Don‘t get Distracted

Summary: You got distracted when Spencer arrested the UnSub during your current case - he noticed and confronts you back in the hotel.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Category: Smut, some Fluff (18+ MDNI)

Warnings: Mentions of Knifes and stabbing, dirty talk, kissing, making out, unprotected sex (don’t do that), choking, spanking, orgasm denial, dom!spencer (kinda)

Word Count: 2,9k

Author’s Note: I’m sorry it took me so long to finish this🫢 I never really liked a single version I wrote and now I simply give up, I’ll leave it like this😩 Anyway, I hope you like it! :)

It isn't like you are trying to fall for Spencer Reid. In fact, you do your absolute best not to. You keep it professional. Friendly. Safe. Because if there is one thing you are sure of, it is that he doesn't feel the same. It isn't anything he does. He isn't cold or rude to you. Quite the opposite – he is kind and polite. But never more than that.

You aren't the type to be noticed by someone like him. Not after everything that happened. Prison changed him, and if there is ever a chance he looked your way before, it is long gone now. So you keep your crush a secret, but some days make that harder than others. Like tonight.

You sit on the edge of the bed, files spread all around you, but your focus is on Spencer. He stands by the window, arms crossed, eyes scanning the city below. You can tell he is thinking. He looks tense. Focused. Hot.

And all you want is to be close to him. To touch him. To tell him you noticed the way his smiles have grown rarer since prison, and that you missed them. That you missed him. But you don't.

-

The next day, everything shifts. You are closing in on the case, currently on the way to arrest the UnSub. The farmhouse where he is holed up looks like it could collapse any second. You, Spencer, and Morgan decided to split up. You take the back and step over a few broken door frames, your flashlight shining in the dark. A few minutes later you hear a noise.

You recognize it’s Spencer’s. "I need you to put down the knife. Now." You sprint toward the voices, and what you see nearly stops your heart. The UnSub takes a step forward and tries to stab Spencer in the stomach. But Spencer, he is faster. He sidesteps, catches the man’s wrist, twists it back, and then shoves him up against the wall with a force that makes you shiver.

One arm locks the guy in place, while the other brings out the cuffs. He works quick and controlled. And god, you are not okay... Your feet move on autopilot, but your brain doesn't. You can barely think past the rush of heat that explodes inside you at the sight of him. It is like watching a completely different version of him. You stare and just can’t look away.

He turns to you when it’s over. "You okay?" he asks. "Uh—yeah," you manage to breathe out. "I’m fine. Just... Didn’t know you have that in you." His mouth twitches into something between a smile and a smirk for a second. "Prison teaches you a few things." You try to play it cool. You really do. But your cheeks are already burning.

-

Back at the hotel, you tell yourself to forget it. That it’s just adrenaline. That the reason you’re so flushed has nothing to do with Spencer’s hands and everything to do with the takedown. Yeah, sure.

You avoid him the rest of the evening. Bury yourself in reports, avoid eye contact at dinner. Because the idea that you’ve reacted so obviously… and that he might’ve noticed? Absolutely mortifying. So when there’s a knock at your door around 10 p.m., the last person you expect to see is him.

“Spencer?” you blink. He stands there, holding two cups of tea like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “I figured you might need a distraction,” he says. “The last few days were intense.” You hesitate. Just for a second. Because what is he doing here? Still, you step aside. “Yeah. Uh… thanks.”

He sits beside you on the edge of the bed, hands you the tea, and for a while it’s quiet. Then he breaks the silence. “So… you were staring.” You freeze mid-sip. “What?” you ask, trying to act confused. “At the farmhouse.” He turns his head, watching you. “You looked surprised. And a little… flustered.”

“I was not—” you start, but he interrupts you. “You were,” he says, and this time there’s something different in his voice. He’s teasing you. “And then Garcia texted me something… interesting.” Oh god. You already know what’s coming. “No,” you say, but he nods, clearly enjoying himself.

“She said you made a comment about me. Something along the lines of… ‘if Spencer ever wants to manhandle me like that, he can.’” You nearly drop the tea. “She did not say that to you,” you say. “She did,” he says with a smirk. You think about an excuse, anything that might save you from total humiliation. “That is—I mean—I don’t mean it like—”.

He tilts his head. “Don’t you?” You blink at him. “I - no, and I… I think you don’t even like me like that.” His expression softens instantly. The teasing fades, just enough for something real to shine through. “What makes you think that?” he asks gently. You shrug, suddenly very aware of how close he’s sitting next to you. “I don’t know. You never… looked at me that way. You always seem kind of... distant.”

Spencer is quiet for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I do.” He looks down at his tea, then back at you. “The truth is… after prison, it was hard to let anyone in. I didn’t feel like myself. I did really trust myself for a while. So I kept my distance.” He pauses. “Maybe I was trying too hard not to look at you that way.”

That shuts your brain down completely. “You were?” you whisper. He nods once. “Ever since I got back. Maybe even before that.” You didn’t expect that, but when his words settle, you grin. “So… what now?” you ask him. He leans in, eyes flicking to your lips for just a second. “Still want me to manhandle you?” he asks with a smirk back in full force. “Spencer!” you say, blushing and playfully hitting his arm.

He laughs and sets his tea aside, hand brushing your knee as he stands. “I’ll take that as a yes.” You stare up at him, still sitting on the bed, heart pounding against your ribs. He is looking at you differently now. “You’re seriously enjoying this,” you say with a shaky voice. “Enjoying what?” he asks, acting oblivious. “Teasing me,” you say, and his smile widens.

“Of course I do.” You roll your eyes playfully. “You’re insufferable,” you say. “Maybe,” he murmurs. “But you still want to kiss me.” You open your mouth, probably to deny it - or argue - or make some sarcastic remark, but nothing comes out. Because he’s already leaning down. And then, finally, his lips brush against yours. It’s barely there at first, but the moment you kiss him back, everything shifts.

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb tracing your cheekbone as his mouth moves against yours. You let out a quiet sound you don’t mean to, fingers curling into his shirt, and that’s all it takes for the kiss to deepen. Spencer’s other hand finds your waist, pulling you closer against him and the heat between you is impossible to ignore now.

His lips part slightly against yours, breath hitching when your hand slides up to his neck. The kiss turns messier then, hungrier. Like all the months of silence snap at once, and now there’s no holding back. He exhales against your lips. “You have no idea how long I wanted to do this,” he admits. “Try me,” you whisper, and he kisses you again, harder this time.

You gasp softly as he guides you back onto the bed, one hand bracing beside your head, the other trailing along your waist. His body hovers over yours. His lips ghost down to your jaw, then just below your ear. Your fingers tangle in his shirt, desperate to keep him close, to make this real.

“Spencer,” you breathe out while his hand is sliding under the hem of your shirt, your legs brushing against his. He pulls back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze. “Tell me you want this,” he says, voice rough and low, “tell me you want me to fuck you.” You look up at him, skin flushed, chest rising and falling in sync with his. “Please Spencer,” you whisper, “I - I need you to fuck me. I need you to fuck me hard. Now.“

For a heartbeat, he doesn’t move. Just stares at you like he’s trying to memorize every inch of you — like he can’t quite believe this is real. Then he leans down and kisses you again. "If at any point it gets too much for you, just let me know. I don't want to hurt you," he says with a worried look when he pulls back again.

A feeling of warmth and security spreads through you. "You look cute when you're worried," you tease him. "but I don't break easily,“ you say and wink. Then his hands are back on your waist, your back, your skin — everywhere at once. You can’t stop touching him, can’t get close enough to him.

The tension between you, held back for so long, finally melts into heat, passion, pleasure and love. His fingers hook around the hem of your pants and he pulls them off in one quick motion. Your top comes off next, then your bra and panties, that are already soaked through. His eyes trail over your body hungrily and he starts to kiss down your neck slowly.

“You’re so gorgeous,” he whispers in your ear and a shiver runs down your spine. His words and all the kisses make you even more desperate and you can’t help but buck your hips against him. You can feel his erection and want more but he pushes your hips back down. “Someone’s needy,” he says, not giving you what you want yet. “Spencer, please. Don’t make me wait,” you whimper and he chuckles.

He keeps kissing down your body - your breasts first, taking one of your nipples in his mouth. You observe his actions and seeing his big, slender hand around your breasts is a sight you didn’t expect to enjoy this much. You moan his name and he looks up and follows your gaze. “Like what you see, angel?” he asks and you nod. His hands continue to roam over your body, down to your stomach and between your thighs.

He keeps his eyes on you, observing every little reaction before he finally runs his fingers through your folds. “So wet, is this all for me?” he asks and you nod. “Words, angel. Tell me how good I make you feel,” he says, stopping for a moment. “Y-yes. All for you,” you breath out and he looks satisfied.

With one finger he starts to trail circles around your clit, slowly applying more and more pressure before slipping a finger in. It feels so good and you cover your mouth with your hand in order to stop meaning out loudly. Spencer however doesn’t like it, he immediately reaches for your hand and pulls it off. “No, don’t do that. I want to hear you moan for me for me angel.”

He adds another finger and starts to pump them in and out faster, keeping one finger on your clit the whole time. You can’t help but lean forward to watch his hand again, knuckles buried deep inside you. “Looks like my hands are quite a distraction to you,” he says and chuckles again before his other hand wraps around your throat, squeezing just perfectly.

You don’t respond, too focused on the pleasure and how good his hand looks buried inside you. With the sight in front of you, the feeling of his fingers inside you and his hand wrapped around your throat it doesn’t take long for your orgasm to build up. Your legs start to shake slightly and you clench around Spencers fingers. You’re almost there when he suddenly pulls out. You whine. “Spencer, what the hell are you doing? I was so close!” you curse.

“I know. But I to feel you come around my cock,” he says before he starts to take his clothes off. When he unbuttons his pants your eyes widen. He’s certainly bigger than you expected. He starts to stroke his cock and you can’t help but watch him. Even though you can’t wait to feel him inside you, you enjoy watching him. Then he leans down and spreads your legs further apart.

He lines himself up at your entrance, sliding through your wet folds and teasing your clit again before he finally pushes inside you. “So tight and wet for me, angel. You’re all mine now,” he says. He gives you some time to adjust before he starts to pound into you. He leans down next, sucking on your neck and breasts, leaving hickeys everywhere and claiming you as his.

The room is filled with your moans and whimpers and when Spencer looks down and sees his cock sliding in and out of you he groans. You wouldn't have thought that something could turn you on even more, but hearing him groan certainly did. “Oh god, so good. Pl - please, don’t stop,” you manage to breath out, your mind already lost in all the pleasure.

His grip on your hips tightens and he increases his pace. He can feel you clench around him and almost feels bad for what he’s about to do. He applies pressure on your clit again, playing close attention to your reactions and when your close again he pulls out of you. “A- Again? Are you fucking serious?” you ask furiously. You can tell he enjoys the control he has over you. “I hate you so much right now,” you say but he just grins.

“Say it like you mean it,” he says before he suddenly grabs you and flips you over. You’re on all fours now, ass up in the air facing him. He immediately slides back into you, pounding into you hard from behind and hitting new angles and reaching spots you never could. One of his hand slides up your back and into your hair, creating a makeshift ponytail and pulling hard.

Your back arches up and you can feel your body pressed against his. His other hand suddenly comes down on your ass, spanking you. You moan out his name so loud that you’re afraid your neighbours know now what you’re doing in here, but you don’t really care. “That’s what you wanted, am I right? For me to fuck you? To spank you?” Your eyes roll back in pleasure and you’re too overwhelmed to answer him.

Spencer how ever doesn‘t like that. The hand he just hand in your hair goes down to your throat again while he gives you an another spank. “Answer me,” he says and slows down, pressing you against his body and leaning down next to your ear. “Tell me how much you love this,” he whispers in your ear. “I- I love this. I love it when you fuck me hard, Spencer,” you say quickly, afraid that he’ll not let you come at all if you don’t.

“Good girl,” he says and kisses the spot behind your ear gently before he picks up his pace again. You can feel him twitch inside you, telling you that he’s getting close now too. “I’m gonna tell you when you’re allowed to come. I want us to come together, do you understand?” he asks as if he’s read your thoughts. “Yes,” you breath out quickly before you get too lost in the pleasure again.

He thrusts into you again a few times before he slides his hand forward, teasing your clit with his fingers again. “Come for me, angel. Now,” he says and you let go. Your orgasm crashes over you and you never had one this intense before. You can feel him twitch inside you before he finishes too. For a second you see stars. When you finally come down, he lets go of you and slides out.

You lay down together, completely out of breath and he pulls you in his arms. Neither of you say a word but he holds you close to him, gently stroking your hair. It’s a quiet, peaceful moment but after a while Spencer speaks up. “You should go to the toilet now. I don’t want you to get UTIs,” he says and you groan. “You know how to ruin a moment, don’t you Dr. Reid?” you joke and he laughs.

“I’m just worried about your health, angel,” he says and leans down to kiss your head. “We can still cuddle when you come back, okay?” he says and you smile. “Definitely. You don’t get rid of me that easily,” you tease him. “Good. Because I don’t want to. Now hurry, I want you back in my arms.”

[awordsmith]

the kindest most sweetest compliment i’ve ever received ☹️ thank you

french perfume 𝜗𝜚 s.r

when the ASIO–calls the FBI for reinforcements, y𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗦𝗽𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿 are chosen to go undercover as boarding school students to figure out why prestigious teenagers are mysteriously disappearing.

you only have each other on the inside, but interacting means the possibility of getting caught, and getting caught would blow the entire operation.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s10 genre: angst (thriller) content warning: heavy mentions of mass SA on teenagers/disappearing teenagers/ Spencer identity crisis/sa(not too graphic) on reader, very much dark academia-gloomy castle aesthetic. . .reid with incredible care !! word count: 18.8k a/n: boarding school by lana del rey is all i have to say for this one... enjoy!!

The uniform fit just right…as if it had been altered to fit your particular body. Per further inspection, you noticed the gray blazer’s sleeves hitting your wrists just above your palms and the gray pleated skirt hitting the middle of your knees, you were inclined to believe this detail confidently.

Your frown held still, a blank expression registered to everyone around you that you were not the everyday school girl, though in America, uniforms always seemed to differentiate the poor from the wealthy, so perhaps it was that as well as the two men behind you, dressed in all black with earpieces slightly evident in their ear.

Earbuds in your ear connected to an iPod, playing one of your favorite albums. Though it was just for show, it was all for show. You were undercover and your name was no longer — —, but — —. 

You’d been training your acting skills, away from the rest of the team. You needed to be her. This character that you’d made up the day you had gotten the case. You weren’t just playing the American Rich Girl, you were the American Rich Girl. You had to be or else everything everyone had been working for up until this point went to shit.

You ignored the man in brown and the woman in bright green. They were no one, the moment you stepped into the mini limousine outside your home in Atherton, they’d been lost to your memory.

Your black Mary Janes clicked past the line of people riding coach and business. You focussed on the silver iPod in your hand, heading toward first class. Four others were riding with you, you disregarded their presence as well. The bodyguards in black stayed behind, saying something into their earpieces. It caught the attention of the other first-class riders, one woman approached you. It’d be great for your first real interaction as her.

There were no cameras on board, so as you settled into one of the middle-row seats, you plucked an earbud out and settled your small backpack on the cushion, “sorry, could you repeat that one more time?” Your voice took on an airy tone, it didn’t sound foreign–you wondered–no. You forced that thought down and after the woman asked, “Where are you flying to?” you’d forgotten all about it.

“Australia,” you smiled, taking out the other earbud and wrapping the wiring around the iPod.

“For school?” She took her seat across from you.

“Boarding school,” you frowned, “Father says it’s better than anything in America.” Your eyes rolled as you settled into your own space.

“That’s a cute uniform.” You nodded to agree, “And your father is probably right, what school?”

Right. “That’s private information,” you reassessed her with a raised brow.

Her lips pressed together in a thin line, then she nodded. You had to hide the small smile the slid across your face. She was probably wondering who you were to be thinking of yourself so highly. You would be lying if you’d said you didn’t get a kick ut of making heads turn in such a way.

Two more bodyguards were waiting for you when you landed and a limousine–normal length this time–waiting for you outside the airport. When you stepped inside you were finally able to breathe. The windows were tinted, though you hadn’t begun moving. 

“— —, I presume?” The blonde man dressed in a neatly pressed suit did not match the surfer accent he had.

“Depends on who you ask, I suppose.” A sly grin stretched across your mouth and you brushed a lock of hair behind your pierced ear, showing off the white pearls.

He chuckled, “You know who I am, then?”

“The Head of the ASIO?” You raised a brow, noting the largeness of the vehicle.

“Spot on,” he winked, “the uniform fits better than expected.” He motioned with a hand.

“So I’ve been told,” you tugged on the sleeves and feeling a bit childish, sat further upward to show your maturity, he noticed, but neglected to comment. “And my counterpart, do you think his fits just as well?”

“Ah, yes,” he glanced at the ceiling, “your partner in this investigation, he should have gotten off his flight from Russia right about now, he’ll be on his way to the school just as sufficiently.” 

The agent checked his watch, a more serious expression taking over his features right before he pounded on the window separating the front from the back–and like that, the limousine began moving.

“You know your objective, I assume, but I’d like to go over it with you.” He crossed a leg over the other, his pants riding up his ankle, showing the cutoff of his finely polished shoes.

“We go in, collect evidence, and get out.”

“Without busting your cover.” He stated, leaning forward slightly, “Now…what about the other thing?”

“You mean the objective only I was assigned?”

“Precisely. It’d be,” he shook slightly, “discouraging if anyone else got wind out it–from my knowledge only you, I, and your boss know the details.”

You nodded, refining your face toward a colder version of what it once was, “I know exactly what I’m doing and I have given my full consent.”

“Do you remember his name?” The agent raised a blonde brow, his blue eyes piercing your gaze to the point of making you shift uncomfortably.

“I do.”

“Good,” he leaned back, pulling out a bottle of wine, “do you prefer white?”

“Red is fine,” you took the glass willingly, you wouldn’t have access for God knew how long. One last glass wouldn’t hurt.

The car came to a stop, “We’re here,” he sighed and glanced toward the large gate to outside the window closest him. You handed back your glass and reached for the door, but one of his hands shot out and stopped you, “remember we will not be with you on the inside. The only person you have is…him–and even then–”

“I know,” you waved your arm in font of yoru face after snatching it out of his, feeling your gaze harden–you could do this. “This isn’t about proving myself, Director. Trust me, I know what’s at stake.”

His lips pressed into a thin line, he looked pitiful. He couldn’t have been older than 40, barely a 12-year age gap, but you could tell he was worried if this was the right thing. The ASIO has been trying to crack down on this school for over a year–just one slip-up would send the entire operation overboard.

“The Australian government wants our help,” your eyebrows furrowed, “ why?” You were spinning in your chair before Penelope’s hands were firmly planted on either side of your shoulders, forcing the chair to come to a halt.

“Oh sweetie, you’re gonna want a coffee for this one.”

The Head of the ASIO helped you with your luggage, he was tall for an Australian, which was tall. He also looked pretty well for his age, you noted the slight red spot that circled high around his ring finger, though the ring in question was missing. He didn’t look the part of a recently divorced husband, so perhaps he took it off when he was on the job. He was smart.

“This is where I see you off,” he leaned against the car, hands tucked neatly into his pants pockets.

You pulled your suitcase toward you, finding it a struggle with the duffle bag on top. You pressed your lips together, saluting him–chills. The hair on your neck standing up. Someone was watching you. Your hand gripped the handle of the suitcase, trying your best to not look for the eyes that were surely on you.

“Good luck,” he said, opening the door the the limousine and slipping inside. It took off not long after, leaving you to spin around.

You nearly jumped out of your skin when you saw a short, sallow man, his back bent in ways you didn’t think possible to mimic–and his skin pale–un-ordinarily pale for someone who looked once very tan. “You’re one of the new students, yes?” He had a croaky accent, maybe Old Romanian?

You shook your head, if ever there was a time you needed to focus this was it. “Yes, my name is — —.”

He sighed and averted his eyes, “…follow me.”

You rounded the corner of the gate, and the old man pulled a jangle of keys from around his belt that you only now noticed. “I’m the grounds keeper here, if you ever need anything, I’d advise not coming to me for it…I wouldn’t be able to do much.”

You swallowed, it was only now just hitting you–you were walking into a graveyard dressed up like a school, and you were doing it willingly.

The place looked like it had jumped out of a Renaissance painting, the muted-colored murals on the higher walls and ceilings were chipping and the dull white pillars you saw around almost every corner looked to be falling apart–but past that, you felt like Alice walking through the rabbit hole. “There is one more student supposed to be arriving today. Usually, we never get two new students on the same day–so excuse the abruptness. You’ll have to wait for him in the Headmaster’s Office.”

You kept quiet, unsure if you should respond. In the end, you didn’t, and the maintenance man, whose name you never received, left you in a small room with four chairs, a small, squared table in the middle of each chair, and two chairs sitting against each wall, facing each other.

There was no receptionist at the desk, the entire building seemed vacant. It was a Thursday. Weren’t there supposed to be classes? You folded in on yourself, the curvy, white concrete walls pulled you into a momentary depression. Your anxiety grew and as the minutes ticked by, you felt like you would die here, in this cold, concrete room–alone.

“Sorry, did I startle you?” Came a voice moments after you’d heard the creaking of a door. 

Familiar notes had your ears twitching, your hands moved from your lap to your knees as you slowly lifted your gaze to meet his. The accent he’d been perfecting sounded like he’d always spoken that way. You ignored the way it sent a shiver down your spine. “Not at all,” you smiled and stood, dusting nonexistent dust off your newly pressed skirt. “You must be the other student, I’m — —,” you held out a hand, batting your eyelashes.

He was cute–the way his brown curls pulled attention to his big, puppy eyes. His hair looked recently cut, and though it gave him a somewhat boyish charm, the guy in front of you remained too serious for your liking.

He glanced at your hand briefly, ignoring it. Your eyes rolled and you planted a hand on your hip, “not the physical type, I suppose.”

“I apologize,” his voice was deep, it’d rear you into a wall if you weren’t careful. 

You blinked, and took a second to breathe, “It’s alright, I suppose.”

“Have you seen anyone yet?”

You shrugged, “Just the grounds keeper, everyone must be in class.”

He nodded, pulling his luggage toward the side opposite of you, and took up the chair in front of yours. You huffed and sat back down. “You’re Russian?” The boy nodded, it irked you slightly, perhaps his social skills were not all there? “What’s your name?”

“Savino,” he murmured, raising a brow at you, “you’re American.” It was more of an observation than a question and it made your lips thin.

“Ah!” You startled, holding in your scream. Savino smiled slightly, which had you narrowing your eyes. A door creaked open–not the entrance, but one behind the receptionist's desk–and a young-old man filed into the room–if such a crossover were ever possible, it was in front of you.

He was different from the one you’d met at the gate, this one was tall, and a bit on the heavier side. “There you are, my beloved new students.” He held his hands out, you recoiled–as if you’d hug him willingly. He just looked like he smelled horridly.

“I suppose I should show you to your dorms first.” He lips pulled back in what you suppose was meant to be a smile. Yellow, cracked teeth could be noted and somehow, you found yourself wondering just how atrocious his breath must be. 

Your eyes ran over the walls that seemed to twist throughout the school, doing your best to listen to Headmaster Bobefitz as he rambled on about the history of the school. 

Originally it was a castle built for a small king centuries ago–about 40 years prior, the land was bought and turned into a private transnational boarding school, as it was secluded high up in the mountains and had multiple rooms, it seemed the ideal use. Up until the number of students disappearing began raising suspicion with the local police, that is. 

Though, it was private property, and nothing much could be done without a warrant or great cause–and even then, the owners could challenge the police in court. This wasn’t America–yoou had to remember that.

You blinked, almost bumping into the back of Headmaster Bobefitz. He gave you an unnerving smile, “Watch it little mouse, you just might go stumbling into the wrong trap.”

You smiled, though it was awkward, and took a few more steps toward Savino. He noticed and tried to put himself between you and the headmaster, subtly, to be sure.

“This is the East Wing, where male students sleep, female students are not allowed on this side after 18:00 and the same goes for male students in the West Wing, where the female students reside. We will head there next.”

“Will I have a roommate?”

“Did your father not give you the details, Miss —?” He chuckled, and stretched across Savino to pat you on the shoulder, “That’s alright.” You shifted uncomfortably but didn’t move away. This must be a cakewalk to whatever else was going on inside this school.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Savino stepped in front of you, stealing the Headmaster’s attention away, “where are the other students, it seems rather quiet for a school around this time.”

“Yes, well, we have more of a handle on the students here at Gentry Prep–we take the education we give our students very seriously, so to answer your question, your classmates are in class,” he lifted his wrist to his eyes, showing off a brown leather strapped watch. “They are in their second hour now.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, and you teetered on your heels, looking over the ledge of the hall.

Headmaster Bobefitz laughed, “Be careful now, you don’t want to go toppling over.” His jokes left a wretched taste in your mouth, but you managed a half-laugh.

“Where are they, then?”  You eyed the still empty halls.

“At our school, students have one class assigned to them based on how well they did on their entry exam, you two are in the same class.” He eyed Savino with a slight frown, but smiled when his gaze met yours once more.

“I see…”

You did not join the rest of the students that day but rather walked around the premises with the headmaster as your guide. Savino kept his distance from you. As if he was afraid of getting close, though when the headmaster evidently had you feeling uneasy, Savino always said something to deter his attention, and you took that as his way of showing he cared.

It was odd, pretending you were strangers. You had to ignore the butterflies in your stomach as well–you had to remember this was a job, and you were an agent undercover–at the same time, youhad to maintain the Rich Girl facade. It hurt you brain every time those thoughts collided, a sickness overtook you and only a part of you had an inkling of an idea of why that was.

You met your roommate, Cairo. She was a petite and her hair was black on the verge of looking blue if it were any darker. The dorm held two beds pushed against opposite walls, Cairo slept on the right, so you ended up with the left.

Very soon on, you found she was deaf, and you–unable to speak sign language, suggested using paper.

𝙞𝙩'𝙨 𝙨𝙥𝙖𝙘𝙞𝙤𝙪𝙨

You passed the open notebook toward Cairo. Her lips pressed into a thin line as her eyes passed over the two words. She looked up, her black eyes containing a weird sort of glow thanks to the lamps that dimly lit up the room. 

Cairo scribbled something with the number two pencil she’d taken out of her pencil pouch. 

Your eyes tracked over the room, locking on the dresser that had been given to you. Cairo had her own, closer to her bed across the lofty area. Each bed had white concrete railings at each corner, holding up a canopy. Cairo’s curtains were sage green, yours were blue, just a shade away from gray.

𝘪 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵

read the line under your own handwriting.

Your head tilted and you frowned, “why not?–Oh, sorry,” you nearly smacked yourself before writing your words down and handing it back to her.

She audibly sighed and shook her head, taking the pencil from you. 

𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘦, 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘥

noting that you understood her message, Cairo took back the notebook and ripped the page out, walking toward the fireplace. Your eyebrows raised watching her drop the paper into the flames. Her body language seemed too relaxed for a teenage girl tossing papers into fires.

She grabbed a poker and moved the wood away, soon, the fire died out and all that was left were the lamps at your bedside tables. Though, with one final glance toward you, Cairo too, shut off her lamp. You could hear her rustling in the sheets, and ultimately, you flicked the last source of light off and submerged yourself under the sheets.

As your head hit the back of the one of pillows, you let your thoughts drift. He came to mind. He was so good at acting, it unnerved you. You wondered how detrimental this case would be after it was over.

During the day, you did not claim the name you grew up with, but rather the one that had been given to you four weeks ago. And at night, you weren’t sure what you claimed. Though, when you were secure in the confines of warmth and surrounded by nothing but darkness, you though perhaps you could let her out–just for a moment.

You were already starting to lose your grip on reality, moments when you allowed yourself to come back were the only thing saving you. You turned on your side, your eyes shutting hesitantly. Despite the day's events, you did not feel at all tired. You hadn't met any other students, though you’d seen a few girls milling about the West Wing. You hadn’t known what you were expecting, nor how well it matched with what you had seen.

They looked happy, for the most part, quiet to be sure, but a collective calm had settled over them and they had looked content. Other than the headmaster being a massive creep, you hadn’t seen anything noteworthy. 

…that old guy, the maintenance worker, what was his name again? You couldn’t recall, had you gotten his name? It seemed rather important, but–a yawn escaped you and you nuzzled into the pillow, tugging the blankets tighter around you–that could wait until tomorrow.

The hall was gloomy as you Cairo led you toward your class. Bolted, you thought, glancing at the windows that popped up now and then, perhaps to keep the cold out? Cairo stopped and spun around, motioning toward the door with a few students piling in.

You jabbed a thumb at yourself; she nodded, smiled, and waved, heading toward her class. You knew everything the ASIO had gathered within their months of investigation, they had gathered–probably by illegal means–that the school had a hierarchy. Regardless of what year you were in, you were sorted into a class. Class 1A, 1B, 1C, and 1D for first years. The number altered depending on your year and the letter altered depending on how well you did on the entrance exam. A being the highest ranking.

You noted the swirled print on the plaque attached to the wall near the large lumber door and hid a smirk,  wondering if he was already inside.

The room smelled of old things. Old books, old parchment, old walls, old everything. A few heads turned up when you walked in, but most ignored your presence. No one looked you in the eye, you stuck your hands into the pockets of your blazer, wondering if they could somehow sense you were different.

There was something wrong with the people here, they all acted strangely, Cairo was friendly, but you could tell she was keeping something from you–there wasn’t a need to say–or write–it, you knew just by watching her. Other than that, there was that weirdo headmaster–he’d been a little too touchy, your heart sank…was he? No, someone would’ve–but that’s not–

You fisted your hands, trying to freeze and clear your thoughts, if they were jumping at you all at once, you wouldn’t be able to make any sense of them a single one. An empty seat in the back caught your eye, and as you filed the assumptions creeping in into the cabinet at the back of your head, you steered for it and sat, better to observe this way.

You pulled a notebook from your bag, trying to pass the time, there wasn’t much talk, though it was early, you’d been expecting some burst of excitement, it was Friday, but the buzz in the room made it feel like Monday. You found your eyes drooping, they fe–

“Good morning class.” A firm voice took over the room. You fixated your attention on the woman before you. Mumbled replies were all that came from it, but she seemed to ignore them as she turned her back and began marking up the chalkboard.

There was that same tingling feeling on the back of your neck, subtly, you glanced around the room, and there you found him, second row nearest the door, third seat in the line. He seemed worlds away now, even as he scribbled into his notebook mere feet sepretaring you.

Chills.

Who was watching you? You felt your eyes narrow and your patience growing thinner by the second–but you had to keep your cool. You omitted to the fact that you were being monitored, There wasn’t much you could do about it now, you theorized while you jotted down bullet points on subjects you’d already been taught.

Lunch was the only time you were allowed outside of the classroom since first entering. He stayed close despite his previous actions, it was comforting to know he was always there, keeping an eye out for you should something go wrong.

You wondered if he had noticed anything strange since yesterday… He was better, he always had been–you and everyone else were counting on that now, but outside, people were betting their work on you as well. This is where your skill could come into usage, you wouldn’t call yourself mastered in the art of deception, but you’d never failed an assignment, so perhaps you didn’t need to speak for your psychological skills.

“Excuse me, do you think you could show me where the bathroom is?” 

Blonde bangs swished back and forth as she looked up at you. “Me?” Her accent added to her beauty, it was french, though you couldn’t tell which country it was from, it didn’t sound Parisain, he’d know–you stopped the thought before it was complete and focussed back on the girl in front if you

“Yeah,” you smiled and swayed on your feet, “Who else?” You scoured the empty courtyard, catching Savino in the second floor window, sitting on the small ledge protruding out on the ther side. He gave you a quick once over, and you didn’t miss that raised brow–but rather than allowing the rest of his reaction to show, Savino twisted his body and leaned his back against the window, probably rereading the book evident in his hands.

You bit back a smile, moving closer the girl, “Sure, I don’t see why not,” she collected her things as quickly as she could, “sorry,” she kept her head down, her voice was quiet and incredibly soft, she was a bit shorter than you, an inch or maybe half. When she stood next to you, her scent hit you so vividly. 

She painted a scenery with that fragrance: sitting at your kitchen table on a gloomy, rainy day, looking out the window as you drink vanilla coffee and eat cherries, spitting the pits into a glass bowl.

She spoke very timidly and mostly refused to meet your eyes, you tried to move away from the topic of what she smelled like, but it stuck with you, leaving an impression you were sure even he couldn’t explain away. “You’re very quiet.” You wanted to ask if she had any friends, but you thought you rather knew the answer already.

“Oh,” was all she said. You thought it queer and wondered perhaps if she knew something about what Cairo was keeping, perhaps she knew exactly what your roommate seemed to not want to talk about. 

As this girl led you down a path made of stones, you let your eyes roam across the grassy area, “is this the closest bathroom?’

“Out here? Yeah.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind a pale ear.

“Your earrings are cute, where’d you get them?”

“Oh,” she stumbled over the word, “uhm–they were a gift…” 

You nodded, though her gaze was centered elsewhere. They looked pretty expensive, though you had to remind yourself that here–it was normal to be able to afford things like white-gold, dangled diamond earrings. You sighed–a bit depressed at the thought–and hummed, “So, do you come out here often?”

“Every day except–” she paused, “most of the time, yeah.”

You wanted to ask, but you knew it was too soon. You were still the new girl, everyone had yet to drop their guard. “What’s your name? Forgive me, I forgot to ask.”

“Avice,” she said, a bit louder this time and–he abruptly crossed your mind just then, you wondered how he was fairing, you were no longer in sight of the school, he must have noted your disappearance. If you weren’t back within half an hour, he’d probably make up some excuse to come to search for you–your heart swelled and you tried to shake off the hotness that had grown on your cheeks. “We’ve arrived.”

The day withered, growing dark and cold. Classes went on as usual, Avice smiled at you during two instances, and Savino glanced at you from time to time, but not long enough for anyone to notice–other than you, of course. He was keeping a safe distance, as you kept reminding yourself that was needed for this operation to end successfully. Your brain knew that and your body knew that, but your heart ached to talk to him again. 

You wondered if it was as hard on him as it was on you, to be so close and yet so far. You were once inseparable, you hadn’t seen or spoken to him in over a month–he’d been in Russia obtaining his new identity because as soon as your team had gotten the case, you had both instantly taken on the roles assigned to you. Though a clean and neat infiltration took time, it was a priority and had been fast-tracked.

It would be a lie to say the school didn’t have its fair share of normalcy, but the odd-to-normal ratio was stark. Your second day at Gentry Prep was over, yet as you turned on your side under the sheets, you couldn’t help noting the moon peeking through the window’s curtains–it looked to be a waning crescent, reminding you that this was only the beginning. 

The school bell rang its last warning, it had still been dark outside when you had walked down the halls with Cairo this morning, the shutters were now shut in the classroom, you could smell the rain that had stopped earlier this morning, it was much colder than the day before. You shivered and pressed your legs together.

Avice had waved to you on your way in, taking a whiff of that perfume she seemed oto exude from her skin. A deep blue headband pulled back her hair, and you noted the same earrings she’d worn yesterday adorning her. Something pulling you toward them, as if they were keeping a secret. She sat in the front–unexpected for someone so quiet. But perhaps that wasn’t who she really was.

You couldn’t be sure when it came to the students here, there was only one person you could trust, but he–you glanced toward him, a different book today. You wondered what he was reading, the cover didn’t match one from yesterday. You’d done your best to keep track of him, but that wasn’t your job–just an extra precaution because of your history. Were it anyone else, you wouldn’t have taken such an interest.

An hour went by, then came a knock on the door and a man walked in. He wore a white coat and held a clipboard. No one said anything when Avice stood. She kept her head down when she walked out, the professor went back to her lesson as soon as the briefly opened door was shut once more.

Savino glanced at you, eyes a bit wide, but he didn’t look like Savino. His face was schooled into a normal calm mere seconds later and Spencer switched his identity again, but he had been there. You focussed on the notebook below you, grinning from ear to ear, he was there. Any doubt that had resided within you was now gone. He was there.

Students weren’t allowed in the courtyard because of the rain. Savino had taken off as soon as you were released into the halls, thoughts of him floated around the back of your mind as you slipped your way toward the Hospital Wing, toward the south of the school. That was where Avice had to have been taken unless she was in the office across campus. You didn’t think she would have be taken all the way down there, but it wasn’t in your place to assume.

And then there was the other part of your objective. The one assigned especially for you. You had to find a man named J—. That was all the ASIO had given you because that was all J— had given them. He’d been feeding the police information, albeit slowly–but it was more than they ever could have hoped for. 

He was cautious and never showed his face. He was your informant. Though he’d made it obvious he wouldn’t seek you out–and he hadn’t been given the specific details about whom he was meeting. It was your job to figure him out.

There was quiet chatter in the air as you passed other students, some gave you odd looks, the remainders didn’t acknowledge you at all. 

The vibe, you noted, did not seem to shift, everyone had the same energy, and it freaked you out. Why were students sporadically disappearing? Why were there some students that cared to look at you and some that didn't? Why were the staff so weird and why did some of the students seem to know more than what they were letting on?

You couldn’t corner Cairo and force her to tell you, but you could snoop around and keep an open ear on any conversation that rang bells. Whatever was going on here had to be worse than what you’d initially expected. You wondered if he had been able to obtain anything out yet, so far it seemed he’d only been reading books, but you knew Spencer better than that.

The south side of the school was desolate, you’d left the quiet bustling of the rest of the students a few hallways ago. The gloominess didn’t escape you, hospitals weren’t your favorite place, but to have one in a school made from an old castle high up in the mountains where there was no one but the faculty and the students seemed rather…extra.

“What are you doing down here?” A voice halted you. It was loud and stern. 

Your hands started sweating and you swallowed before turning around, it was the same man who’d taken Avice. Perhaps he’d know where she was, “just looking for my friend,” you rubbed your neck and smiled, “you took her out of class early…I thought she might be sick.”

“Avice doesn’t have any friends.” he quickly backtracked when he saw your frown, “What I mean to say–” he cleared his throat, “–no, she is not down here, run along now.” He motioned with his hands.

Your mouth pressed into a tight frown but regardless, you nodded and walked away. That was defensive. 

You weren’t friends, per se, but you were familiar, weren’t you? You were more than strangers to be sure–you weren’t certain how long you were going to be in this place, but you knew you had until summer break, you just hoped it wouldn’t get to that point. Though your need to continue your search for Avice tugged at you, you knew it would be better to let it go…for now at least.

Perhaps she really did do something to get herself in trouble, perhaps she was back in her room, safe and sound and you had nothing to worry about. Yeah, right.

Avice has no friends, what did he mean by that? It was so…random.

You shook your head, pausing when you realized there were no students around you? Did you get lost? You turned around, trying to recall where you’d been coming from, but there were no signs on the walls. Okay, try to recall the building plan in your head. You pictured the fresh paper and the old fonts that swirled in black print. How many times had you looked at the school’s blueprints? You knew this, come on–

Chatter…hushed chatter. 

You pressed yourself against the wall across from the windows and listened, there were no footsteps and the volume of the conversations stayed the same. The gray sky darkened in pigment and the clouds drew together, it looked like it might start thundering. Perhaps classes would be canceled early? 

There was no 21th-century heating system, so being in the classroom at these temperatures could prove hurtful to the students–shut up. Gosh, you couldn’t stand your ramblings. You’d been away from him for too long, from the rest of your team members. You missed them–you weren’t made for things like this.

You felt the tears brimming in your eyes, but they stopped suddenly when a word caught your attention. You followed the sounds of the voices, there were two, maybe three. You rounded a corner and paused…that was the faculty room. You had gotten lost, but now you knew precisely where you were. You reached out your hand as if the blueprints were in front of you–as if you could feel your finger dragging across the old, worn map.

You moved a bit closer and listened. It was quiet and for a second you thought possibly someone had heard you. But a second later, “You know very well why we can’t.”

“This has gone on for long enough–”

“There’s too many of them–

“But if we–

“J— I said no.” You scrambled to hide behind the corner from which you had just come, and a woman–hold on that was your prefessor–Ms. Dowynger. What were they arguing about? You made yourself smaller on instinct when a man placed his hand on the door and stepped out, looking around the hall–he found no one, of course. He was tall–extremely tall. He wore thick black glasses and his hair was clean cut–just shaven, it was black, as he turned, you caught the sight of a nametag.

He was another professor–and not only that–he was your informant! Questions on top of questions piled up in your inventory, unfortunately, that was the first warning bell and class was starting up again, you were supposed to keep your head down, and your profile low–but you would get nowhere if you did that!

Tonight then, your expression grew serious as you found your way around the twisting halls of Genrty Prep, tonight you would make your first move. You rounded the final hall toward 4A, almost colliding with a guy. “Sorry about that,” you sighed. The guy–though he was in your class–took one look at you and walked into the classroom without saying anything.

You couldn’t tell if it was the weather or if there really were students who knew more about the disappearances of their fellow classmates than it seemed at a first glance, but if that were true, why stay quiet? Did their parents not have connections? Were they not the Elite of the Elite? 

You wanted to scrub your brain of all the things that were not making sense–and then there was that oddity–you eyed Savino as he rounded the corner at the other end of the hall. He fixed his metal glasses, looking ever the Russian schoolboy, and nodded at you. What was he doing? Where had he been this whole time?  

Dreadfully, you did not have the privilege of acquiring answers to those types of questions because there were more precedent matters that needed your concerning.

You did not make it to the library that night, nor the night after. Things just never seemed to go your way, and eventually, two days became a week and a half. Savino could always be found somewhere around you, but he too–at times–vanished. 

A few things you’d gathered with mild conversation. A few nights, including the first night you’d arrived, you’d heard a noise, that sounded much like blacksmith melding weapons. At it turned out, the grounds keeper you’d met worked in one of the rooms on the first floor. He never seemed to sleep, it had creeped some of the girls out, though the ones that never spoke to you looked on with an unnerved amount of indifference.

Your body twitched and your eyes shut briefly as the sound of metal against metal found your ears. Your eyes snapped toward Cairo’s bed in brief envy. Darkness was the room and cold was the night, you sat up shivering and tiptoed across the large dorm, careful not to wake the ghosts of the castle.

The white night dress you wore billowed when you pulled the creaky old door open, small lanterns were hanging on the wall that lit a path, and every other one was blown out, creating a dimness to the already heavy atmosphere.

You had two obstacles, one being the dorm lady who circled back and forth throughout the night. You hadn’t seen her, but the girls talked in hushed whispers, and you were pretty well-versed in connecting dots. Reaching out, you felt the wall's eccentric carvings as you floated throughout the West Wing.

The building plans appeared before you in your head again, and as you slipped passed corner after corner, you were finally at the grand stairs. You hadsuccessfully missed the dorm lady! But now you had to get passed the that creepy old grounds keeper–or rather, not draw his attention. For somer reason, he seemed to be working on things all throughout the night every night.

You wondered if perhaps it was a coincidence, but it seemed to bug the girls who spoke to you immensely. No one had acquired a good rest in quite a while. He came to your mind then, as you hunched down, trying to make yourself as small as possible. Has he noticed? A frown fell to your lips, rather sad than curious, that she’s disappeared?

A cold wind rushed passed you when you reached the bottom, the noise was louder now, coming from the right, the library was on the left, so you were sure you wouldn’t have a problem getting in and out. Your silk slippers skated across the marble floor, and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up when you reached the library and the door was ajar.

You felt it again. That cold presnece that seemed to follow you everywhere. You felt like Mary and the gaze to which pressed up against your back was your lamb. You did a onceover of the hall behind you–no one. Your palms made fists and a repetition began.

A slight noise, perhaps the sound of a book falling to the floor or a person bumping into a shelf. Someone was inside. But who?

Your eyes fluttered shut and your chest tightened. Carefully you slipped between the crack created by the door and its frame. The glow of the moonlight on the books and every wooden surface reverberated through you–it was astonishing if you didn’t think about the underlying actions recurring within its walls.

There was no candlelight, but the curtains had been drawn. The wind, you realized. You paced forward and pulled the window shut. There was no sign of her, a sigh escaped you, and your gaze turned downward, where you caught sight of a few scattered papers on one of the large, rectangular tables litterd across the library.

Before approaching it, you scanned the room a second time, assuring yourself that you were alone. The papers were a few different colors, some creamy white, others beige, showing their old age, some in between, and some darker than that. Shaken as you were, your hands found a steady rhythm as they ran across the strewn out papers. A few writing utensils sat a little further down near a large manila folder.

You ignored it and took a seat, keeping your ears open for any sudden noise whilst your eyes passed over word by word as quickly as they could. Oh–this was–and then you found it, a photo, a school photo. It looked recent, it must have been taken, she looked so… there were no words to explain her expression. 

Avice stared the camera down, one side of her hair tucked behind her ear–showing a very clean–very not pierced ear. Where was her earring? And why was she making that face? This wasn’t how you’d remembered her. She didn’t–that wasn’t–those weren’t–you didn’t recognize her, but that had to be her…right? 

You found the student ID number, 590-882 below that showed her country of birth, Belgium, Liège–and below that, her full name. Avice Dierickx.

The paper fell from your hand, its texture bringing it down on the table slightly harder. You jumped out of the seat as the door to the library creaked open fully and murmuring broke through the silent fog. You twisted in the heavy chair and all but but ran into a wall, your first thought was to scream, your second was to stifle that scream, and your third was to fight off your attacker.

The library had gotten smaller somehow, there were two walls all around you and they both seemed within reach. A hand pressed firmly against your mouth and your fingers dug into the arms of the person in front of you, soon, you felt flesh break. A low hiss came from the man’s mouth and he let you go.

You pushed him back, though he caught himself before making a sound, and just as the door to wherever you’d been stolen off to came into view, he threw an arm out against the wall, blocking the way with his body, glaring down at you. “What are you doing?”

Your feet moved backward until you hit a window you hadn’t known was there. There were no curtains, but upon assessing the tapestry-made reality before you, you were glad there wasn’t. “Sorry,” you turned away, “I didn’t know it was you.”

“Well, that’s obvious.” He huffed, attempting to his mend wounds.

There were three bookshelves along the wall opposite you, but it wasn’t far. If you stuck your hand out and leaned a bit, you’d be able to reach them. The room was more of a long corridor, though it was skinny rather than the ideal wideness of one. Unlike a regular room, it fel like an American hallway. The concrete carvings continued around the visible parts of the wall. 

It felt like a secret room to nowhere, you breathed in the air that slipped through the old rickety paned glass, glancing downward. There were trees, but they looked odd, almost slanted. Your eyes widened and you stumbled back again, away from the window.

“Yeah,” he stepped forward, his chest catching your back. You looked up, watching him look out at the cliff, “it scared me the first time too.”

You wondered who he was this time, the safest answer would be Savino. You loomed over the window again, moving closer toward the shelves of books rather than the carved wall. “What are you doing down here?”

“The same thing you’re doing.” He raised a brow as if it were as clear as the missing light from the sky. It was a new moon tonight, but you thought it looked to be closing in on a waxing crescent, you could see him come to the same conclusion.

Perhaps speaking about your names was too risky, you shouldn’t be anywhere near him, you knew that, but you–“Is your arm okay?” He let you tug his blood-stained sleeve upward to analyze his flesh. His eyes clouded over as he watched you, fighting the urge to yank you further into him and inhale your scent.

He missed everyone, but he missed her especially. He hated the fact that though she was right here, right here in front of him, he couldn’t do anything. This was the assignment they’d both agreed upon, right? Could he really just pretend he didn’t know her?

“Did you see the documents out on the table?” He recognized her face, but everything else seemed off about her. He was starting to lose himself with each passing day, but he knew–he just knew if he solved the mystery and collected enough evidence to prove it, he’d be free from the torment that was every day in this prison. 

But they were alone, so why was she still acting this way?

A logical part of him knew it was her job, this was a job, only a job. He repeated the mantra over and over again. “Yeah, was able to get a few photos.” He waved the cellular device around, watching her mouth drop in a gape.

“They didn’t take it from you?”

“I was smart enough not to let it be seen.” Well, that would’ve been smart–but then again, wouldn’t have been believable enough for your persona.

“Whatever.” she dropped his arm, and spun around, pacing in the tiny space she had, “why would those papers just be on display like that?” She shook her head and clicked her tongue. “They’re way too cocky.” 

He had to stay away from her if he wanted this to work. Though he knew a rendezvous would be necessary, he hadn’t expected it to happen this fast. Perhaps when they needed to put what had together and discuss whether or not it was enough, or when they found someone suspicious, though they knew the other was better suited to take them on.

“What are you thinking about?” Her voice trickled into his head like hot coffee. Oh, how he missed his sugary sweet addiction, he swore he used to drink it every day, now it felt like a foreign concept, but if he tried hard enough, he could almost taste the liquid. 

He flexed his hands, he was Spencer. That was his name. But right now he had to pretend to be Savino, her classmate–wait! He grabbed her wrist as she tried pulling away, his eyes breaking the illusion he hadn’t realized he’d been creating, it felt like a innate thing now, he didn’t have to try anymore… 

Savino was slowly gaining more power.

The stars shined down on her skin through the window, creating a translucent aura around her, he felt like he was leisurely falling into a grave, one he wouldn’t be able to climb out if he lingered there much longer.

“We can’t do this–” she hissed and it was her, not —, not the Spoiled American Rich Girl, but her, his teammate, his tether to reality. “Savino, it’s dangerous.”

His breath caught, that wasn’t his name. It had only been a month in Russia, but he’d taken on this identity with full transformation. No one had referred to him by his name–his real name–in over a month. It may have seemed like a short period, but in that house in Russia, there were baby photos of him and class photos, he had to walk past the murals of his parents who weren’t his parents, hear people his didn’t recognize tell stories of what he was like when he was younger. And he wasn’t allowed to speak English nor could he reference his old life–it was always Savino.

He wondered if that was how she was conditioned and if so, how she was still as sane as she was beautiful. — frowned, where had that come from? He trained his eyes on her, she did not move, nor did she show any signs of opposing him. He leaned forward, cupping her face into his hands, tears brimmed his eyes but refused to fall, “Say my name.”

Fingers brushed against your mouth–his fingers. Your eyes fluttered shut, trying to hold in all the emotions threatening to break free. That wasn’t how — would react, and you couldn’t be anyone but her. You pushed him against the wall, pulling his face up to yours, eyes still on his, glancing back and forth between brown irises. But it’s just us, right?

He waited for her lips, but they never pressed against his, rather tickled his left ear with more love and grace than any kiss could have shown him.

“……Spencer……”

You jumped away from him, but he caught your wrists and tugged you back, careful not to make a sound as footsteps passed the very door that was hiding you. You breathed a sigh of relief, gripping the loose parts of his silk button-up, your hands were shaking, he pulled them into his, squeezing them in a silent comfort.

The muffled voices grew a bit louder as they grew closer to the table with the papers, no doubt. “Is that…”

“Bobefitz.” He whispered, his warm breath a stark contrast to the cold surrounding draft.

“Someone’s with him.” You murmured.

He nodded and hesitantly let you go. You tiptoed toward the beginning of the hall, holding your breath as you did so. You felt your blood pumping throughout your body at a higher rate than normal, you felt for his arm–he was there, you kept still even as he turned his gaze on you, ignoring his small smile, unsure of what it was suppose to mean.

The sky was clearer today so you ate outside, where you first spoke to Avice. Though your lunch looked incredibly appetizing, you were unable to think about anything else since that night in the library four days ago. Those documents that you’d seen, what did they mean? Why were they spread across the table? So far you’d stolen a few essays from the students and had begun your evidence file.

Keeping it under your mattress would be stupid, it’d be the first place they’d look should they find out who you were. You kept it hidden behind a painting on Cairo’s side. Okay, yes, you knew it was wrong, but she would never know, and you were doing this for her more than for you–right?

You had to continuously cnvicne yourself this was all for the students sake. You were in a dangerous position–you were taking a very high risk, but then who wasn’t? This was the career you had chosen, you can’t deter from the path you knew you were meant to walk because you’re scared. An idiot wouldn’t be, you knew that–but at times it just felt so…substantial. 

You’d take the fall if it were ever found, but you were sure that it never would be. Cairo wasn’t the type to go knocking things over, you rolled your neck–freezing up when you felt goosebumps run across your skin. There it was again. That same feeling of being watched.

Where the hell is it coming from? You felt like screaming–it seemed to always happen out of nowhere–you fisted your palms and stood, turning to clean your mess up while you got a good view of the court–there. What was–hey! Where did he think he was going?

You packed and tossed your things in the bin that sat near the fountain, rushing after the grounds keeper. He heard your footsteps through the grass–you could tell because you could hear the sound of your own footfalls. He didn’t turn around though, even when you called out to him.

“Hello?” You tapped his shoulders and jumped when he spun around, his face twisting into a nasty frown. He wore the same blue jumpsuit from the day you arrived, though now that you inspected it, there was no nametag.

“What do you want?” His accent was gruff but subtle, one might miss it if they weren’t listening hard enough, but you recognized it from your first day.

“You were watching me.” You crossed your arms, “I want to know why.”

He shook his head, an undesirable smirk claiming his frown. You hardened your face, feeling your eyes narrow. “It’s not funny. It’s creepy–”

“Look little miss,” he sighed, “I’m not watching you. I apologize if that’s what you thought.” He frowned again, genuine concern crossing his gaze as he held a hand to his heart. No, this wasn’t right. He was lying–but then– “And even if I were,” he said, having you pause and raise a questioning brow, “…it wouldn’t be for the reasons I’m sure your little brain is concocting.”

“Why do you say that?” He began to walk away again, but you chases after him.

He glanced over your shoulder and dropped his head, “You should get going now, little miss.”

“I’m not done talking to you!”

“–yeah, well I am, now leave me alone.” You huffed but stood by as he grabbed a dusty old bag of tools near his feat and walked off into the forest. How irritating. 

You needed to talk to Savino, sooner rather than later, you hadn’t realized how difficult it would be to do your job with limited resources, you’d never been in this situation before, the multitude of mock simulations you’d gone through couldn’t even begin to be compared to real life. 

Tapping your finger as you sat in class, you did your best to avoid staring at the back of his head. How. How could you communicate with him without–your thoughts came to a halt because Cairo couldn’t hear you, but she could read and write…but passing notes wouldn’t cut it, you had a better idea.

Cairo went to bed later than usual, studying for a quiz the next day; midterms were still a month away, though you were hoping to finish your job before you had to relive the worst anxiety of your life. 

Rubbing your eyes, you sat up, threw the sheets off your legs, and stood, wincing when the door to the room creaked.

Footsteps, not loud, but not quiet sounded right down the hall, it must’ve been the Dorm Lady, damn why was your timing so bad!? Slipping back into your room would make too much noise, she was too close now–a few feet away from turning the corner. You heard the hum the girls in your class had mentioned.

You were cornered–there was nothing but a window on the back wall and the hall your dorm was on led to a dead end. You sped toward the window, looking to hide behind the large dresser below it when the wall to the side of you began moving–you held your breath, confusion wrapped itself around you when the grounds keeper appeared, “Well don’t just stand there!” His shout was hushed.

Less than three seconds later, you heard the Dorm Lady round the corner. Relief fled your system, but before you could rest, the grounds keeper grabbed your hand and attempted to pull you down–the inside of the hall? “What is this place?” You snatched your hand back–a flash of Spencer and the small room in the library appeared in your mind, the memory put you off balance for a moment–you couldn’t think about that now. 

“Who are you?” The small lamp he was holding barely lit enough of the closed space to allow you to see each other. Behind him was pure emptiness.   

Your mouth clamped shut, you glanced away and swallowed, “I’m a student–”

“–No–you’re not,” he shook his head and made a face. 

He stared you down a moment longer, lips pressed together in thought.

Eventually, he sighed, “it doesn’t matter who you are. Why are you here?”

“I snuck out of my–

“Don’t crap on me kid. Whoever you are, if you’re sneaking out of your dorm at night you’re either stupid or up to something. Now which is it.”

Were you sure you could trust him? No. You couldn’t trust anyone. Those were the rules. You’d gone over them several times. It was the first thing you were told when you had received this mission. “I’m not stupid.” Was what you settled for.

He watched you, his chest heaving up and down five times before he nodded, “thought so. You a cop?”

You stood your ground, watching for any reaction that might indicate your cover had been blown. Another sigh, he pulled his hat off, and turned his gaze to the floor before nodding, “Alright.”

A little bit of your heart lifted, but you had to remember. The only person you could trust–other than yourself–was Spencer. “What’s your name?”

He shook his head, “that doesn’t matter.”

“What do I call you then?”

He was quiet for a moment, then a small smile slid across his mouth, “Nonno.”

Well, that was an odd name, but it didn’t make much of a difference. “You going to help me?” He went silent, eyes fixed on the ground he couldn’t possibly see. “Why?”

The whites of his eyes darkened, his gaze grew heavy, and his shadow seemed to enlarge. “It’s gone on long enough.”

He didn’t say more on the subject, but you had to ask. You had a sinking feeling it was worse than anything you could’ve imagined. But this was crazy–but then again, people do crazy things. He looked uncomfortable–he didn’t have to elaborate much, you both knew what he meant in the end.

A moment of silence passed as he led you through the hidden passages within the school, “Where’s Avice, the girl that disappeared from my class?” You still kept a safe distance. This was stupid. You shouldn’t have followed him without a weapon, he could turn on you at any moment. Perhaps he was leading you into a trap, you couldn’t be sure. But it was worth the risk, was it not?

These were the things you had to decide for yourself Hotch wasn’t here to tell you what the best course of action was–Rossi wasn’t here to school you the history of what, why, and how.

Nonno huffed and halted his walking. His ears perked up, when he heard nothing but the sound of shutters swinging back and forth, he continued. “The Hospital Wing.”

“But–I already–

“She wasn’t there before. She’s there now. She’s sedated.” He shifted the lamp to his other hand, coming to another stop. You kept silent, trying to control your breathing. He glanced back at you and locomoted to the side, “Look.”

Hesitantly, you stepped forward and peeped through the small hole. You swallowed a gasp, watching the doctor–the ghostly one from before–looming over a bed. Your view was crooked, you must’ve been in the wall nearest the door. You waited for him to move, but he didn’t–but you didn’t need him to because you caught a lock of blonde hair spilling over the side of the bed and you knew.

“Where was she before? When she wasn’t here?” You smelled her…the perfume was strong, even when you were feet away. Your eyes bagan watering at the smell, though you couldn’t understand why. It wasn’t unpleasant, it just…had you in tears.

“The dungeons,” came his gruss reply, “below the school.”

You slowed your breathing in an attempt to calm yourself. How–you didn’t want to even think about the possibilities. “How is it accessed?”

Nonno shifted uncomfortably, you spun around, eyes red-rimmed. His heart sunk knowing the things he’d been keeping–though he hand’t been apart of it, he’d done his fair share in ignoring the comings of goings throughout the years. He knew it was wrong, so he opened his mouth.        

You accepted the information, gulping down the bile that had built up. You fixed your gaze back on the peephole, but made no move to look through it again. “They’re being drugged, but why?”

Nonno’s face contorted, but now was’t time for bullshitting. Where the hell were these kids going? Voices echoed throughout and filtered in through the little cracks of the wall. His face dropped, “It’s time to go.” He began pulling on your wrist, but you still had questions.

A glare passed over you face and you pulled back, “Why? What don’t you want me to see?” 

He slapped a hand over your mouth, his eyes wild, but not like a predators. He looked almost…fearful…“Shhhh.”

Slowly, he released you, allowing you to head back to the peephole, there was a group of men you didn’t recognize–but one you did. Headmaster Bobefitz. “Oh my God.” your voice shuddered and you stumbled back, “They’re marketing them?”

His grim frown told you more than that. You didn’t question why he took so long to do something. You didn’t shame or lecture him. It wasn’t your place, to be sure you found it madness how a person could sit back and watch it happen to innocent children, but there was a part of you that feared his answer.

“What happens after it’s over?” A heavy sigh fell from the old mans lips; you were getting tired of hearing them. “What happens–”

“–I don’t know, I…I really don’t know. They take them down to the dungeons again and…”

You could conclude the end of his sentence on your own, you toppled over, holding a hand to your mouth, there was that french perfume–growing stronger somehow as it mixed with the scent of your vomit.

𝟷𝟻; 𝙲𝙳; 𝙻

You left the note in the machine before heading back to bed. Nonno had set up a typewriter in the hidden room Savino had found. He confirmed no one ever entered or left that room other than, “your friend”.

Telling Nonno about Savino was a higher risk than you’d ever intended on taking. But you were ready. You were ready to go home. 

There was one more thing you had to check off your list. With Nonno’s testimony, the evidence from the essays the students had written–to which you could barely look at–you had to get to J—.

He had access to the faculty room–you needed to get inside that room, but more than that–you had to convince him to testify against the school. That was the incomplete part. If you could only get a second alone with him–if you could convince him–you could and you would. You had no doubt….

……but what if I can’t?

Your eyes squeezed shut and you smacked your hands against your cheeks–this was no time for hesitation. You had coworkers counting on you–mothers and fathers [even if they were oblivious]. These students too–God, they were just children, you couldn't even begin to imagine.

A tear slipped from you eyes. You wiped it with your bedsheet.

Nonno would be able to get you a moment alone with J—, but it would take a bit of time, you had to share with Spencer what you knew before then so he’d be on the same page. Nonno explained he had seen Savino slipping through the secret passages the day you’d arrived.

The old grounds keeper had his suspicions then, but had kept them to himself and avoided Savino the best he could. “He’s been in that room every day around noon, he spends a lot of time in there.” Was what he’d said as he had led you back to your room. You hoped that Savino would see the typewriter, know it wasn’t meant to be there, approach it, and understand the letter was from you.

You’d shoved it between Dostoyevsky and Wordsworth, which you knew would catch his attention as he had seemed to have organized the books back there by author, though you knew it had been Spencer, not Savino that had been compelled to sort them that way–you were anticipating the old philosophers would draw him out once more. 

He’d be okay, you were sure…you had to be sure.

Nonno was stalking J—, learning his patterns in order to find the right time you could speak with him alone and unnoticed. You weren’t sure how long it would take, it’d only been last night that you’d found the secret looming over this boarding school. There’d been 12 students over the course of a decade. How did parents not notice? The townspeople? The staff? Who was all in on it?

That’s what you had to figure out. The lunch bell rang and you wondered if the rest of the day would be this agonizing. Avice was counting on you–every student seemed to have a target on their backs. You were sure there was more to the story, multiple students didn’t avoid your eyes because a student they barely knew disappeared–there was something deeper rotting within this place.

Sweating seemed impossible at the altitudes you were at, and yet even as the sky was a cold blue, here you were wiping sweat from your forehead. You had a sick feeling watching your professor. She knew something, it wouldn’t be a stretch to think they all did. 

There was something about the uneasiness of the day. You wondered what happened. Just last night, you were exhilarated, you felt like the end was approaching. When this was all over, you could give everyone peace, you could give Avice peace. You hated the fact that you had to leave her, but Nonno had assured you they wouldn’t settle so easily.

Though it sounded horrible, Bobefitz being a money-hungry monster meant Avice had a few more days. That was all you needed. You would save her. You would. 

Your eyes grew heavy and you shut them for a few seconds, inhaling the ghost of a scent. Your eyes opened, she was there and then she wasn’t. Your stomach dropped to your feet when the warning bell rang. How had an hour passed already? You felt like you were losing time, and maybe you were.

The clocks seemed to move differently in this place, where was the White Rabbit when you needed him?

Only when his hands touched her did he relax. He felt like he could breathe again. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was scared. Scared of his own mind, scared that his mind wouldn’t be his when he got out of here. He didn’t want to think about that. Nevertheless, when she was in front of him–and oh so tangible, he was safe.

“I have something to say,” she pulled away. She looked…Spencer couldn’t find the words. But he knew he was Spencer. Whenever he looked at her, he was taken back to that night–he felt the bristling of her voice tickle his ears, the way she whispered his name grounded him.

“You’ve found something?”

“More than something, I think you should see it for yourself.” She looked behind him, and when he heard the scraping he blocked her with his body. It was the grounds keeper. Shit was he in on it too? Of course. Of course, they’d be found out now. Spencer didn’t know how he’d proceed, but he knew it was them or this guy, and he wouldn’t let it be her. Not her.

“Spencer,” his body sagged at the way his name rolled off her tongue, it was soft and soothing; understanding. She tugged at his arm slightly and said, “It’s okay, he’s with me.”

Spencer wasn’t prepared for what he was about to see, nor for what he was about to be told. He’d successfully gathered the names of each staff member and had sorted them into three groups. The Oblivious, The Knowing, and The Disgusting Pieces of Trash That Committed. He hated knowing the oblivious had the least amount of names on it, at just three.

Spencer didn’t know how many students had been sexually assaulted and he didn’t know how many other students knew about the assaults. What he did know was that no amount of therapy would allow these kids to forget what happened here, no amount of therapy would give back the fours years they spent–and the worst part was that ther was more out there. Students from the past years–over ten years. 

And now there was a sex trafficking ring on top of the sexual assault these students have had to edure becasue the adults that were suppose to be protecting them looked the other way. It was leading him to question if what he did at the BAU was really ever making a difference.

It was, to be sure it was. That was a stupid question, the logical part of him said, but it’s never dumb to ask that question, is it? The other part pressed. Jesus, what was becoming of his world?

A tremendous number of trauma. He was a grown adult and even he had trouble sleeping at night knowing everything he did, he couldn’t imagine going through puberty knowing everything and knowing there was nothing you could do–not to mention having absent parents that dropped a wad of cash in your bank account every week in turn for their presence.

No, Spencer could not imagine that at all. A shiver curled up his spine. He was cold, she was in her nightdress so she must be cold as well. But everything would be over soon. He believed that. He had to.

You had grown accustomed to walking down darkened hallways. You no longer waited for ghosts to jump out at you because ghosts were not the scariest thing that tormented this place, unfortunately, the terror showed itself in people that were very much alive.

“Stay quiet.”

“I will.”

“Watch yourself.”

“I will!” He hushed you even though you didn’t think you were that loud.

“And be careful.”

You huffed, but you knew he was only worried. He shouldn’t be though, this was your job, you wanted to be here–this is exactly what you were meant to be doing, and as the key passed between his hand to yours, you knew you wouldn’t have traded this life for anything else.

You stepped out from the hidden passage and swept toward the large wooden door. The key went it and upon slightly twisting it, clicked. Your heart almost jumped out of your chest with how loud the noise was. It bounced off the walls and you were sure someone who catch you–but the hall remained empty. 

You knew Nonno was watching you and that you had nothing to worry about, but for some reason, his stare still sent a shiver up your spine. You pushed and the barrier gave way, though dark. You held up the lamp Nonno let you borrow, here it was. The faculty room.

And there in the corner, waiting in the dark, was J—.

You slowed the speed of the door shutting, allowing it a light thud before spinning around and acknowledging him. “Agent, I’ce been expecting you,” he pushed up his glasses, and shoved the papers he seemed to be grading away, “though to be honest…I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

“Why?” You raised a brow.

“Just,” he waved a hand and shrugged, “I believe we have mor pressing matters to discuss.”

“Yes,” you licked your lips, noting the filing cabinets that stood against the back wall behind him. You moved forward and settled the lamp on a nearby table. “Would you like to begin?”

Your informant shifted, and his hand bended, almost like a twitch. “I want to be clear on something,” his voice was low and croaky, as if he hadn’t slept in days. “I want ful protectin. Before anything, I am a schoolteacher. I took on this job without knowing….it, and I’ve been doing my best to keep a low profile while simultaneously feeding the government information.” He crossed his hands, “I want to know when this is all over, I won’t be arrested.”

You bit the inside of your cheek and scoffed. This felt familiar. Very familiar. “I’m in no position to assure such a thing, but what I can tell you is that the head of the ASIO has no ill intent toward you–ysomeone should have told you this already, but,” you leaned for ward, glancing at the old candle hlder near him, he had little wax left, “so far, you have done everything the ASIO has asked of you–you’ll be in protective custody for a while when this is over”

“Good,” he pushed his glasses up again, though they would undoubtedly slide down the bridge of his nose continuously during your conversatin. “Then,” he slid his chair out and spun, running a hand up and dow the drawers until he found th eone he was looking for, “you should take a look at these.

You’d promised to keep this part of your mission a secret, but right now you were really wishing you had Spencer’s reading abilities. You sifted through each file, reading through the reports. 

You wondered just many student complaints had been filed about it. “Huh,” your eyes scanned over names you both recognized and didn’t. “These have all been ignored, I assume?”

“These are all relatively old, to be honest. I think all the students know by now they’re useless.”

“How many do you think…would be willing to testify?” You leaned back.

J— sighed, and leaned agains this chair. His eyes, though flickering in the candle light, seemed dimmer than they did suring the day. Perhaps because this was the real J—, he was a narcissist, but he cared about his job. He chose this career for a reason, maybe something signofcant happened with a teacher in his childhood–you forced yoru mind to pause. Profiling him wasn’t something you could add into your evidence file. 

“I don’t know,” he finally said. He was young, possible your age, but the bags under his eyes added more than a few years. You knew it’d be a big ask, but perhaps some of them would be willing–hold on, what a was that? You ran your fingers back through the list of names again–her name was pretty broad, and yes,this was an international boarding school, but something told you this was her. “What is it?” He leaned forward, eyeing the parchment in your hands.

You bit your lip–you wouldn’t put it past these animals–but would someone really…? It would explain that way she acted when you began to ask too personal questions. You felt the brimming of tears, you had to keep your cool, but as you tugged out the file, your chest shuddered. “I know this person.”

What did this mean? You read over the document again, Oh Cairo… your heart felt for her. You recognized the girl sh’de named; Hadee had been the 10th student to go missing, that was just last year. The being pulled out during classes lined up with what happened to Avice.

You gripped the form, you could use this as evidence. You set it down before you made a dent larger dent in the paper. You would be the one to explain to Cairo what happened. You would–you would–breath in. Breath out. Come on, you can do this. 

Water streamed down your puffy cheeks. You wanted to be home. You wanted to go home. You needed–you needed arms. His arms. You needed someone–not just anyone–you needed him to hold you. Now more than anything you needed to keep it together.

Keep it together.

Your eyes closed for a moment. When they fluttered open again, you wiped the remaining water with your the sleeve of your nightdress and got back to work, ignoring J—’s stare as he pretended to continue grading papers.

Back and forth, you eyes ran up and down through the paper trail–it was amazing what you could do when your motivation was strong enough. You knew Spencer wanted to go home. You could see it in his tired eyes. Nonno’s too. You didn’t know his story, though there was this curiosity in you that wondered if there would come a time where you ever would. Regardless, you could see the burden of guilt weighing down on his shoulders, figuring it must have been a long since he’d smiled.

He didn’t need to go to prison, he was already in one. He had been for the last decade. You wouldn’t be the one to ask, but you knew he’d have to explain why he kept quiet all these years to someone.

You supposed it didn’t matter the age, anyone would lose their mind if they stayed in this gloom long enough. You knew you were tipping over the edge with every passing day. You couldn’t imagine a year living in this place let alone ten. 

You couldn’t read through all of them, but you grabbed every single one and added it to the growing pile beside the lamp on the table. Soon, your sight grew weak and your yawns were no longer just an actions to pass the time.

You stood, stretched, and cleared the mess you’d made. Someone was bound to notice the number of missing reports sooner or later, but you were putting your faith in the ASIO that they’d storm the place before then. Your job was supposed to get out–not wait for their signal, but it was starting to feel like that would be harder. Only one of you could leave. That would keep suspicions low. 

You slide the chair you’d been using back in and grabbed the lamp–the candle was almost completely gone, “done?” J— raised a brow.

“Will you testify?” The stack of papers you held in a death grip hit your chest as you pusehd your chair in.

“Do I have a choice?” It seemed like he ha tried ot make a joke, but you weren’t in the mood for jokes. J— cleared his throat, shifting under your piercing gaze,“yeah, yeah I’ll testify.”

“Then, yes, I am.” You walked to the door, pressed your ears against it, and listened. 

When you deemed it safe, you held in a breath and pulled it open, wincing at the loud squeak. You held your cheeks between you teeth and forced yourself into the cloud of darkness.

“Nonno?” Your breath blew out like fire. The floors were ice-cold, you could feel it through your slippers. You scanned the hall, looking for him behind the walls. As the silence grew, so did the pace of your heartbeat. 

Then, a slight shift in the concret wall and there Nonna stood. Relief hit you like a wave and you began breathing regularly again. “Come on,” he waved a hand.

A weary smile tugged your mouth up slightly as you moved forward. Your body went rigide, your eyes went wide, and you shivered. Slowly, you craned your neck, but there was no one. You turned back to Nonno. He was in front of you. He wasn’t hiding, you could see him as clear as the light in your lamp would allow you. So who? Who in the hell was watching you? If it wasn’t Nonno, then who?

Seconds later you found yourself once again hidden behind the walls of the school. “What took you so long?” You shouted in a whisper, your body jolted as if you had been shocked, the cold was getting to you.

“Nevermind that,” he waved a hand, “let’s get you back before anyone notices you’re gone.” He frowned at your disheveled frame, “let me see that.” He grabbed the lamp from you, and you–now free–ran your right hand up and down your left shoulder, trying to create some sort of friction.

Nonno led you through the halls, but you stopped him before he left you near your dorm. “There’s one last thing I have to ask you to do.”

He took a step back, evaluated you, and sighed, “What is it?”

A month and a half. A month and a half you had been in this school. You had learned the comings and goings of the staff, of the students, you had adapted–had become part of the system. You were in the clear–but just in case–just as a counter mesaasure–

No, you shouldn’t think about that because it only mattered if you were caught. And you weren’t. You hadn’t been, today was the day. Tonight you would call the number J— used and he would deliver the message. He was smart–smarter than you’d imagine. You’d seen the cryptic messages he’d elft the ASIO before leaving to begin your training. It was ovr–almsot–it was so close you could practically feel the sweet victory in the air.

Avice would be saved, Nonno had assured you she was still in the Hospital Wing, she was still there–she hadn’t been auctioned off yet. You thought had water brimming the corenrs of your eyes, but you blinked them back.

You thought of the countermeasure you had instilled last night. And the second favor you had asked of Nonno. At first it was just one, but as you were setting up the first favor, a thought occurred to you, and it was always better to be safe than sorry.

Spinning a black pen in your fingers, you bit the inside of you cheek and leaned on your right palm, glancing out the window to your left. Bolted, as always. You noted your reflection, it looked somehward warped, you shivereda nd leaned forward, analyzing the mirror just a bit harder. 

The sun was a bit more noticeable today, but the air was just as cold. You blew a thin lock of hair out of your face and shifted in your seat. Was that? No, you must be seeing things. A sigh fell from your lips and you let you relaxed a bit more. Crossing one leg over the other and letting your eyes fall shut, everything almost felt like a dream. You couldn’t have asked for anything better last night. Nothing had gone wrong, it seemed almost too easy–though you were doing your best to act as casual as you could, it was hard. Because everything had gone so right, you felt a bit lighter.

It sounded wrong, knowing Avice was being drugged hourly and she must have gone through so much to get to that point–you were hoping she didn’t remember any of it when everything was over. You didn’t know if it’d be better to remember or to forget it all–so maybe you weren’t the best person to be suggesting or giving advice on the matter.

Your back straightened and your hands fell onto your desk when that guy in the white labcoat–the one who had whisked Avice away, appeared in the doorway of the classroom. Savino’s eyes found yours briefly, but before anyone else could notice, he diverted them. “Miss —,” the guy called–you hadn’t deduced whether or not he was an actual doctor, regardless, his licence would definitely be revoked withing the coming hours. His eyes landed on your professors, then yours, “please come with me.”

Fear. 

You stomach dropped, you felt sick. Not a single student would look at you. Nonno hadn’t spoken much about what happened when the students were first taken, he’d actually neglected to say much at all. And you were partially thankful because you didn’t think you could handle knowing whilst mere probabilities away from being their next target.

You stood numbly, your chair scraping the floor extra loudly–or maybe that was all just in your head. Your hands grew clammy and your movements were rigid as you walked. “What is this for?” You forced out, though you knew it was better not to draw any more attention to yourself than already had been. 

The doctor eyed your person, his thin, pink lips were cracked, they pursed together in a way that looked like it hurt. “The Headmaster has requested your presence.”

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, chilling the rest of your body. Every step forward took effort. Savino caught your gaze when you passed his desk, and almost instinctively, grabbed your hand. Squeeze squeeze Spencer squeeze squeeze I’m scared squeeze squeeze what do I do?

“Now, please.” The unnamed man called briskly, his voice wavering on annoyance. 

He opened his mouth as if to say something, but before you could stop yourself, you shook your head and snatched your hand away, following the man out. This wasn’t his battle, and even if it were–you loved him too much to throw him under the bus. Underneath all that Russian coolness, he was still your nerdy, beloved coworker.

Gone. Gone. She was gone. She was gone and he had let her go. He should have done something. Why did he just watch? Why didn’t he stand? Why? Why? Why?

He had to get out. Spencer bit the fingernail attached to his thumb. He had to escape. He had to alert everyone on the outside. He had to do it now.

They knew. They knew! Spencer wasn’t dumb. By standing up–by doing anything other than letting her go, he too would have been caught. The operation would be compromised and perhaps neither him nor her made it out of this alive. It was as clear as to why he had stayed silent. That didn’t make it any less bearable. If he lost her. If he lost her–Spencer would–he would……what would he do?

Nothing. He couldn’t possibly know what he’d do because he couldn’t imagine ever possibly losing her. She was him teamate, his literal partner in crime–or rather in fighting crime. That sounded studpid. Why couldn’t a single coherent though come form him?

He needed to focus on getting her back. Right? He was useless without her because she had information the Australian government needed. She had evidence he didn’t, half assed evidence whouldn’t fly in court, would it? He stopped, his eyes tracing over the type writer, there was another note. Another letter. He’d burned the previous one in his dormroom’s built in fireplace.

He followd the words with his eyes as he stepped closer. The page ripped neatly, making a crisp sound Savino in that moment couldn’t find it in himself to enjoy.

𝙸𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝟻𝟶/𝟻𝟶 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝, 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝙽𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚘 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚖𝚢 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚎𝚙𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜. 𝙾𝚋𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛’𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚝’𝚜 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚘’𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛. 𝙸 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗. 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚎. 𝙸 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚛𝚎𝚗. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍? 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚟𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚔𝚒𝚍𝚜. 𝚁𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍. 𝙳𝚛. 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛 𝚁𝚎𝚒𝚍.

It wasn’t written. But he felt like she wanted to write more, to say more. And if he was right, then she was more selfless than he could ever be.

He allowed himself a few seconds, when the warning bell rang, he took a breath, wiped his tears, and folded the piece of stock paper, tucking it into the pocket on his blazer.

You stepped into the school’s office. It felt like decades had past since the last you’d been here. The room was as sullen as you had remembered it. The man in the white labcoat stood with you in the suffocating room until the doors behind the desk opened and Headmaster Bobefitz came into view.

His name tasted sour even in to the voice in your mind, you held in the urge to make a cross face. His smile was shuddersome, you wanted to run–to hide–to be as far away from this man as possible. The man in the labcoat began to walk away and you turned, almost as if to ask him to stay.

You didn’t and when you face Bobefitz again, he had his eyebrows raised in mockery. They seemed to say, go ahead. You found your eyes narrowing and though sweaty, your palms compacted into fists. “Don’t make that face,” his voice trickled through the closed area, low and haughty.

It was disgusting.

“Follow me, let’s talk.”

You quivered, held your breath, and put one foot in front of the other. It didn’t matter that you were trapped. Spencer had everything he needed to call, and that was enough for you. If it had to come down to you or them, well, you had chosen the second option the instant you had taken on this operation–you couldn’t walk away now, just because you were afraid. He would understand, wouldn’t he?

A large desktop computer sat on a desk in the dark corner of the tight room. It was smaller that the one outside, he was closer now, but he took his seat across from you and motioned for you to sit. The room was decorated with flags of over 30 countries, a picute frame sat facing away from you.

You held your arms and hunched your shoulders, “you wanted to see me?”

You jerked at the way he stared at you. Pure evilness. His balding head might have been shiny in another sort of light, his black eyes peirced you. There was nothing there. No soul. It wasn’t human–whatever sat across from you. “I want to show you something.” His voice sounded sticky, dirty, and cruel.

His clammy, pale skin seemed to seep into the wall behind him, he melted in his chair, hands on his beer belly as he watched you analyze the screen. Horror dawned on you–image after image. In your room, in the halls, in the classroom, in the hospital wing and the faculty office–a close up of you leaning toward the camera unknowing–oh my God…this picture had been taken just moments prior.

Panic hit you from every angle as one photo in particular caught your eye. Your fingers flexed open and closed several times while your eyes ran through every detail.

There you were–talking to Nonno outside of the gates. The date read 02/16/07. It hadn’t been Nonno watching you, it had been Bobefitz. He had cameras all over the school…

He’d been watching you since the very beginning.

His hand connected with a line of books. A few of them came off the shelves. His angry eyes darkened at the sight of the files tucked safely behind Notes from Underground, the book that had led him to this secret room. He didn’t have time to wait until tonight. He had no idea what they were doing to her and even if he did, he was useless. God, why did he have to be so weak?

The grounds keeper–whose name he still didn’t know–appeared on the other end of the hall near the door. “We need to get a message to your friends.”

“You think I don’t know that?” His eyes narrowed as he came face to face with the old man. His average height gave Spencer somewhat of an advantage, and as he towered over the old man–a thought occurred to him– “If I find out you had anything to do with–

“I didn’t.” The man held up a hand, “you need to calm down.”

“Calm down? Don’t tell me to…fucking calm down!” His voice cracked–Spencer never cursed–but what if he wasn’t Spencer? What if he was Savino? With her, he knew who he was–he knew what was real and what wasn’t. But she wasn’t here, and he couldn’t remember what he had to do again–

Savino’s back hit the shelves behind him, he’d been shoved– “You need to get yourself together. You want to save these kids? You want to save the little miss?” His accent sounded slavic–no that was Savino’s own accent. Spencer held his head, a grimace colliding with his face as he moved to a crouch.

“I know who I am,” he whispered, “I know who I am.”

The grounds keeper sighed–Savino looked up, his brain was splitting in two. It was safer to default back to Savino. It was more comfortable to not fight back–but he had a mission. He couldn’t just let hismelf go–he couldn’t because he had a job to do–and Savino didn’t care about those things–that wasn’t in his conscience.

—

The name reverberated in his head. But was it her name or the fake name she had been given? They were the same person, right? He didn’t know–he didn’t–

—

That was Savino’s priority. He didn’t care about anyone or anything else. But she would never forgive him if–dangerous. This was a dangerous situation–a dangerous game of reality. 

“Get me ug–” He pushed himself onto his feet. It hurt–it hurt mentally. He wanted to sleep; he didn’t.

“A phone?” His head tilted upward, standing behind the old grounds keeper was the  frame of a short man pushing up glasses too thick for his face.

The unnamed man stepped further into the room, sliding out a mobile, and clicking a few buttons on the device. It rang through the small hall-made room,a nd eventually a click. The other line had picked up. The man nodded, a grim expression floating across his face, “one’s been taken, the other looks like he’s losing his shit You shouldn’t have sent them if they weren’t ready.”

“We didn’t have that privilege.” He stood, not knowing who the man in front of him was, only knowing he didn’t like him enough to fully trust him. The final bell for classes rang. He didn’t care, all that mattered was getting the evidence into safe hands. He had multiple battles ahead of him and he’d have to fight them all while simultaneously not knowing who the real him was.

The halls of Genry looked odd. Everything was blurring–or perhaps that was just your vision–the windows were bolted as usual–but something else caught your eyes. You took pause at the chains hanging from each lock. Those weren’t there before–if they had been you would have no doubt noticed them.

“Where are you taking me?” These weren’t the normall halls–they were replicas. “Get off of me!” You shook whomever held your hands behind your back.

Your jaw mentally hit the floor and you stumbled backward, “d…dad?”

“Hello, sweety,” tears pooled in your eyes, what was going on? Why–

“Oh, dad…” he opened his arms and motioned you forward with is hands. You felt his hug before you took your first step.

You took another and another–halting just before his hands wrapped around you. A flash of dark brown down the halls–but behind your father weren’t the halls you’d just been walking down–it was a large, floor to ceiling mirror that extended the entire space behind him like an icicle made from magic.

Your body jerked to the side–though when you turned around no one was there, you gazed around once more, but your father was gone. You were alone–you were all alone. The sky outside the bolted and chain-linked windows grew dark, clouding your vision once more. You stumbled and grabbed onto the chains to keep yourself from falling. 

You were falling–the building was falling, it was slanted it–where were you?

“Ah, you’re awake.”

You blinked and everything returned to you. Your father was dead–had been for about six years now. You were dreaming–you had been dreaming. None of it was real. Then what is. You felt tears spring to your face. This was madness–you were delving into it every second you were here. 

None of it is real.

You hoped Spencer had gotten your letter. You hoped he was out of here, perhaps the ASIO were deploying their teams now–readying to take the school.

“Well, you’re a bit older than the usual ones.”

“Can we sell her?”

“Oh, I think you’ll be alright.” The beady eyed doctor in his stupid white lab coat fixed his only working eye that hid behind a monocle on you, “there’s bound to be a buyer for everything–though you could probably pass her off as younger, if you wanted.”

“You bastards,” you seethed, snatching your wrist to your stomach–you head turned–it was chained. The space around you was dark–darker than normal, there were no white carvings in the walls–no it was all–it was gray–deep, ugly grays filled your vision.

A cynical laugh echoaed throughout the room–a few followed. You tried to get a good look them all, you might have to identity them later. You better enjoy this. You’ll rot in prison for the rest of your lives when the system is through with you. You jerked the handcuffs and beared your teeth, I’ll make sure of it.

An hour before classes ended, Savino heard the sirens. The moutains were an hour drive from the closest town–the school was about 30 minutes up hill–frankly he was surprised they had gotten here so quickly. Surprised–and grateful.

“So, how does this work?” The old man asked gruffly, “I’ve heard them through the walls, they’re looking for a missing student.”

“Yeah,” he wasn’t dumb. He knew he should have gone back to class to keep from drawing attention to himself, but Savino didn’t need to care about suck things. Some part–maybe both of them–knew that if he went back to class he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had holed up in this room.

But then, that would mean Savino and Spencer both knew that Spencer was the real him, right? Because why else would they both know that it was better to stay hidden? “Are you crying?”

“No,” but his voice wavered and he felt hot despite the weather.

He felt he should have someone–someone other than her–someone on the outside. Someone he could turn to–but he couldn’t–“Ugh,” he groaned.

“Are you sick, what–what’s wrong with you?” Old Man leaned over him and helped him sit upwards. “Oh, Son…that’s not good…” he shook his head and he didn’t know what the old man was referring to.

“Wait,” Savino turned his head to the right, toward the door, “do you hear that?”

“Is it them? Is it safe?”

He stumbled toward the door, “let’s go through the walls just to be sure…”

Old Man hesitated for just a second, then with tight lips, nodded, “come on then.”

The grimy walls were of no concern to Savino–though he’d been in much nicer conditions, they served a more significant purpose now–they hid him.

Footsteps–several sets of them–then a voice–a voice he thought he recognized. “Stop–” he whispered, holding out a hand.

“What–what is it, do you know them?”

“I don’t know…” he pressed his ear against the the wall, then, slowly, lifted a piece of concrete that had seemed to have been cracked ages ago.

Black gelled hair, a menacing frown, and set eyes–where did he knew that face from? What ws his name? A woman walked beside him, she looked familiar. Short cropped hair, ghostly pale skin, and high cheekbones–he knew these people.

Or did Spencer know these people?

Who was the real version of himself? Savino. He always resorted back to Savino because that was the safest option…right?

“Do you knw them?” Came the question again, but he didn’t know how to respond to that. Did he know these people? Or did he only think he knew these people. He needed–he needed her. He needed to find her. She would know–she could tell him. He wasn’t confused when he was with her…

But who was she again? A schoolmate? When did he first meet her? She had two names. Two names…why… Why could he not figure this out on his own? His mind was playing tricks on him, why couldn’t he trust his own mind?

“Spencer…”

Savino glanced up–catching Old Man’s eyes, “how do you know that name?”

“She…she told me. Last night–before everything…she asked me…for two favors…” Savino felt worlds pass through him.

“I’m Spencer… Spencer.” he whispered to himself. His hands pushed off the concrete and he held out his hands, “give them to me.” This wasn’t how it was suppose to go, but neither of them were suppose to get caught either. That wasn’t the plan and neither was this, but fuck the plan.

Spencer stepped out from a secret passage down the hall of the main wing near the office, he turned back to the unknown man and waved. The walls casted over him and he was gone just like that. 

He stepped into the office, it was quiet at first, but then all three people turned their heads to look at him, he only looked at two, “do it now.”

The man glacned at the stack in his hands, the woman radioed someone, turned around, and handcuffed the baffled man–who was evidently not the headmaster. Where was that son of a bitch?

“Spencer,” the serious man stepped in front of him, but Spencer didn’t care. He shoved the stack of files into his bosses hand and stopped Emily.

“Where is she?”

“I–I don’t–

“I’m going to ask you one more time–

“Reid–”

“Hotch–” Spencer glanced back at his boss, he didn’t know what he looked like, but he assumed a bit messy; he was sure there were bags under his eyes, and even so he didn’t know how deep they went. “Where is she?”

The doctor that had taken her out of class earlier–Spencer had seen around the halls and he he knew by his nametage–this man had been sorted under The Scumbags Involved–or whatever he’d labled it. The doctor lowered his head, “they had her takne to the dungeon–”

“That’s where they keep them before the bidding,” he said, more to himself now–his mind was running at a million miles per second, a small smile fell to his face. He wass starting to feel just a bit like his old self–though he knew he’d been altered in some way.

Spencer he spun around, “REID!” Hotch called after him, but Hotch could go fuck himslef if he thought he’d leave her alone any longer.

Without a gun. Without a knife or any other sort of weapon, Spencer booked it throughout the school; the old Spencer never would have though tot do something so stupid, but times changed a person, so perhaps he now would under the right circumstances.

The ogling you could handle, the messing with your head wasn’t ideal, but you were still okay. You knew who you were–where you were–and that a rescue team would burst through those door in any moment now.

But the not knowing was killing you. You had smelled her perfume. You could just make it out–and then a second later you had seen a flash of blonde hair–all wrinkled, like it had been in the same position for days–it was dry, but a brush would fix it–that’s what you hoped. 

Your first concern was why was she down here? To be sure, your deduction was spot on–you were in the dungeons beneath this wreck of a school.

The second was where she’d vanished off to. Where had they taken her? She was there and then she wasn’t– gone, just like that. That’s when your crying began. You couldn’t stop it. Where–was she? You couldn’t have been too late. You couldn’t have been–

That pig sat at your bedside any chance he got. When the doctor wasn’t around making sure your blood preassure was stable and the right amount of doses of whatever drug they were giving you were keeping you in your bed. You were sure it was diazepam, otherwise known as valium–a date rape drug.

Though you were afraid it could be something much more worse like flunitrazepam–being motionless left you with nothing to do but think–you felt like your mind had been running for ages. The thoughts that coerced through your mind weren’t pretty, paired with the only smell being rot and Bobefitz–you wanted nothing more than to breathe in Avice perfume. You didn’t have the mental capacity in the state you were in to think of something happy–to take yourself somewhere else. But more than that, you had to remember her. 

They would need to find her…wherever they’d taken her.

You didn’t know how long ago you’d seen her, but you couldn’t smell her fragernece anymore and the day was sure to be getting later and later. It was fire to your skin, like you snorted chili sauce. Your mouth watered–when was the last time you’d had a drink of water–God you were starting to lose it.

You closed your eyes-but only for a second, you assured yourself. Cold fingertips padded across you collarbone. You shuddered, your eyes fluttered open to a nightmare. Bobefitz’ face hovered above yours, his breath had your breakfast receding and his beady black eyes had that same souless suggestion that felt like there were bugs beneath your skin, itching at your flesh to get out.

“I suppose they wouldn’t really know anything if I were to–” he cut himself off, laughing. A sinister thing you wantes no part in. Your chest huffed as his eyes landed back on yours, “I mean, when he’s done with you, you’ll join the others anyway.” He leaned forward, his belly folding in roles you couldn’t wince away from, “tell me, my dear, did you know those missing studnets you were investigating never actually left the premises?” 

Whimpers fell through the cell they’d placed you in right as his thick, stubby fingers slid over the buttons on your shirt. A noise sounded somehwere down the hall–someone apparated in the entrance of the chamber and Bobefitz’ head snapped upward. 

You couldn’t see who it was, but sooner rather than later the tubes attaching to you were ripped out and the cell was overtaken. Someone lifted you up from the bedyour eyes scanned the room, though slow and docile [you were still incapicated]. 

There was no one else–Avice wasn’t–“Youhaveto–”you wheezed, “–gettohershe–” another wheeze.

“Whoah whoah–slow down,” his breath coated your neck as he move you into his arms. Your words were sloppy–almost like you were drunk.

“Find…her–” 

Spencer’s eyes never left yours as he carried you up the stairwells and through the halls of the castle. There were men in black, guns pulled out in front of them. Further down the hall you started to gain movement in lower your joints, it wasn’t anything like a miracle–but it was something. You could hear the comotion of classes being stopped, you tried to remember everything in order to put things in order for yourself–but it was so…hard.

Everything was just–

Smoke in the air had your eyes watering, a medic was adjusting the mask around your head–your mouth. Your pupils dilated and you tried to sit up, but it hurt–you felt around, realzing you were on a gurney. “It’s okay–you're alright.” Another medic was getting the ambulance open and ready behind you.

Burnt ash–oh that’s foul! You coughed, heaving in breaths, “just calm down, it’ll be alright.” A third medic rubbed your arm, you twitched–feeling uncomfortable. Eventually, she stepped away when you seemed to have settled down. 

What was that? What the hell–where was he? Spencer you had to find–Avice, was she okay? Did they find her?

Your vision was clouded by the vapor and the graying sky–it was late and you were high up in the mountains. You could hear people milling about–a swarm of people were in front of you, there were cars, there was a gate, there–oh my gosh.

Groups of people–mostly students and police–surrounded the outside of the school. It was burning–the school was on fire–the entire thing, it was burning down–and you smelled it–the little oxygen you had access to caught in your throat.

Her perfume. The fregernce was so strong you turned your head because she must have been beside you. There–a lock of blonde hair…disspearing behind the walls of the school, toward the…the courtyard. You jerked away from the medics, why were there tubes in you? You’d had enoug of that–you sat up, holding your head.

“Hey, you can’t–you have to sit so we can help you.” Her gentle voice wasn’t soothing any part of your headache. What happened?

“Get off me,” you pushed and rolled yourself off the gurney, hitting the floor with a thud. There waere shouting, more people circling you–God why couldn’t they just give you a moment? You ignored the blood trickling from the sleeve of your button up.

You shivered–though you didn’t know why. You had to get to her, people watched you go around them–probably wondering where you were headed and why you would want to go back into that wretched sinful. 

A hand caught your arm and though your first instinct was to jerk it back–you hated being touched, though you didn’t think to question why that was in the moment–you kept your cool when you noted who it was.

She held up a piece of paper, blocking line of sight, you caught the black ink scribbled down–the smoke grew stronger, filling the space between you and the paper. You pulled it out of her hold and help it closer to your face.

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺'𝘭𝘭 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦...𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘺?

Cairo’s thick hair appeared in you peripheral secons afterward. You gripped the pen she extended toward you and clicked the top.

𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘀𝗲𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝘁𝗼𝗼

You smelled it. Her scent mixed with the smoke–adn she wasn’t here. You’re heart fell to your feet and cupped your mouth to keep the bile down as the memory of what that things had last said resurfaced …those missing studnets you were investigating never actually left the premise…

You slide to the floor near the gate and screamed–it was deafening to you–and though she couldn’t hear you, you could tell Cairo understood. She held you for a moment which was weird because you were the adult. You were the one who should be comforting her.

She walked you toward the gurneys again, doing her best to conceal you from the media that somehow found there way up here even though you were sure the roads were being blocked off. 

She handed you back the paper after a moment–it was dirty, you now noticed–and wrinkled. You read over the paper, and her frown turned into somewhat of a griamce as she tried to smile–though it only seemed to deepen her expression. 

𝘪 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘪'𝘮 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘢 𝘨𝘰 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦

Though everything hurt and you felt dirty in your own skin, you did took the pen and paper back.

𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝘀𝘁

You thought that would be the end of it, Cairo had turned, seemingly ready to walk away–but she hesitated. A second later, she was sliding another piece of paper into your hands–you felt something between the folds. Your hands gripped the paper, though they began shaking uncontrollably, so you had to set it down. 

Cairo was lost in the crowds when you gazed up again.

It was a bit of a struggle, but ultimately the corners of the pages were flattened on your lap. You felt another wave of tears spring into your eyes when you took in the object. A single earring you could never dream to afford captured your attention–and the words on the page behind it,

𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶

your head jerked up, you eyes searching through the crowd for any sign of the girl. She was there and then she wasn’t–just like….you couldn’t bring yourself to even think her name. 

And then, almost fundamentally, your eyes caught tussles of brown…when his face came into view, a new kind of sadness came over you–it hit hard and heavy. He smiled, already making his way toward you–and you knew then–that you were safe. Though abruptly, you smelled that fragrance and you knew this was only the end of the beginning.

a/n: genuinely so proud of this fic–i was very excited to write this, i also tried something different with Cairo's report–please let me know if you liked that or not and stay updated for part two !!

@darkmatilda @theylovemelody@kennedy-brooke @maisyyyyyy

[awordsmith]

always 💗💗💗

𝜗𝜚 The Liar Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

Words: 8,2k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of injuries, violence, alzheimer, prison, scars. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I’M BACK!!! this chapter is an up and down. I had not been able to upload it soon because I started college a month ago and disappeared :( sorry in warning for this but know that I have all the intentions of writing this entire series (we are close to the end) and one or two extras.

It was late afternoon, the weak light of the sun filtering through the blinds, casting long, muted shadows across the sterile walls of the nursing home room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above Spencer, filling the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly between him and his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the floor. It had been a quiet drive here, the kind of silence that felt suffocating, as if every word he didn’t say weighed heavier than the ones he might have spoken. The air was thick with the unsaid, and he was doing his best to stay composed, not letting his emotions break through the dam he had built. But it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, a cold, clinical scent that made it seem a world away from the warmth of the apartment they had been in just half an hour before. Diana lay on the bed, the sheets pulled tightly around her frail body; her face had softened with time, the confusion that had once been there seemed to have faded. Her eyes, though clouded, still had that glimmer of recognition, just a brief glint mixed with weariness.

For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

“Spencer,” she murmured, her voice quiet, gentle. “When is she coming?”

His heart skipped a beat, the weight of the moment settling over him like a stone in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and hiding the fear.

“Who, mom?” He asked, his voice soft, careful, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“Your girlfriend,” she said, her lips curving slightly, like she was letting him in on some long-forgotten secret. “I thought she was coming with us. Did she stay at your apartment?”

Oh. Oh. Oh.

His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, sinking weight pressing against his ribs. His breath stalled for a moment, his thoughts tangling together too quickly to process.

You.

She was talking about you.

Spencer had braced himself for a lot of things when he came here—his mother forgetting his name, mistaking the year, slipping in and out of moments of clarity—but not this. Not you. He hadn’t anticipated her remembering so clearly, especially when so much else had slipped through the cracks. The painful fog of her mind seemed to distort everything else, but not this. It cut through the haze and made this day feel heavier than the others. He had hoped, selfishly, that time had blurred those memories, softened them enough that she wouldn’t ask, that she wouldn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to face it, not now, not like this.

Because he didn’t want to tell his mother.

Didn’t want to tell her that he had let you slip away. That the space between you had grown too vast, too heavy to ignore. That no matter how much he missed you—God, how he missed you—it had been his choice. His decision. That he had shut himself off from the one person who had made him feel again, and now he didn’t know how to undo it.

He didn’t want his mother to see it, to know how much it hurt. She was already fragile, already carrying so much. What good would it do to make her worry about him, too?

His throat felt tight and dry.

“Mom, she’s not—” The words faltered, caught somewhere between truth and cowardice.

She’s not coming.

She’s not mine.

She never was.

But Diana’s mind was already drifting, slipping past his hesitation like water through cupped hands. She lifted a trembling hand, her fingers curling slightly, reaching for something unseen. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and reverent.

“I like her,” she murmured. “She’s good for you. She made tea for me the other day.”

The other day, just half an hour ago. But he didn’t dare correct her.

“She should come,” Diana continued, her words slowing, like she was savoring them. “I want to meet her. I want to see her. I want to see how she looks with you.”

Spencer felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

His mother wanted to see how you looked with him.

As if you were his. As if nothing had broken the illusion of what you two once could be. As if the dreams he had clung to at night weren’t haunted by regret.

As if, in another life, in another version of himself, he had dared to try, to take your hand, to say the words he swallowed back every time you stood too close, every time your eyes softened just for him.

As if he had never hurt you.

And damn, how he wished that were true.

He wanted to tell his mother that it wasn’t as simple as she thought. That he wasn’t whole enough to be good for you. That he had made his choices, and this loneliness was something he had earned.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he forced himself to breathe, to move past the crushing weight in his ribs.

“I’ll tell her,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

One.

The lie settled on his tongue like lead.

It was small and fragile, but it was the only thing he could offer her. The truth was too cruel, too sharp-edged. It would do more harm than good.

Diana sighed, her eyelids growing heavier as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I hope she’s here soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I miss having someone new around. The people here are boring. They don’t talk like her. They don’t bring me good tea.”

Spencer swallowed hard, watching her drift off. His mind swirled, too clouded with guilt and pain to find clarity. He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to say how sorry he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. How much he wished he could stop lying to her and to you.

But the words never came.

Instead, he just sat there, watching his mother fade into sleep, helpless to undo the things he had done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make it right. All he could do was wait and pray for something he didn’t know how to fix.

Like the genius he was, he should have known this was inevitable.

Spencer must have sensed, deep down, that all his carefully constructed plans to keep his distance were bound to unravel. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. No amount of logic, no amount of calculated restraint, could have changed the truth: he was never going to be able to keep you at arm’s length.

Three years now. Three years since the first time he saw you, standing in the hallway, struggling under the weight of moving boxes, your determination burning through the exhaustion that must have been settling deep in your bones. Three years since the day your cat had decided, without hesitation, that he belonged to him, weaving between his legs like a creature who had known him forever. But you? You were barely more than a passing blur in his periphery, a fleeting presence in that moment. And yet, somehow, some way, that moment had been the start of everything.

Three years since the first time you had smiled at him—really smiled—and caught him completely off guard. Since the first time your laughter had made something inside him stumble. Three years of small, stolen moments that shouldn’t have meant as much as they did, of soft conversations that chipped away at his walls before he even realized they were crumbling. Three years of standing too close but never quite touching, of understanding each other in ways that had nothing to do with words.

You two had always been honest with each other. Brutally so. It wasn’t about grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but about the quiet things, the ones most people never thought to share. Spencer told you about the way the starlings moved outside the jet window, their flight patterns shifting like liquid shadows against the sky. He told you how the new sugar you had bought threw off his usual coffee ratio, how the slight imbalance left a persistent irritation in the back of his mind all day. And you told him about the stranger in the grocery store who had baffled you with their nonsensical conversation, about the dream that clung to you like smoke, never quite clearing.

You told each other things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mattered because they were yours.

That was what made keeping a secret from you impossible.

Three months, four weeks, and two days. That’s how long he had carried the weight of it, letting the guilt press into his ribs, burrow under his skin. He had convinced himself that he could do it, that he could hold this piece of himself away from you, shielding you from something he couldn’t even shield himself from. But every time he tried to create distance, every time he held himself back, you knew.

And that was the worst part; you always knew.

You saw through him in ways no one else did. You could read the minute shifts in his voice, the way his breath caught in his throat when he was on the verge of saying something but swallowed it down instead. You could feel the hesitation in his touch when he pulled away before he ever had the chance to reach for you. He should have known you wouldn’t push, that you would let him come to you in his own time.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting.

And then, in a blink, it all unraveled.

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him, whether it was the exhaustion, the guilt, or the unbearable weight of the space he had tried to put between you, but suddenly, the walls he had fought so hard to keep standing collapsed beneath the pressure of it all. He was tired. Tired of pretending he could bear it alone. Tired of pretending that keeping you at a distance was anything other than a losing battle.

And in your arms, he shattered. Completely.

You held him without hesitation, without fear, without resentment. No demand for an explanation, no pressure for him to speak before he was ready. Just warmth. Just presence. Just you. And that was enough.

When the elevator doors slid open on your floor, you stepped out first, as you always did, effortless, as if the very air around you had shifted to accommodate your presence. For a moment, you paused, your figure outlined by the soft glow of the hallway lights. You took a small breath, the kind that felt like it belonged solely to this moment, before turning back to him. In that fleeting second, your gaze met his, unreadable, layered with something that lingered beneath the surface, too subtle and too deep to fully understand. And then, as if some quiet understanding passed between you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, soft, intimate, and strangely familiar, like a secret that had always been shared between the two of you, even in silence.

“I buy a new coffee,” you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the quiet of the place. The words slipped through the silence, warm and inviting. “I think you might like it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, the weight of your words sinking deeper into him as he followed you down the hall. His mind was still racing, trying to catch up with the unraveling of everything he had kept inside. His breathing was uneven, each inhale a struggle to process what had just been said, what had just happened. His throat was tight, like if he even tried to speak, the words would crumble and fall apart before they could ever reach the surface.

And yet, you didn’t press. You didn’t ask or rush him. You just walked beside him, as you always had, so steady, patient, and present. It was as if nothing had changed, and yet, in some indescribable way, everything had.

When you reached his door, you unlocked it with a familiar motion, but before stepping inside, you glanced back at him, that same quiet smile still playing on your lips.

“I buy jello too,” you said, your tone light and casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But the words sank into him like a slow, steady pain, unraveling him all over again.

God.

Jello had been one of the few things that kept him sane in prison, the only thing that made those long, endless days feel the slightest bit normal. Every afternoon, when the guards slid his tray through the slot, his eyes would instinctively search for it. That small plastic container, that bright, artificial sweetness that reminded him there was still something predictable in a world that had taken everything else away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, standing in this dimly lit hallway, you had just offered it to me so simply, so effortlessly after he broke down crying in your arms because you knew it would make him feel better.

You didn’t eat jello. He knew that. He had known it from the very first time you had wrinkled your nose at the idea, passing it over without a second glance. And yet, you still bought it. Every time you went to the store, it ended up in your cart, tucked between the things you actually did like. A quiet, unspoken gesture. A habit formed not out of necessity, but out of something deeper, something neither of you had ever needed to say out loud. Just like how he always made sure to have your favorite tea stocked in his cupboard, even though he never drank it himself. Even though he barely thought about it until he saw the box sitting there, waiting for you, like a quiet promise he never had to voice.

That was what you did for each other.

And maybe that was why his breath hitched, why his throat tightened, why his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if he could physically hold himself together. Because this wasn’t grand or dramatic, it wasn’t some sweeping declaration. It was simple. Thoughtless. Ordinary. Just jello.

But oh God, it was your jello. And anything that had you included was automatically the most special in his world.

Before he could find the words, before he could even begin to process the weight of it all, a sudden blast of music erupted from somewhere above, the sharp clatter of electric guitar cutting through the quiet like a sudden explosion. The pounding rhythm of the drums followed, shaking the ceiling just slightly, a chaotic contrast to the moment he had been drowning in only seconds before.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance to catch up.

He tensed, his body moving on its own as he instinctively stepped closer to you, angling himself between you and the unseen source of the noise—ready to shield, to take a hit, to react to a threat that wasn’t even there.

He realized it a second too late.

But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge his automatic reaction, didn’t call attention to the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breath had caught in his throat. Instead, you just sighed, shaking your head with quiet amusement as if this was all so normal.

“That’s the niece of our neighbor,” you explained easily, your voice grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed. “He loves rock music.”

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake the lingering tension from his body. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hall, tilting your head slightly as if you could see the scene unfolding upstairs. “Don’t get too attached, though. It’ll be gone in a minute.”

Right on cue, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by the muffled sound of a door opening and a voice too distant to make out, but unmistakably scolding.

A second later, you grinned. “His uncle always shuts it down in the best part of the song.”

This time, Spencer’s laughter came without hesitation, rolling from his chest in a way that felt natural, effortless. It wasn’t the strained, tight laugh that he’d forced out in uncomfortable moments before. This was real, soft, and unburdened, a ripple of relief that escaped him without effort. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to laugh, to truly laugh, until it happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, something inside him relaxed. It was the sound of something heavy lifting, an unspoken weight easing off of him because of you.

You shifted, and the air between you changed again, this time with a quiet, concerned tone in your voice. “It’s cold,” you said, glancing up at the door behind you, the hallway a little dimmer, the night pressing in on all sides. “You should go inside.”

Without you?

He hesitated for a moment, looking at you, the weight of everything still swirling inside him, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. “Can you…can you go with me?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he’d intended, as if they were a plea he hadn’t known he needed to make.

It was a question that carried more than just the invitation to walk through his door. It was an invitation for you to stay, to be there, to share in the quiet, in the simplicity again.

He needed that. He needed you.

But you hesitated anyway. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Spencer to feel the weight of it. And for a split second, he wondered if he had crossed a line, if his request was too much. You had been a constant in his life since the start, but this…this felt different because this wasn’t the start, this wasn’t the past, and now that you were far away, even if you were just a few feet away from him.

You glanced away briefly, and the small, fleeting flicker of doubt in your eyes was quickly replaced by something unreadable. You licked your lips, the soft sound barely noticeable, and then took a small step back, your hand resting lightly on your doorknob.

He held his breath, waiting for the rejection, the inevitable pull back to reality where things could never be back to simple between the two of you.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, and he saw the hesitation there, the conflict, even if you didn’t voice it. Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak at first. Instead, you studied him, your gaze soft and calculating, as if weighing the possibility of crossing a line neither of you had ever dared to approach. Even though you’d been to his house countless times, lying in his bed, moving around in your socks as if it were your own, something about this moment felt different.

“I don’t know if I should,” you finally said, your voice small, unsure. “You…You’ve been through a lot tonight. Maybe it’s better if you just have some time to yourself, you know? To breathe. To think.” Maybe it's better if I give you space so that tomorrow morning you don't want to push me away again.

Spencer could feel the sting of your words, but it wasn’t rejection. It was caution. You were worried about him and about yourself. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that he didn’t need space, that he needed you more than anything, but instead, he just nodded slowly, his heart sinking a little with the weight of your words.

“I get it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.” The truth slipped out before he could stop it, and even as he said it, he realized how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was unraveling again, exposing himself in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Ouch.

You looked at him, your eyes softening, a delicate understanding in them. His words hung between you, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. He didn’t want to be alone. And there, in the quiet of that admission, something shifted, it touched you. The hesitation in your expression melted into something gentler, more certain.

With a small sigh, you stepped forward, closing the door of your place with a soft click. “Alright,” you said, your voice low. “I can stay a moment.”

The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was like the air had cleared, like the heavy, uncertain tension between you had finally been lifted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now, when you’d said yes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

You didn’t say anything in return at first. Instead, you simply walked beside him as he led the way down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet.

When you reached his door, he hesitated for a moment, his hand on the knob. It felt like one more decision, one more choice to make. But when he turned the handle and stepped inside, he felt your presence beside him, a steady reassurance that everything was somehow okay, that this fragile moment between you wasn’t going to break, that everything could be a little better again.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. He moved toward the thermostat, fingers hovering over the controls as he turned the heater up. The hum of the system started, and the air slowly began to warm around you, but it wasn’t enough just yet. And in solution, you moved to draping a thick, soft blanket over the couch.

Without a word, you sat down, and he did the same, your body curving into the corner as you pulled the blanket around both of you, like a protection. It was quiet, the warmth of the room slowly filling the space, but now, with the soft, cozy fabric surrounding you both. This wasn’t the first time you two shared a blanket, but somehow, it feels so different. There was something new in the way you adjusted the blanket, your hands smoothing it over his legs, over your own, and in the way his heart reacted to that.

“You didn’t have to…” Spencer started, his voice quieter now, the words hesitant. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, or if it even made sense. But you didn’t need him to finish.

“It’s nothing,” you said, the words light, but carrying with them an unspoken understanding.

Maybe to you, this was nothing. But to him, this was everything.

The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, the heater slowly humming in the background as the cold of the hallway faded into nothing. It was quiet now, comfortable in its stillness, and yet…there was something else in the air, something fragile, like the breath you both were holding, unsure how to bridge this space between comfort and vulnerability.

You shifted slightly, drawing the blanket closer, a subtle move to find some warmth. Spencer’s hand, resting by his side, brushed against yours again, and in that fleeting touch, you both seemed to share the same unspoken thought.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the subtle rustle of the blanket as you both made yourselves comfortable. You sat just a little closer now, the air between you less strained, more familiar. And, as if sensing that shift, he took a slow, deep breath, releasing the tension that had coiled itself so tightly around him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words slipping out more gently now, as though they didn’t carry the same weight of need they had earlier. “You could just…go home, if you want.”

Two.

But the words didn’t feel like an invitation to leave. They felt like a question—Are you still okay with this?

You shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, your eyes drifting down to where it covered you both. There was something in the way his words didn’t quite reach his eyes, a wariness that had lingered in the way he held himself.

“I can stay a bit.” You said quietly, feeling cold.

As you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, you felt a slight movement in the fabric next to him. Spencer moved, turning slightly to copy you, just enough so that his side was facing you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the movement caught your attention and made you pay attention. The blanket had shifted around him, and when you moved enough, you saw it: a thin, faint scar across his lower abdomen, a line of pale skin against the heat of his body that still looked reddened.

It was a silent thing, easy to miss if you didn't look closely, but once you saw it, you couldn't ignore it. The scar was irregular, almost as if it had been carved, and for a moment you forgot to breathe. It was a deep, painful-looking mark, the kind that spoke of more than accidents or misfortune, the kind that had a deliberate intent to do as much damage as possible. You shuddered to think that there was a story behind it, a moment in his recent past that you didn't know about.

Your hand froze in the blanket, and your eyes roamed over the visible part of the scar without wanting to. You didn't want to make it obvious, you didn't want to pry, but the instinct was there. What had happened to him to have such a mark on his skin? Who had been able to hurt him?

Spencer shifted again, his hand unconsciously clenching the blanket and pulling down his shirt, as if he could feel your gaze and wanted to avoid it as much as possible. The change in his posture was immediate: cautious, cautious, but you didn't intend for him to feel exposed. It was an instinct, just a fleeting glance, but you couldn't pretend that it hadn't awakened something inside you and that your doubts hadn't increased.

You turned your attention back to the blanket, pretending to concentrate on adjusting the fabric around the two of you, giving him space, a chance to recover and decipher the moment in his mind. But you couldn't forget the scar. It wasn’t the first time you had seen the evidence of his dangerous world: the bruises, the small cuts, and the scrapes that came with the territory of his work. You’d grown accustomed to them over time, an unspoken part of the routine. But this…this was different. It was the first time that this paralyzing fear of what he had been through appeared.

Finally, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer than it should, he broke the quiet with a soft sigh, one that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it…” He trailed off, clearly aware of the shift in the air between you two.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It…it happened when you were away?” You asked softly, the words careful, measured.

Spencer hesitated, but then he nodded. A single, small movement, but it felt heavier than it should have.

Your heart cracked at the confirmation.

“Someone hurt you,” you whispered, barely able to say the words.

More than someone.

More than one time.

More than a scar.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the fabric covering his lap. “I’m okay,” he said, the words automatic, rehearsed. As if he had told himself the same thing so many times it had become muscle memory.

Three.

“It’s old,” he added, trying to brush it off, to pull the conversation away from the depth of it.

Four.

But you shook your head, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “But someone hurt you.” Your voice wavered, the realization settling deeper, making your stomach twist. “And I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, sharper now, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weariness that came with carrying something too heavy for too long.

Five.

The words were sharp and final, but they only made the ache in your chest worse.

“It matters to me, Spencer.”

That made him pause.

For the first time since you’d noticed the scar, he truly looked at you. His brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. You could see the way his walls were still up, how he was balancing on that edge between wanting to push you away and not having the energy to fight you on this, to tell you the whole truth.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I spent all this time thinking you were just… fuck, I thought you were away because you wanted to be. That you didn’t call me in three months because you didn’t want to. That you were busy with your conferences, too caught up in whatever was keeping you occupied.” You let out a shaky breath. “I never thought for a second that you were—that someone was hurting you this bad.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, a flash of emotion that he quickly shuttered behind a wall of indifference. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was bracing himself for something. Bracing himself for your disappointment, for your pity, or whatever it was he thought you might feel. He didn’t want to let you in any more than he already had, didn’t want to reveal the broken pieces of himself he’d hidden so carefully.

But you wouldn’t turn away. You couldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost apologetic, though it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for what had happened. It wasn’t the kind of apology you had hoped for, the kind that acknowledged the depth of the hurt. No, this was the kind of apology he gave when he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to protect you from the mess of his life. “You know how…how my work is.”

“You told me it was a simple conference,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, the emotion choking you. “I never thought it was dangerous.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing, making each word feel heavier than the last. “If I had known—”

You stopped yourself, the weight of the words heavy on your tongue. Spencer looked at you then, his gaze searching, as if he was expecting you to finish, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud. But you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with the fear of how it would sound.

“If I would’ve known,” you began again, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost breaking as you spoke them, “I would’ve never let you go that morning.”

The admission hung between you, thick and heavy. The idea that if you’d known, you would have stopped him from leaving. That you would have made sure he was safe. But it didn’t matter now, did it? The damage was already done, and all you had left were these words, these feelings that couldn’t undo the hurt he’d endured.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, as though the weight of your words was something he wasn’t ready to accept. “You wouldn’t have stopped me,” he said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering close to your cheek, as though he needed to connect with you, to reassure himself you were still there, still with him.

“I would try,” you said, your voice small but determined.

“No,” he said, his voice a little firmer, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

You frowned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “Then I would’ve done something different,” you said quickly, the words rushing out of you in an attempt to fill the silence. “I would’ve hugged you more. I would’ve kissed you—”

You trailed off, the words surprising even you as they left your lips. You hadn’t meant to say it, but now that you had, you could feel the sudden weight of vulnerability pressing down on you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly embarrassed, your eyes flickering to the clock on the wall as if it could somehow distract you from the sudden shift in the air between you.

“I—” Spencer began, his voice faltering, surprised by your words. “You what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, cutting him off. You stood up, the movement feeling abrupt, as if the sudden need to distance yourself was the only thing you could think to do. The warmth of the blanket that had wrapped around both of you now felt like an echo, leaving the couch cold and empty as you stepped away from it.

Six.

“I should go home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s almost Mittens’ dinner time.”

As you turned to leave, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space between you, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. The thought of leaving felt too final, too much like running away from everything you had just shared. But the words were already out, and you didn’t know how to take them back.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, his voice soft, yet desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away.

You paused, feeling his hand close around your wrist, gently pulling you back. The contact was warm and grounding, but it only made your heart beat faster. His fingers wrapped around you with a kind of quiet urgency, a need to keep you close.

You turned to face him, and in that moment, the silence between you both felt more intimate than anything you’d shared before. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. The air between you felt charged, like everything you hadn’t said was suspended, just waiting to break free.

“What?”

“I should’ve done this that morning,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if saying it out loud made the feeling more real, more vulnerable.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, a fleeting second that felt like an eternity, then returned to your eyes, searching, unsure. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek—soft, almost tentative—as though he was uncertain of your response, like he was afraid to cross a line, even though the air between you both was thick with the unspoken tension. You could feel the warmth of his touch radiating through you, gentle but hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be this close, to share this kind of intimacy with you. His breath hitched slightly in the charged silence, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

You held your breath, caught in the delicate web of uncertainty, wondering if this moment would slip away like all the others before. But instead of retreating, he closed the distance slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to tell him you didn’t want this. The uncertainty between you both was thick, suffocating, and yet neither of you moved.

And then, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft, barely a touch, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what he would find there. The kiss was fleeting, almost apologetic, as if he was waiting for a signal from you, a sign that it was okay to continue. His hand remained on your cheek, trembling just slightly, and you could feel it—his hesitation, his fear of what this could mean, his fear of falling too fast. But despite the uncertainty, there was something undeniably tender in the way he kissed you. So tender, it made your heart ache, and you realized he was touching you as if you were made of glass, as if he was terrified of breaking you.

Some part of him wants to protect his heart from falling to the floor because he was finally brave enough to kiss you. You, the girl next door, his girl next door.

You stood there, frozen for a heartbeat, as his lips lingered, unsure, almost apologetic, on yours. The hesitation in his touch stirred something inside you, something deep, something aching. But then, it was as if everything inside you shifted. The restraint you had been holding on to snapped, the weight of everything unspoken suddenly lifting.

You kissed him back.

At first, it was a small, hesitant movement, a soft press of your lips against his, but it was enough. It ignited something in both of you, an uncontrollable surge of need, of longing that had been building in the silence between you for far too long. His hand slid up your cheek, cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair, desperately trying to keep you from pulling away.

You let go, abandoning all caution, all restraint.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer with a force that surprised even you, and suddenly, everything was frantic, wild—your lips crashing against his, the kiss deepening, deepening with each passing second. His hands roamed down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the heat of him seeping into every part of you. The world outside of this moment faded, as if it no longer existed. There was only him, only the press of his lips, the insistent pressure of his body against yours. The heat between you both was intoxicating, endless, and you couldn’t get enough. You moved against him, desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him.

His breath came faster, more ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath yours as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the tremors in his hands as they moved across your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, and you matched the frantic rhythm of his heart with your own, a frantic, insistent thrum in your veins. There was no more hesitation, no more restraint, only the raw intensity of wanting, of needing, of surrender.

Suddenly, his lips left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, the lightest of touches, but enough to send shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the heat of his lips moving along the line of your jaw, sending your heart into overdrive. His hand tangled in your hair, fixing it, holding you in place, but it felt so natural, like he had always known how to touch you, how to hold you. You could feel the weight of his touch, and in that moment, you realized how easily he had fit into your life, into your heart.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, the world outside fading away completely. The only thing that existed was the press of his lips against your skin, the soft caress of his hands, the heady rush of his touch. In that instant, everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever needed, was right there, with him. It felt like a homecoming, like you had been waiting for this moment your entire life, like you were finally where you belonged.

But amidst the rising intensity, as his lips returned to yours, there came an unexpected sound—a soft, insistent meow, breaking through the silence between you.

You broke the contact for a split second, a brief breathless pause, but Spencer didn’t pull away. His lips lingered on yours, just a breath away, as if begging for permission to continue. You hesitated, staring into his eyes, the heat between you both undeniable. You could still hear the soft meows, now more insistent and louder.

“Do you hear that?” You asked, your voice strained, trying to focus on anything other than the maddening desire coursing through you.

Spencer’s lips curled into a half-smile, his breath still shallow. “Mittens.” He didn’t move away, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “She’s just…really patient, huh?”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, almost guilty, as your body swayed closer to his again. “She’s always patient until it’s dinner time,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his as you leaned in again, just wanting to feel him.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

But then, the persistent meows pierced the air again, louder this time, more demanding. The moment wavered as the sound broke through, sharp and unavoidable. You groaned in frustration, pulling away just slightly, your forehead resting against his.

“She really won’t stop, will she?” You sighed, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Spencer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nope, not unless she gets what she wants.”

You both lingered there, caught between laughter and longing, the pull of each other still so strong, but the loud insistence of your cat’s demands impossible to ignore. Spencer’s teasing smile remained, but it was softened by the heat of the moment, and he leaned in closer once more, brushing a kiss to your forehead, a light, affectionate touch that made your heart flutter.

“How about I take care of her?” he offered, his voice low and warm, still thick with desire. “You stay right here.”

For a brief moment, you considered protesting, but the look in his eyes, the way he was still so close, still so present, made it impossible to resist.

“Please,” you said with a mock pout. “I’ll just…I’ll wait right here.”

Spencer smirked, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he finally stepped away, his touch lingering just a moment longer. “Don't go, we still have a lot to talk about,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before he reluctantly turned toward the door.

When he stepped out of the room to take care of your cat, you leaned back against the couch, your heart still racing, the lingering warmth of his touch keeping you grounded in the moment. The soft hum of the apartment around you was the only sound, the quiet intimacy of the space suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. Everything felt like a fever dream.

A giddy smile threatened to stretch across your face, and you bit your lip, trying to contain it before your cheeks started to ache. You leaned back against the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric as you tried to ground yourself, to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

Your gaze wandered across the room, landing on a familiar sight, his old glasses, the ones you always sighed over whenever he wore them. They sat on the coffee table beside the couch, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a rush. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, intending to pick them up and insist that he put them on, maybe tease him about how they made him look like the professor he always denied being. A small, playful joke, something to bring you both back down to earth after the intensity of the moment you had just shared.

But as you reached for them, your fingers brushed against the corner of a magazine underneath, disturbing a small pile of papers tucked inside. They looked carelessly placed, slightly crumpled, as if they had been hastily shoved there, meant to be dealt with later.

You hesitated.

Spencer was meticulous, he never left things out of order, especially not papers. Maybe he had just been distracted. Maybe they were notes for work, something he had meant to file away. The rational part of you told you to leave them alone, to respect his privacy. But something about the way they were shoved under the magazine, almost hidden, made your stomach twist with unease.

Still, your instinct to tidy up overrode your hesitation. You lifted the top sheet, intending only to smooth them out, maybe stack them neatly so they wouldn’t get damaged. But the second your eyes flicked over the bolded title at the top of the page, your breath caught in your throat.

Therapy Program for Ex-Convicts.

Your fingers stilled.

A strange, creeping sensation crawled up your spine as you skimmed the first few lines, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. Your brain tried to rationalize. Spencer was a genius, after all. Maybe he was consulting on something, researching for a case, or assisting with a rehabilitation program. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Frowning, you flipped through the pages, your eyes darting over the text, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he had these documents. The words blurred together in your frantic state, but certain phrases leapt out at you, lodging themselves in your mind like thorns.

Emotional reintegration into society.

Post-incarceration trauma.

Hypervigilance, social withdrawal, dissociative tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you read on. The descriptions felt disturbingly familiar, too familiar. The nightmares. The way he sometimes seemed distant, detached, lost in a world you couldn’t reach. The way he flinched at unexpected touches or sounds, how he sometimes went quiet mid-conversation, as if a thought had gripped him so tightly he couldn’t escape it.

And then, at the bottom of the page, you saw it.

Spencer Reid.

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again, desperately looking for context, for an explanation that didn’t exist. Notes were scribbled in the margins, about his sessions, about his struggles. About him.

Spencer…your Spencer, an ex-convict?

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t belong in the same sentence. They felt wrong, impossible, like you had stumbled into someone else’s story. But the more you read, the more the pieces started to fit together in a way that made your stomach churn.

He had been in prison.

Not for a case. Not for a mission. Not for anything that could be easily explained away.

For himself.

Seven.

The weight of it crashed down on you, cold and suffocating. How? When? Why hadn’t he told you? How had you not noticed?

Your mind reeled, flipping back through every interaction, every hesitation in his voice, every unanswered question you had brushed aside. The distance, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was waiting for something to break, had it been this all along? Had he been carrying this secret all along since he came back?

Your grip on the papers tightened as a deep, unfamiliar ache bloomed in your chest.

He hadn’t told you.

He had lied to you.

Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Mittens’ soft meow. The sudden noise startled you, and you dropped the papers back onto the table, as if you had just been caught red-handed. Panic swelled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to compose yourself before you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly glanced down at the table, pretending to be focused on anything but the storm of emotions tearing through you.

Spencer walked into the room, his arms holding your cat, looking for all the world like the same man you had just kissed. But something about him was different now, his eyes no longer held that same warmth, that same comfort. They were guarded, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place, something darker that now seemed to hang over him like a shadow.

He set Mittens down carefully, his movements precise, practiced, like he was forcing himself to act normal.

“She’s had her dinner,” he said casually, his voice light, easy. Too easy. He took a step closer, stopping just short of the couch, but you saw it, the way his eyes flickered, the way his entire body tensed the moment he saw the papers on the table.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His lips parted slightly, and for the briefest second, there was something raw in his expression: guilt.

“Now she’s happy.”

But you weren’t.

And there were seven lies in total.

Extra note: Don't hate me, this chapter is divided into two parts so as not to make it one extremely long chapter and not allow you to digest the emotions <3 the next one will be published soon, I promise, and I send you a hug because this was very strong.

Tag list ❤︎ ︎: @burningwitchprincess @withloverosse @fairiesofearth @pleasantwitchgarden @ximensitaa @lover-of-books-and-tea @cherryblossomfairyy @cherrygublersworld @i-need-to-be-put-down @dibidee

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[awordsmith]

haunted 𝜗𝜚 r. spencer

it gets tiring… the sleepless nights, the waking up in cold sweat, not being able to sleep without dreaming about that wretched man... you can’t seem to remember what life was like before you smelled her perfume and felt his gangly hands slipping under your shirt.

the terrors follow you despite neglecting them time in the dark, and when you receive a phone call from Spencer in the middle of the night, you understand that he too, is being haunted.

who? spencer reid x bau!reader when? s10 genre: angst (comfort) content warning: sa trauma, a little grappling with depression-anxiety-insomnia. facing, switching povs, kind of proofed . . .reid with incredible care !! word count: 4.3k a/n: finally got the second part out!! i pushed this off for a long time, not just because of school, but because of how depressing it lowkey made me. . .enjoy!!

 …and that’s when I woke up, he slipped me something, somehow. I don’t know how long I was asleep for,” you rambled, trying to recount everything that had happened up to this moment.

“What happened when you woke up in the cell?”

“I–” you paused, trying to remember, “there was–the girl–

“Avice Diericke?” The cop pulled out a file–likely a report, “the most recent missing victim.”

“Were they–did you find their bodies?” He paused. You were sitting in a hospital bed, the lights above you weren’t ideal–they hurt your eyes, but every time you closed them, you saw her hair swishing into that dungeon, and you smelled her perfume mixing with the stench of smoke and human remains.

“I cannot disclose that information…” he glanced around the room, and you were alone. He sighed and leaned in, “I’m not supposed to talk about it with you because–” he faltered, his eyes showing remorse, “all I can tell you is that they found what looks to be a gravesite.”

“How many?” Your voice was less than a whisper, and tears pooled in your eyes.

“I’m sorry, I…don’t know.”

You nodded against the pillow. 

“A 2, almost 3-month case, that would have anyone feeling like they were suffocating. Especially agents such as yourself and Dr. Reid.” The therapist paused, assessing your expression, “You don’t seem fazed, though. Do you want to talk about it?”

You shifted, tugging the gloomy sleeves of your sweatshirt further downward, “I can’t think about it.”

“That’s completely understandable,” she nodded. The gray and blue room had your eyes falling shut. Your mind was cold, you didn’t know how to think without those memories surfacing. “You might want to shove those thoughts away, to shy away from them, but that is not how you are going to heal.” She shook her head, “It’s not going to be easy, but I’m here for you. And we can take this as slow as you need to.”

You shivered, he was a flash of a memory–you had to continuously tell yourself. He was still in custody awaiting trial. 

It wasn’t enough.

“Are you cold?” Your therapist asked; she’d been handpicked by Deputy Director Baily himself. 

You averted your gaze, “not particularly.”

Spencer knew it too–when he saw her on the bed, looking so helpless–he knew when he saw how she looked for him in the crowd and how his eyes landed on her as if she was his connection to the living.

But she was.

After coming to terms with everything they’d been through, Spencer knew he could trust her. Only when she was near did he know for sure he was him and only him.

He gripped the railing of his balcony; if he had the strength, he would have broken it without a moment's hesitation. He didn’t. Instead, the saint spritz in his hand twisted halfway. He chugged the rest, threw the can to the floor–remnants of alcohol hitting the concrete path–and stomped on it.

He heard the final crunch, he wondered if that’s what it would sound like to crush a bone. There were 206, not including teeth and small bones lost in tendons. Spencer yanked his sliding glass door open and walked back into his darkened apartment, not a single lamp on nor a single candle lit.

His eyes clamped shut, and he fell to his knees, gripping his temple as a sharp pain shot through his skull. In his demise, he couldn’t help but picture one face.

He swallowed and tried to pretend she was there, he tried to imagine her hand reaching out, stroking the wisps of hair at the back of his neck, whispering his name into his ear until he didn’t have it in him to question anything anymore.

Spencer reached for the pill bottle–still full since he’d been prescribed it. He had to remember where he was. he lifted his head, and his eyes caught on his reflection in the glass of the bottom of the shelf across the room. Inside were books, but rather than seeing them, he watched his dark, cold eyes look back at him in the blue night. 

He ground his teeth and snarled at the image before him. His hands dropped from his side, and he turned away, now on all fours. He couldn’t barre to look at himself. 

He loathed it. 

The look of desperation.

A loud crash sounded throughout your flat. You gripped your hair and yanked, the pain forcing tears through your eyes. The oversized t-shirt fell to one side, and you could see the bra strap you were wearing. A bubble of whimpers wracked around you and you fell the the bathroom floor, the storm outside flickering across the mirror.

You curled in on yourself and rested your back against the wall near the open door. Disregarding the thunder, it was quiet; disregarding your thoughts, it was quiet.

Wails echoed around the space between you and the walls closing in. His hands. His hands were everywhere. They were crawling all over you–they were spiders, you were in a web built for girls just like you–and you–Oh God–

Your hand came up to your mouth as you pushed off the wall and crawled toward the toilet with one hand; the thin fabric of your pajama pants was not going to save you from any of the bruises you were attracting with your careless actions.

Your heavy breathing did nothing for the foul smell. It came and came again–you heaved again, but that was the end. Forcing yourself to your feet and flushing the vomit down the drain, you thought to call him.

It was a thought that had kept you up for the past few nights, even though you’d been able to sleep in your own bed. You had just been friends before, and not even good friends. You didn’t know; you couldn’t really remember at a time like this. Your palm ran over your mouth. You made a face–it reeked.

“Uh–” you fell forward and gripped the counter to right yourself, your head was pounding. You jumped, knocking your hairbrush to the floor–“God,” you breathed, heading for your phone. You swallowed, but it hurt; you were picking up a sore throat, cough drops–you steered toward the kitchen when another ring shot through your brain.

You spun around and beelined it for the phone you’d set on the table near your front door. Your fingers twitched, and your lips pressed together before you ultimately decided to pick it up and answer the call.

Quiet breathing, you could practically see the breath coating around the glass or blowing out smoke. You forced yourself to inhale and exhale, “...Spencer?”

A sound, almost like a sigh, could be heard from the other line. “Hey,” his voice was gruff, nearly identical to yours, only deeper.

“Hey,” you made your way back into the den, rounded your couch, and curled up in the corner, “are you okay?”

“–Yeah, just–” he cut himself off with another sigh, “just…can you meet?”

“Now?” you bit the nail on your thumb, checking the time on your phone, “it’s kind of late, no?”

“Yeah, but I–,” another pause and another sigh, “no, you’re right–

“You know what? It’s fine…I think I could use some company, too.” He kept quiet, and you grew a bit nervous, “Spencer? Where are you right now?”

“...Home…I’m at home.” He sounded as if he must have been crying, you couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, was being haunted.

“Okay,” you stood, your sore throat in the back of your mind now, “I’m on my way.”

Spencer raced to the door as soon as he heard the first knock. He reached for the handle, then pulled back as if stunned. He wondered if he looked alright, he hadn’t looked in the mirror since… He couldn’t. He just couldn’t. But maybe, with her here…

Spenc ran his hands through his greasy hair, trying to ignore the length it had grown to. “Hey,” she shook the plastic bag in her right hand, “I brought food.”

For the first time since the rescue, Spencer felt a sliver of a smile. “That smells delicious.” He stepped aside and through open his door, letting her and a bit of midnight into his already black abode.

“It’s dark,” she noted, taking a turn about his place. She wore a white cola t-shirt and a pair of pajama pants that couldn’t be warming her in any type of way. The smell of the Chinese food in the bag wafted through his apartment as he shut the door.

“You want me to turn a light on?” He turned back to her, feeling the oddest wave of calmness.

“No,” she snorted, sitting on one of her legs and letting the other dangle out in front of her.

Spencer wondered if she had gotten slightly used to the dark as well, for him, it was the only time he felt…real. He’d been going to therapy, recommended by the assistant director, but it’d only been a week now, and Spencer found himself still unable to sleep during the hours of dusk.

“Hey, Spence…” She bit her lip; he could see it in the little light that filtered in through his balcony windows.

“Yes?” Spencer took a seat across from her and leaned forward on a palm, not knowing how he looked in her eyes, but hoping it wasn’t as pathetic as he felt.

Her eyes glinted–they didn’t shine and that wasn’t to say she wasn’t pretty because she was–well, she was more than pretty and if Spencer analysed her features anymore–though he could only make out the features the were in the light and he had to imagine the rest–he’d be able to say exactly why she looked perfect.

And maybe a part of the reason Spencer thought that was biased, because she looked like him with the way her eyes were sunken–with the way they ahd adjusted to the night–and with the way she looked almost relived to see him–like she’d been living in a world of ghosts and he was the first real person she’d made contact with.

Beauty was subjective, always swaying a certain way in the eye of the beholder. Spencer liked to think he had an exceptionally fair rationale when it came to deciding where a person fell on the scale of beauty–but even he had to admit, he was probably being biased when it came to her, though he had no doubt others saw her just as such–she had that type of beauty that could only be found in castle in Rome and Greece.

From where he sat, she looked like she’d crawled out of an old Renaissance oil painting. It unnerved him, but he had to remind himself that she was real and he was real, and that this was reality–not fiction; not a campfire ghost story.

“What?” Spencer blinked. “You want to–”

She shook her head, “You don’t have to come with me, but I thought you should know.”

“Will they even allow it? I mean–”

“–I have to do this, Spencer…I…” her bottom lip quivered and she looked away. Spencer found himself reaching out, reaching out to make sure he was still there–that she was still there.

He breathed when he made contact. She glanced up, lips pursed in determination, but eyes watery, full of fear. A shuddering breath escaped him, “I know.”

She wallowed and nodded, and when she squeezed his hand, he felt tears prick the corners of his own eyes, “I knew you’d understand.”

His lips pulled together, and he tried not to break down right there–he wanted to confide in her like he had in that place. He was still struggling to grapple with the fact that he wasn’t Savino–that had been a persona he’d taken on. He knew that, and he told himself that daily, but with her, it just seemed so much easier to let go. Around her, he wasn’t fighting with his brain, he was still working out the why.

“…Spencer–

“–I’ll go with you.”

“Spencer–you don’t have to.”

“No, but I want to.” He tugged on her hand, and she smiled. He loved that smile, he always had…

“Ugh, you’re so annoying! Hotch, tell him to give it back!”

Hotch raised his eyebrows and shrugged, Morgan snickered in the back. You glared at him as Spencer raised the book higher–

“Come on! You guys, seriously! Oh–wait till Penelope gets here!”

“Oh uh uh,” Spencer grinned and wagged his finger in your face, “no snitching–”

“Snitcing?!” A goofy grin tugged at your lips. You glanced around at your coworkers–your friends and family–around Rossi’s kitchen. 

It was noon in August; Morgan had convinced Rossi to host a barbecue. You had been in the middle of reading a spicy book, and Specner–the little rat!–had been silently reading it over your shoulders

Of course, his innocent mind couldn’t handle a little spice, so he’d called you out on it and snatched the book when you had denied and defended your case. “Spe-hencer–” you laughed, chasing him around the large, brown leather couch.

“–to talk to each other is buy a more animated–I thought this was supposed to be a classic–” he scoffed, his shit eating grin the last thing you needed to launch a pillow at him.

Rossi cleared his throat, having even Hotch straighten up, “uh–the term 'throw pillow' is not supposed to be taken literally.”

Laughter spilled from the memory. Spencer felt himself wishing he could go back in time; he felt his mind reaching out for the memory, not wanting to lose it, though despite his efforts, it slipped through his hands and faded away.

“What was that just now?” She tilted her head.” You looked so happy.” Her gentle smile nearly pushed Spencer over the edge. Was he not on a cliff already? Was he not underwater? He was suffering, but… “but then you looked so sad…”

Spencer didn’t know what to say. It was funny. He knew the rates of school shootings in America and every state individually. He knew so many violent facts, he knew so many things he wished he didn’t.

“Spencer?” A gasp. Where was he just now? In his head? What time was it? “Spencer…” he turned to the side, feeling something cold on his temples. Fingers, hands–” hey, it’s okay…” she murmured and ran her hands through his hair; they were cold, but they were the only thing Spencer wanted to feel.

“Thank you.” He heard. “Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, Spencer,” she pulled his head into her chest and murmured his name like a prayer–or maybe it was a wish. Spencer could die like this. He could die knowing who he was, but he didn’t want to. And that thought–that knowledge…he just wasn’t prepared to understand it.

You didn’t have a fear of flying. Taking off and your time in the air did not relatively affect you… It was the landing that had always gotten you to brace yourself. The slight jolt forward, that sinking your stomach did when it knew something was wrong–it all got you holding your breath and gripping the seat.’’

Spencer slipped his hand into yours, and your eyes fell to his. A tight-lipped smile and an expression that reassured you. You were not alone, and you were alive.

Despite yourself, you shivered and unbuckled your seatbelt.

The trial was meant to take place in two days. You had gotten clearance to watch it, but you weren’t sure you wanted to face him like that. If you were too weak and broke down in front of him— in a courtroom where you couldn’t show him just how much damage he’d done— you would never forgive yourself.

Spencer knew this, though he couldn’t relate exactly; he knew what it was to feel helpless, and though Bobefitz had gotten Spencer to feel more anger than he had ever thought possible, Spencer could never compare what he felt to what you did.

He could be angry for you, he could be sad, and livid, but he could never be able to speak for you, Spencer knew that better than anyone.

“Are you sure about this?” Spencer’s lips pressed together as you hailed a cab.

“I am,” you met his gaze with one unmoving. “Thank you again.”

“You don’t,” he shook his head, almost offended, “don’t thank me, please.”

“Why not?” you murmured, eyes tracking the cab pulling up to the two of you.

“Just,” a shuddering sigh fell from his mouth as you popped open the boot of the car and slid in your luggage. 

“Well?” You smiled up and him, but it was all wrong. 

It wasn’t real–he couldn’t look at it, he didn’t deserve to. He should have been faster, he should have–it should have been him! “You have nothing to thank me for,” he glanced away, voice low.

You went quiet, assessing his aura, “Spencer, are you okay?”

“What? Yes–”

“You’re lying,” you frowned, holding your hands behind your back. You couldn’t look at him, you could tell somewhere deep down he felt guilty–but how could you let him feel guilty when you felt guilty yourself? You should have been able to save her. 

Your therapist had tried to convince you to stay home, but you owed it to her, and all of those other students who would never get a chance to say their peace–if you were the last of his victims, if you were the only one to make it out alive, then you owed it to them, you fellow victims–they were just children.

“Hey,” Spencer’s thumbs wiped across your face, “you’re crying, why are you crying? Do you want to go back?”

You shook your head, bottom lip wobbling, “I can still smell it.”

“What?” He leaned downward, pressing his ear to your lips.

You ran your hands through his tousled brown curls, you felt him tense a second before relaxing, his body almost melting into your hands, “her perfume, Spencer…”

Spencer’s attention snapped to his companion, his brain racing around the meaning behind her words. He hadn’t experienced what she’s experienced, and if she’d spoken about it, he hadn’t heard–logically, Spencer would have no idea what she was talking about–but she would know that, so why–

“I’m sorry,” she pulled away. Spencer held his breath, unsure if he’d be able to make sense of what she’d say next. She turned away and slipped into the cab. Spencer, despite himself, forced his throat to clear and follow her.

Rain pounded the window, and you sat at your small, circular table, eating cherries from a bowl and spitting the pits in another. The air was cold, but it smelled of coolness. It was morning, you could tell, though it had taken you a moment to figure it out.

A flash of dull yellow caught the corner of your eye, your head jerked, and you couldn’t move. You winced against the paralysis that had come over your body, and you grunted, fighting against the imaginary chains. A yelp flew from your mouth, and you began hyperventilating when Bobefitz's large face came into view.

You were trying to sit up, but he had you trapped in bed. Tear sprang up and dripped down your cheeks near your temple.  “No,” you were saying, shaking your head against the hard pillow, “no, no–”

“–Are you okay?” He called your name, and you jerked awake. Hotel desk and chairs sat in front of you, to the side, another bed, right, you were with Spencer in Australia, in a hotel. You were in a queen-sized bed, not the skinny pallet made up in Gentry’s basement, and you were wearing your regular pajamas, not the white, cotton nightdress you wore in that place.

Spencer knelt beside you, though it didn’t appear he had been sleeping–if the still-made-up bed was anything to go by–you felt bad.

“You look pretty shaken up.” You watched his eyebrows furrow as he focused on your forehead. His hand lifted, and soon the back of his cold palm met your temple. “I guess you’re not coming down with something…but,” he looked down, and you followed his gaze. “You sweated through your clothes, do you have another pair?”

You sighed and held a hand to your chest, dropping your head. You didn’t want to think about that. Why couldn’t you just forget it all? Why were you plagued with remembering every single detail–and her smell–why was it–

“Hey, hey, don’t cry,” Spencer said, lifting you into his lap. “It’s okay, you’re okay,” but you didn’t feel okay. Why couldn’t you just feel okay? That–all that was a job; it wasn’t real!

But it was real. The story you’d given had been fake, but the experience? The victimization, the helplessness? That had all been real, and for some reason, everyone but yourself could come to terms with that. “How long have I been asleep?” You panted, rubbing water and crust from your eyes. You felt sick, like you might throw up, but it didn’t faze you much anymore.

Spencer glanced at his wristwatch. You squinted at his pursed lips. Your hand was outstretched before you knew what you were doing.

Spencer flinched, his eyes tracing your hands up to your chin, your lip, your eyes–your lips–your eyes again. His breath caught as he took in your tearstained face. He shouldn’t be having impure thoughts, not like this and certainly not now, especially with all you’ve been through. Despite knowing this, however, his throat still went dry with fantasies of kissing you.

“Spencer?” He coughed. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he cast his gaze downward, he felt horrible–this wasn’t him. It couldn’t be him. It was sick–oh God…was he sick? Did it all fuck him up more than he’d led on? More than he could tell? Spencer bolted for the bathroom, and you jumped, standing to chase after him.

You stopped in the middle of the room, the world spinning and pain wreaking havoc on your mind. “Spencer!” Holding the other one out for balance, you pressed a hand to your head.

Slowly, you went to the bathroom door, shivering at the cold, blue morning. It might have been morning, it was either really late or really early, though you weren’t inclined to dwell on it much longer.

“Spencer!” Your fists collided with the weak wooden door. " What’s—” you huffed, pausing to catch your breath. It was quiet for the most part; the only sounds evident were your breathing and whatever Spencer was doing on the other side of the door.

“Just a se–” you pressed your left ear to the door, trying to focus.

“Are–Are you oka–”

“Eugh,” he was not. Spencer was throwing up whatever he’d eaten in the past twelve hours.

He was a devil. There were so many cruel things in this world, people without human sympathy, the cruelest. How could he sit there? How could he sit there with a grin on his face and lack any and all emotion? He wasn’t even trying to hide the fact that he’d hurt so many people, so many children.

It made you sick–he made you sick. Spencer led you down the aisle. You turned at the very front and sat right behind the prosecution table. You hadn’t eaten anything. You couldn’t. You knew it was bad for you, but this morning, you thought one more day wouldn’t be too bad.

The courtroom seemed to expand. It was a sea of fish and sharks, a field of wolves and sheep.

Bobefitz stood and pleaded not guilty. You didn’t understand how he thought he’d get away with it. Despite believing they hadn’t cared for their kids, the families of the victims littered the area around you. When he approached the stand and sat, his eyes fell to yours. You wanted to look away, tears pooled in your eyes. It was the first time you realized you were afraid.

You were angry, and hurt, and you felt guilty for not being able to save Avice. You hadn’t been able to look to see if her parents had arrived, and you couldn’t face them. What if she had her mother’s face? What if she had her father's eyes? What if she spoke as they would in sync?

Bobefitz stared you down. Your bottom lip trembled. You had never hated someone so much as you did the man in front of you. With each statement made by each party, it felt like the walls were getting smaller and smaller, your breathing grew rapid, and the people around you began to fade away, leaving only you and Bobefitz.

You gasped, recoiling at Spencer’s touch. He snatched his hand back and gave you a once-over, not looking offended, but unsure of what your actions meant. You watched his lips press together–you knew that meant he was having a debate with himself in his head. He glanced toward Bobefitz for a second, still sitting on the stand.

You wanted to stay, Spencer knew better than anyone how much it meant for you to state and face him, not just for yourself but for all the others. But Spencer couldn’t let you continue if it meant risking your health. You were likely oblivious to the fact that you were crying, and that had Spencer’s stomach on fire. He’d thought he might throw u again, or that perhaps you might.

“Spencer?” You reached for his hand, his eyes fell to where your skin met his, his name echoing within the space between you.

“I’m here,” he squeezed once, then again. And he always would be.

You wiped your tears, tugging Spencer closer. He wrapped his arms around you as you muffled your whimpers into his shoulder. He caught the sound of sniffles and then, “I want him dead.”

Spencer tensed, pulling back to look you in the eye. There was something in them, something he could only describe as destruction, and for a second, he thought he’d lost consciousness. He nodded, swallowing down the knowledge that he would never say no to you ever again, that for him it was physically impossible. “Okay, how?”

a/n: don't hate me for this ending

@bmyva1entine @darkmatilda @theylovemelody @kennedy-brooke @maisyyyyyy @mggspo @3amcloudss  @23moonjellies  @watercolorskyy

[awordsmith]

every time i watch Rotten Mango's explanation of the Seoul ferry tragedy. i need to take a moment. it makes me cry uncontrollably, I can never watch it straight through

[awordsmith]

ihaven’t read the boarding school duology yet so itd feel weird to ask for a sneak peek of haunted so maybe you could tell something about gravity’s node instead? the title sounds really interesting 🤭

heh heh heeeeeh

trying my best not to spoil anything, gravity's node is initially about the longing to be something more than what you are to one person, even though there was a previously made agreement that you wouldn't be.

😛

[awordsmith]

WIP ASK GAME

 make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder

tag as many people as you have wips

people can send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

thank you @darkmatilda for tagging me (i've been dead this past week 😭) i only have one wip, but I have multiple ideas in my file, so i'll drop some below!!

haunted - the after of french perfume

watching you watch me - what i plan to write after haunted

gravity's node - heh–something i'm going to write soon

tags: @reidsbabyhoney

[awordsmith]

i love twitter 💀

[awordsmith]

wake up call - spencer reid fem!reader

a night partying turns the morning into one big whirlwind of figuring out how the hell you ended up in your coworker's bed

genre: fluff wc: 1.4k warnings: bau!reader, odd!reader, reader momentarily thinks she slept with spencer, reader walks in on spencer in a towel, embarrassment a/n: this is for my build a fic!!! thank you so much for 500 followers i can't believe it i feel famous💗 side note: this is dedicated to my baby @esote-rika i love you so much mwah mwah

see polls here

The funny—or rather, awful—thing about drinking is that it almost never leads you to good places. It leaves you floaty, giggly (more so than usual), and without any feel for what’s appropriate. Boundaries are tossed out of every window, crashing harshly onto the street below and ruining everything in its path. Shy demeanors flake away to reveal unfortunately weird girls.

Fun and games, they say. It starts with partying with your coworkers and ends with one big group of drunk idiots. Drooling on each other, placing far too much trust in each other’s unsturdy hands.

Far too wasted and stumbly for your own good, you couldn’t possibly drive yourself home.

You knew that.

Yet…

Your eyes flutter open as the flurry of memories from the night previous remain that—a flurry. Each snapshot of laughter and secret spilling lasts only a moment each. Looking down at your legs tangled within sheets that aren’t yours, you realize you don’t know how you got here. And, more importantly, you don’t know where you are. You scan the room with hazy eyes.

Navy blue walls, wooden old furniture, scientific posters on the walls, books.

Spencer?

Yes, it was his apartment that said partying took place but why are you still here at—you look to the small clock on his nightstand—6:47am?

It’s not like you could’ve possibly…

Could you? Surely not, right?

Of course you think he’s smart, awkward, totally your type, but that doesn’t mean anything.

You think he’s adorable because, well, you have eyes.

But at the current moment you’re not sure you can place your trust in them.

So, does that mean you’ve slept with your coworker?

Your eyes drop to your legs again, this time noticing that they’re still covered by sheer black tights. That’s a good sign. One you’ll take to heart happily.

When your feet hit the ground, you’re unsure where you should go.

The side of the bed you hadn’t slept on is slightly disturbed. The pillow has the imprint of a person in it. You wonder if he slept alongside you for the entire night. You wonder if he felt it every time you repositioned yourself.

It’s not something to put thought into, you conclude.

With not one teensy ounce of consideration or any form of forethought, you pad toward the door and slip through. The remnants of last night litter the floor. A trash bag sits by the leather couch, filled with bottles and wine corks and paper cups. A blanketed silhouette haunts the couch. She’s blonde, pink lipstick faded and smeared in a not-so-fashionable manner. Soft snores fall against the leather.

Penelope.

Your graceless feet stumble back toward the bedroom that’s not yours. Frantic eyes search the room like it’s the first time you’re seeing it (it’s the second). Your shaky hands push the door closed, letting it softly click.

On the (not so) off chance you really did sleep with Spencer, Garcia is not the first person you want to know. Although, who is?

Not relevant.

Finding a spot on the floor, you cover your face. A soft groan passes your lips—a groan filled with pure self hatred. Because how did you end up here? In a very abstract way, you suppose it’s beautiful how every tiny decision—spontaneous or planned—affects where you end up. In a very realistic way, it sucks.

You think your impulse control accounts for at least half of the places you end up. As if to prove that point, you stand and walk to what you know leads to the bathroom. Mindlessly, your hand finds the doorknob of the bathroom door.

When it swings open, you’re welcomed with the sight of Spencer. Half naked and afraid—mortified really. In only his boxers.

You squeal, eyes being covered by your hands as quickly as possible. “I’m sorry! I didn’t—uh—!”

“It’s okay! Really—I should’ve…” his jaw goes slack when he realizes that you’re actually the one to blame. Not that he’d ever develop the capability to blame you for absolutely anything.

Spencer stares at you, standing there with your eyes covered and head low. His eyes trail over your crumpled clothes, your sweater, your shorts, your tights.

“I’m really sorry, I should’ve knocked or at least stepped really loud or—”

“You didn’t do anything wrong!” You can practically hear him shaking his head.

You nod and squeak, “I’ll leave.”

Your back is to him in an instant. Cheeks hot to the touch, you let out a long breath. You feel as though this whole morning has been plucked from your own personal nightmares. First, waking up with no memory as to what (or who) you spent the night doing. And then the horror you just caused.

You wipe smeared mascara from your under-eye, loathing yourself a little more every second that passes.

The door creaks open slowly before the silhouette of your coworker peeks out. Now, he’s in a hoodie and sweatpants—possibly the most casual you’ve seen him. Clearing your throat, you look down at your feet.

“I’m really sorry,” you mumble before going on a pure tangent, “I woke up and didn’t know where I was or how I got there or why I got there… and then I saw Garcia and then walked in on— well… you know.”

Spencer clears his throat in the same way you just did. “I know.”

You lift your head to find his eyes–wide and innocent.

“I’m really sorry!”

“It’s okay! I promise. I—I mean, you’ve seen other guys… like that.”

While he’s not lying a big lie, that’s not relevant information, is it? “Well, I— Yes… but I— That’s not—!”

“I just meant—!”

And then… silence.

Filled with awkwardness and tension, the room falls into utter quiet. You swallow to hopefully ease the queasy feeling settling in your gut. You’re unsure whether it’s caused by your liver trying to survive or by the man in front of you (and how you can now picture him naked). That is not a thing you’re trying to do, by the way.

“I know… what you meant,” you mutter softly, an awkward half-smirk finding your lips.

His eyes sweep over your face, taking his time to properly inspect each feature–eyes, nose, lips. This might be the first time you’ve been this close. In numerous ways.

You watch as his hand raises slowly to your face. Time is nothing but a unique concept understood only by the ones who crafted it. Slowly, gently, the pad of his thumb swipes away black product from your under-eye. It’s as if the slope of your cheek was sculpted for the purpose of slipping into place with the other half—him. Perhaps one lump of clay formed both of you. Those thoughts are redundant, anyway. Why not let them overtake you, even if only for a moment?

But the thought that still plagues you is if anything happened last night.

“What… uh… happened last night?” you ask shakily.

Spencer’s brows draw together. And his hand drops, cheeks pink. “You don’t remember?”

You shake your head, a frown haunting your lips.

His teeth dig into his lower lip so hard you think it could pierce the velvet skin.

Your mouth opens and closes several times, making you look like the closest thing to a fish out of water. But then you manage, in a high pitched mumble, “did we sleep together?”

Based solely on the comical widening of his eyes, you presume no. And you now want to curl up in a ball and roll under the nearest rock and set up camp for life.

His head profusely, insistently, shakes. “No, no, no! I would never– uh– you were intoxicated, I wouldn’t—”

“Okay!” you squeak, lips pressed into a thin line. That rock is starting to sound really homey.

He nods, his awkward smile mimicking yours. He clears his throat like he remembers something, and then walks to the side of his bed—the one you slept on. He leans down and picks up a pair of black Mary Jane flats. Yours.

He brings them to you and places them in your unsturdy hands. Your eyes meet and, frankly, you have to force yourself to look away. “Thank you,” you say to the floor.

You feel him nod.

With a lift of your head and the flats, you bid him farewell with a small smile.

And then you’re sneaking past Garcia, shoes dangling from your hand and eyeliner smudged.

A total cliché.

[awordsmith]

girls will say "this is my comfort show" and it's literally a youtube playlist called "matthew gray gubler: the unauthorized documentary"

[awordsmith]

thank you for the tag matilda!!

bw is my second love, the little cute notes would melt my heart ugh and driving around at night ughhghg i need to expreience this in my life at least once tags: @notlongtolove @slowdownpal @reidsbabyhoney @certaimromance @mggslover

you are going on a blind date that pinterest set up for you, find out who will be the lucky one and how the evening will end 💌

on pinterest search the following topics and post the first pin that will show up in each category

fictional character

date / night date

gift

outfit

dessert

love quote

tags: @catchmeonyourceiling @lovethornes @daystarpoet @beaucereza @chxrrybxmbi @dolcecuore @sororygilmore @auntiejohn @binibby @bvrnesher @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat @certaimromance @effortlesslysweet @aezuria @mothswan @lydiasfalling @amrplastique @xoxorory @xoxoivy13 @laufeysvalentine @minorlyatfault @jjsblueberry and whoever wants to join <3

[awordsmith]

AHHHH thank you so much this was beautiful 😤

i don't know if you write poems, but if you did could you write one about romanticizing sleep deprivation?

I’m horrible at poetry but here’s my best shot.

In the twilight hour Sleep begs like some forgotten suitor nearby, But I, love-drunk on silence and despair, Refuse his touch.

Let others dream in linen, soft and white; I’ll keep my vigil, hollow-eyed and bright, For there’s a sweet rapture in the night.

And all my tired thoughts, unbidden, Bloom with fevered power That leaves a sweeter bruise than sleep implies.

[awordsmith]

this series is healing my inner child chapter by chapter <3

𝜗𝜚 The Liar Next Door.

Spencer Reid x Neighbor!reader

series masterlist

Summary: Just when Spencer's walls came down and he seemed ready to try to get back to his old self with you, all his lies started to catch up to him.

Words: 8,2k.

Warnings & Tags: this is part of a series, check the masterlist to make sure you are in the correct chapter. mention of injuries, violence, alzheimer, prison, scars. hurt/comfort. angst. painter!reader. post prison reid with almost all his past traumas. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: I’M BACK!!! this chapter is an up and down. I had not been able to upload it soon because I started college a month ago and disappeared :( sorry in warning for this but know that I have all the intentions of writing this entire series (we are close to the end) and one or two extras.

It was late afternoon, the weak light of the sun filtering through the blinds, casting long, muted shadows across the sterile walls of the nursing home room. The low hum of the fluorescent lights buzzed above Spencer, filling the silence that seemed to stretch endlessly between him and his mother. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands clenched tightly around the fabric of his pants, eyes fixed on the floor. It had been a quiet drive here, the kind of silence that felt suffocating, as if every word he didn’t say weighed heavier than the ones he might have spoken. The air was thick with the unsaid, and he was doing his best to stay composed, not letting his emotions break through the dam he had built. But it was hard. Harder than he thought it would be.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic, a cold, clinical scent that made it seem a world away from the warmth of the apartment they had been in just half an hour before. Diana lay on the bed, the sheets pulled tightly around her frail body; her face had softened with time, the confusion that had once been there seemed to have faded. Her eyes, though clouded, still had that glimmer of recognition, just a brief glint mixed with weariness.

For a moment, just a moment, she smiled.

“Spencer,” she murmured, her voice quiet, gentle. “When is she coming?”

His heart skipped a beat, the weight of the moment settling over him like a stone in his chest. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face neutral and hiding the fear.

“Who, mom?” He asked, his voice soft, careful, like he was walking on fragile ground.

“Your girlfriend,” she said, her lips curving slightly, like she was letting him in on some long-forgotten secret. “I thought she was coming with us. Did she stay at your apartment?”

Oh. Oh. Oh.

His stomach twisted sharply, a deep, sinking weight pressing against his ribs. His breath stalled for a moment, his thoughts tangling together too quickly to process.

You.

She was talking about you.

Spencer had braced himself for a lot of things when he came here—his mother forgetting his name, mistaking the year, slipping in and out of moments of clarity—but not this. Not you. He hadn’t anticipated her remembering so clearly, especially when so much else had slipped through the cracks. The painful fog of her mind seemed to distort everything else, but not this. It cut through the haze and made this day feel heavier than the others. He had hoped, selfishly, that time had blurred those memories, softened them enough that she wouldn’t ask, that she wouldn’t bring it up. He didn’t want to face it, not now, not like this.

Because he didn’t want to tell his mother.

Didn’t want to tell her that he had let you slip away. That the space between you had grown too vast, too heavy to ignore. That no matter how much he missed you—God, how he missed you—it had been his choice. His decision. That he had shut himself off from the one person who had made him feel again, and now he didn’t know how to undo it.

He didn’t want his mother to see it, to know how much it hurt. She was already fragile, already carrying so much. What good would it do to make her worry about him, too?

His throat felt tight and dry.

“Mom, she’s not—” The words faltered, caught somewhere between truth and cowardice.

She’s not coming.

She’s not mine.

She never was.

But Diana’s mind was already drifting, slipping past his hesitation like water through cupped hands. She lifted a trembling hand, her fingers curling slightly, reaching for something unseen. When she spoke again, her voice was soft and reverent.

“I like her,” she murmured. “She’s good for you. She made tea for me the other day.”

The other day, just half an hour ago. But he didn’t dare correct her.

“She should come,” Diana continued, her words slowing, like she was savoring them. “I want to meet her. I want to see her. I want to see how she looks with you.”

Spencer felt his heart twist painfully in his chest.

His mother wanted to see how you looked with him.

As if you were his. As if nothing had broken the illusion of what you two once could be. As if the dreams he had clung to at night weren’t haunted by regret.

As if, in another life, in another version of himself, he had dared to try, to take your hand, to say the words he swallowed back every time you stood too close, every time your eyes softened just for him.

As if he had never hurt you.

And damn, how he wished that were true.

He wanted to tell his mother that it wasn’t as simple as she thought. That he wasn’t whole enough to be good for you. That he had made his choices, and this loneliness was something he had earned.

But he couldn’t.

So instead, he forced himself to breathe, to move past the crushing weight in his ribs.

“I’ll tell her,” he said softly, his voice barely audible.

One.

The lie settled on his tongue like lead.

It was small and fragile, but it was the only thing he could offer her. The truth was too cruel, too sharp-edged. It would do more harm than good.

Diana sighed, her eyelids growing heavier as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I hope she’s here soon,” she murmured sleepily. “I miss having someone new around. The people here are boring. They don’t talk like her. They don’t bring me good tea.”

Spencer swallowed hard, watching her drift off. His mind swirled, too clouded with guilt and pain to find clarity. He wanted to apologize to her. He wanted to beg for forgiveness, to say how sorry he was, how much he wished he could turn back time. How much he wished he could stop lying to her and to you.

But the words never came.

Instead, he just sat there, watching his mother fade into sleep, helpless to undo the things he had done. He couldn’t change the past, couldn’t make it right. All he could do was wait and pray for something he didn’t know how to fix.

Like the genius he was, he should have known this was inevitable.

Spencer must have sensed, deep down, that all his carefully constructed plans to keep his distance were bound to unravel. It wasn’t a question of if, but when. No amount of logic, no amount of calculated restraint, could have changed the truth: he was never going to be able to keep you at arm’s length.

Three years now. Three years since the first time he saw you, standing in the hallway, struggling under the weight of moving boxes, your determination burning through the exhaustion that must have been settling deep in your bones. Three years since the day your cat had decided, without hesitation, that he belonged to him, weaving between his legs like a creature who had known him forever. But you? You were barely more than a passing blur in his periphery, a fleeting presence in that moment. And yet, somehow, some way, that moment had been the start of everything.

Three years since the first time you had smiled at him—really smiled—and caught him completely off guard. Since the first time your laughter had made something inside him stumble. Three years of small, stolen moments that shouldn’t have meant as much as they did, of soft conversations that chipped away at his walls before he even realized they were crumbling. Three years of standing too close but never quite touching, of understanding each other in ways that had nothing to do with words.

You two had always been honest with each other. Brutally so. It wasn’t about grand confessions or sweeping gestures, but about the quiet things, the ones most people never thought to share. Spencer told you about the way the starlings moved outside the jet window, their flight patterns shifting like liquid shadows against the sky. He told you how the new sugar you had bought threw off his usual coffee ratio, how the slight imbalance left a persistent irritation in the back of his mind all day. And you told him about the stranger in the grocery store who had baffled you with their nonsensical conversation, about the dream that clung to you like smoke, never quite clearing.

You told each other things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else but mattered because they were yours.

That was what made keeping a secret from you impossible.

Three months, four weeks, and two days. That’s how long he had carried the weight of it, letting the guilt press into his ribs, burrow under his skin. He had convinced himself that he could do it, that he could hold this piece of himself away from you, shielding you from something he couldn’t even shield himself from. But every time he tried to create distance, every time he held himself back, you knew.

And that was the worst part; you always knew.

You saw through him in ways no one else did. You could read the minute shifts in his voice, the way his breath caught in his throat when he was on the verge of saying something but swallowed it down instead. You could feel the hesitation in his touch when he pulled away before he ever had the chance to reach for you. He should have known you wouldn’t push, that you would let him come to you in his own time.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t waiting.

And then, in a blink, it all unraveled.

He didn’t even know what it was that broke him, whether it was the exhaustion, the guilt, or the unbearable weight of the space he had tried to put between you, but suddenly, the walls he had fought so hard to keep standing collapsed beneath the pressure of it all. He was tired. Tired of pretending he could bear it alone. Tired of pretending that keeping you at a distance was anything other than a losing battle.

And in your arms, he shattered. Completely.

You held him without hesitation, without fear, without resentment. No demand for an explanation, no pressure for him to speak before he was ready. Just warmth. Just presence. Just you. And that was enough.

When the elevator doors slid open on your floor, you stepped out first, as you always did, effortless, as if the very air around you had shifted to accommodate your presence. For a moment, you paused, your figure outlined by the soft glow of the hallway lights. You took a small breath, the kind that felt like it belonged solely to this moment, before turning back to him. In that fleeting second, your gaze met his, unreadable, layered with something that lingered beneath the surface, too subtle and too deep to fully understand. And then, as if some quiet understanding passed between you, a small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of your lips, soft, intimate, and strangely familiar, like a secret that had always been shared between the two of you, even in silence.

“I buy a new coffee,” you said softly, your voice a steady thread in the quiet of the place. The words slipped through the silence, warm and inviting. “I think you might like it.”

Spencer didn’t respond right away. He simply nodded, the weight of your words sinking deeper into him as he followed you down the hall. His mind was still racing, trying to catch up with the unraveling of everything he had kept inside. His breathing was uneven, each inhale a struggle to process what had just been said, what had just happened. His throat was tight, like if he even tried to speak, the words would crumble and fall apart before they could ever reach the surface.

And yet, you didn’t press. You didn’t ask or rush him. You just walked beside him, as you always had, so steady, patient, and present. It was as if nothing had changed, and yet, in some indescribable way, everything had.

When you reached his door, you unlocked it with a familiar motion, but before stepping inside, you glanced back at him, that same quiet smile still playing on your lips.

“I buy jello too,” you said, your tone light and casual, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. But the words sank into him like a slow, steady pain, unraveling him all over again.

God.

Jello had been one of the few things that kept him sane in prison, the only thing that made those long, endless days feel the slightest bit normal. Every afternoon, when the guards slid his tray through the slot, his eyes would instinctively search for it. That small plastic container, that bright, artificial sweetness that reminded him there was still something predictable in a world that had taken everything else away. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

And now, standing in this dimly lit hallway, you had just offered it to me so simply, so effortlessly after he broke down crying in your arms because you knew it would make him feel better.

You didn’t eat jello. He knew that. He had known it from the very first time you had wrinkled your nose at the idea, passing it over without a second glance. And yet, you still bought it. Every time you went to the store, it ended up in your cart, tucked between the things you actually did like. A quiet, unspoken gesture. A habit formed not out of necessity, but out of something deeper, something neither of you had ever needed to say out loud. Just like how he always made sure to have your favorite tea stocked in his cupboard, even though he never drank it himself. Even though he barely thought about it until he saw the box sitting there, waiting for you, like a quiet promise he never had to voice.

That was what you did for each other.

And maybe that was why his breath hitched, why his throat tightened, why his fingers curled slightly at his sides as if he could physically hold himself together. Because this wasn’t grand or dramatic, it wasn’t some sweeping declaration. It was simple. Thoughtless. Ordinary. Just jello.

But oh God, it was your jello. And anything that had you included was automatically the most special in his world.

Before he could find the words, before he could even begin to process the weight of it all, a sudden blast of music erupted from somewhere above, the sharp clatter of electric guitar cutting through the quiet like a sudden explosion. The pounding rhythm of the drums followed, shaking the ceiling just slightly, a chaotic contrast to the moment he had been drowning in only seconds before.

Instinct kicked in before logic had the chance to catch up.

He tensed, his body moving on its own as he instinctively stepped closer to you, angling himself between you and the unseen source of the noise—ready to shield, to take a hit, to react to a threat that wasn’t even there.

He realized it a second too late.

But you didn’t say anything. Didn’t acknowledge his automatic reaction, didn’t call attention to the way his body had gone rigid, the way his breath had caught in his throat. Instead, you just sighed, shaking your head with quiet amusement as if this was all so normal.

“That’s the niece of our neighbor,” you explained easily, your voice grounding him in a way he hadn’t even known he needed. “He loves rock music.”

Spencer let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, dragging a hand down his face as he tried to shake the lingering tension from his body. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” You glanced toward the staircase at the end of the hall, tilting your head slightly as if you could see the scene unfolding upstairs. “Don’t get too attached, though. It’ll be gone in a minute.”

Right on cue, the music cut off abruptly, replaced by the muffled sound of a door opening and a voice too distant to make out, but unmistakably scolding.

A second later, you grinned. “His uncle always shuts it down in the best part of the song.”

This time, Spencer’s laughter came without hesitation, rolling from his chest in a way that felt natural, effortless. It wasn’t the strained, tight laugh that he’d forced out in uncomfortable moments before. This was real, soft, and unburdened, a ripple of relief that escaped him without effort. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to laugh, to truly laugh, until it happened. The tension in his shoulders loosened, and for the first time in what felt like a long time, something inside him relaxed. It was the sound of something heavy lifting, an unspoken weight easing off of him because of you.

You shifted, and the air between you changed again, this time with a quiet, concerned tone in your voice. “It’s cold,” you said, glancing up at the door behind you, the hallway a little dimmer, the night pressing in on all sides. “You should go inside.”

Without you?

He hesitated for a moment, looking at you, the weight of everything still swirling inside him, pulling at the edges of his thoughts. “Can you…can you go with me?” he asked, the words coming out softer than he’d intended, as if they were a plea he hadn’t known he needed to make.

It was a question that carried more than just the invitation to walk through his door. It was an invitation for you to stay, to be there, to share in the quiet, in the simplicity again.

He needed that. He needed you.

But you hesitated anyway. Just for a moment, but it was enough for Spencer to feel the weight of it. And for a split second, he wondered if he had crossed a line, if his request was too much. You had been a constant in his life since the start, but this…this felt different because this wasn’t the start, this wasn’t the past, and now that you were far away, even if you were just a few feet away from him.

You glanced away briefly, and the small, fleeting flicker of doubt in your eyes was quickly replaced by something unreadable. You licked your lips, the soft sound barely noticeable, and then took a small step back, your hand resting lightly on your doorknob.

He held his breath, waiting for the rejection, the inevitable pull back to reality where things could never be back to simple between the two of you.

But then, slowly, you turned your gaze back to him, and he saw the hesitation there, the conflict, even if you didn’t voice it. Your lips parted, but you didn’t speak at first. Instead, you studied him, your gaze soft and calculating, as if weighing the possibility of crossing a line neither of you had ever dared to approach. Even though you’d been to his house countless times, lying in his bed, moving around in your socks as if it were your own, something about this moment felt different.

“I don’t know if I should,” you finally said, your voice small, unsure. “You…You’ve been through a lot tonight. Maybe it’s better if you just have some time to yourself, you know? To breathe. To think.” Maybe it's better if I give you space so that tomorrow morning you don't want to push me away again.

Spencer could feel the sting of your words, but it wasn’t rejection. It was caution. You were worried about him and about yourself. He wanted to reach out, to tell you that he didn’t need space, that he needed you more than anything, but instead, he just nodded slowly, his heart sinking a little with the weight of your words.

“I get it,” he said, his voice quieter than usual. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.” The truth slipped out before he could stop it, and even as he said it, he realized how vulnerable it made him feel. Like he was unraveling again, exposing himself in ways he hadn’t prepared for.

Ouch.

You looked at him, your eyes softening, a delicate understanding in them. His words hung between you, raw and vulnerable, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in time. He didn’t want to be alone. And there, in the quiet of that admission, something shifted, it touched you. The hesitation in your expression melted into something gentler, more certain.

With a small sigh, you stepped forward, closing the door of your place with a soft click. “Alright,” you said, your voice low. “I can stay a moment.”

The relief that washed over him was almost overwhelming. It was like the air had cleared, like the heavy, uncertain tension between you had finally been lifted. He hadn’t realized how tightly he’d been holding his breath until now, when you’d said yes.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with gratitude.

You didn’t say anything in return at first. Instead, you simply walked beside him as he led the way down the hallway, your footsteps echoing softly in the quiet.

When you reached his door, he hesitated for a moment, his hand on the knob. It felt like one more decision, one more choice to make. But when he turned the handle and stepped inside, he felt your presence beside him, a steady reassurance that everything was somehow okay, that this fragile moment between you wasn’t going to break, that everything could be a little better again.

The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft light of the lamps casting long shadows on the walls. He moved toward the thermostat, fingers hovering over the controls as he turned the heater up. The hum of the system started, and the air slowly began to warm around you, but it wasn’t enough just yet. And in solution, you moved to draping a thick, soft blanket over the couch.

Without a word, you sat down, and he did the same, your body curving into the corner as you pulled the blanket around both of you, like a protection. It was quiet, the warmth of the room slowly filling the space, but now, with the soft, cozy fabric surrounding you both. This wasn’t the first time you two shared a blanket, but somehow, it feels so different. There was something new in the way you adjusted the blanket, your hands smoothing it over his legs, over your own, and in the way his heart reacted to that.

“You didn’t have to…” Spencer started, his voice quieter now, the words hesitant. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, or if it even made sense. But you didn’t need him to finish.

“It’s nothing,” you said, the words light, but carrying with them an unspoken understanding.

Maybe to you, this was nothing. But to him, this was everything.

The warmth of the blanket wrapped around you both, the heater slowly humming in the background as the cold of the hallway faded into nothing. It was quiet now, comfortable in its stillness, and yet…there was something else in the air, something fragile, like the breath you both were holding, unsure how to bridge this space between comfort and vulnerability.

You shifted slightly, drawing the blanket closer, a subtle move to find some warmth. Spencer’s hand, resting by his side, brushed against yours again, and in that fleeting touch, you both seemed to share the same unspoken thought.

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the heater and the subtle rustle of the blanket as you both made yourselves comfortable. You sat just a little closer now, the air between you less strained, more familiar. And, as if sensing that shift, he took a slow, deep breath, releasing the tension that had coiled itself so tightly around him.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, the words slipping out more gently now, as though they didn’t carry the same weight of need they had earlier. “You could just…go home, if you want.”

Two.

But the words didn’t feel like an invitation to leave. They felt like a question—Are you still okay with this?

You shifted again, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you, your eyes drifting down to where it covered you both. There was something in the way his words didn’t quite reach his eyes, a wariness that had lingered in the way he held himself.

“I can stay a bit.” You said quietly, feeling cold.

As you adjusted the blanket around your shoulders, you felt a slight movement in the fabric next to him. Spencer moved, turning slightly to copy you, just enough so that his side was facing you. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but the movement caught your attention and made you pay attention. The blanket had shifted around him, and when you moved enough, you saw it: a thin, faint scar across his lower abdomen, a line of pale skin against the heat of his body that still looked reddened.

It was a silent thing, easy to miss if you didn't look closely, but once you saw it, you couldn't ignore it. The scar was irregular, almost as if it had been carved, and for a moment you forgot to breathe. It was a deep, painful-looking mark, the kind that spoke of more than accidents or misfortune, the kind that had a deliberate intent to do as much damage as possible. You shuddered to think that there was a story behind it, a moment in his recent past that you didn't know about.

Your hand froze in the blanket, and your eyes roamed over the visible part of the scar without wanting to. You didn't want to make it obvious, you didn't want to pry, but the instinct was there. What had happened to him to have such a mark on his skin? Who had been able to hurt him?

Spencer shifted again, his hand unconsciously clenching the blanket and pulling down his shirt, as if he could feel your gaze and wanted to avoid it as much as possible. The change in his posture was immediate: cautious, cautious, but you didn't intend for him to feel exposed. It was an instinct, just a fleeting glance, but you couldn't pretend that it hadn't awakened something inside you and that your doubts hadn't increased.

You turned your attention back to the blanket, pretending to concentrate on adjusting the fabric around the two of you, giving him space, a chance to recover and decipher the moment in his mind. But you couldn't forget the scar. It wasn’t the first time you had seen the evidence of his dangerous world: the bruises, the small cuts, and the scrapes that came with the territory of his work. You’d grown accustomed to them over time, an unspoken part of the routine. But this…this was different. It was the first time that this paralyzing fear of what he had been through appeared.

Finally, after a moment of silence that seemed to stretch longer than it should, he broke the quiet with a soft sigh, one that trembled just slightly. “I didn’t mean for you to see it…” He trailed off, clearly aware of the shift in the air between you two.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. “It…it happened when you were away?” You asked softly, the words careful, measured.

Spencer hesitated, but then he nodded. A single, small movement, but it felt heavier than it should have.

Your heart cracked at the confirmation.

“Someone hurt you,” you whispered, barely able to say the words.

More than someone.

More than one time.

More than a scar.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers twitching against the fabric covering his lap. “I’m okay,” he said, the words automatic, rehearsed. As if he had told himself the same thing so many times it had become muscle memory.

Three.

“It’s old,” he added, trying to brush it off, to pull the conversation away from the depth of it.

Four.

But you shook your head, your fingers tightening around the blanket. “But someone hurt you.” Your voice wavered, the realization settling deeper, making your stomach twist. “And I—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he interrupted, sharper now, but there was no anger in it. Just exhaustion. Just the kind of weariness that came with carrying something too heavy for too long.

Five.

The words were sharp and final, but they only made the ache in your chest worse.

“It matters to me, Spencer.”

That made him pause.

For the first time since you’d noticed the scar, he truly looked at you. His brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering in his eyes. You could see the way his walls were still up, how he was balancing on that edge between wanting to push you away and not having the energy to fight you on this, to tell you the whole truth.

You took a breath, your voice quieter now, but no less firm. “I spent all this time thinking you were just… fuck, I thought you were away because you wanted to be. That you didn’t call me in three months because you didn’t want to. That you were busy with your conferences, too caught up in whatever was keeping you occupied.” You let out a shaky breath. “I never thought for a second that you were—that someone was hurting you this bad.”

For a long moment, Spencer didn’t say anything. His eyes flickered with something you couldn’t quite place, a flash of emotion that he quickly shuttered behind a wall of indifference. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was bracing himself for something. Bracing himself for your disappointment, for your pity, or whatever it was he thought you might feel. He didn’t want to let you in any more than he already had, didn’t want to reveal the broken pieces of himself he’d hidden so carefully.

But you wouldn’t turn away. You couldn’t.

“It’s not your fault,” he murmured, his voice softer this time, almost apologetic, though it was clear he wasn’t apologizing for what had happened. It wasn’t the kind of apology you had hoped for, the kind that acknowledged the depth of the hurt. No, this was the kind of apology he gave when he was trying to make himself smaller, trying to protect you from the mess of his life. “You know how…how my work is.”

“You told me it was a simple conference,” you said, your voice shaking slightly, the emotion choking you. “I never thought it was dangerous.” You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat growing, making each word feel heavier than the last. “If I had known—”

You stopped yourself, the weight of the words heavy on your tongue. Spencer looked at you then, his gaze searching, as if he was expecting you to finish, to say what you couldn’t bring yourself to say out loud. But you couldn’t. Not just yet. Not with the fear of how it would sound.

“If I would’ve known,” you began again, your voice barely above a whisper, the words almost breaking as you spoke them, “I would’ve never let you go that morning.”

The admission hung between you, thick and heavy. The idea that if you’d known, you would have stopped him from leaving. That you would have made sure he was safe. But it didn’t matter now, did it? The damage was already done, and all you had left were these words, these feelings that couldn’t undo the hurt he’d endured.

He shook his head slowly, the movement almost imperceptible, as though the weight of your words was something he wasn’t ready to accept. “You wouldn’t have stopped me,” he said softly, almost as if trying to convince himself. He reached out instinctively, his hand hovering close to your cheek, as though he needed to connect with you, to reassure himself you were still there, still with him.

“I would try,” you said, your voice small but determined.

“No,” he said, his voice a little firmer, though there was a flicker of pain in his eyes.

You frowned, feeling the knot in your stomach tighten. “Then I would’ve done something different,” you said quickly, the words rushing out of you in an attempt to fill the silence. “I would’ve hugged you more. I would’ve kissed you—”

You trailed off, the words surprising even you as they left your lips. You hadn’t meant to say it, but now that you had, you could feel the sudden weight of vulnerability pressing down on you. You avoided his gaze, suddenly embarrassed, your eyes flickering to the clock on the wall as if it could somehow distract you from the sudden shift in the air between you.

“I—” Spencer began, his voice faltering, surprised by your words. “You what?”

“Nothing,” you said quickly, cutting him off. You stood up, the movement feeling abrupt, as if the sudden need to distance yourself was the only thing you could think to do. The warmth of the blanket that had wrapped around both of you now felt like an echo, leaving the couch cold and empty as you stepped away from it.

Six.

“I should go home,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It’s almost Mittens’ dinner time.”

As you turned to leave, you felt the sudden emptiness of the space between you, the weight of the conversation hanging in the air. The thought of leaving felt too final, too much like running away from everything you had just shared. But the words were already out, and you didn’t know how to take them back.

“Wait,” Spencer called out, his voice soft, yet desperate, as if he was trying to hold onto something that was slipping away.

You paused, feeling his hand close around your wrist, gently pulling you back. The contact was warm and grounding, but it only made your heart beat faster. His fingers wrapped around you with a kind of quiet urgency, a need to keep you close.

You turned to face him, and in that moment, the silence between you both felt more intimate than anything you’d shared before. He looked at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn’t quite read. The air between you felt charged, like everything you hadn’t said was suspended, just waiting to break free.

“What?”

“I should’ve done this that morning,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, almost as if saying it out loud made the feeling more real, more vulnerable.

His gaze flickered down to your lips, a fleeting second that felt like an eternity, then returned to your eyes, searching, unsure. His thumb brushed the edge of your cheek—soft, almost tentative—as though he was uncertain of your response, like he was afraid to cross a line, even though the air between you both was thick with the unspoken tension. You could feel the warmth of his touch radiating through you, gentle but hesitant, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right to be this close, to share this kind of intimacy with you. His breath hitched slightly in the charged silence, and in that moment, everything else seemed to fall away.

You held your breath, caught in the delicate web of uncertainty, wondering if this moment would slip away like all the others before. But instead of retreating, he closed the distance slowly, cautiously, like he was waiting for you to stop him, to tell him you didn’t want this. The uncertainty between you both was thick, suffocating, and yet neither of you moved.

And then, his lips brushed yours.

It was so soft, barely a touch, like he was testing the waters, unsure of what he would find there. The kiss was fleeting, almost apologetic, as if he was waiting for a signal from you, a sign that it was okay to continue. His hand remained on your cheek, trembling just slightly, and you could feel it—his hesitation, his fear of what this could mean, his fear of falling too fast. But despite the uncertainty, there was something undeniably tender in the way he kissed you. So tender, it made your heart ache, and you realized he was touching you as if you were made of glass, as if he was terrified of breaking you.

Some part of him wants to protect his heart from falling to the floor because he was finally brave enough to kiss you. You, the girl next door, his girl next door.

You stood there, frozen for a heartbeat, as his lips lingered, unsure, almost apologetic, on yours. The hesitation in his touch stirred something inside you, something deep, something aching. But then, it was as if everything inside you shifted. The restraint you had been holding on to snapped, the weight of everything unspoken suddenly lifting.

You kissed him back.

At first, it was a small, hesitant movement, a soft press of your lips against his, but it was enough. It ignited something in both of you, an uncontrollable surge of need, of longing that had been building in the silence between you for far too long. His hand slid up your cheek, cupping the back of your head, pulling you closer, his fingers threading through your hair, desperately trying to keep you from pulling away.

You let go, abandoning all caution, all restraint.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer with a force that surprised even you, and suddenly, everything was frantic, wild—your lips crashing against his, the kiss deepening, deepening with each passing second. His hands roamed down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of his chest against yours, the heat of him seeping into every part of you. The world outside of this moment faded, as if it no longer existed. There was only him, only the press of his lips, the insistent pressure of his body against yours. The heat between you both was intoxicating, endless, and you couldn’t get enough. You moved against him, desperate to feel more, to lose yourself in him.

His breath came faster, more ragged, his chest rising and falling beneath yours as if he couldn’t get enough air, as if this kiss was the only thing keeping him grounded. You could feel the tremors in his hands as they moved across your skin, as if he were trying to memorize the feel of you. His pulse thrummed under your fingertips, and you matched the frantic rhythm of his heart with your own, a frantic, insistent thrum in your veins. There was no more hesitation, no more restraint, only the raw intensity of wanting, of needing, of surrender.

Suddenly, his lips left yours, trailing slowly across your cheek, the lightest of touches, but enough to send shivers down your spine. His breath was hot against your skin, and you could feel the heat of his lips moving along the line of your jaw, sending your heart into overdrive. His hand tangled in your hair, fixing it, holding you in place, but it felt so natural, like he had always known how to touch you, how to hold you. You could feel the weight of his touch, and in that moment, you realized how easily he had fit into your life, into your heart.

For a moment, time seemed to stop, the world outside fading away completely. The only thing that existed was the press of his lips against your skin, the soft caress of his hands, the heady rush of his touch. In that instant, everything you had ever wanted, everything you had ever needed, was right there, with him. It felt like a homecoming, like you had been waiting for this moment your entire life, like you were finally where you belonged.

But amidst the rising intensity, as his lips returned to yours, there came an unexpected sound—a soft, insistent meow, breaking through the silence between you.

You broke the contact for a split second, a brief breathless pause, but Spencer didn’t pull away. His lips lingered on yours, just a breath away, as if begging for permission to continue. You hesitated, staring into his eyes, the heat between you both undeniable. You could still hear the soft meows, now more insistent and louder.

“Do you hear that?” You asked, your voice strained, trying to focus on anything other than the maddening desire coursing through you.

Spencer’s lips curled into a half-smile, his breath still shallow. “Mittens.” He didn’t move away, his hand gently cupping your face, his thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “She’s just…really patient, huh?”

You laughed softly, but it was a nervous sound, almost guilty, as your body swayed closer to his again. “She’s always patient until it’s dinner time,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his as you leaned in again, just wanting to feel him.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you. Your hands found their way to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you tugged him closer. He responded in kind, his hands sliding down your back, pulling you toward him like he couldn’t bear the space between you.

But then, the persistent meows pierced the air again, louder this time, more demanding. The moment wavered as the sound broke through, sharp and unavoidable. You groaned in frustration, pulling away just slightly, your forehead resting against his.

“She really won’t stop, will she?” You sighed, the tension hanging heavy in the air.

Spencer chuckled softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, a playful glint in his eyes. “Nope, not unless she gets what she wants.”

You both lingered there, caught between laughter and longing, the pull of each other still so strong, but the loud insistence of your cat’s demands impossible to ignore. Spencer’s teasing smile remained, but it was softened by the heat of the moment, and he leaned in closer once more, brushing a kiss to your forehead, a light, affectionate touch that made your heart flutter.

“How about I take care of her?” he offered, his voice low and warm, still thick with desire. “You stay right here.”

For a brief moment, you considered protesting, but the look in his eyes, the way he was still so close, still so present, made it impossible to resist.

“Please,” you said with a mock pout. “I’ll just…I’ll wait right here.”

Spencer smirked, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he finally stepped away, his touch lingering just a moment longer. “Don't go, we still have a lot to talk about,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your forehead before he reluctantly turned toward the door.

When he stepped out of the room to take care of your cat, you leaned back against the couch, your heart still racing, the lingering warmth of his touch keeping you grounded in the moment. The soft hum of the apartment around you was the only sound, the quiet intimacy of the space suddenly feeling more alive than ever before. Everything felt like a fever dream.

A giddy smile threatened to stretch across your face, and you bit your lip, trying to contain it before your cheeks started to ache. You leaned back against the couch, fingers brushing absentmindedly over the fabric as you tried to ground yourself, to catch up with the whirlwind of emotions surging through you.

Your gaze wandered across the room, landing on a familiar sight, his old glasses, the ones you always sighed over whenever he wore them. They sat on the coffee table beside the couch, slightly askew, as if he had taken them off in a rush. Without hesitation, you leaned forward, intending to pick them up and insist that he put them on, maybe tease him about how they made him look like the professor he always denied being. A small, playful joke, something to bring you both back down to earth after the intensity of the moment you had just shared.

But as you reached for them, your fingers brushed against the corner of a magazine underneath, disturbing a small pile of papers tucked inside. They looked carelessly placed, slightly crumpled, as if they had been hastily shoved there, meant to be dealt with later.

You hesitated.

Spencer was meticulous, he never left things out of order, especially not papers. Maybe he had just been distracted. Maybe they were notes for work, something he had meant to file away. The rational part of you told you to leave them alone, to respect his privacy. But something about the way they were shoved under the magazine, almost hidden, made your stomach twist with unease.

Still, your instinct to tidy up overrode your hesitation. You lifted the top sheet, intending only to smooth them out, maybe stack them neatly so they wouldn’t get damaged. But the second your eyes flicked over the bolded title at the top of the page, your breath caught in your throat.

Therapy Program for Ex-Convicts.

Your fingers stilled.

A strange, creeping sensation crawled up your spine as you skimmed the first few lines, your pulse suddenly too loud in your ears. Your brain tried to rationalize. Spencer was a genius, after all. Maybe he was consulting on something, researching for a case, or assisting with a rehabilitation program. That had to be it. Didn’t it?

Frowning, you flipped through the pages, your eyes darting over the text, searching for something—anything—that would explain why he had these documents. The words blurred together in your frantic state, but certain phrases leapt out at you, lodging themselves in your mind like thorns.

Emotional reintegration into society.

Post-incarceration trauma.

Hypervigilance, social withdrawal, dissociative tendencies.

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you read on. The descriptions felt disturbingly familiar, too familiar. The nightmares. The way he sometimes seemed distant, detached, lost in a world you couldn’t reach. The way he flinched at unexpected touches or sounds, how he sometimes went quiet mid-conversation, as if a thought had gripped him so tightly he couldn’t escape it.

And then, at the bottom of the page, you saw it.

Spencer Reid.

Your breath hitched. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. Your hands trembled as you scanned the document again, desperately looking for context, for an explanation that didn’t exist. Notes were scribbled in the margins, about his sessions, about his struggles. About him.

Spencer…your Spencer, an ex-convict?

The words didn’t make sense. They didn’t belong in the same sentence. They felt wrong, impossible, like you had stumbled into someone else’s story. But the more you read, the more the pieces started to fit together in a way that made your stomach churn.

He had been in prison.

Not for a case. Not for a mission. Not for anything that could be easily explained away.

For himself.

Seven.

The weight of it crashed down on you, cold and suffocating. How? When? Why hadn’t he told you? How had you not noticed?

Your mind reeled, flipping back through every interaction, every hesitation in his voice, every unanswered question you had brushed aside. The distance, the way he sometimes looked at you like he was waiting for something to break, had it been this all along? Had he been carrying this secret all along since he came back?

Your grip on the papers tightened as a deep, unfamiliar ache bloomed in your chest.

He hadn’t told you.

He had lied to you.

Your thoughts were cut off by the sound of Mittens’ soft meow. The sudden noise startled you, and you dropped the papers back onto the table, as if you had just been caught red-handed. Panic swelled in your chest, but you didn’t have time to compose yourself before you heard his footsteps approaching. You quickly glanced down at the table, pretending to be focused on anything but the storm of emotions tearing through you.

Spencer walked into the room, his arms holding your cat, looking for all the world like the same man you had just kissed. But something about him was different now, his eyes no longer held that same warmth, that same comfort. They were guarded, clouded with something you couldn’t quite place, something darker that now seemed to hang over him like a shadow.

He set Mittens down carefully, his movements precise, practiced, like he was forcing himself to act normal.

“She’s had her dinner,” he said casually, his voice light, easy. Too easy. He took a step closer, stopping just short of the couch, but you saw it, the way his eyes flickered, the way his entire body tensed the moment he saw the papers on the table.

His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His lips parted slightly, and for the briefest second, there was something raw in his expression: guilt.

“Now she’s happy.”

But you weren’t.

And there were seven lies in total.

Extra note: Don't hate me, this chapter is divided into two parts so as not to make it one extremely long chapter and not allow you to digest the emotions <3 the next one will be published soon, I promise, and I send you a hug because this was very strong.

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[awordsmith]

OH YOU CRUEL CRUEL PERSON I HOPE YOU STUB YOUR TOE ON A CORNER

little edit i made<3 i'm still working on zooms!