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darkmatilda · 4 months ago

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𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: there’s a stranger living in your body. after a traumatic experience, you shed your own identity and adopt another—one that belongs to the sister of your captor. while spencer fights desperately to restore your lost memories, the rest of the team decides to use the piece of a person that lives within you to catch the unsub.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: continuation of metamorphosis, spencer reid x fem!bau reader, split narrative, amnesia and loss of identity, cult, hotch acts like a total bitch but it is explained later, a vague, even imprecise description of a psychiatric facility, forgive me for all the inconsistencies and plot simplifications because there are plenty of them lol (same goes for those few corny moments)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 15k

𝐚/𝐧: sorry it took e so long to write the second part—it required a lot of planning. to make your reading more fun, you can use my reading game and see if you manage to get bingo <33 the biggest thanks to my dear @angellic4l not only coming up with this title but also for the overall help with planning, and to @mggslover for holding my hand during this difficult labour...

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/ˈkrɪs.əl.ɪs/ a moth or butterfly at the stage of development when it is covered by a hard case before it becomes an adult insect with wings or the case itself

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I am Lydia.

The cardboard box landed on the counter, accidentally knocking over a piece of paper, which Spencer didn’t even notice. Instead, he began placing the first items inside—items he honestly hadn’t expected to be so numerous. Choosing the first one proved immensely difficult. He paced the walls of his apartment, feeling as if his feet weren’t even touching the floor.

I am Lydia.

Bringing small, personal items is a therapeutic practice often used in cases of amnesia or identity disorders. Their presence, touch, and smell can sometimes break through the walls built in the mind of a person suffering from memory loss, shattering them and allowing everything that had once been separated to flood in like water through a broken dam. In theory, it sounded logical, even simple. In practice, someone had to choose the right items.

I am Lydia.

Even though days had passed since he saw her empty gaze settle on his face and her lips form that sentence, so certain of its truth, it still haunted him.

The kidnapping, the torture, the pretending—it had all completely broken her mentally, causing her to truly adopt the identity of her captors’ sister. She genuinely believed she had become her. First, she spent some time in the hospital to regain her strength, but very quickly—in fact, it was only the fourth day since her escape—she was transferred to a specialized psychiatric facility for federal agents.

And now he was about to visit her for the first time.

Reid spent the most time choosing the first item. Well, initially, he had only planned to bring one. One small thing—something that wouldn’t overwhelm her. He settled on her badge.

The moment his fingers gently lifted it, opened it, and his gaze fell on her expressionless face in the photo, he seemed to slip into a trance. She didn’t remember who she was, for heaven’s sake. The badge itself wasn’t a talisman that would magically restore all the lost years, names, faces, and relationships. So he decided to take something else too.

The earrings Penelope had given her for her birthday—her favorites, though their shape and color meant she never wore them to work, not wanting them to clash with her professional demeanor.

An old, used ticket to a musical she had already seen, still pinned to her fridge.

A handmade card from their godson, Henry.

A book he had given her, its pages filled with two distinct handwritings—their separate annotations intertwining between the lines, overlapping at times like strands of hair in a braid.

Photos—all the photos he could find.

Before he knew it, he needed a box to take everything with him.

"Seriously, Spence?" JJ’s eyes widened in surprise as he slid into her car and set the box on the floor, reaching for his seatbelt. He avoided her gaze—just a little. "I’m not even sure they’ll let you in with that much stuff."

He shrugged. It was morning; they had arranged the day before to go together. Actually, it was JJ who had offered. Not only did she not want either of them to face this alone, but she also still seemed to feel a bit guilty for blaming him for her abduction.

He wasn’t offended. Not because he thought she didn’t have the right to blame him, but more because his mind was currently consumed by a much greater worry.

"Well, as long as I’m not bringing anything dangerous."

"They still might say it’s too much," she said, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. She took in his hunched, exhausted shoulders, the tension in his body—like he was bracing for a blow, caught in a state of perpetual waiting. For things to get better. Or worse.

She didn’t look much better herself, deep shadows under her eyes, but she was holding it together. JJ always held it together. Spencer sometimes caught himself wondering what it would take to truly break her—then immediately shut the thought down the moment he reached the obvious answer. It made him feel sick, and he refused to go there.

Suddenly, she pressed her lips together. "At least, I think so. I’ve never been there. Never..."

Her eyes fixed on the road. She had never had a reason to go.

When they finally pulled up to the facility and Spencer grabbed the box, JJ hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the car.

"We only have thirty minutes," she announced.

Spencer’s brows shot up in surprise, his mouth opening in protest, but she pressed her lips together—almost apologetically.

"I know it’s basically nothing," she admitted, "but Hotch wants us back at the office after. We’re starting a new case."

He already knew that.

Which didn’t mean it didn’t feel like a fucking joke.

After they got her out of the oil rig, the surviving kidnapper—Lavinia—had escaped. She reached a boat before the police helicopter hovered over the scene, something they hadn't been aware of at the time. After that, she vanished without a trace.

They should have been looking for her. She was a serial abductor, a murderer. She had nearly drained her of blood—had done it to other women before. But the official stance was that, after losing both her siblings—including her sister’s body—Lavinia had also lost whatever force had been driving her crimes. She wasn’t a danger to civilians, they said. She would rather disappear than strike again.

And in the meantime, there were other cases, more urgent ones. People abducted, children held captive—where hours, even minutes, could tip the scales between life and death. That was the nature of the job. Priorities. Because they couldn’t save everyone.

Spencer understood that. But he couldn’t just let her stay free. Neither could the rest of the BAU.

So they worked the case after hours, burning through sleepless nights.

It wasn’t like the FBI had entirely abandoned the search. Lavinia was a wanted fugitive. The first day after her escape, dozens of roads had been shut down, the entire country put on high alert. Airports had been monitored, all the usual places checked.

But Reid had a feeling it wouldn’t matter.

She was too smart. Too careful. Too experienced at running.

They wouldn’t find her in a location.

They had to find that location in her mind.

"Are you sure you can handle this?" she asked quietly as they got out of the car. She looked at him carefully her expression gentle, almost cautious. "You know, going in there, seeing her..."

"JJ, I could ask you the same thing," he cut in dryly. He didn’t like the way she was treating him like someone who needed to be handled with care. "Even if I'm not ready, it doesn’t matter. If she’s going to get her memories back, she needs to see the people she knew."

"I know. Her therapist said the same thing. I just want to make sure you're okay."

"Let's just go."

She gave him a long look, sighed, and let it go.

The moment he stepped over the threshold, a strange feeling washed over him. It didn’t surprise him—he even knew its name, which, given how common the term had become, wasn’t exactly impressive. Just a déjà vu. Recognition without recollection.

Just like JJ, he had never been to this place before. But his brain still reached for a memory that felt almost identical, if he really thought about it. Someone close to him, memory loss, hospital visits—the more he let his mind go down that path, the less prepared he felt, which was completely irrational.

And Spencer deeply hated when things in his life didn’t fit within his personal definition of logic. He felt uneasy dealing with things beyond its reach. He felt uneasy then.

But he was already standing right in front of her door, which was slowly opening before them, and there was no turning back.

"Lydia, like I told you, you have visitors," the facility worker announced.

JJ looked at him, pale. His jaw also tensed when he heard the name the worker had used.

“It’s meant to reach her and gain her trust,” he explained to his friend in a whisper, the words barely making it past his clenched teeth.

He already knew he would simply speak to her without using any name at all. Nothing else would physically make it past his lips—more likely, it would get stuck in his throat and choke him first.

He adjusted his grip on the box. The room didn’t resemble a hospital ward; in fact, it was a rather cozy space with large windows and an abundance of flowers. Soft turquoise walls, dark flooring, a wooden floor lamp with a slightly old-fashioned shade adding a touch of character, and a small bookshelf filled with books. Spencer felt relieved that she hadn’t been placed in a setting that visually resembled the one where she had been held captive.

Before he managed to find her with his gaze, he exchanged one last glance with JJ. He gave her a small nod. It was okay. She nodded back.

The woman standing by the window turned to face her visitors. She was already dressed in casual, comfortable clothes instead of the ones she had been given at the hospital. Because of that, and the cozy decor of the room, she could have passed for an ordinary person, surprised by friends dropping by unannounced. For a brief moment Spencer felt exactly that way—like it was their day off, and he had just stopped by without warning, only for her to open the door with a pleasantly surprised expression, happy to see him, glad she had no other plans.

Recognition without recollection.

He had to shake off that feeling. But he didn't do it himself—her face did it for him. Marked by healing wounds and entirely indifferent to the sight of her friends. In fact, her gaze barely lingered on them before shifting uncertainly toward her therapist, thumb brushing against her lips. She lightly bit down on her nail—a reaction to stress.

She never used to bite her nails.

"These are your friends," the therapist informed her, stepping slightly to the side as if to encourage her to focus on Spencer and JJ. "You might not remember them. They just dropped by to talk, to see you."

Slowly, she looked at JJ first, then at him.

He caught himself overanalyzing her every smallest gesture and movement, searching for something familiar. If she were herself, her eyes would have gone to the box first. A foreign object, yes, but held by someone she knew, someone she was friends with, someone she saw almost every day—the box would have instinctively drawn her gaze.

But instead, she looked at him first. A stranger standing in her room. Only then did she glance at what he was holding.

"I can stay if you feel like you need me to," he continued. "But if you'd rather I leave..."

"Stay," she finally spoke.

Though her voice was quiet, Spencer heard her with an almost heightened frequency. Each syllable distinct, separate, rather than a fluid sound.

The therapist nodded but subtly shifted into the corner, giving them space to talk.

Spencer met her gaze and tried to speak, but no words came out.

"I'm JJ," his friend finally said, stepping forward toward the woman she used to greet with a hug and a kiss on the cheek on various occasions.

This time, she extended a stiff hand instead.

"Jennifer Jareau, actually. Or maybe...maybe you know who I am?"

She didn't answer. And by not answering, she didn't deny it either. And so, Spencer felt a surge of a naive hope.

"Should I?" she asked.

JJ closed her eyes longer than a normal blink, trying not to show how much it affected her. Meanwhile, Spencer was staring at the box—at a pair of colorful earrings lying on the cover of the book he had picked up. Only then did he notice its title. A Case of Identity by Arthur Conan Doyle.

Oh, fuck you, coincidence. Do you always have to mock everything?

"And I'm Spencer Reid," he replied after a brief silence from all sides. He tucked the box under his arm so he could also shake her hand. That seemed like the right thing to do—touch from familiar people might help her remember them.

Her hand wrapped around his uncertainly, lightly, as if testing the waters.

"These are, um, things that might interest you. They..." He hesitated, unsure if he should phrase it that way. But pretending she truly wasn’t herself didn’t seem particularly helpful in the process of recovering her memory.

She was herself—just buried deep within.

And they had to reach for her slowly, subtly.

"They belong to you."

Her lips parted in surprise.

He handed her the box, and she stared at it, bewildered, yet drawn to it.

His heart pounded faster, and he struggled to swallow, his throat suddenly tight.

Unmoving, he watched—along with JJ and the therapist—as she sat down on the bed and silently examined the items.

Each of them, in their own way, hoped for a breakthrough.

The musical tickets confused her. The earrings, she simply called pretty. When she picked up the book, she only glanced at the cover before setting it aside without a trace of interest.

“Where did you get these?” she asked. “You said they were mine, but that’s not true. I’ve never seen them before.”

Before anyone could respond, her fingers caught one of the many photographs.

“Oh, that’s you. Oh, this boy…” she sighed, surprised at the sight of Henry’s picture.

JJ shifted uneasily, her face lighting up with something close to hope.

“He looks just like my brother when we were kids. Same hair.” She let out a quiet chuckle before tossing the photos back into the box.

"You don’t—" Spencer started, his tone almost sharp, surprising even himself.

He had meant to say You don’t have a brother, but he managed to stop himself. So did JJ’s hand, gently reaching for his forearm in a subtle gesture of restraint.

He drew in a deep breath, wincing slightly.

"You have no idea what a smart kid he is. His name is Henry."

She nodded, her gaze drifting between him and JJ.

"Your son?"

"My son," JJ corrected gently.

She let go of his forearm, but before she did, her eyes flicked to his watch. And the time.

"Spence, we have to go," she murmured.

He looked at her in surprise, then at his watch.

She was right—the small window of time allotted for their visit was nearly up.

He couldn’t even begin to articulate how deeply disappointed he felt. He hadn’t expected her to recognize them immediately, but he had hoped for something—some flicker of familiarity. A gesture, an expression, a phrase she used to say. Or at the very least, some tension, some sign that deep down, something inside her was fighting to surface.

Instead, she acted like a stranger who had stolen his friend’s face.

After they said their goodbyes—or rather, after JJ said goodbye, because he hadn’t managed to—they walked out into the hallway in silence.

He was too shaken, too numb. His body felt disconnected from his mind, moving only out of ingrained habit. If his muscles hadn’t carried him forward automatically, he might have collapsed face-first onto the floor.

“It was the first meeting,” JJ said after a long moment. “With time…with time, it’ll get better.”

Spencer only looked at her, wanting nothing more than to believe that.

ʚଓ

He wanted to visit her the next day, and the one after that, but something always got in the way.

Specifically, work.

Over twenty-four hours on high alert during an attempt to rescue a kidnapped child—an attempt that not only failed but ended in tragedy, with the unsub still at large. His eyes burned from exhaustion, and the edges of objects blurred if he stared at one spot for too long. When he finally decided he couldn't push through any longer (the first of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing), Hotch assigned him to an interrogation.

They had managed to track down several people from whom Lavinia and Leon had been acquiring medications and medical equipment. Spencer personally considered it a waste of time; he was convinced that no one knew where the woman they were searching for was—except for herself, of course. But he couldn’t exactly refuse an order, so he headed to the dimly lit interrogation room, feeling as though his tie was slowly strangling him.

During the questioning, he inadvertently managed to extract a piece of information from one of the men. It didn't necessarily bring them closer to catching Lavinia, but it was something that absolutely warranted FBI follow-up. That alone took hours, and in the meantime, at least twice, the rest of the team consulted him about their current unsub’s profile (the second of his three standard milestones before completely collapsing).

And when it was already late at night, there was still the report.

Hotch had made it clear that he wanted to see it on his desk before either of them left the office.

So, Spencer hovered over the documents, their pages tinted yellow under the glow of the desk lamp. The ticking of the clock filled the silence, and in his exhaustion—pushed to the point of absurdity—his brain started generating the sound of a cricket chirping, as if bitterly and ironically emphasizing its opinion on this amount of work and staying this late.

He was dangerously close to the third milestone, so he took a detour around logic.

Instead of finishing the report and going home, he started procrastinating—his chin resting on his hand, a pen in his fingers feeling as heavy as a barbell. They always had packed schedules, but this was starting to get excessive. Suspiciously excessive.

There was a high probability that exhaustion alone was making him unusually receptive to conspiracy theories, but that didn’t change the fact that one had started to take shape in his mind— as if it didn’t already have enough to deal with.

Either he was imagining it, or the boss showed up with another task at the exact moment he finally managed to finish the last one.

He didn’t suspect Hotch of plotting to work him to death. But he did suspect—just a little—that he wanted to keep him at the office as long as possible.

And that’s where the conspiracy part began.

It crept into his mind hesitantly, uncertainly, suggesting that maybe—just maybe—this was meant to keep him from visiting her again.

Why?

Well, no logical explanation came to mind, though he tried hard to find one. He clung to the thought. It wouldn’t leave him alone. Was it just a tool to stretch out this hazy, half-dreaming moment of procrastination, or was there actually something to it?

He never answered that question because then, someone knocked on his office door.

He quickly pulled the barely started report closer and pretended to be engrossed in it as Rossi walked in, a leather jacket slung over his shoulder.

"Have you even eaten anything today?" Rossi asked.

"Nice to see you too.

The older man stepped closer to his desk and placed a triangular sandwich in a plastic container on it. Spencer regarded it with mild surprise, but before he could thank him, Rossi spoke again.

"You've been here way too long," he noted. "I know you're using work to avoid thinking about everything that's going on. I get it, really, but you're going to burn yourself out, Reid."

Spencer gave a small shake of his head—not an energetic denial, just the barest movement.

"It's not like that," he refuted. "Not this time. I want to go home, but Hotch told me to finish this report."

"He could've had anyone else do it, seeing the state you're in."

"I'm not in any—"

Rossi cut him off with a sharp scoff.

"Have you seen yourself in a mirror lately?"

For a moment, Spencer just stared at him, exhausted eyes dull and unblinking. Then, without a word, he reached for the sandwich, his fingers trembling slightly from an excess of caffeine. Rossi sighed because, of course, he had noticed.

"How I look is the least of my concerns right now," Spencer muttered.

"This isn’t about anyone’s sense of aesthetics, though, forgive me for saying this—you look like hell. It’s about what’s happening to you."

He paused, waiting for Spencer to say something, but he simply stuffed his mouth with the sandwich, so Rossi decided to continue. He spared him the lecture about his health, though.

"What about her? Any progress?"

The food started to swell in his mouth, and he struggled to swallow it. The reason was simple. Guilt.

"I've only seen her once," he admitted. The thought gnawed at him. In a way, it was because of him that she had been kidnapped, he hadn’t done anything to save her, and after everything, he hadn’t even been there for her. Friend of the year, truly. The best she could have ever wished for. He felt the need to justify himself in Rossi’s eyes. To make sure he didn’t think he was avoiding her because he was too weak to face it. "But that’s only because I practically live here."

Rossi nodded, watching him analytically.

"From what I’ve heard, though, there hasn’t been any improvement," Spencer added after a moment.

"These things take time. But she’ll pull through soon, trust me."

"I don’t understand it," Reid blurted out, his voice slightly louder, shedding its usual apathetic tone. It had been festering inside him for days, growing, and he didn’t know why it chose to escalate and escape right then, in that dimly lit office—but he let it.

"She was holding up so well…I mean, what she went through was horrific, and I’d do anything to keep her from experiencing it…We watched those streams, you saw them too. She was pretending to be Lydia, I thought, No I didn't think she was actually becoming her…If that were true, she wouldn’t have done what she did then…”

"As you said, she’s been through a lot," Rossi replied, watching him with quiet concern. Because of course, Spencer’s voice had faltered as he got the words out, and with exhaustion clinging to him so completely, he must have looked like nothing more than a pathetic, broken mess. “Trauma finally caught up to her. Before, she was too focused on surviving. But now she’s safe. She has access to professional help, she has us, she has you. She’ll be okay,” he tried to reassure him. “Go home.”

“What?”

Reid froze, thinking he must have misheard.

“I said, go home. Get some rest. I’ll finish the report for you.”

“No, Rossi, you can’t—”

“As it happens, I can. I’d rather stay late for one evening than have to watch you in this state again tomorrow,” Rossi said, taking advantage of Reid’s surprise to snatch the report from right under his nose. He let out a chuckle when it became clear the report was practically blank.

At Reid’s incredulous look, he just shrugged. “What? I mean it. Go home. And tomorrow, I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you can go see her. Even if it means yelling at Hotch.”

He hesitantly rose from behind his desk, his gaze still fixed on it. He could see from Rossi’s expression that he was sincere, that he truly cared about him—and that feeling tightened something in his chest.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Then don’t. Just go. Seriously, get the hell out.”

For the first time in days, a faint smile appeared on his lips. He grabbed his half-eaten sandwich and reached for the bag waiting for him beside his desk. Just as he slung it over his shoulder and cast one last grateful glance at Rossi before heading toward the door, they opened—without his doing.

In other words, they opened because someone else had stepped inside.

At the sight of Hotch, he froze, his fingers tightening anxiously around the strap of his bag.

At the sight of JJ standing behind him, his brow furrowed in deep confusion.

The two of them, here, at this hour? Right at the moment he was about to dump his responsibilities onto Rossi? Sometimes, fate really seemed to hate him.

"I need a word with you," Hotch announced, his face as unreadable as ever.

He didn’t seem surprised to see another team member there. JJ, on the other hand, was avoiding his gaze, her arms stiffly crossed over her chest. They both stepped inside, forcing Spencer to take a step back.

"Oh, Aaron, give it a rest already," Rossi sighed, rolling his eyes. "Just look at him. He looks like he’s about to drop dead any second now, and he probably will. It was cruel to make him stay in the first place—"

"Dave, this will only take a moment," Hotch cut him off.

"What is this about?" Spencer asked, his voice hoarse.

He was exhausted, desperate to go home, but he couldn't suppress his curiosity. Or the worry creeping in as he thought about it more. A chill ran down his spine, making him stand a little straighter. Had something happened? Was it about her? Had she regained her memory?No, judging by their expressions…

"I think we have an idea on how to catch Lavinia," JJ spoke up, glancing at her boss from the corner of her eye.

She seemed tense, almost hesitant, and Spencer couldn't help but wonder if this was truly a plan they had come up with together. What exactly did it entail to make her react this way?

"But it will require…uh, it will require—"

"We want her to hold a press conference," Hotch clarified for her, pausing to let the weight of his words fully register with Reid.

It didn’t.

Spencer had no idea what he meant. Neither did Rossi, who crossed his arms over his chest and silently mouthed what?

"We'll make sure it's broadcasted on every possible channel. Wherever Lavinia is, she's likely keeping track of the news and any police activity related to her," JJ continued, running her fingers through her hair in thought. "When she sees that she has her sister's identity… we're assuming she'll believe her ritual was a success, that Lydia truly has been reborn in her body."

Either due to exhaustion or because the plan simply made no sense, he struggled to follow their reasoning. But the longer he sat in silence, analyzing it, the more he started to grasp what they were trying to convey.

"But," Rossi began, crossing his arms. "Let's assume she does believe that. Then what? How exactly does that help us catch her?"

"Lavinia lost her brother and was left alone," Hotch said. "And for her, their sibling bond was always the most important thing. We believe she's delusional enough to actually believe this—more than that, to come back for someone she thinks is her sister. But she's also cautious and will likely consider the possibiity that we're setting a trap."

"Which means we need to plan this carefully. As... as Lydia, she has to be convincing. She needs to mention something only the two of them would know..."

Spencer raised his eyebrows higher and higher at the blonde woman.

"And how exactly is she supposed to do that if she's not Lydia and doesn't have that information?"

"Oh, c’mon, Garcia will definitely be able to dig up some details from their childhood. Besides, she spent some time with the twins. Leon told her a lot about them. She just needs to agree to say what we've rehearsed with her beforehand. And that's where we might have a problem—she might not want her sister, or well, someone who thinks she's her sister, to get caught”

JJ paused for a moment, her gaze locking with his, catching his eye.

"You need to help me convince her," she asked.

For a brief moment, Spencer stood motionless, unsure of how to respond. Rossi didn’t seem to know what to say either. The two of them had managed to explain the plan reasonably well, but when he tried to imagine her in front of cameras, talking about her sister as if she truly was Lydia, as if she had really been reborn in her body, he felt a wave of nausea. He shook his head in disbelief.

“No. No, no, no way,” he started repeating, even though he wasn’t quite sure how to justify it yet. No, and that was it. “This…this is like encouraging her to stay Lydia. To stay without her true identity. What if it makes her condition worse?”

“It’s just one press conference. Alright, maybe two. Enough to gain Lavinia’s trust and suggest a place where they could meet. So far, there hasn’t been any progress, nothing we could undo or waste. At least…at least maybe we can catch the person who did this to her.”

Her words hurt because, in a way, she was right. There hadn’t been any progress they could ruin. However, that didn’t mean he was going to agree to it. The small chance, the risky and somewhat flawed plan to catch Lavinia, shouldn’t matter more than the potential harm it could cause to her, their best friend. They should be helping her regain her memories, not feeding her head with new, false ones that didn’t belong to her and forcing her to speak of them convincingly, reinforcing the identity of an imposter.

"It will hurt her," he said quietly, trying to reach JJ, even though it was clear she had doubts too. She had to—this was about the godmother of her son. He clung to the belief that she had those doubts. He looked at both of them, including Hotch, who, it seemed, briefly lowered his gaze. "Do you really want to risk her health?"

He hesitated before responding. Spencer had long given up on deluding himself that he truly understood the emotions hidden behind that serious facade.

“We’ll consult with her therapist,” he finally decided. “But if he agrees, then that’s exactly what we’ll do. No matter your personal doubts.”

He exchanged glances with both of them before they left the room. JJ looked as though she wanted to stay and discuss it with him one more time, but his expression made it clear that he wasn't up for it, and she relented.

The only thing he wanted now was to go home. Thank goodness Rossi had agreed to finish that report for him.

ʚଓ

“She did something bad, didn’t she?” she asked. “That’s why you’re looking for her. And that’s why you want me to help you.”

She was sitting on her bed at the facility, one of the available books left open beside her when they walked in. She looked at JJ with clear distrust. The moment they brought up Lavinia, she tensed, and her responses became sharper, as if she was determined to defend her sister at all costs.

Spencer stood a few steps away, arms crossed over his chest, listening more than actively participating in the conversation. As always, he found himself staring at her. The injuries on her face were healing, and in theory, she should have been looking more familiar to him. But it was the opposite. Even in silence, she no longer resembled the person he once knew.

Missing someone who was right there beside you was something truly difficult to describe. He could say that the feeling only grew stronger the more time he spent with her, which felt almost paradoxical. When he visited her, he spoke little. He simply couldn’t bear the way she answered his questions or addressed him, treating him like a complete stranger.

He berated himself for it in his thoughts. She wouldn’t remember who she was if he didn’t communicate with her. On top of that, he was placing the entire burden of this situation on JJ. He rubbed his temples, feeling the growing pulse within them. Thanks to Rossi, he had managed to get home a little earlier, but that didn’t mean he had gotten any sleep. The thoughts and worries haunting him weren’t the kind he could simply jot down in the journal on his nightstand, pour out of himself, and empty his mind in the process. They had long since seeped into it.

He still didn’t trust the plan to capture Lavinia, even though he had agreed to go with JJ to the facility to discuss it with her. Deep down, he hoped she would refuse.

“You’re right,” JJ said after a moment of careful thought, choosing her words with great precision. “She did something wrong, something that can’t be undone. But running only makes things worse. If she comes back on her own, the consequences will be far less severe. Someone has to convince her, and we thought you would be the best person for that,” she paused, her lips trembling before she forced out the next words. “As her sister.”

He watched as the woman swallowed, hesitation nesting in the corners of her face. Spencer, looking at her, tried to pierce into her mind and decipher the inner monologue unfolding within. What did it look like from the inside? Did she truly believe she had become someone else, or was there a lingering feeling that something was off?

How far would he have to go, wander, and search to stumble upon the remnants of her true identity—something that could be rebuilt and revived?

The sound of a phone ringing broke the silence. JJ reached into her pocket and whispered a quick apology before stepping out into the hallway, leaving them alone.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. An unpleasant feeling coiled in his stomach.

"You can sit," she finally said, nodding toward the spot their friend had occupied just seconds ago. "If you want."

"I’m fine," he replied.

A moment later, he sat down.

Something strange began to weigh down the air the moment he did. Physically, he was close to her, yet for once, physical proximity did not define reality—it deceived it. They were far apart, so far that he had no idea what to say. What to talk about with her.

"If Lavinia comes back," she suddenly began, shifting her gaze to him and fixing it on his face. Did something in her subconscious recognize him? "Will I be able to see her?"

He hesitated before answering. If he denied it—if he truthfully said that if Lavinia came back, she would never leave prison again—he would likely cause her to refuse. Hotch’s entire plan would collapse before it even began because she wouldn’t agree to take part in the press conference.

“Yes,” he finally forced out, against his better judgment. He didn’t know what had tipped the scale. He had been ready to observe his team’s scheme from the sidelines, yet he couldn’t face her alone. “If it works. And she comes back.”

For a moment, her expression blurred, her gaze unfocused. She must have been lost in the vision of seeing her sister again—he could almost swear the corners of her lips lifted in a dreamy, longing way. He looked away, unable to watch as the thought of someone who had hurt her so deeply evoked a better reaction than seeing him did.

JJ still hadn’t returned—she must have received an important call. They sat in silence. His gaze landed on the cardboard box in the corner of the room, the one filled with the things he had brought her. He recalled the frantic state he had been in while packing it, grabbing item after item, hoping they would help restore her memory. They had failed. Maybe they had never had that kind of power to begin with. Maybe he should try himself instead of relying on keepsakes.

“H-how…how do you feel here?” he asked at last, hesitating. “I mean…in this place.”

She seemed surprised that he was starting a conversation with her. She studied him for a moment without saying a word, then shrugged slightly.

“It’s nice here,” she said. There was a lot of emptiness between her words. There wasn’t much more she could say when she wasn’t there entirely by choice. Or even fully understood why she was there. “Just a little boring. I mostly read.”

He felt even guiltier for not spending more time with her. He was just about to speak when she added:

“And I really miss my siblings.”

Spencer stayed silent, not knowing how to respond. He got angry every time she said something like that—not at her, of course, but at everything that had happened to her, everything that had led her to this state.

“It’s good that you have books,” he said quietly. “Have you read the one I gave you?”

She furrowed her brows before finally remembering.

“Oh, that one. No, sorry. I don’t think it’s really my thing. What about you? Do you like it?”

He nodded.

"One of my favorites."

"Maybe I should give it a chance, then," she mused.

Spencer nodded again. He remembered the annotations in it, the small pencil notes in the margins. They had both written down what they thought the solution to the mystery would be.

"I think you'll like it. It's Sherlock Holmes."

"Then no wonder it's one of your favorites. I mean, you're with the police, right?"

"With the FBI."

"And you're here, visiting me, because something happened to me."

He froze on the spot, not expecting the conversation to take this turn. Was she starting to remember something? He struggled to find words, so he just nodded again. The pressure inside him grew, tightening his chest and buzzing in his head.

"Yeah. Yeah, that's why...Do you remember anything?"

He hoped she would hesitate, that something would start to break through the fog clouding her mind. He waited for her answer, his gaze locked onto her with quiet desperation.

She shook her head.

"Nothing at all," she said.

Spencer couldn't hold back a disappointed sigh, and at the sound of it, she flinched slightly.

"I'm sorry."

Their eyes met and held for a long moment.

He was about to say she had nothing to be sorry for—that none of this was her fault—but something in her gaze stopped him. There was sadness there, the kind you don’t direct at a stranger. Unless, of course, you're a natural-born empath. But usually, it's just a trace of pity, dusted with awkward sympathy.

With her, it was genuine sorrow. And something else.

She looked away.

"I'm back," JJ announced, stepping through the doorway and tucking her phone into the pocket of her jeans.

Her eyes landed on them, sitting side by side. It was clear what they had been talking about. For a brief second, her expression brightened—but then she caught sight of their faces and hesitated, momentarily thrown off.

"It was...a call about the conference happening tomorrow," she explained. "The one we really want you to be part of."

A moment of silence stretched between them as JJ cast a meaningful look at the woman sitting beside him.

For a second, it was impossible to tell what she was going to say. Would she refuse, realizing that their main goal was to capture her sister? Or would the need to see her again win out? And, more importantly, had she believed him earlier?

"What do you want me to say?" she asked.

Her tone sounded like agreement.

Spencer exchanged a glance with JJ, wondering if she truly believed they were doing the right thing.

"We'll give you a script and go over everything with you, so don't worry," JJ assured her. "We just need to know...hm...we need to know if you and Lavinia had any places that were important to you as siblings…”

They spent another hour at the facility, listening to her suggestions—her memories, or at least what she believed to be memories.

She knew a surprising amount.

And the worst part was that she spoke with such conviction, as if she genuinely believed she had lived through it all.

ʚଓ

You had never been in front of cameras before.

Or rather, you had once, a long time ago, but the experience was so small and insignificant that it had disappeared from your memory. You had never stood in front of cameras knowing that everything—your face, your voice, your body language, your behavior—would be broadcast on national television.

You were incredibly nervous, despite all the preparation. You didn’t have to think about what to say; you simply followed the guidelines given to you by the agents working with you. They handed you the script that you had built together. They told you that Lavinia might not believe you were really her sister, which seemed absurd to you. Why wouldn’t she believe it? You were family. You came from the same womb, and you had always, always trusted each other. No one provided you with an explanation, and eventually, you gave up on the questions, focusing on other things instead.

Your words had to be planned. They had to form a code, one that could only be understood by her, for her. There were going to be two conferences. In the first, you only had to introduce yourself. Show that you were truly yourself, whatever that meant. In the second... they hadn’t explained that to you yet. But they had asked about some place that only you two knew about. You didn’t understand why, but you felt a strange emptiness in your head when they asked. The more you thought about it, the more anxiety gripped your body. What if you couldn’t name any place? What if you never saw your sister?

Finally, you managed to force out the name of your family’s hometown. The last foster family you were sent to. You hadn’t been there long, only two years, but it was the only place that truly felt like home.

"Please, be honest with me. Did I do well?" you asked, looking at the blonde woman.

JJ, as they called her.

She bit her lip, hesitating before answering. It was right after the conference, and she had taken you for a walk outside the center so you could clear your head a little. It was nice to finally leave that strange place. The trees were much more beautiful when you could walk past them instead of being confined to watching them through a window. Why did you have to stay there? Why couldn’t you just go back to...you didn’t even know where. To Lavinia, you could have said.

"Well, it was clear you were stressed," she started, and you frowned, so she quickly added, "But don’t worry. It’s normal, anyone would be stressed in your shoes. The important thing is that you got all the necessary information across. In two days, you'll have another conference, and I'm sure you'll do better then."

For a moment, you stared at her in silence. It seemed like she wasn’t telling you the whole truth. That, secretly, she was dissatisfied. in fact, it always felt like you weren’t getting access to the full truth. There were always these unspoken things, doubts. People even looked at you in a strange way. Her and that other agent.

Oh, especially him. Although looked was too strong a word. He avoided your gaze. Spencer, the surname slipped your mind. Spence, JJ called him.

She didn't form an opinion about either of them, but while she could say that JJ was nice and seemed to care about her, she couldn't say the same about him. He appeared less often, spoke little, and when he did, it seemed like he forced himself to say each word, holding back a grimace every time she opened her mouth. However, he stared at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

How should she interpret such behavior? The more she tried to understand it, the more she thought about him, and when she did, a buzzing filled her head, like the sound you get from awkwardly adjusting a radio dial.

JJ’s phone started ringing, and with a sigh, she reached into her jeans pocket, murmuring apologies under her breath.

You decided to focus on the walk, pushing aside thoughts of the press conference, of finding Lavinia, and of the peculiar agent for a brief moment. It wasn’t like they wouldn’t let you leave the four walls of your room entirely. You just couldn’t leave the building alone, and while someone always accompanied you, with JJ by your side, you felt much less watched. More at ease.

“What? What happened?” she asked, pressing the phone tighter to her ear. Suddenly, her eyes widened. “Oh. I understand, I understand, I’m so sorry. It’s just…Will’s not home, would you be able to...yes? Thank you...”

You watched with curiosity as she tucked the phone away. She seemed slightly shaken, but not completely rattled.

“It’s the neighbor who was supposed to take care of my little one,” she explained, noticing the look on your face. “She called because her mom was admitted to the hospital...My husband is also at work, so I asked her to drop him off here. Hope it’s not an issue if we head back a little earlier?”

You felt a bit disappointed, but understood that these things happened. You shook your head in denial and soon, you both turned back toward the center. Within minutes of walking, a car pulled up beside you, and a small boy jumped out. The woman behind the wheel offered a few more apologies before driving off.

JJ looked at her son, then at you. She swallowed and made a sound, as though searching for the right words, probably about to introduce you, but the blond-haired boy beat her to it.

In fact, he threw himself into your arms.

“Auntie!” he exclaimed joyfully, colliding with you, his little body crashing against yours.

At first, you completely froze in place, not expecting this at all. But as the initial shock passed, or rather just a fraction of a second earlier, you reacted almost instinctively, holding the boy tightly and closing your eyes with a strange feeling of relief in your chest.

When you opened your eyes, you immediately caught JJ’s gaze.

You hold it for too long, and by then, you already knew she knew.

ʚଓ

"Are you leaving?"

Spencer didn’t freeze upon hearing his boss’s question. In fact, he was—he had finished his work and had every right to do so. He slung his bag over his shoulder and gave a confirming nod.

"As you can see."

The coldness in his tone had long since slipped out of his control. He was too tired for anger, so he stuck to his short, sharp replies and cynically thrown statements, all while ignoring the echoing question in his mind if was this behavior leading him anywhere?

"Reid," Hotch called him back before he could take even a single step away. Lately, it seemed like he was constantly holding back a tired sigh. Well, with one of their team members suffering from memory loss, a serial killer still on the loose, and yet another case just beginning, it was taking a toll on all of them.

"I have to ask you not to visit her today."

He remained silent for a moment before letting out a short laugh. He wasn’t particularly surprised to hear something like that from Hotch. Well, he would have been once. But lately, things had changed a lot between them.

"There's another press conference tomorrow," Hotch explained, watching his reaction without so much as blinking. "She did terribly at the last one. I assume you're aware of that. If we want everything to go according to plan—"

"We have to keep letting her believe she's Lydia, resurrected through some ritual," he finished sarcastically. A surge of anger clenched his chest, but it faded quickly, replaced by nothing more than sheer disappointment. That was probably the best word for it.

"This is hurting her. What does it matter if we catch Lavinia if she ends up staying like this forever?"

His voice wavered slightly, and for a brief moment, it seemed like something close to concern flickered in Hotch’s eyes before he pushed it down.

"Recovering memories takes time, Reid. Just because she hasn’t yet—"

"Oh, I’m well aware that it takes time. You don’t need to explain that to me." He exhaled sharply, irritation laced in his tone. "What I also know is that by now, there should have been some progress. Even the smallest sign."

He took a deep breath, recalling the last time he saw her. After that conversation about books—when he thought he'd caught something strange in her expression—he had stuck to his decision and visited her as often as work allowed. He had hoped to dig down to that spark again, to turn it into something bigger. But maybe he had been wrong. Despite the few conversations they’d had since, her eyes still didn’t light up at the sight of him like they once did. There was only unfamiliarity in them.

"Don't you think it might be different if we didn't force her to pretend in front of cameras that she's someone else? Or if you didn’t keep me here until ridiculous hours, making it impossible for her to see the people she actually knows?"

"I'm only keeping you here as long as necessary. And right now, it is very necessary."

"Or," Reid lowered his voice, suddenly aware of the weight of his own words, "you're doing it on purpose, so she doesn't regain her memories too quickly."

A shadow flickered across Hotch’s face.

"Because that wouldn't be convenient for the case."

Reid swallowed. "I thought… I thought you could see us as more than just coworkers, Hotch."

His boss’s jaw tensed, but it didn’t stop him from continuing. Before he spoke again, Spencer took a deep breath, making sure his voice was even lower. If he was going to say this, he was going to be brutally honest.

"Because we’ve always seen you as more than that. As family. At least—I did."

For a moment, they remained motionless before Reid finally tore his gaze away from Hotch’s unreadable face and walked away, not giving him a chance to respond. Not that he thought Hotch would have continued the conversation anyway.

Lowering his eyes to his hands, he realized they were trembling. He clenched them into fists to stop it. He had let out a lot, but it hadn’t brought him any relief. If anything, saying it out loud had made it hurt even more.

He left the office with measured steps, his breathing slightly uneven. Despite the request that had started this conversation—this argument, or rather his own bitter monologue—he decided to go there anyway. To her.

A strange nervousness settled in his chest, a sense of foreboding he couldn’t shake. His desperation had reached its peak. He knew this visit wouldn’t be like the last ones, when he had carefully measured his words, speaking softly so as not to overwhelm or frighten her.

This time, a little turmoil—some real emotion—might be exactly what was needed.

It might be the spark.

He was afraid that Hotch might have made a call revoking his right to visit her. So, upon arriving at the facility, he tried not to draw attention to himself and slipped into her room as discreetly as possible.

She was sitting by the window, a closed book resting on her lap. She wasn’t reading, but the moment she heard the door open, she suddenly grabbed it, as if caught off guard. However, when she saw that it was him, the book fell limply in her hands.

“Um, hi,” she said, showing him the book’s cover. It wasn’t the one they had discussed. “I still haven’t started that one, I’ll admit it. But like I said, I don’t think it’s really for me…”

She trailed off, watching as he approached the small bookshelf and pulled out the book in question—the one filled with their shared notes and annotations.

Gripping it a little too tightly, he sat down across from her.

“But I think it is for you,” he said. His voice came out weak, despite his efforts to keep it steady, despite the storm of emotions raging inside him.

He handed her the book—almost pushed it into her hands.

“Open it.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“On any page. Please.”

It was clear she had no idea what he was getting at or why he was staring at her so intensely. But he wasn’t asking for the impossible—just for her to open a book—so she only sighed quietly and complied, curiosity flickering in her eyes.

She flipped to the first page and started skimming through, too fast and too carelessly.

“Read the margins,” he urged, his voice rough with something dangerously close to pleading. He swallowed hard. “D-do you recognize it?”

The woman remained still, her gaze tracing the pencil-written sentences on the pages. For a moment, Spencer could hear nothing but the pounding of his own heart, drowning out everything else.

“You wrote them.”

She let out a surprised scoff and shook her head.

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life.”

“It’s your handwriting,” he repeated, louder this time. “Yours. Our notes. I gave you this book a while ago. Three years ago. Exactly one thousand one hundr—”

“I’m seeing this for the first time in my life!” she cut him off, raising her voice as well. She lifted her hands as if to cover her face, to steady her breath that was growing too fast, too out of control.

Spencer caught them—too abruptly. She flinched when her skin touched his.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, loosening his grip but not letting go. He simply held her hands as gently as he could, momentarily paralyzed by the sensation. He rarely exchanged handshakes, but when he did, he remembered them vividly. This touch, this specific feeling, was the only thing about her that had remained unchanged.

He smiled faintly, in a way that was both bewildered and heartbreakingly fragile.

The woman remained silent. Her gaze was fixed on their intertwined hands, her chest rising and falling in erratic rhythm.

"Look at them again," he pleaded. "Do you recognize them? Your handwriting? Your thoughts?" He paused to swallow. "Do you recognize me?"

Their eyes met. Hers were wide, his head tilted slightly in a silent, almost prayerful gesture. And then, gently, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.

For a fleeting moment, he thought he might have imagined it. His breath halted entirely.

"You recognize me?"

"I do," she replied.

She looked down, but not at their hands this time—just away, retreating for a second.

"You're the agent working on my case. Because something happened to me. Something involving my sister. You visit me, so yes, I do recognize you."

All the hope that had begun to build within him shattered. It escaped as a short, broken sound—somewhere between a whimper and a sob of sheer helplessness.

For a moment, he thought it had worked.

That he had her.

That he had her back.

Spencer drew in a breath—he had to.

And then he did something absolutely spontaneous, reckless, unreasonable… in some way, even downright selfish.

For one last time, he lowered his gaze to their hands, shut his eyes, and leaned forward—before logic could catch up to him.

The unexpected pressure of his lips made her freeze. Shock tightened her grip on his hands, but otherwise, she barely moved. Holding her breath—just like him.

For him, it was tied to anticipation, to a foolish sliver of hope.

He had no idea why he, Dr. Spencer Reid, a devoted friend of reason, had chosen such a… fairy-tale-like gesture. Did he truly believe it would work? Some tiny part of him must have. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have done it.

And, God, he almost wanted to laugh at his own stupidity.

But then something happened that stopped him from laughing at himself.

She moved within the kiss—not to return it, but to examine it, almost as if she were testing something. He inhaled sharply through his nose, just as she jerked away from him as if burned, her eyes blazing with fury.

She said something, but he couldn’t hear it over the deafening rush in his ears. It happened. She…

"I want you to leave," the words spilled from her lips—lips he had just kissed.

It was like waking up from a trance. He shook his head.

“N-no, I— but I—”

“Before I call security.”

Spencer stared at her, his eyes wide. She looked straight into them, not avoiding him.For what felt like the thousandth time, he searched for something familiar in them. Anything.

She yanked her hands free from his grasp and nodded toward the door.

ʚଓ

two weeks earlier

Even though you had regained consciousness some time ago, you remained in a state of half-sleep for a while—where sounds around you alternated between growing louder and fading away, where your body sometimes floated on soft waves and at other times lay buried beneath tons of rubble, where your eyelids trembled against the hospital room’s light.

You forced them open with difficulty, immediately colliding with someone’s dark irises. Upon noticing your movement, they softened with fleeting relief—but only for a brief moment.

"It’s good to have you back," he said, though his voice carried no real ease. On the contrary, it was filled with an insistent tension that compelled him to speak again before you could utter a word. You were in a hospital. The events of the past few days began flashing through your mind.

“Am…I…” you started, but your weak, hoarse voice made it barely intelligible. You forced yourself to swallow. “Am I safe now?”

You needed to hear it from someone else to believe it.

Hotch didn’t answer your question. He just stared at you, motionless.

“She escaped,” he stated simply.

A crushing noise filled your ears. How was it possible that she had managed to get away? Just picturing that woman’s face, remembering the suffering she had inflicted on you, sent a jolt through your body.

You gathered every ounce of strength you had—some borrowed on credit—and pushed yourself up into a sitting position so you could look your boss in the eye.

“No.”

You shook your head, refusing to accept this reality. In truth, you wanted to scream—at Hotch, at the team, at everyone involved in the rescue mission for somehow letting this happen. At yourself, for not making sure you’d be free once and for all, the way you had with Leon. His memory flashed too vividly before your eyes—or rather the memory of his shattered skull.

You looked down at your hands. The blood had been washed away.

You almost choked on air as another wave of realization crashed over you.

“No,” you repeated. “We have to do something, Hotch. We have to catch her as soon as possible. Are there even any active searches? What about the airports and—”

“We’ve implemented all necessary procedures,” he assured you. “But keep in mind how cunning an escape artist Lavinia is. We might not be able to track her down right away. And if she refrains from further kidnappings, if she withdraws from the criminal world…”

“You’re telling me we might never catch her?”

Hotch remained silent for a long moment.

“Not exactly,” he finally said. “I’d say we might not be able to catch her using standard methods.”

He had only suggested it. The rest—the entire plan—was almost entirely your creation. The mere thought of Lavinia roaming free somewhere, even far away, made you sick to your stomach. You knew the nausea wouldn’t subside until handcuffs adorned her wrists. Just like the nightmares, the fear, and the lingering psychological terror wouldn’t fade. You were willing to sacrifice a lot.

In a way, even your own identity.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Hotch asked, once everything had been decided. "Do you really think you can pull off being Lydia? Enough to fool her own sister?"

You nodded without hesitation.

For a moment, he just stared at you, searching for any sign of doubt. Though he was a man of reason and logic, in crisis situations, he could commit to even the most reckless plans—if he saw a glimmer of hope, even the slightest chance of success.

"Hotch," you called out just before he stepped away from your bed, before he could leave the room.

Your throat felt dry again.

This next part—this next decision—you weren’t as sure about. But there was no time for hesitation. You had to trust your instincts. They had saved your life before.

"This stays between us."

His face flickered with surprise.

"If I’m going to become her, I need to believe it, at least in part," you explained. "I have to immerse myself as fully as possible. I can’t do that if every one around me knows the truth and keeps treating me like me. That’s why you can’t tell anyone."

"Not even…?"

Alone in the room, you touched your lips.

Spencer had just left—or rather, you had made him leave.

You had to.

You couldn't allow the mask you'd so carefully crafted to slip, even a little. Yet every time you spoke to him, it loosened, piece by piece. That was why you had asked Hotch to keep him away, to make sure he wouldn’t visit you again. When he agreed, when he kept the two of you apart, you knew there was no turning back. You were fully committed to the plan now.

At some point, you caught yourself linking Lavinia with the concept of a sister, losing track of your own reality, getting tangled in the web of your own thoughts and memories.

It had gone too far.

The only thing that stopped you from completely losing yourself was the conversation you'd had a few days ago, right before your first press conference. That conversation had been both a relief and a disappointment.

Because of it, you'd faltered.

And in this plan, everything depended on you.

You couldn’t afford another mistake.

Meanwhile, tomorrow's press conference loomed, and you sat by the window, an open book resting on your lap, still feeling the ghost of his lips on yours.

Your mind was clear. Sharp.

More aware of who you were—who you really were—than ever before.

Fuck.

ʚଓ

"If Lavinia watched the last press conference—and let’s hope she did—she’ll probably watch this one too," JJ muttered, standing across from you in the room where you were getting ready. Neither of you met the other's gaze, like two bullets that would explode on impact, tearing everything apart. "She probably already suspects you’re trying to send her a message, but she won’t think the FBI is involved. You need to mention the town where she and Lydia grew up, but subtly. Don’t say the name outright, just hint at it, maybe—"

"The town where we grew up," you cut in.

The words felt strange in your mouth. Just yesterday, calling Lydia yourself had been instinctive, as natural as breathing. But then Spencer happened. Then that stupid kiss happened. And after that, nothing felt natural anymore.

JJ’s correction made her look you in the eyes for the first time since she had figured it out—since your reaction to Henry hgging you had given you away.

You knew Hotch had let her in on the plan and ordered her not to tell anyone. But that didn’t mean she supported your actions. In fact, once the initial shock and relief had passed, all that was left was anger. Until now, she hadn’t allowed herself to explode or confront you.

Until now.

“How…how can you even do this?” she snapped suddenly, shaking her head in genuine disbelief. “Lying to us like this, playing a role while we’re all worried about you. Me, Derek, Emily, Penelope…” She started listing the team membersbut the last name got caught in her throat. She didn’t say it with frustration—just a quiet, precise accusation. “Spencer. Do you even know what he’s going through? And can you imagine how he’ll react when he…”

"And do you have any idea what I’m going through?" you hissed, completely breaking character. "Knowing that the woman who kidnapped me, tortured me, made me take care of a dead body, tried to drain my blood, and nearly killed me is still out there, living free?"

You scolded yourself immediately, ordered to get back into the act. The press conference was starting in just a few minutes—you had to stay in character. But it was unbelievably difficult when your best friend didn’t even seem to try to understand your situation.

"And you really think this is the only way to catch her?" JJ pressed. "This was reckless from the start—"

"It’s not the only way, but it’s the one I chose," you cut her off. "And trusting my own plans, relying on myself and my instincts, is what saved my life. When you couldn’t. So, forgive me for sticking with what works."

Her eyes remained wide open, her chest still, as if she had forgotten how to breathe. When she finally tried to draw air into her lungs, her whole body trembled.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to steady the shaking inside. You had hoped that letting out the anger—so deeply tied to who you were—would help you set it aside. At least for the duration of the press conference.

You both knew it was time to leave the room. JJ seemed to be waiting for you to turn toward the door.

"You could have at least told us," she said quietly.

Your hand closed around the doorknob, holding it too tightly, for too long.

For a moment, you were back in that small, freezing room where Lydia’s body had lain. Her hair fanned out over the pillow, the teeth of a comb gently untangling each strand. Her wrists, marked by wounds. The door that never opened. The closet where you had spent an entire day—the only way to survive the cold without freezing to death.

"No," you said simply. "I couldn’t."

ʚଓ

Spencer had a feeling that JJ had been acting strangely for a while now.

It was hard to pinpoint whether it had been like this from the very beginning. Ever since this whole thing started, they hadn’t actually spent much time together. Most hours, he was buried in work. Sure, they usually went to the facility together, but during those moments, his mind was occupied with other things—not with analyzing whatever was hidden in her expression.

They found themselves facing each other across the jet, separated only by a table and some sort of barricade that seemed to have appeared relatively recently. She avoided his gaze. Her answers were more general, but then she would almost as if reconsidering, add something after the pause. It was as though she was aware that her behavior betrayed whatever it was she was hiding, and she was desperately trying to mask it. The thing was, it was too late.

Or maybe she was just tired, like all of them, like him. Or maybe it was him slipping into paranoia again. What could she possibly be hiding from him? His gaze involuntarily shifted to Prentiss, sipping her coffee.. For a long time, he had struggled to forgive them for the lie, but eventually, he understood that it had been necessary. The circumstances had justified it. But now? What is happening now?

He was quickly distracted by the sight of someone else. The whole team was present on the jet, including her. During the conference, she had done what they asked of her, subtly encoding the message in the meeting. They hoped that Lavinia, driven by the desire to reunite with her beloved sister—who had been brought back from the dead—would not only understand it, but also respond by showing up at the brief location mentioned.

Asheville was a city in North Carolina, where the triplets had been taken in by one of the many foster families throughout their lives. It was said to have truly been their home, the only place where they hadn’t experienced the cruelty of another human being, someone who was supposed to care for them.

Spencer watched her staring out of the window. Of course, she believed it was her first time flying on a jet. She sat directly across from Prentiss, who, by the way, had initially been against bringing her along. In the end, they hadn’t taken her for her knowledge of the area, which she clearly didn’t have, but to possibly lure Lavinia in.

"The couple that adopted them back then is no longer acting as foster parents to anyone," Morgan sat down next to them, his nose buried in the prepared files, flipping through them with little emotion. "The siblings spent exactly three years with them, from the age of fifteen to eighteen. After that, their trail goes cold until the first kidnapping. Doesn’t it make you wonder what happened to them during that time?"

Spencer shrugged. He didn’t feel very present in his body.

“Maybe they’ll answer that question for us,” JJ muttered. Of course, they had planned to interrogate them. “Assuming they know themselves. What exactly do they do, by the way?”

Mrs. Thomas opened the door for them, pressing a hand to her chest at the sight of the FBI on her doorstep. She was dressed in a brown button-up dress with a simple pattern, fastened high at the neck. She appeared outwardly elegant, but Spencer noticed that the fabric of her dress was visibly wrinkled, her eyes looked tired, and her face was gaunt.

“My husband isn’t home,” she announced almost immediately. Then, suddenly, her lips parted in alarm. “Oh, God, did something happen to him…?”

Morgan quickly reassured her with a gesture of his hand.

“This is about something else entirely. Actually, we’d just like to talk.”

They were invited inside. JJ accompanied them as well, while the rest of the team had been assigned to other tasks related to the search for Lavinia. Also, someone also had to keep an eye on her. Of course, they couldn't bring her to the Thomases. To them, she would be nothing more than a stranger claiming to be their former foster child.

When the woman was asked about the triplets, her face showed a tense expression, not entirely decipherable but clearly strained.

“Did you keep in touch after they reached adulthood?” JJ asked at one point during the conversation, as they were led into a living room filled almost entirely with dark mahogany furniture.

“Our paths diverged,” she stated curtly. Most of her responses followed the same pattern—brief and carefully measured.

"Has any of them tried to contact you recently?"

She watched Spencer closely as he glanced around the room. He wasn’t doing it out of nosiness—it was simply a profiler’s instinct. He always paid great attention to his surroundings, fully aware that clues could sometimes be found in the deepest corners of a home.

"You just asked if we kept in touch, and my answer was no. So I think it’s not hard to figure out that my answer to this question will be exactly the same."

There was no television inside. He wondered if she kept up with the news, if she had heard about the recent events and the ongoing search for Lavinia. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Morgan. She had taken on a passive-aggressive stance, seeming more than just displeased with their presence. Not even displeased—stressed.

“Mrs. Thomas, what made you decide to become foster parents all those years ago?” Reid asked, slipping his hands into the pockets of his blazer.

It wasn’t directly related to why they had come, but he needed to loosen her tongue somehow—perhaps get her to share something important, even by accident. The woman let out a short sigh before answering.

“My husband and I were never able to have children.”

“So you decided to take in three teenagers at once?”

“That’s admirable,” JJ interjected immediately, shooting him a look. “I mean, a huge responsibility, but also a beautiful gesture.”

The woman looked at her blankly.

When asked further questions about the siblings, she answered only as much as she had to, avoiding any details.

Yes, they were fifteen when they came to us. Yes, they were exceptionally close. Smart kids, always looking out for each other. Their mother died in childbirth. Their father abandoned them, as far as we know.

At that last part, her clasped hands tightened, causing her knuckles to turn slightly white.

Morgan raised his eyebrows.

JJ kept the conversation going while Spencer moved closer to a large bookshelf filled with books and what looked like typical family memorabilia. He could feel Mrs. Thomas’s gaze on his back.

His attention was drawn to a photograph of none other than the three blond-haired triplets, nearly indistinguishable from one another. Their hair fell to their shoulders, the only difference being their facial expressions. Lydia had a gentle smile, Lavinia stared straight into the camera, and Leon’s gaze wandered elsewhere.

They were all dressed in identical white garments resembling tunics and stood in front of a poster, partially obscuring a purple inscription in the background.

“They were the first children you and your husband decided to foster… and also the last,” JJ continued. “Was there a reason for that? Did they cause any issues that might have influenced your decision not to take in more children in the future…?”

Her voice faded as Spencer’s mind suddenly sharpened. A few pieces of information clawed at the edges of his memory, begging to be released from one of the countless overstuffed filing cabinets in his head.

Morgan stepped closer, intrigued by Spencer’s abrupt stillness. When he glanced at the photo, he didn’t see anything particularly noteworthy. He even picked up the frame, turning it slightly in his hands.

“It’s from a summer camp,” Mrs. Thomas explained quickly when she saw what had captured their attention. “We sent them there every year.”

“Reid?” JJ started, taking a step toward him.

Spencer looked at the photo again, at the words on the poster above the children’s heads.

“Do you guys know what The Chrysalis Fellowship was?” he asked, fixing a pointed stare on Mrs. Thomas.

He saw her inhale sharply.

Morgan shrugged.

“Never heard of it.”

“No surprise. It wasn’t exactly a big case,” Spencer replied, crossing his arms.

His friends were visibly perplexed by his reaction, but they understood that he had stumbled upon something significant. They watched him with anticipation and tension.

“But it was definitely not a summer camp,” he continued. “They presented themselves as just another religious gathering, kept a low profile…but in 2001, they drew some media attention when one of their members mysteriously ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Dead, for the record.”

JJ shook her head slightly, still not fully grasping what Spencer was trying to convey.

But Spencer wasn’t looking at her—his gaze was fixed on someone else.

“Mrs. Thomas, for what possible reason would you send the children on summer vacation to a cult?”

The woman fidgeted with the collar of her dress.

"I won't say anything else without a lawyer," she announced weakly.

Spencer heard Morgan sigh heavily behind him. He placed the photo back on the shelf—it was no longer needed.

He was almost certain he knew where Lavinia was hiding.

ʚଓ

The terrain at the foot of the mountains was gently undulating and covered in dense trees. After a longer drive along a narrow, winding road, they reached a place that resembled something between a well-kept neighborhood of a quiet town and an abandoned campground. Seriously.

In a small area, there were a few houses with flat roofs and white walls, some of which bore the first signs of dirt and graying. However, what dominated above them, in terms of sheer numbers, were the trailers, spaced evenly apart, as if they symbolized a former order, a time of past prosperity.

In short, they quickly contacted the rest of the team to inform them of their destination. There was no time to waste. When they asked her to choose a location based on the information she had gathered during her week of being held captive by the twins, which Leon had revealed to her after she manipulated him, she pointed to this town. They assumed she was referring to the foster family's home. However, there was no sign of their missing person inside, and while Mrs. Thomas was hiding a lot, she had not reestablished contact with Lavinia.

But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in the area.

When the three of them arrived at the nearly desolate location, which in its prime had been a thriving congregation with a large number of members, a middle-aged man immediately appeared on the doorstep of one of the houses. He was wearing nothing but a loose white shirt. His light hair reached almost to his shoulder blades, and his face was covered with a few days' worth of darker stubble.

“Hello, my children,” he nodded toward them.

“David Vaughn,” Morgan identified him instantly, thanks to the information Garcia had gathered for them.

The man simply waved his hand.

“You can call me Father.”

“Hell no.”

He didn't seem offended. In fact, his face was constantly adorned with a calm, almost serene expression. Spencer glanced around at the trailers, wondering if anyone actually lived in them. No one else had come out to greet them, and in such closed communities, the arrival of outsiders usually stirred up some general curiosity.

“Let’s get to the point. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here?”

The man opened the door to a small white house, standing in the doorway in a welcoming gesture.

“Come in, and we’ll talk.”

Without waiting for another refusal or command to step outside, he simply turned his back and disappeared inside.

After a brief discussion, they decided to follow him. Although, it was more JJ and Morgan doing the talking. Spencer, on the other hand, was completely absorbed in scanning the surrounding trailers, almost as if his gaze could penetrate through the walls and reveal whether Lavinia was hiding inside one of them. He didn’t even realize when his legs instinctively began to follow his friends, or when he found himself inside a cramped, multi-roomed interior. A stale, unpleasant odor hung in the air, and Spencer could confidently say that the owner wasn’t a fan of the activity called cleaning.

David Vaughn, a man once known for his reputation as a spiritual guide, dropped into a chair with such ease, it was as though there weren’t three FBI agents in his home at that very moment.

“So?” he asked cheerfully. “How are we doing this? You listen and stay silent while I speak, or do I speak, but you ask your obvious questions like what were you doing at 8 p.m. on Monday…’”

“We’re here for a different kind of obvious questions,” Spencer replied dryly. “What you were doing at 8 p.m. on Monday, or any other day of the week, is the last thing we care about. Where is she? And I know you know who I’m talking about. They all used to belong to this…”

“Fellowship,” the man finished for him. He scratched under his eye with a touch of nostalgia. “Haven’t said that word out loud in a long time. Ah, the good old days. Then everyone left, and that was that. But I’m not angry. Our lives are a constant journey. We arrive at a place, replenish our supplies, set a new direction. We wander…”

“Enough,” Morgan cut him off, his face expressing deep exhaustion with this nonsensical, pseudo-spiritual babble. “We don’t want to hear your philosophies, we want your answers. Is Lavinia Schuyler hiding here? This place will be searched soon, so you could make this easier for us…”

"Let's start with the fact that there’s no one by the name of Lavinia Schuyler," he said, causing everyone to furrow their brows. He flashed them a grin. "What? As my favorite daughter, she deserves the right to carry my last name. Lavinia Vaughn. Much better."

"Your...daughter?" JJ repeated in disbelief.

Spencer gave a subtle nod, seeing some sense in it.

"Abandoned by their father."

"Abandoned? Please. Life’s a journey, didn’t I mention that? I just moved on. Honestly, I believe children don’t need a father for proper development. A mother is only needed in the very early stages…"

“Back to the point,” Morgan interrupted again, stopping him from drifting off-topic. “Let me ask the right question this time. Is Lavinia Vaughn hiding here…”

“Aren’t you curious how I managed to bring my kids here when they were grown?”

“No, we're only curious about—”

“Well, I've been thinking about it for a long time. I knew they were approaching adulthood, bouncing from one foster home to another. A journey is a journey, but blood is blood, my blood. So I thought, why not? I asked my dear friends, oh, they were so young back then, just joined us, but already showing such loyalty. They did what I asked, of course. Took them in under their roof, sent them to me whenever the chance arose, so they could learn a bit about the world…”

Spencer could tell his friends were, deep down, intrigued by the story. After all, both of them were profilers, and understanding the backstory, discovering the circumstances that shaped a killer, was essential. Even he couldn't bring himself to stop the man, falling to some degree under the sway of his gift for persuasion. He mentally pinched himself when he caught himself in that moment.

Something about this whole situation didn’t sit right with him. Sure, some people were just chatterboxes, and this guy certainly fell into that category, but everything he said felt too calculated. It was as if he knew exactly what type of story would capture their full attention, drawing it to him and away from everything else.

"...they left me when all of this happened. You know, one guy ended up at the bottom of a cliff, and the media swooped in, saying we probably killed him in some cult ritual. Years passed, and my dear Lavinia only reached out to me recently," he suddenly stopped, grinning wide, a madness in his eyes flashing. "I was watching the news, right? She did it. That woman. That woman is now Lydia. Lydia is in her body. Oh, I always knew this girl, my Lavinia, was special. Some didn’t believe me when I said the soul is like blood. That you can transfuse it into another vessel. They thought I was speaking metaphorically, but she really listened to me..."

Spencer caught something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of light in the window, a glimpse of blonde hair. David was talking and talking, distracting them, pulling their attention away from other things. Like Lavinia, who was packing in another room and making her escape through the back door. He nudged Morgan, their eyes met, and without looking out the window, he understood.

They rushed after her, the sound of the man's loud, hysterical laughter echoing in their ears, a sound that would linger long after.

Reid’s heart pounded against his chest as, for a brief moment, he feared that when they reached the outside, Lavinia would already be gone. Her trail would vanish like it had on the drilling platform, and they would never catch her again. And he would be to blame—he would always be so, so guilty.

He stopped so suddenly that his body nearly collapsed.

But contrary to his dark visions, she was there. She was there, with a backpack slung over one shoulder, her hands raised high, frozen in place as someone had her at gunpoint, preventing her from fleeing any further.

The rest of the team arrived, and the person pointing the gun at Lavinia wasn’t Rossi, Prentiss, or Hotch.

It was her.

ʚଓ

Watching the woman who had nearly taken your life—and had certainly cursed it forever—being loaded into a car with her hands cuffed behind her back was both therapeutic and surreal.

A part of you felt relief, while the other hadn’t yet grasped the reality of the situation enough to fully process it.

Something heavy slid off your chest, but instead of crashing to the ground with a deafening thud, it dissolved into quiet.

Peace.

You hadn’t known that peace, relief, and respite—these supposedly positive emotions—could be so overwhelming that they left you frozen in place.

Someone appeared at your side.

JJ offered you a small smile. There was still a trace of lingering anger in her eyes, the remnants of her inability to understand your decision, the open disapproval that hadn’t faded and wouldn’t for a long time. But in that brief moment, above all else, she was simply relieved that it was finally over.

Her touch on your arm was hesitant, as if she were testing whether you were still yourself.

You looked at her in silence for a moment—then threw your arms around her neck.

You heard her inhale sharply in surprise.

And you didn’t even focus on the gazes fixed on you—until they became unbearable.

The first one you caught.

Hotch, nodding at you gently. As if confirming that it was over.

You almost smiled.

It was true. It was over.

So why did it still feel like something was weighing on you?

Then you caught the second gaze.

Spencer looked as if staying on his feet was a struggle. And yet, he managed to move—his expression a mask of merciless emptiness—as he closed the distance between you.

You felt your body beginning to crumble in JJ’s arms.

You stepped away before you could drag her down with you.

He stopped a step away from you, at a painfully close distance—technically, you could reach out and touch him. Do something you had wanted to do every single day and night spent on the oil rig. That is—to reach for him. In a way, it symbolized an escape for you. A return to what was good, constant, and safe.

You knew, however, that he wouldn't allow it. He would reject any attempt you made, for the lies you surrounded yourself with were dangerously toxic—they could taint and damage him.

He shook his head from side to side, clearly uncertain of what to say.

"All this time," he finally began. Quiet, but not weak.

A sigh escaped JJ’s lips. Her gaze wandered between both of your faces.

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now. Maybe we should first—"

"And you knew too. Of course, you knew."

From the very beginning, you knew that when the moment of revealing the great truth came, looking him in the eyes again would be unimaginably difficult. You had also suspected that words would fail you, and that’s exactly what happened. Nothing seemed right. You couldn’t apologize, because you didn’t feel guilty. I mean, you did, in a way. You felt guilty for hurting him like this, but at the same time, you were ready to admit without hesitation that even if you could go back in time, you would still do the same thing, because it meant catching Lavinia.

“I had to do this,” you finally said.

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it. He clenched his jaw. Nodded. In a way that not only showed he didn’t understand, but also that he couldn’t forgive.

ʚଓ

Twelve months had passed.

In the blink of an eye, they say. Well, if there was an opposite to that saying, it would fit your situation perfectly. Every day, week, and month carried the weight of everything that had happened since the moment the syringe with the sedative first pierced your neck. You were facing not only the trauma left by the abduction but also the consequences of pretending to be someone else and lying to those closest to you in such an elaborate way.

You got involved in Lavinia's case, making sure you'd never have to chase her again. You took temporary leave—your psyche simply needed it.

And as you began healing from within, you could reach further.

Most of the team pretended to accept what you had done, to be ready to move forward. Pretended, perhaps even wanting to believe it was truly over. But in their minds, you would always be trusted a little less. By pretending to be Lydia, you wanted them to believe you were a stranger. And in a way, that's exactly what happened. You would always remain slightly different, distant, to them.

With Spencer, things were particularly difficult. For a time, he simply cut himself off from you. When disappearing seemed like the easier option for him, you felt quite the opposite. You preferred to stay close, even if it meant hurting each other with those prolonged moments of tension, resentment, and the painful silence of unspoken accusations.

But what happened was that, for a time, you simply disappeared from each other's lives. You fell back into them by sheer accident. Well, actually, not such a clean accident. The Christmas party held at Rossi's house took you by surprise when you received the invitation. Spencer probably didn’t expect to see you there either. Ironically, you both arrived at the same time, and without a word, he held the door open for the two of you.

You didn’t talk about it, but over the next year, these small things and gestures, progressing with the passage of time, seemed to reintroduce you to each other. At one point, you were laughing together, not just the two of you, but with the whole team, yet it didn’t change the fact that the joyful sound was coming from both of you at the same time. There was a moment when you watched your godson play on the swings, and the silence between you no longer gave you that painful, guilt-ridden knot in your stomach.

Then, on your birthday, you sat side by side in the theater. A year earlier, he had given you tickets for the musical you’d always wanted to see. They had been lost, for obvious reasons.

Before it even started, you glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

"I never said sorry," you suddenly announced.

Spencer turned toward you, his gaze filled with surprise. You, too, didn’t know where that came from. Maybe it had been nesting inside you for a long time, and you chose that moment because you realized that for the next two hours, out of respect for those around you, you wouldn’t be able to talk. And the words would have to echo in the way they should.

He shook his head.

"You don’t have to."

"But I do. You can’t forgive someone if they never say they’re sorry."

A sigh escaped his lips, and after a long moment of hesitation, he reached for your hand. You flinched when it happened, so unaccustomed to his touch.

"I think I’ve already forgiven you," he finally said, turning his face slightly toward you. His gaze fell on your hands, barely visible in the dark theater. Just the faint outline of knuckles against the blackness. Somehow, you could hear him swallow.

"I’m just not sure if I’ll ever be able to trust you again."

The musical began, and your hands remained entwined until the very end.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fic #spencer reid #spence reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #spencer reid criminal minds #dr spencer reid #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds angst #criminal minds fanfiction

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amethystarachnid · 8 months ago

Note

Can you write for me Amnesia trope from Marvel Bingo with Tony/Fem reader? Tony is a little injured after a mission and he loses his memory, when reader is going to see him (wife or girlfriend) he won't recognize her but he'll immediately fall for her all over again 🥺 she thinks it's absolutely cute that he didn't recognize her but soon he'll recover his memory and blush so hard when reader shows him his videos of him all smitten by her hahahaha ❤️ and Tony saying he'll alwyas fall for her 🥺 (some spicy kisse maybe?)

ALWAYS

⤷ ANTHONY “TONY” E. STARK

ᯓ★ Pairing: Anthony “Tony” E. Stark x fem!reader

ᯓ★ Genre: romance fluff

ᯓ★ Request from: MARVEL bingo

ᯓ★ Story type: one shot

ᯓ★ Word count: 5.4k

ᯓ★ Summary: Because of an injury Tony temporarily loses his memories of you, his wife, and you're determined to make him gain them back. Do you really need to do so when he has already fallen back in love with you?

ᯓ★ TW(s): memory loss and clingy Tony

ᯓ★ Comment if you want to be added to the taglist (specify if you want the everything taglist or for a specific character)

ᯓ★ My Masterlist

ᯓ★ MARVEL Multiverse - choose an AU, pair it with your favorite character and make a request!

ᯓ★ Songs & Superheroes tales - The Game (to make a request, follow the rules on the link!)

ᯓ★ MARVEL Bingo

ᯓ★ English isn’t my first language

The beeping. It’s the first thing you notice when you step into the hospital room—the insistent, steady beep of the heart monitor that Tony’s hooked up to. It’s steady, strong, and for that, you exhale a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. The smell of antiseptic stings your nose, reminding you that, despite Tony's resilience, he's as vulnerable as any of them in situations like these.

The mission had gone wrong in ways you didn’t see coming. Stark Industries had developed tech that a rival group decided they wanted to “borrow”—forcefully. What was supposed to be a simple extraction turned into a messy firefight. But, like always, Tony had pushed you to evacuate, promising he’d be right behind you. Instead, an explosion threw him from his suit, leaving him vulnerable to the final assault. He had barely gotten out before going down hard.

Now, you’re here, nerves raw and trembling as you hover by the doorway, watching him.

Tony is sitting up, but he seems…distant. Disoriented, maybe. His eyes are half-lidded, his lips pressed into a thin line as if he’s trying to make sense of something in the middle distance. It’s unnerving because you’re used to a Tony whose attention burns, even when he’s exhausted, half-buried in his lab, or just waking up. He sees everything.

But not this time. And for some reason, he doesn’t see you.

“Mrs. Stark?”

You turn as the doctor enters, offering you a sympathetic look. It’s a look that’s meant to ease you into news you know you don’t want to hear.

“Is he…awake?”

The doctor nods, gesturing you toward the chair by Tony’s bed. “He’s stable. His vitals are strong. The issue, Mrs. Stark, is that there appears to be some level of memory loss.”

The words clang in your ears, foreign and cold, completely out of place in the world you’ve built with Tony. “What do you mean by ‘memory loss’?”

She sighs, glancing at Tony before she speaks. “Memory loss is complicated. From what I’ve gathered, Mr. Stark has retained his long-term memories and most of his professional knowledge. But, due to the trauma and subsequent disorientation, there’s a block on more recent events…particularly in his personal life.”

Your stomach drops, and you take a deep breath, fighting to keep your voice steady. “He doesn’t remember me, does he?”

“I’m afraid not,” she says softly. “In many cases, memories return with time and familiar cues. Given Mr. Stark’s particular cognitive resilience, I have high hopes for recovery. But until then, he may…struggle with recognition and personal connections.”

You nod slowly, trying to take it all in. In all the battles, the missions, the threats, this is somehow scarier. Because it’s not just his body that’s wounded; it’s your life together that’s fractured.

When the doctor leaves, you take a step forward, but your feet feel leaden, hesitant. And for once, you don’t know what to say. This isn’t just Tony after a rough mission. This is your husband, and he doesn’t know you.

Finally, you muster the courage and approach the bed, offering him a soft, tentative smile. “Hey there, stranger.”

He looks up, his gaze sharp but confused, and something in his eyes flickers with a shade of recognition—a spark that leaves you hoping. But then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Do I, uh, know you?” His tone is polite, curious, but there’s a guardedness to it, as if he’s unsure if he’s supposed to recognize you. You don’t miss the way his eyes dart over you, taking you in, and a pang of sadness tugs at your heart as you realize he’s assessing you the way he might a stranger.

You laugh softly, forcing down the lump in your throat. “You could say that. I’m…” You hesitate, wondering if it’s too much to say it outright, but the words slip out before you can stop them. “I’m your wife.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he stares at you, stunned. “My wife?”

“Yes.” You smile, more gently this time, as though that will ease him into the idea. “For almost three years now.”

Tony blinks, and you can see his mind racing, struggling to process this unexpected piece of information. He gives a weak chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I…you’re telling me I’m married to you?”

His shock is genuine, and for a moment, a bubble of laughter escapes you. It’s that classic Tony Stark reaction—equal parts disbelief and awe, as if he can’t quite believe his good luck.

“Yes,” you say again, and this time, there’s a hint of amusement in your voice. “You managed to convince me somehow.”

He raises an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a lopsided grin that’s both endearing and achingly familiar. “Wow. I must be one hell of a salesman.”

“Oh, you are.” The laughter fades from your voice as you take a step closer, unable to resist the need to be nearer to him, even if he doesn’t remember you right now. “You’re the best.”

For a moment, he studies you, his gaze flickering with something like curiosity, maybe even admiration. It’s a glimmer of the old Tony, the man who made you feel like the only person in the room, no matter the crowd or chaos. But here, with him looking at you as a stranger might, there’s something raw and beautiful about it, too. He’s falling in love with you all over again, right in front of your eyes.

“Well, I guess I should feel lucky,” he murmurs, a faint smile playing on his lips. “If you’re half as amazing as you look, then…yeah. Lucky guy.”

The words make your heart flutter, and despite everything, you feel a warmth spread through you, easing the tightness in your chest. He’s still Tony, even if he doesn’t know it yet.

“Want to know a little about us?” you ask, hoping that maybe, somehow, it will trigger something—some hidden memory or spark of recognition.

He nods, settling back against the pillow. “Please. Enlighten me. I’m curious how a guy like me managed to marry someone like you.”

“Well,” you start, a smile tugging at your lips as you pull up a chair beside him. “For starters, we didn’t exactly get along at first.”

“Oh?” He raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Did I say something to offend you?”

“You…may have.” You grin, remembering the banter, the stubborn disagreements, the sparks that seemed to ignite every time you were in a room together. “You were cocky, stubborn, a little arrogant.”

He chuckles. “That sounds about right.”

“But somehow,” you continue, your voice softening, “you managed to break down all my walls. You made me feel like I was the only person who mattered, even if you acted like you were just being yourself.”

His gaze lingers on you, and there’s a warmth there, something cautious but undeniably present. “I’m sorry I don’t remember that.”

“Don’t be.” You place a gentle hand over his, feeling the faint warmth of his skin against yours. It’s a familiar gesture, one you’ve done a thousand times before, but this time, it feels different—new, almost shy. “You’ll remember. And until you do, we’ll make new memories. Starting right now.”

He looks down at your hand on his, and you can see the faintest flush of color in his cheeks. For a man who’s usually so sure of himself, so confident in every move he makes, it’s endearing to see him look almost…nervous.

“So, tell me more about this…our life,” he says, his voice soft, like he’s trying to hold onto the pieces he has left.

“Well,” you say, smiling as you think of the little things that make up your life together. “We spend a lot of time in the lab together, actually. Even if you’re always tinkering, working on some new project, you always have time for me.”

“Do I? Sounds like a good husband.” There’s a touch of pride in his voice, and it makes your heart ache a little—because he doesn’t even know the half of it yet.

“A very good husband,” you murmur, meeting his gaze with all the love you feel for him. “The best.”

And there it is—that flicker in his eyes, like he’s starting to see it, to feel it. It’s as if, for just a moment, he knows you, feels that connection.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, his voice rough. “For being here. For…all of this.”

You squeeze his hand gently, fighting back the tears that threaten to spill over. “You’re my husband, Tony. I’d do anything for you.”

And as you sit there, hands entwined, you realize that even if he has to fall in love with you all over again, you’ll be right here, waiting.

The drive back from the hospital is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. Tony stares out the window, taking in the blur of city lights as you weave through the streets toward your shared home. Occasionally, you catch him glancing at you, his expression somewhere between awe and disbelief, as if he’s still wrapping his head around the idea that you’re his wife, that he’s returning to a life he doesn’t remember but that he somehow…wants.

When you finally pull into the long driveway leading up to your home, his eyebrows shoot up. Stark Tower looms ahead, its sleek, modern design stark against the night sky. The iconic "STARK" sign gleams with familiar grandeur. He lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes, too—something like pride.

“So, this is…our place?” he asks, a note of disbelief in his voice.

You can’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Well, your place, technically. But I’ve definitely made it my own.”

Tony chuckles, the sound low and warm, and you’re reminded of all the times he’s teased you about “taking over” his tower with touches of your personality: the cozy reading nook in his office, the garden on the roof you insisted on installing, even the art pieces scattered throughout the building. And despite his teasing, he’d always seemed proud of how much of yourself you’d poured into his space.

“Well,” he says, stepping out of the car, “if you’re half as great at interior design as you are at, uh, marrying billionaires, I think I’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

“Oh, just you wait,” you say with a playful smirk as you lead him inside.

The entryway is a testament to the sleek, modern style Tony’s known for—polished floors, clean lines, an air of sophistication mixed with warmth. But there are little touches here and there that mark it as your home too: framed photos from the missions you’ve tackled together, a throw blanket draped over the couch, even a small shelf of books beside the entrance to the main living area.

Tony follows you, his gaze flitting over each detail with that trademark Stark intensity, taking it all in as if he’s studying a new project. When his eyes land on a photo of the two of you at a beach, he pauses. You remember that day so vividly: you were laughing, caught in a candid moment as he held you close, your hair whipped by the wind.

“Is that…us?” he asks, a softness in his voice that tugs at your heart.

“Yeah,” you say, stepping closer to him. “A couple of years ago. We were on a vacation you forced me to take.”

“I forced you?” he repeats, quirking an eyebrow. “Was I…was I that difficult?”

“Only a little,” you tease, nudging him gently. “You hated the idea of not working for a few days. But we made the best of it.”

His lips curve into a small smile as he stares at the photo a moment longer before turning his gaze back to you. “I look…happy. Really happy.”

“You were,” you say softly. “We both were.”

He swallows, his gaze lingering on you, and for a moment, you can almost feel the weight of all the memories he’s lost. But there’s a warmth in his eyes, a flicker of something that feels like a connection—even if it’s new to him.

You clear your throat and gesture toward the hallway. “Come on. I’ll show you the rest.”

You lead him down the hall, pointing out the various rooms, each one filled with a mix of his tech and your touches: the library with shelves overflowing with both your favorite books, the small lounge you use for watching movies together, and finally, your bedroom.

When you open the door, he stands in the doorway, taking it in. The room is a blend of Tony’s sophisticated taste and your own comfortable style, the soft lighting casting a warm glow over the neatly made bed, the nightstand stacked with a few of Tony’s reading materials, and the little tray of lotions and skincare items you keep on your side.

“This…feels nice,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping over the room. He takes a step inside, running a hand over the bedspread, almost as if testing its texture. “I don’t know why, but I feel…calm here.”

You smile, moving to stand beside him. “It’s our space. Your favorite spot after a long day, whether you’d admit it or not. You always said it’s the one place that lets you truly relax.”

He chuckles, a faint blush coloring his cheeks. “Yeah, well, if you say so. I…believe you.”

For a moment, there’s silence, and you can feel the weight of the day settling over both of you. He’s exhausted, and so are you.

“Do you…want to rest?” you ask, realizing he might be overwhelmed with all of this new information.

“Actually, I think I’d like to keep looking around,” he says, a little sheepishly. “I just…don’t want to miss anything. It feels like I’ve lost a huge chunk of my life, and I want to piece it together, however I can.”

You nod, understanding. You feel a pang of sadness but try to hide it. “Well, I’ll be here. We can take it slow. One room at a time.”

Together, you move back down the hallway, stopping in the kitchen next. Tony’s gaze catches on the coffee maker, and he raises his eyebrows with a look of genuine excitement. “Please tell me I still drink coffee.”

You laugh, crossing your arms with a smirk. “Oh, you drink enough coffee to fuel a small army. In fact…” You open a cabinet, revealing an impressive array of coffee beans, grounds, and Tony’s prized espresso machine. “You’re particular about it. You like to experiment.”

He nods, visibly impressed. “I see I have good taste. I’d like to think I’m a genius when it comes to coffee.”

“Among other things,” you reply, grinning as you start to brew a fresh pot, the familiar hum of the machine filling the room.

As the coffee brews, Tony leans against the counter, watching you with that spark of interest you remember so well. But now, it feels new, raw, as if he’s falling for you all over again and doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“So,” he says, a playful glint in his eyes, “you said we didn’t get along at first. How did I change your mind?”

You chuckle, handing him a mug and savoring the warmth as you lean back against the counter beside him. “It wasn’t any one thing. You…surprised me. I kept expecting you to be this arrogant genius with no time for anyone, but then you started showing up at my door with random inventions, making coffee runs at three a.m. with me, and bringing me little gifts from your travels.” You smile, remembering each moment as if it’s engraved in your memory. “You just…wore me down, I guess.”

He takes a sip of his coffee, mulling over your words, and you see the warmth in his expression, a flicker of understanding, even if it’s only a shadow of his former self.

“Well, then,” he says, his tone soft, “I’m glad I wore you down.”

His words hang in the air between you, and for a moment, the kitchen feels smaller, more intimate, filled with a sense of closeness that’s been there since the moment you met but now feels refreshingly new.

Tony shifts his weight, looking suddenly unsure. “So…do I get to sleep in our bed tonight?”

You raise an eyebrow, smiling a little as you nod. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As you walk back to the bedroom together, side by side, you feel a quiet sense of peace settle over you. Tony might not remember you—at least not yet—but he’s here, and he’s yours, and somehow, you’ll find a way to rebuild together.

You slip into bed, settling under the covers, and Tony follows suit, lying beside you with a soft sigh. After a moment’s hesitation, he reaches over, his hand brushing against yours beneath the covers. You entwine your fingers with his, and even though he doesn’t remember the countless nights you’ve fallen asleep like this, it feels natural.

“Goodnight,” he whispers, his voice soft.

“Goodnight, Tony,” you murmur back, your heart swelling with hope.

As the city lights outside cast a gentle glow across the room, you lie there, hand in hand, feeling the warmth of him beside you. And for the first time since the accident, you feel a flicker of reassurance.

The days start to blur together in a rhythm that feels both familiar and new. Tony’s memory isn’t coming back all at once, but he’s recovering it in little flashes, bits and pieces of who he used to be, of who you are to each other. And even though some of these memories are fleeting, almost insignificant, they build something solid between you—something that’s real and growing stronger with every passing moment.

It begins with breakfast one morning.

You’re standing at the stove, cooking eggs and listening to Tony talk about his latest gadget idea. He’s been getting back into work, tinkering here and there in the lab, and he always comes out in the morning with some grand plan or concept. It’s one of the things you’ve missed most—his enthusiasm, his endless curiosity, the way he lights up when he talks about creating something new. You smile, flipping the eggs onto plates and setting them on the counter.

“You know, I don’t think I ever realized how much you put up with me,” he says, leaning against the counter with that lopsided grin that makes your heart skip a beat. “All my late nights, random ideas, and, uh, probably a few accidental explosions.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes as you hand him his plate. “Oh, trust me, I’ve put up with plenty. But you make it worth it.”

He takes a bite, nodding as though savoring the taste. “You know…this feels familiar,” he says after a moment, frowning slightly. “Mornings like this. I used to sit here and watch you cook, didn’t I?”

“Every morning you didn’t have your face buried in a new project,” you reply softly, watching him carefully.

He pauses, that spark of recognition in his eyes growing, as if he’s trying to hold onto the memory, to make it solid. And then he’s looking at you, really looking at you, with a tenderness that feels almost shy. It’s a vulnerability you rarely see from Tony, and it makes your heart ache in the best way.

“I think I remember something else,” he murmurs, stepping around the counter to stand in front of you. “I remember sitting here and…thinking about how lucky I was.”

Your breath catches as he reaches out, his fingers grazing your cheek, tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch is tentative, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver down your spine.

“Tony…” you whisper, feeling your pulse quicken.

He leans in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, lingering kiss that’s both familiar and electrifying, like he’s rediscovering you for the first time. His hand moves to the small of your back, pulling you closer as his mouth moves against yours, slow and intense, like he’s savoring every second. When he pulls back, his eyes are darker, filled with something that looks like a mix of wonder and awe.

“I don’t remember everything,” he says softly, his voice rough, “but I don’t think I need to. This feels right.”

You smile, threading your fingers through his hair. “It is right,” you murmur, leaning up to kiss him again.

The memory flashes continue over the next few days, each one bringing him closer to the person he used to be. They’re small, fleeting things—a song that triggers a faint memory of a dance in the living room, the scent of his cologne reminding him of the night you first told him you loved him. Each one brings with it a sense of déjà vu, a feeling that tugs at his heart and pulls him closer to you.

One evening, you’re both sitting on the couch, your legs draped over his lap as you watch a movie together. It’s an old favorite, something you’ve watched countless times, and Tony seems to relax into the familiarity of it. His hand absentmindedly traces patterns on your thigh, and you can feel his warmth, his closeness, and it makes you feel grounded, steady.

Suddenly, he chuckles, looking down at your legs. “I remember this. You used to do this all the time. You’d kick off your shoes and practically sprawl across the couch.”

You laugh, nudging him playfully. “And you used to pretend to be annoyed, even though you secretly loved it.”

He raises an eyebrow, that playful smirk you know so well tugging at his lips. “Oh, I’m sure I did.”

You shift, leaning closer to him, your hand resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, his eyes filled with both affection and curiosity, that makes you feel bold, like you’re rediscovering each other in a way that’s fresh and exhilarating.

“Can I tell you something?” you murmur, your voice soft.

“Anything,” he says, his hand coming up to cup your cheek.

“When we first met, I thought you were this…impossible genius with no time for anyone,” you confess, your fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. “But then you’d look at me like this, with this softness, like I was the only person in the world.”

He leans closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, “Maybe you are.”

His words send a shiver down your spine, and before you can respond, his mouth is on yours, capturing you in a kiss that’s anything but shy. It’s slow and deep, his hands sliding up your back as he pulls you into him, your bodies pressed together, fitting perfectly. His kisses are gentle yet intense, each one leaving you breathless, as if he’s trying to make up for all the lost time, all the memories he doesn’t yet have but that you both feel so deeply.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing heavily, hearts racing. He smiles, that teasing glint in his eyes as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Why do I feel like I’ve kissed you a million times?” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “Like I can’t get enough?”

“Maybe because you have,” you reply, your voice barely a whisper. “And I’ll never get enough of you, either.”

He chuckles, a sound that’s warm and filled with affection as he kisses you again, softer this time, more lingering, like he’s savoring every second. His lips move slowly over yours, his hands gentle as they cradle your face, as if he’s memorizing the feel of you, the way you fit together.

Over the next few days, the memories come more frequently, little fragments of your life that make him pause, that bring a flicker of recognition to his eyes. Sometimes it’s just a look he gives you, a soft smile that feels so familiar it makes your heart ache. Other times, it’s a touch—a hand on your back, a gentle brush of his fingers against yours—that reminds you of all the little ways he’s shown his love over the years.

And every time he remembers something, he falls in love with you a little more.

One night, as you’re both lying in bed, you reach over to turn off the light, but Tony stops you, his hand catching yours. He turns to you, his gaze soft but intense, filled with a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

“I might not remember everything yet,” he murmurs, his fingers brushing your cheek, “but I know that I love you. I don’t need memories to know that.”

You feel a lump in your throat, a warmth spreading through you that’s both comforting and thrilling. “I love you, too, Tony,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his hand. “No matter what. I always have, and I always will.”

His smile is tender, filled with a gratitude that makes you realize just how lucky you both are, how strong this connection is between you. He leans in, kissing you with a softness that melts away all the uncertainty, all the fear that’s lingered since the accident.

And as you lie there together, wrapped in each other’s arms, you realize that this isn’t just a return to the life you had before. It’s something new, something deeper and more meaningful, a love that’s growing stronger every day. It’s a love that doesn’t need memories to survive because it’s written into every touch, every glance, every kiss you share.

The morning Tony’s memories come flooding back, it feels both surreal and inevitable. He wakes up beside you, his gaze fixed on the ceiling for a long moment before he turns to look at you, his expression a mixture of wonder, relief, and something deeper—something vulnerable. When he speaks, his voice is low, as if he’s afraid of breaking the spell.

“I remember everything,” he murmurs, his hand finding yours beneath the covers. His thumb traces gentle patterns on your knuckles, as though he’s grounding himself in the reality of the present. “Every detail, every moment. I remember…you.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to spill over, smiling as you reach up to cup his face. “You’re really back,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “I missed you.”

He gives a soft laugh, his hand covering yours as he presses his forehead to yours. “You never really lost me, you know? And I… I missed you, too. Even when I didn’t remember all of it, I knew. I knew you were everything to me. I'd always fall for you.”

You fall into his arms, both of you holding each other tightly, like you’re afraid to let go. And in that embrace, you feel the weight of all those lost days lift, leaving only a warmth that radiates between you. He’s here, fully, and the two of you are whole again.

Later, you’re curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over both of you, his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders as you cuddle into his side. You’ve both been talking, recounting memories, laughing at the more amusing fragments that came back to him in flashes. And then, an idea strikes you.

“Tony,” you say, glancing up at him with a mischievous grin, “there’s something you need to see.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking as he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Oh, really? And what might that be?”

You grab your phone from the coffee table, pulling up a series of videos you took during his days without memories. Each one holds moments that, at the time, you’d been scared would be all you had left—little fragments of his affection, of the new ways he showed his love for you while he was rediscovering himself.

“Brace yourself,” you say, hitting play on the first video.

In it, Tony is sitting across from you at the kitchen table, his eyes sleepy and his hair a mess. He’s holding a mug of coffee, and he looks up at you with the softest, most adoring expression, blinking slowly like he can barely believe you’re real. “You’re so pretty,” he says, his voice a murmur, his gaze fixed on you as if you’re the only thing that matters in the entire world. “How did I get so lucky?”

The Tony beside you lets out a surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever looked that…well, cuddly before.”

“Oh, that’s just the beginning,” you say, grinning as you play the next video.

This one shows him lying on the couch, his head in your lap as you’re reading a book. He’s practically burrowed into you, his arms wrapped around your waist, his face buried against your stomach. Every now and then, he looks up at you with these wide, affectionate eyes, and even without memories, he’s the picture of absolute adoration.

“Is that…me?” Tony asks, a touch of disbelief in his voice as he watches himself look up at you like that. “I’m like a…like a giant puppy.”

“Oh, you were,” you laugh, rubbing his arm affectionately. “I have so many videos like this. You’d barely let me out of your sight. I think losing your memories made you even clingier.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he pulls you closer. “Well, can you blame me? I mean, look at you. Not remembering you was bad enough—I guess I was just making sure I didn’t forget you again.”

The next video is of him in bed, lying half-asleep with his arm stretched out, reaching for you. His voice, groggy and low, calls your name softly, and you hear yourself laugh from behind the camera as you step into view. When you do, he pulls you into the bed, wrapping his arms around you like he never wants to let go. He sighs in contentment, pressing his lips to your forehead and murmuring something unintelligible, and even watching it now, you feel that familiar warmth spread through your chest.

Tony, watching beside you, is silent for a long moment, his gaze softened as he watches himself cling to you like that. When the video ends, he turns to you, a tenderness in his expression that takes your breath away.

“I can’t believe I didn’t remember you,” he whispers, his fingers brushing your cheek. “But even when I couldn’t…I needed you.”

You place a hand over his, smiling softly. “I think a part of you did remember, in a way. You were still you—maybe a little cuddlier than usual,” you tease, “but you were still you.”

His lips curve into a playful grin. “So, I was clingy, huh? Was I any good at it?”

“Oh, you were very good at it,” you say, laughter bubbling up. “I mean, I kind of got used to waking up with you practically draped over me. I’m almost going to miss it.”

His grin widens, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his lap. “Well, if you liked clingy Tony, I think I can accommodate,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear as he tightens his hold on you.

You giggle, curling your arms around his neck as he presses a series of soft, lingering kisses along your jaw. “Mmm, maybe I did like clingy Tony,” you whisper, your fingers threading through his hair.

He chuckles, his lips trailing down to your neck, his hands running up and down your sides as he nuzzles into you, his warmth enveloping you. “Well then, Mrs. Stark, it looks like you’re in luck.”

His mouth finds yours, and he kisses you deeply, his hands gentle but insistent as he pulls you closer. The kiss is soft and tender, but there’s an intensity to it, a passion that feels even stronger now that he has all his memories back. It’s like he’s making up for lost time, savoring every second, every touch, every shared breath.

When he pulls back, he leans his forehead against yours, his voice a low murmur. “I don’t think I could ever let you go again,” he says, his hands sliding to your waist as he holds you close. “Every second without you felt…wrong, somehow. Now that I know everything, it’s like my whole world is back.”

You smile, brushing your fingers along his jaw as you gaze into his eyes. “Then don’t let go,” you whisper, your heart racing as he closes the small distance between you again, his mouth meeting yours in a kiss that’s both familiar and exhilarating.

soft Tony is just a baby <3 if you liked the story leave a like and a reblog and drop a follow if you want to read more!

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