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icarryitin · 3 months

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Psychopomp

spencer reid/gn!reader

besides having a crippling pepsi max addiction and being insufferable on this website my main hobby is Hozier Fan so pls enjoy some trauma bonding

series masterlist

word count: 1.6k // warnings: like two swears, canon level blood and injury, victim death, new colleague awkwardness

summary - You could have saved her, you’re sure of it. If you’d been quick enough. Instead, you’re just the grim reaper.

Stakeouts are not fun by anyone’s standard. Less fun when you’ve only known the person in the passenger seat for nine days - to make things even worse, you’re pretty sure he doesn’t like you.

Okay, that might be a bit presumptuous.

And maybe you’ve been awkward too, just a smidge. You’re trying so desperately to be cool about it, because he’s the cute guy at your new job and you don’t want to be that person. You’ve worked your ass off far too hard to get where you are, to even have a shot at the prestigious unit, to ruin it with a silly little crush on a coworker. Even if the glasses are absolutely doing it for you.

The woods are quiet through the windscreen, treeline barely visible past the raindrops falling heavier and heavier with every passing minute.

“Anything?”

The walkie talkie on the dashboard flickers to life to pierce the quiet. Reid’s eyes are still on the trees, so you lean over the steering wheel to pull it towards you.

“Nothing yet,” You press the talk button, “Any signs of life on your side?”

“None, cabin’s quiet.”

Morgan and Hotch are settled further up the track, carefully watching the suspected Unsub’s cabin. Your car is tucked off of the track entrance, in case the guy tries to make a break for it. It’s something out of a horror movie - creepy guy, cabin in the woods, the dark, the rain. You’re half expecting a werewolf to lumber out of the low hanging branches, dripping with blood and howling. But none such creature appears. Instead, it’s just quiet. Painfully so. You find yourself consciously keeping your breaths shallow and silent, you don’t want to disturb Reid any more than you’re sure you already are. Except, as you lean forward to slide the walkie talkie back onto the dashboard, your body betrays you.

The rumbling starts low, and for a second you’re hopeful that he won’t hear it at all. And then your stomach growls something awful.

You press your lips together and let your eyes close for a moment, let the embarrassment wash over you, before you open your mouth to apologise. He beats you to it.

“Yeah, me too.” There’s a sly little smile on his face, though he’s not looking at you. His gaze is still firmly stuck on the trees ahead. Still, it’s nice to know he’s not judging you. So you feel a little less self conscious about turning in your seat, about the eyes that follow when you lean through the gap to reach the backseat to unzip your bag.

It’s lunchbox time.

You’re not avoiding Reid’s eye per se, as you settle back into your seat with the plastic box on your knees, but you’re not exactly making any effort to meet it. He’s peering over at it - the sun bleached red box with a patchy kids show logo on the front, so scratched up that you can’t tell what it used to be anymore. But it holds more stakeout snacks than it feasibly should be able to, and that makes it perfect. You pull out a snack sized packet of jelly beans before turning it to face your teammate.

“You brought snacks?” He sounds surprised, but there’s no judgement in his tone, so that’s something. A tiny step forward.

“Always,” You glance up from the selection to look at him, “You don’t?”

Of course he doesn’t. He’s a professional. He’s old hat at all this, you’re the one fresh out of Academy packaging. Still, he leans over the centre console and snags a bag of dried fruit snacks for himself, pinched between two long fingers - he’s still got his arm stretched out halfway when the thud sounds against the hood of your car. The vibration of it reverberates through your seat, your gaze snaps up to spot two bloodied hands where they’ve slammed against the metal.

You know this woman. You know this woman because her face is in the file in your bag, her missing persons poster is front and centre on the board back at the local precinct. Time freezes when her eyes lock onto yours through the rain streaming down the windscreen, wild. And then she’s gone, tripping over rocks and twigs and her own feet, into the undergrowth. It doesn’t matter at this stage whether or not it’s a trap by the Unsub. Right now, Sheila Jenkins is running around in the dark and the cold and the rain. Terrified, injured, miles from home. You have no choice but to follow her into the darkness of the trees, you have to try. You’re out of the car and into the downpour before you can really think about it.

Reid’s voice carries your name through the trees after you, but it’s lost amongst the thunder in the clouds above.

She’s not far in front of you, injuries and rough terrain slowing her - but she makes up for it with sheer desperation. Fight or flight, and this woman can fly. Vaguely, there’s another set of footsteps somewhere behind you. Loud and uncoordinated, shoes wholly inappropriate for a trek through the woods, you know it’s Reid without looking back. Sheila is your sole focus, a frantic dark blob and shock of blonde hair just ahead through the trees. Her sole focus is getting the fuck out of the woods.

So she doesn’t see the break in the trees. She doesn’t see brush turn to tarmac, doesn’t feel it under her feet. She doesn’t see the approaching headlights at all.

You do, you see everything.

Reid’s hand shoots out to catch the back of your vest, rocks at your feet skitter out onto the road as he stops you in your tracks. And it all plays out, right in front of you, like a sick movie.

Even over the rain, over the thunder, over the rumble of the engine and the squealing of the brakes - the crunch of Sheila’s body against the hood of the car is loud. It echoes, reverberating as her body bounces off of it and lands ten feet further down the road. The driver is already out of their car, screaming, but it’s all background noise. You leave them to Reid, who’s already radioing for an ambulance. Because she’s not dead just yet, she’s a fighter. Her mother told you that only this morning.

Her breath is shallow, quick, and you already know that any help will come too late. The last human touch she knows shouldn’t be a violent one, it can’t be. Your feet are already carrying you to the crumpled heap of her in the road. The ground is cold when you hit it, rain soaking through your jeans. But it doesn’t matter.

“It’s okay,” You’re mumbling as you pull Sheila’s torso into your lap, her head resting in the crook of your elbow, “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

She shakes in your arms, blood stains the sleeve of your shirt where she grips it with broken fingers. Green eyes wide, bloodshot, terrified. You can only hold her closer. Shushing her, rocking her like a child. Her mouth opens and she croaks, you think she’s trying to say something to you - but she chokes on blood before she can get a word out, bubbling up and leaking from the corners of her lips. It spatters onto your vest, your face. It doesn’t matter.

“Mom.”

It’s the only sound Sheila can muster, garbled by the blood in her throat. God, she must be in so much pain.

“I’ll tell her.”

There’s a flicker in the green of her eyes, somewhere under the agony, you think she might be grateful. And then she’s done. Another twitch, another gasping breath against your vest. Sheila Jenkins dies in your arms. In a storm, on a backroad in rural Oregon, after escaping a serial killer. You’re blinded by the emergency lights that round the corner ahead of you, refracted in the rain, too fucking late.

A shadow falls across your face, illuminated from behind by red and blue light. Reid.

His hands are careful, almost nervous, as they hover over your shoulders before finally settling themselves solidly on the straps of your vest. He says nothing, only watches you for a moment. Watches you finally let a tear fall. Watches it mix with the rain on your cheek. He’s even more careful still when the paramedics approach, hands sliding down your arms to pry your grip from Sheila’s body to let them take her. It’s only now you can look him in the eye. His are sad, but steady.

“They’re not all like this.” Reid says quietly. He pulls a clean tissue out of his pocket, the rain soaking it almost instantly, but he dabs at the blood on your face with it.

“Sometimes we win.” He presses on when you say nothing, shifting slightly to allow you to see the rest of the team arriving on scene. The Unsub is in the backseat of Hotch and Morgan’s SUV, cuffed and on his way to justice. But your eyes slide back to the ambulance, to Sheila Jenkins getting zipped into a body bag.

“We do?” You know you look pathetic. Soaked to the bone in the middle of the road, covered in blood, looking at him like he’s the oracle. You can barely see for the rain in your eyes anyway, best not to know how pitifully he’s watching you.

Spencer doesn’t answer, but there’s such a certainty in his face that you’re inclined to believe him. Something tells you it won’t be the last time you treat this man’s word as gospel.