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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

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Sharpened Claws - Chapter Three

Word Count For Chapter : 2,130

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Four

MASTERLIST

Chapter Three - Greener But Sadder

The water flowing steadily from the sink somehow sounded sharp as it crashed onto the marble, before quickly draining.

Her contacts lay on the counter next to running water, getting sprayed with droplets as she repeatedly splashed her face, waiting to finally wake up from this dream.

After the fifth time, and it nothing happens, she stops. Turning off the water, carelessly letting the contacts fall to the floor, she looks in the mirror, seeing her own green eyes staring back at her.

It was a sight she was used to only seeing when she woke up, and right before she went to bed. Sometimes she forgot her own eyes, as crazy as it seemed. It only had been a year out of the life sentence she was destined to serve.

Genevieve was arrested by El Paso police on her twenty-fifth birthday when someone had called in witnessing a murder. Her neighbor had seen her walk into her home with bloody clothing. Dots were connected and she was cuffed.

She admitted immediately, stating that the mans name was Richard Diaz.

All it took was for that time to circulate a little, and soon enough, the FBI got ahold of that information. Sending down their best and most private men, Genevieve was taken into FBI custody two days later.

Richard Diaz was on the watch list for suspected involvement human trafficking. And no one had to order a hit on him. It didn’t take long for Genevieve to work out a deal with the men. All she wanted was to escape; in return, she told the locations of where the trafficking took place. Dozens of men and women were arrested, hundreds of young girls saved.She refused any more information. When asked, she’d simply say that the next bust would end in war, and she couldn’t have any more blood on her hands.

Genevieve proceeded to reveal her life story from start to finish, careful about what she said. Her words were chosen well enough that the information could be connected to other tips and subjects in the data base, but nothing that would lead to a raid or a bust. Because of her compliance, her story, and the bust . . they let most of her go.

Most.

She wasn’t nervous to join the investigation at first. Her hands were clean, she know she’s innocent.

However, when it dawned on her that something may be connected to her, who she was . . It wasn’t panic that set in.

Panic was off limits and she never forgot that. It’s defense. Now, she has to defend her character and her innocence all over again.

. . .

The rest of the day in the BAU was filled with quiet nerves. Specifically told not to let anyone out of their team know of the situation, and not to discuss unless entirely alone, they were forced to keep their questions to themselves.

They had no choice but to trust the decisions made. And while everyone else appeard slightly afraid, Spencer, arguably the most timid of them all, wasn’t.

In fact, he was curious more then anything. All he had seen of her was a mugshot and an interrogation recording and yet he already held a sense of intrigument.

Would he act on it immediately? Most likely not, because she also terrfied him, just a little. Night finally fell on the team. Besides their quiet chatter, the BAU’s been relatively quiet once the crowds disperse. T.V’s just a constant reminder then five important political and government figures were dead and they aren’t any closer to answers.

Spencer snuck away a little while ago, back to the conference room to try and figure out what’s been keeping him up at night. His eyes darted across the board, his mind moving a hundred times faster, trying every single equation and possible relation he knew to the problem in front of him.

Derek, having a good idea where to find the genius when he went missing, sighs in the doorway. “Kid.” Spencer holds up a finger. “Don’t you finger-wag me. We gotta woman so secret we don’t even know about her and we’re in the damn FBI on the way. You can take a break to greet her.”

“Oh, I’m definitely gonna greet her.” Spencer freezes, knowing exactly how Derek’s gonna interpret his eagerness.

LOh,” the grin is heard, not seen, “I see. Didn’t know you had a thing for women under protective custody.”

“I don’t,” he retorts, hair flipping as he looks back at him. “But you do realize that she’s gonna be a complete psychological study in her own? I mean, I haven’t even read her case file. It’s at least an inch and a half thick. Of course, I can read that in a minute or two, but I hardly doubt that’s everything she’s been through. And killing that trafficker? Knowing how to bust the ring? That’s -“

Derek almost tells the rambler to cool it, but the sudden arrival of half a dozen unfamiliar agents stops both of them. “Come on, that’s probably her entourage.”

The two meet the rest of the team down in the bullpen, none of them able to figure out how to stand correctly.

Penelope readjusts her eight bows on her dress, as if to make a good impression. Spencer puts his hands in his pockets, not wanting to show any type of defensiveness. However, he notices that Derek looks pretty serious with his arms crossed . . but Derek also has a lot of meat on him.

Emily and J.J absentmindedly pat down their hair, knowing it won’t matter. Rossi and Hotch side eye the men taking point, as if they own this place.

One of the men walk up to the team, no sign of an invitation on his face. “Hotchner, Rossi,” he greets with a rough tone, “Daniels. I’m lead security for our witness here. You understand that if me or my team ain’t around, you cannot move her anywhere without authorization?”

Hotch nods. “We’ve been briefed on everything. She will not leave anywhere with any of my team.” Satisfied with this, Daniels nods, his beard grazing his chest. “Alright,” he speaks into his radio, “send her up.”

When he’s out of ear sight, Rossi remarks lowly. “Spends a year with her, with her everyday, checks up every three to four hours - and doesn’t refer to her by her name.”

“No rule against getting on friendly terms,” JJ adds on, sympathy creasing her forehead.

Spencer’s eyes lock onto the elevator, waiting impatiently. “They could be afraid. He doesn’t look back, but everyone’s eyes go to him. “What makes you say that?” Emily asks.

Shrugging a shoulder, he gestures vaguely to the room. “Look at them. They’re distanced from one another, far more then needed. All look pretty determined and serious.”

“Strauss said there’s been no reported incidents of any argument or violent interaction.” Emily reminds, sounding more unsure.

“Maybe she doesn’t need too lash out,” Hotch’s low and mono tone voice adds to the eeriness of his words. “Or they’re more afraid of what’ll happen if they get connected. What could happen if they’re seen with her. Explains the distancing from her.”

Morgan cracks a smile, scoffing. “She’s absolutely gonna hate us.”

Penelope’s face contorts to a light horror. “Don’t say that - why?”

LCause,” he continues to grin, staring at the elevator. “She’s not even here yet, but we’ve profiled her situation down to the attitude from her security. We should tone it down. Might not like being figured out. Better if she told us what she wanted too on her terms.”

Agreeing mutually with silence, they wait a second more. Spencer sucks in a sharp breath when the elevator door sings, and then, slides open.

Usually, unsubs without a superiority complex walk out with their head down. However, her chin stays at an even height, no attempt to hide the scanning of the group in front of her.

Spencer’s memory kicks in full force to capture this moment in time; an light olive suede top hugs her top figure, swooping down just past her collar bones, lined with a delicate lace. The color brings out her eyes, wether that’s intentional or not he doesn’t know.

But she isn’t wearing her contacts. A single gold bracelet hangs off of her right wrist, slightly covering a pink scar. Her jeans are black, mid ride, and tight. She obviously prefers sturdy but practically shoe wear. More work ready combat boots bring her back to earth.

The way she stands tells him a significant amount. Hip popped to the side, arms crossed, and head slightly tilted to the left. Relaxed, but curious. Also wanting to make a firm impression of herself.

Hotch quickly remembers what he needs to do and meets her halfway, as she decends the stairs. “Ms. Cardenas,” he greets, holding a hand, “thank you for coming at such a short notice.”

Her genuinely kind smile and gentle handshake surprises them. They almost expected her to snap about needing space and time and for them to not bother her. “Well, we don’t have a lot of time.”

“What do you mean?” She raises her eyebrows, letting out a soft sigh.

“You really think this is over?”

Sharing a look of understanding, her attention then diverts to the six others. A small smirk brightens her face when she takes sight of Penelope’s bright outfit; noticing this, Penelope beams.

“This is my team, the Behavorial Analysis Unit of the FBI,” Hotch explains, turning to the side. “This is Dave Rossi,” she shakes his hand, taking immediate note of how he seemed more playful then Hotch.

“Agent Derek Morgan,” Morgan’s eyes almost challenge her. Except hers remain calm and docile; somehow, he feels that he’s lost. Nevertheless, he shakes her hand.

“Agent Emily Prentiss,” the women each hold a delicate look of contentment, already approving of one another by the firmness of their shake.

LAgent Jennifer Jareau,” JJ’s the first to smile, albeit timidly. Sensing this, Genevieve lightens her grip.“

Our Techinal Analyst Penelope Garcia,” her eagerness shows in her pressed lips but wild eyes. Genevieve maintains her professionalism, yet winks ever so slightly - a gesture only Garcia and an onlooking doctor notice.

“And Doctor Spencer Reid.” Spencer does something that adds to the list of surprises, and easily shakes her hand. He has gotten better over his germ fear, however, they expected him to be a little more intimidated.

Up close, he takes a snapshot of her features immediately. Noticing first how greener her eyes look in person, but, considerably sadder. Then, he observes dark freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. Her features were softer, less defined, the curve of her dark brows gentle and her lips rounded, leading some to perceive her as innocent.

It takes one more look into those sad eyes and he knows that’s a misconception.

Something about him causes her to take an extra analysis of him as well. He’s younger then his title makes him seem. That’s enough of a story.

Genevieve pauses to remind herself, after catching her mind wandering and thinking about how the relationship between the group functions. She is not here, and not welcomed, to become a partner.

She’s here because of her name, and that’s enough to close her off. They don’t want her, they might even be in secret disgust of her.

It’s just another job. Telling herself it’s the final one, despite knowing going off witness protection could mean anything, her eyes harden and she becomes a woman unknown to the public.

“I’m going to need to see the crime scenes. Ballistics. Any evidence you have on store. Keep the family out of it, they don’t know anything. This isn’t over yet.”

Spencer’s brows furrow. Their eyes meet once more and breathing ceases on both ends. “How do you know that?”

“I apologize in advance,” is all she says, shying away, “I promise, I’m not connected to this.”

“Why the emphasis?” Her eyes shoot back to Derek, still unexplainably placid, which makes the situation even more uncomfortable.

“I can almost garuntee you don’t want to know. It’s a pleasure meeting you all, really, but it’s best for the both of us to get this done quickly. Are we allowed to go to the houses?”

“I’ll have to make some calls,” Hotch nods, “but most likely.”

She places a curl behind her ear. “Alright. Sorry about the . .” She glances around to the men still taking point. “Mess.”

“Uh,” Rossi interjects, “I saw on your file that you have a few names. Which one would you prefer to go by?”

Emma was her first alias. Then Christina. And, her least favorite, Stephanie.

The simple question takes her off gaurd. There was no hidden meaning or intention behind it, and that’s what confuses her.

“Genevieve. That’s my real name. Outside of here, just call me Eve.” Spencer silently tests the names on his tongue.

“Why is that?” JJ asks. Genevieve is silent for a moment, and then nods to the security.

“They’re . . not here to protect me.”

. . .

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

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Literally. Also, if it’s not enemies to lovers, it has to have the same sort of growth and journey. They have to FALL IN LOVE not simply be in love. Open up to each other, understand each other. Have argument and disagreements and times where they defend one another against anything. Grow into each other, slowly realize that the other is a safe home for them. Even if they start off civil and as friends, there’s always room for growth.

enemies to lovers is the superior trope because nothing can compare to two people who are connected to one another but are on opposite sides of a conflict, they find comfort in one another because their both so lonely. the longing and angst is just so beautiful.

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

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Color Me Blue, Color Me Gray

Plot : When Spencer makes his insecurities in your relationship obvious, you remind him of the rainbow that he is.

Content : fluff-ish

MASTERLIST

. . .

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚; 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.

. . .

It didn’t matter that he was a genius, his IQ sat at 187, a doctor with multiple PHDs, and an FBI agent - you failed to get through to him a dozen times before, and now wasn’t any different.

When Spencer looked in a mirror, he was neutral about what he saw back. He never was overly cocky or proud, despite having all the reasons too. Nor did he pick at himself and search for flaws. Content appeared to be his natural state of being.

He saw himself in muted grey’s, blues, and beiges. Perhaps warm burgundy’s and greens when he saved a few lives and put away a criminal.

Yet whenever you landed in his line of sight, he could see the entire color spectrum.

You were the calming colors of a sunset - oranges and pinks and purples and reds, when you would smile lazily at him, perhaps even half asleep.

There was a wash of pastels when a genuine laugh would leave your throat. The same feeling of a buzz, that first hit of a choice of drug. Only it never got cold.

And when he’d come home, jet lagged, exhausted, and had another set of sights he could never forget, you were soft browns and blues, the same shades of the blankets you covered him in.

Your colors could attract anyone. The flashiest bird always got the mate. And somehow you chose the dullest one.

Spencer made it painfully obvious when he felt inadequate. When he felt like a rocky shore next to a plaid blue lake, his eyes would lose their luster, and he’d grow quiet. Sometimes swallow too hard and loosen his grip on your hand.

It landed at the point that whenever he came home from a mission, he expected to arrive to an empty apartment, a text in his phone explaining why.

He hesitates once more, a destructive habit, before unlocking the mahogany door.

“Spencer!” You squeal in excitement, and Spencer is ambushed by vibrant shades of yellow. Your silkly arms snake around his neck, lifting your self up to his lips.

Taken aback by your excitement, he flusters and laughs nervously into your kiss. “Hey,” is all he can muster. It’s as if every kiss is just like the first time to him.

“Hey,” you repeat, hearing his bag land on the ground and his large hands place on your hips. You kiss him again, softer, but with more meaning. “I missed you. How are you holding up?”

Your yellow fades into soft pink hues, matching the flush on his cheeks. Excitement dissolves into peaceful adoration, your fingers gently stroking his hair line.

“It wasn’t too bad of a case. No deaths. I got plenty of sleep.” Your relieved sigh warms his cold skin. He lets himself become too comfortable for a moment, and then you spot his inner discomfort.

“Spencer,” you groan, recognizing the look, “don’t make me go over this again.” The innocence in his eyes is an obvious fake. “Don’t give me that look,” playfully pulling him in by his collar, you press your lips to his again. “I love you, Spence.”

Loving Spencer was perhaps the most simplest thing to ever happen to you. There wasn’t even a moment of grand realization. You slowly accepted it every day, and then, your tongue could form the words.

He’d always ask questions about your connection to him, wanting to specifically know why. As if there’s a plausible reason why. To him, you had a choice, and for some reason you chose him.

𝘽𝙪𝙩 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨𝙣’𝙩 𝙖 𝙘𝙝𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚; 𝙞𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙖 𝙢𝙖𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙞𝙢𝙚.

When he saw himself as beige, you saw him as the sweet and mellow shade of honey. And just as sweet.

“I love you, too,” he says with a soft smile, accepting defeat. “Is that . . muffins, I smell?”

The proud grin that spreads upon your face paints the picture blue - like the blueberries baked into the pastries sitting on the stove.

“My special recipe - just for you, my love,” your hand laced into his slender fingers, squeezing to remind him that your hand fit perfectly in his. “They’re still warm.”

You sat on the counter, watching as Spencer stood in between your legs and engulfed your creations. He seemed to be clueless of the gentle way you gazed at him, filled with warmth at a degree only he could expel.

More then you’d like, Spencer could sometimes become grey. A dull, cold, and distant grey. After a hard case, or when his confidence shatters in front of you, you’d felt your own brightness drain seeing him weaken out.

He didn’t understand that he was a color wheel, too. Maybe with not as many pastels or blinding tints. But with warm and gentle tones, that kept you safe and sound even when he was miles away.

Spencer was forest green when he’d call you, no matter the time difference, right before you went to sleep. If you told him you felt alone, he’d stay on the line until you surrendered your consciousness to his voice.

Lavender overwhelmed you when he came home, tired and sore but always with a smile, arms ready for you to jump into them. On the days his positivity was wrenched from him, he became more of a blue; but that was okay. Blue made you feel the same way.

And right now, when he appreciates every little thing you do for him, even as simple as a muffin, and he smiles at you, thanking you over and over, excessively complimenting even the finest of details, he was honey once more.

“I love you so much,” he tries to say through a mouthful of pastry. The innocent sight makes you giggle, rubbing away some crumbs on his cheek.

“I love you, too, Spence.”

When you two were together, regardless of how intimate or how innocent the scene was, there was no color to describe it.

Just a warm feeling, possibly the smell of freshly baked goods, and Spencer Reid finally having some peace.

. . .

God tiktok audios live in my head rent free

#criminal minds #doctor reid #spencer reid #cm #criminal minds imagine #reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff #dr reid #mgg #gublernation

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

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It’s Hate Until It’s Goodbye - Part Two

Plot : second part, first part here

Content : angst, mild torture inflicted upon reader, fluff

MASTERLIST

. . .

“𝙄 𝙢𝙖𝙙𝙚 𝙢𝙮 𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙨𝙚𝙘𝙤𝙣𝙙 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙫𝙤𝙞𝙘𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙥𝙝𝙤𝙣𝙚.”

. . .

It has to be enough time. You were alive hours longer then the other two, now shouldn’t be an issue.

Spencer practically throttled Garcia to get the answer out of her, ignoring the varied reactions from team. She told him what he wanted to hear and the exact opposite.

“I have the address, but it’s fourty-five minutes away!”

Fourty-five minutes. Three quarters of an hour. Two thousand and seven hundred seconds. One thirty secondth of a whole twenty four hours.

Spencer’s mind shot into hyper speed. Now that he had a location and a time limit, he broke out of his numbed state. “Garcia, the address is about seventy-four miles away, correct?”

On the verge of hyperventilating, she nods. “Yeah, if you drive at sixty miles per hour you’ll get there in fourty-five. Why?”

When he turns back to the team, they see a whole new Spencer; confident, determined, and ready for anything. “If we go at ninety, cut traffic, and keep our lights on we’ll get there in thirty.”

“Let’s move.” At Hotch’s words, the team moves to disperse and prepare for what could happen.

Penelope reaches out and grabs Spencer’s bicep before he can get out of reach. He turns back, and she smiles softly, tears glistening her brightly colored eyes.

“Go get her, Doc.”

Thirty minutes is a third less then the original time stamp. However, a war could be declared in thirty minutes. By the time they even started their drive, ten minutes had went by since the line went dead.

Spencer sloppily threw on his bulletproof vest, loaded his signature revolver, and told Morgan to step on it.

The tires of the SUV screams with every turn. Spencer finds him unable to stop moving and fidgeting, thinking, and checking his watch.

Twenty Nine. Twenty Eight. Twenty Seven.

An invisible force pushes him against his seat, strapping him down tighter then his seatbelt. The ride is silent until he’s unable to keep his questions to himself.

Sixteen. Fifteen. Fourteen.

“Do you think she’s dead?”

His question is quiet. Morgan blinks, letting out a soft sigh before answering.

“Don’t blame yourself for anything, kid.” Him and the rest of the team assumed that there’s something underlying between the two that they didn’t know about prior. Why else would he be so irrational?

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Morgan silently takes another sharp turn, unable to uncrease his forehead.

He thinks of what he’s going to say to you. Or if he’s just gonna hold you and never let go. Or unable to process the situation and let Emily or JJ help.

Mild torture. That’s all he has going for him. If he walks in and you’re already gone, at least knows you didn’t suffer too much.

He can’t say the same for himself. But then again, he’s been suffering, regardless.

. . .

Why hasn’t he killed you already?

He’s circled you countless times, taunting you with Spencer’s name, babbling about how he’s going to go down in history for successfully kidnapping and killing a FBI agent.

Along with that, the lingering smell of burnt flesh stays in the air, coming from a dozen circular holes in either of your arms. Another new marking is blood dripping down your thigh.

You knew that the team must have your location. But forever seems to have passed and you eventually collected that you must be far, or perhaps, still unknown.

“I still don’t know what you wanted from me and the others.” You remind in an attempt to stall the inevitable. His pacing stops.

“I wanted a woman I could break. Instead, they just kept fighting. All you had to do was relax, Y/N, and you wouldn’t be facing death.”

His finishing statement is wrong. A hiss leaves your mouth as the end of his gun placed at the very same spot you had been bleeding from.

“I could make this easy. But I’ve done that twice already, and I’m bored of it.” The pressure is removed and you hear him shove it back in his pant line.

There’s a second of relief. Then, cold, calloused, large hands wrap around your throat, your breath immediately hitching.

A moment comes during oxygen deprivation when your body becomes too weak to fight back, and your mind steps back from the battle. You almost become lifeless, your head lolling to the side, but your eyes remain open, thinking.

Your moment comes a minute later, the panic dripping away. There’s no use and you know it, so you simply choose to try and live your last moments in peace.

Memories of your childhood and life before the BAU flash by. However, the moments after are more detailed. Because this team made you into the person you would be for the rest of your life.

Someone always told you that your job might kill you one day. You already knew you’d die in peace, regardless.

Spencer. Yeah, of course he’s there in your last moments. You never really could get him out of your mind, even when he unlocked another level of irritation.

It was his smirks after a clever remark. His eyes darting to you for some kind of approval whenever he did something correct, and it was always there. The guilt that occasionally appeared in his soft hazel eyes whenever he knew he crossed a line.

That’s why you think of him while the last bits of life leave your body. He called you beautiful over the phone, so you let a weak smile turn up your lips.

So you let go.

Until the choice is stripped away.

It isn’t a large gulp of air that comes in when the hands are ripped away from your throat, instead it’s tiny little hiccups, stars dancing in your vision as you try and comprehend the struggle behind you.

“Y/N!” You’re able to figure that voice out, of course you are, however, the fact that it’s actually there isn’t believable. You had to be dead.

“Y/N!” Spencer calls again, sprinting to the front of you, shaky hands gently cupping your face. He knows you can’t see him fully but it’s enough for him to see your eyes dilate in response. “Oh my god, hey, I’m here, I’m here, it’s okay.”

“Spencer?” You hiccup, trying to lean into his touch.

He gently shushes you, reaching behind you to cut your ropes. “It’s okay, I’m here, save your strength.”

The fighter in you attempts to stand as soon as the blood flows back into your arms. Spencer tries to push you back down, but you collapse into him, your knees giving out in total relief.

He falls to the floor with you, wrapping his arms around your torso, trying not to squeeze too tightly. Your head falls into his neck, silent tears rolling down.

“I got you,” he breaths into your hair, pressing a gentle kiss down, “I’m so sorry, Y/N.”

You say nothing, but close your eyes, and relax in his embrace, never wanting to leave.

. . .

It took Morgan, JJ, two EMTS, and Hotch to keep Spencer from micro managing in the ambulance and to go to the hospital the normal way.

They weren’t even successful in keeping him out. They let him ride with you on the account that he wouldn’t bother the professionals. He quickly agreed and hopped in before anyone could have any second thoughts.

“That boy is whipped,” Morgan chuckles, watching the ambulance drive off. “We all should’ve seen it coming.”

JJ scoffs, “speak for yourself, I saw it the day they met. They were both just too stubborn to admit it.”

Emily raises her hand, “hey, I’m the one who got a minor confession out of him at the press conference.”

Either way, they were all relieved that you were safe and well, and finally, the tension would evaporate between you two.

In between bits of consciousness and having to pay attention to the EMT’s, you kept your eyes on Spencer for the majority of the ride, squeezing his hand. You could tell he had been a wreck for hours, over you, was the unbelievable part.

He had so much to say to you and knew you had just as much for him, but he didn’t want to overwhelm you now, and let you head off with the doctors at the hospital with a gentle kiss to your temples.

Waiting for you to get a few stitches on the back of your head, minor treatment for your burns and other injuries, gave him much needed time to think. He did so without having a full blown panic attack, because this time at least he knew you were alive.

How could he even begin saying what he needed too? Almost two years worth of repressed emotions calls for a lengthy testimony.

So, he decides the best option would be to spill it all out. All he has to do is create a speech, and he’d remember it instantly. Not that hard. Not that difficult.

Two hours later he appears at the doorway of your little section of the hospital. His mouth runs dry and suddenly he can’t remember what he had for breakfast.

A weak chuckle leaves your lips, seeing him standing there, for once speechless. “Nothing? Not even a hi?”

Flustered, he shakes his head and wrings his hands. “I uh, I have a lot more to say to you then hi. But I don’t know where to start.”

You pursue him by extending two fingers and twitch them towards you. “Let’s start by hi, then.”

He shifts to you, attempting to be patient and let you lead the conversation. However the closer he gets, an overwhelming urge to scoop you into his arms agains fills him.

You see it in his body language as he stands beside you. His arms twitching, his mind trying to keep control of them.

You smile again, reaching out and grabbing the end of his tie, pulling him to you. In the next second, his long arms snake around you, his head placed in your neck like a scared child’s.

“I’m so sorry,” he chokes out, muffled from your skin. “I’ve been such a jerk and if I didn’t irritate you you wouldn’t have clocked out early-“

“Spencer,” you cut him off, almost laughing from the sheer craziness of it all, “Spencer, I’m okay. I’m not mad at you.”

He pauses. Slowly pulling back, staring at you, as if waiting for you to laugh in his face or immediately recount your words. “You’re . . what? After everything?”

The best you can do, seeing the innocently terrified look on his face, is let an easy smile take over. Who knew it would be so easy to smkle in his prescence?

His jaw droops. Long lashes blink. Then, his mind catches up, and a pale pink blush spreads across his cheeks. “Uh, yeah, about that call. . .”

“I was fully ready to die, Spencer,” his eyes widen. “But I was fully ready because I heard your voice. And I guess we kind of figured things out over that call. And just knowing that it wasn’t hate between us . . it gave me a lot of peace.”

Silence. But not the uneasy, tension filled, anxiety inducing, kind that so commonly places itself whenever you two are alone.

It makes your stomach flutter.

“What about now? How does it make you feel now?” His eagerness for your answer is welcomed, seeing as he used to spit out his words.

You, having a flair for the dramatic, hum before answering. “Well, once I don’t look like I went into an MMA ring, because that’s not cute,” you gesture to your face, “we can figure things out over a coffee?”

“I think you look great.” You raise an eyebrow. “Uh, I mean, you’ve looked better - Wait, no, god, I swear, I hated you.”

“Funny, I said the exact same thing. But you tackled a two hundred pound guy for me. How did you do that, anyway, I swore that was Morgan?”

Hearing that Spencer was the one to handle the guy first was more surpring then being kidnapped itself. No one had any idea where that strength came from.

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his head. “I just saw his hands around your neck and I kinda saw red for a second.”

You reach out and grab his other hand, feeling how soft they are, incredibly different from the man who had you captive. It brings a wash of comfort over you, especially when he wraps his thumb around the back of yours.

You meet his soft eyes, and speak softly. “Thank you, Spencer. Really. I wouldn’t be here right now without you.”

He nods, as if he can’t process it himself. “Thank you for giving me another chance. And yeah, I’d love to get a coffee sometime.”

The truth is, the entire ordeal reminded you both of a lesson you’d been taught since birth. Nothing is forever, so there’s no point in hiding away a part of yourself.

You got lucky. You both did. And judging by the blushes deepening and the hands still intertwined, you’ve completely realized that.

. . .

please take advantage of the people you love and the time you have with them <3

#criminal minds #doctor reid #mgg #spencer reid #cm #dr reid #criminal minds imagine #reid #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fluff

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

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Sharpened Claws - Chapter Two

Chapter One, Chapter Three,

MASTERLIST

Chapter Two - A Secret Unaware Even To The Inside

“At approximately nine a.m, on Monday, June Twentieth, 2011, Senator Henry Wildhorn was shot, presumably by a sniper rifle, on the balcony of his home. Do you know anything about his murder?”

The man speaking tried to appear intimidating by wearing his sharpest suit and even sharper glare. He stood on his toes, talking downwards, waiting for a flinch.

“No, sir.”

He hummed. “At approximately ten a.m, Wednesday, June Twenty-Second, 2011, representative Anne Greenaway of the ninth district was shot, presumably by a sniper rifle, on the front porch of her home. Do you know anything about her murder?”

“No, sir.”

The tension he tried to create continually fell flat. Slowly, he grew uneasy. “At approximately eleven a.m, Friday, June Twenty-Fourth, 2011, Associate Deputy Director of the Federel Bureau Investigation David Lee Daniels was shot, presumably by a sniper rifle, in his car infront of his home. Do you know anything about his murder?”

He said this with an inch more of hope. The reply comes.

“No, sir.”

His fingers clench on the back of the chair he’s using for support. Suddenly feeling his age lately, his veins are bluer and his skin paler. He hasn’t seen the sun in two weeks.

“At approximately 12 p.m, Sunday, June Twenty-Sixth, 2011, Deputy Chief of Staff of the Federal Bureau Investagation, Howard Jackson, was shot, presumably by a sniper rifle in his driveway, infront of his home. Do you know anything about his murder?”

He predicts it once more.

“No, sir.”

The final question hesitates in his throat. Five minutes he’d been staring into a pair of brown eyes and not once had they appeared slightly human.

He has dealt with monsters before; and while this circumstance appears inhuman, a pang of pity hits his chest. He knows why.

“At approximately one p.m, Saturday, July Forth, 2011, the Vice President of the United States of America, Vincent Powell, was shot, presumably by a sniper rifle, on live T.V whilst steaming a video in his bedroom for the Forth of July. Do you know anything about his murder?”

He expected some sort of reaction. He learned next not to ever again.

“No, sir.”

The woman across from him, sat with perfect posture and perfectly still, didn’t shiver despite the tempature in the room. Didn’t appear to be affected by the tension or the mind games people had tried to play with her. Not even the questions made her flinch.

Charles Davis, current Director of the Federal Buraeu of Investigation has been on lockdown for two weeks, unable to do much besides wait. He was almost eager to conduct the interrogation, until he realized slowly this was not like anything he’d ever truly experienced.

Her right eye twitches, a first reaction to the blinding light above her. Under a layer of an expensive colored contact, they’re a startling green, lime colored, and a rich contrast against her Hispanic skin. Despite being face to face with a man in his position, she seems more preoccupied with a piece of a s-shaped dark curl getting in her eye, which was caramel colored af one point.

“You’re not at all phased with everything I’ve thrown at you. Why?” He can’t hide the genuine curiosity in his voice. She always had been a mystery to him.

“I suppose it’s because I knew I’d be the first person called in here.” Her silky voice cuts clean through the cold air, filled with maturity beyond her years.

“Indeed you were.” Davis lets go of the chair and begins a slow walk around the table and the woman. “You know why. I know why. But I’m not here to play games. The country is in the middle of a crisis and I need answers from you.”

“I had nothing do with this.” There’s only a hint of defense. “You know that.”

“I do,” he admits. “Those questions were protocol. You wouldn’t have been able to pull this off. We know you haven’t been online for years now.”

He stops on her left side. Her chin tilts to face him, interest flashing in her eyes. “But we also know that you’ve kept yourself in shape, fit, ready for anything. You’ve made sure not skip training once. You’re free and yet you can’t keep away.”

“I’m not free,” she testified, “you know my every move. The only difference between now and then is that no blood is spilled.”

Another pang of pity. He was not sure then and was not sure know why he ever felt sorry for her; to many who’ve been around, she only disgusts them.

“But there has been now. I am not excusing you of anything here, you’ve gathered that. I broke my lockdown so I could look you in the eye as I asked you this.” He’s careful not to lean down too much. Her eyes flicker across his face.

“Can you help with these investigations, Miss Cardenas, or do you truly know nothing?”

Genevieve Cardenas slides her truly green eyes down the mans body. It’s no surprise that his posture is broken and he’s a little thinner. And his icy blue eyes are older, more pained.

Nothing compared to hers; but no one could see that under a layer of chocolate brown. Something in his question makes her body go rigid.

The dozen men outside, security for Davis, watching through tinted windows stiffen catching signs of aggression in her slightest of movements.

Twelve to one and yet they’re the ones who shift nervously.

“I was told I wouldn’t be bothered. I wouldn’t have to ever be in a situation like this again.” Davis, smart enough to not get his hopes up, nods in understanding.

“I understand that, Miss, but we are in complete chaos mode. You have to understand I am doing you a favor here - if you refuse, nothing can stop people here from speculating you are the one responsible. They have reason for it.”

If she allowed her eyes to react to anything, they would’ve down casted in shame. Instead her jaw tightened.

“The people here - how many know of me? I’ve barely met any people. I know the FBI isn’t this small. Are you willing to reveal me to the entirety of the organization, Director?” She knew she has him when he swallows visibly, attempting to recollect himself quickly.

“You are smart. And you are correct. But in these circumstances. . . someone like you being revealed is nothing. Why is why I am asking of you, to please, help us.”

A smirk lines her pink lips lightly. She has him under her control almost willingly. She could ask him for anything and there’s no argument, so long as it’s legal.

But there’s only one thing she wants, something she otherwised would have never achieved before.

With that in mind, and a desperate internal conflict to remind herself she is capable of good, her answer comes quick.

“I’ll help you.”

The three dozen people currently listening freeze in synchronization.

“ If.”

And the ice thaws.

“I’m taken off witness protection.”

. . .

Erin Strauss typically holds herself to a high level of self respect. It’s found in every aspect of her life, to the cleanliness of her home and in her office at work.

She has slowly been unraveling and everyone on the BAU team can see it in front of them, already unable to believe it.

Her hair, like JJ’s, also appears to be a last thought, in a disheveled low knot. Her wrinkles are no longer smeared with makeup. For once, she’s human.

“I understand you all have been working tirelessly since this entire thing went down,” she explains in a weak voice, the only one standing in the conference room, “so have I. Which is why I ask of you to ask little questions now. The decision has been personally made by Davis and will not be open for discussion.”

Spencer’s interest peaks and he leans forward. A decision made by Davis that directly involved their team is a first time event.

Strauss nods to her assistant, a stern brunette, who presses a button on the remote. Behind the woman, the TV screen flashes.

A supposed mug shot of a woman, who besides the fact that she was being photographed by the FBI and arrested prior, appears content with the situation. Her hair is neat, eyes dry and normal colored, and oddly determined, too.

Spencer’s first thoughts come in a jumble of, “shes pretty,” and, “who is she?,” and, “why is Strauss showing us her?” But remember her single request, he keeps quiet.

“This is Genevieve Valentina Morales-Cardenas. Last year, she was taken into our custody under suspicion of partaking in organized crime.” Eyebrows raise.

“Only a few were informed of her arrest. I found out this morning, too.”Everyone was on the edge of their seats in seconds, fixated on this woman who none had ever seen before.

“Despite confessing to countless crimes and associations, taking place along the Mexican border, South America, Europe, and here on our soil, Cardenas worked out a deal under the statement that she had been born into the life. I am unsure of what happened and who else may have been arrested, but since then, she has been placed in one of the most coveted witness protection claim that the country has ever seen.”

Spencer’s eyes were unable to peel away from the photo. Something about the look in her eyes, mixed with the words Strauss spoke that horrified everyone else in the room, kept him from thinking rationally.

Glances were shared, mostly of shock and disbelief. “Cardenas’ life story is, from the amount I could stomach to read, the reason why she was not tried or ever even revealed to the rest of the Bureau. Nonetheless, Cardenas practically turned herself in, and because of her compliance . .”

Strauss nervously scans the room. Hotch shifts upwards. Spencer’s eyes widen.“Davis made the executive decision this morning to place her into this investigation in the hopes that her knowledge of organized crime will give us needed insight.”

The sinister silence that followed the news rivaled the reactions of the reports of the murders. “Holy shit,” Derek mutters under his breath, forgetting about the rules of language.

“Strauss,” Hotch begins, the man looking as distraught as everyone else for once, “are you serious? She’s a . . criminal for all we know.”

“I know, Agent Hotchner,” Strauss makes a downward motion with her hands to signal for him to relax and sit back down. “But she has a conscience. Enough of one to reveal enough information to land her multiple life sentences, probably the highest the county’s ever seen, never mind an injection. Davis believes she is capable of empathy, just as us, and even more capable of helping this investigation. Like I said before, it’s already done. She’ll be here tonight, when everyone else is cleared out.”

Garcia glances at JJ, who looks at Emily. Emily looks at Rossi, who shakes his head and looks at Morgan. Morgan is unable to lock eyes with Hotch, so he looks at Reid. Who’s eyes still haven’t left the screen.

Strauss takes notice of Reid’s intense stare. “What is it, agent Reid?”

Spencer shakes his head, blinking a few times. “I’m just wondering what she’s done to be in this situation. Something that’s made her able to help with the assassination of a Vice President.”

One by one, the remaining pairs of eyes in the room land back on the mugshot. She had to be around her mid-twenties in it. Twenty-five, maybe.

What could someone do in twenty-five years that landed her in a position like this? The question resides in everyone’s heads.

They know Strauss has the answer. They’re all too afraid to ask.

. . .

After the initial shock wore down, and Strauss had explained that she’s now twenty-seven, hair was chopped above shoulders and black, though her curls still intact. And her eyes, which grabbed Spencer’s attention in the first place, were concealed brown, she went into with what she had.

“I am not comfortable with sharing her entire statements. The thousands of them.” She reminded, sifting through the paperwork on hand. “Maybe she’ll tell you those details. However, I can say this as much. She is not our unsub, but, she knows how to operate as one.”

“She was an assassin?” Spencer automatically guesses, perking up.

Strauss nods but also makes it known that’s not a definite statement. “Yes, but not entirely. She did other things, business deals with other organizations, vigilante killings, even a bit of charity . . but never mind that. We don’t have the time right now, she isn’t our unsub, and she’s not our main focus.”

She nods to her assistant again, who as time went by, became more and more afraid. With a shaking hand, she pressed down.

A video started to play, which the team quickly recognized as an interrogation. “Is that Davis?” Garcia asks.

Strauss nods. “Undisclosed location.” Davis had been unknowingly blocking the camera, and when he moved, a unanimous breath of air sucked in.

“She looks so . . robotic.” Emily says with a faint look of horror. “Like someone beat the life out of her.”

Strauss gives one simple look; they all understand.

LHer body language isn’t defensive,” Morgan points out, “a little on edge, maybe aware, but not defensive. Either she’s got nothing to hide or she’s definitely been in a situation like this before.”

“Judging by the crimes we can guess she committed,” Rossi adds on, “I’m guessing she’s been through hours of interrogation. And who knows what she sat through at her old job.”

She sat with her hands in her lap, politely and respectfully. Her eyes followed Davis, waiting patiently before he spoke. Hotch takes notice of this, “she respects Davis. That’s not something you usually see with high level criminals.”

“Maybe she is capable of empathy,” Spencer reiterates the words mentioned before, “has a conscience. Somehow mentally escaped whatever she went through with a basic sense of morality.” Davis spoke, repeating the information of the deaths.

“Yes, sir,” JJ repeats, light colored brows furrowing, “not a hint of mockery. Calm. Still firm, though.”

Rossi had been going through the files of the witness protection she had been under. “It’s nearly impossible for her to go grocery shopping,” he doesn’t hide his slight disgust, “everything she does is heavily monitored. Every acquaintance is thoroughly checked. Any technical appliance must go through them. She wouldn’t have been able to do anything, not with the intense planning put into these attacks.”

They listen in as Davis begins to practically plea with her. “I’m not free, you know my every move.”

“Can’t imagine being let off from being charged but still being imprisoned like that.” Garcia frowns deeply, already gaining a sense of protection over her.

“People in regular witness protection tend to feel trapped,” Derek shakes his head, not even attempting to hide his discomfort, “this is a whole nother level.”

“Which is why she asked for this.” Strauss’ words come right before Cardena’s fateful ones.”

The bargain doesn’t surprise the team. However, the fact that it was actually approved is what shocked them. “You’re actually letting her?” Hotch asks, eyes widened.“

Davis said he has no choice,” Strauss says tiredly, “no one does anymore. This is our last shot. She has to know something . . maybe about a signature we missed.”

“Or figure out the codes on the bullets?” Spencer’s words come out so sharply it sounds painful.

Letting out a sigh, the aging woman nods. “Hopefully, agent. It’s the way best we can hope for.”

. . .

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

Text

It’s Hate Until It’s Goodbye

Plot : while able to keep a professional relationship on the field, and a mild relationship in the office, you and Spencer have more bad days then good and can’t seem to find a reason; until disaster strikes - female reader

Content : neutral, angst, enemies to lovers

Note : mild arguing, arguing, yelling, kidnapping and mild torture inflicted on reader

Feel free to leave requests <3

MASTERLIST

PART TWO

. . .

“𝙔𝙤𝙪’𝙧𝙚 𝙞𝙣𝙘𝙧𝙚𝙙𝙞𝙗𝙡𝙮 𝙞𝙧𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙣𝙜, 𝙗𝙪𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙤𝙣𝙡𝙮 𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙤𝙮𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙥𝙚𝙧𝙨𝙤𝙣𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙩𝙮 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙤𝙬 𝙗𝙚𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙞𝙛𝙪𝙡 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙖𝙣𝙙 𝙄 𝙝𝙖𝙩𝙚 𝙞𝙩 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙣 𝙖𝙣𝙮𝙩𝙝𝙞𝙣𝙜. 𝙎𝙤 𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙖𝙨𝙚, 𝙔/𝙉, 𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙮 𝙖𝙡𝙞𝙫𝙚.”

. . .

You had taken deep breaths, averted your attention elsewhere, and pretended like he had never said anything for the past four days. But sweeping it under the rug only layered the irritation and your mind brews an incoming explosion.

An unwritten rule lies between you two; no arguing on the field. Neither of you wanted to hinder the investigation in anyway, so the act was swiftly dropped as soon as the jet landed.

Emphasis on the act, because the only thing you were better at hiding at then your annoyance with him on the field is where that annoyance actually roots from.

You’ve hid it so well that you don’t even know where it originates.

But the present moment is thick with so much tension you nearly didn’t make it till the end of the case, because Spencer, also angry with JJ over Emily, pulled out your hair with tweezers the entire time.

Out of everything he does, you hate his passive aggressive, non confrontational quips. The ones where any outsider wouldn’t catch onto if it wasn’t for his condescending tone, and the context truly makes it worse.

And that’s become his speciality as of now, and when he couldn’t take his anger out on JJ, he turned to you, and laid it on thick.

He planted a mine and all he has to do is take one wrong step.

“You know your mug isn’t going anywhere.” His snarky, though calm, voice breaks through your thoughts, his eyes glancing down to your clenched hand on your coffee. Nevermidning how much your palm burns, you smoothly send him a glare, similar to that of a cats.

He scoffs, eyes lighting with a condescending amusement. You remain silent, trying to concentrate on your paperwork, despite the doctor leaning over the upper railing, hellbent on a reaction.

“You should relax. Your stress is really showing on that work.” You manage to only swallow sharply, attempting to stall the eruption. Spencer notices, as he always does, and smirks.

The same smirk that makes you want to slap him or maybe something else you can’t describe. Otherwise known as the demon that’s been haunting you for almost two years.

He tilts his head, leaning down closer, “oh, wait! No, that’s just how your work always looks. My mistake.”

“Don’t you have something better to do, Reid?” You finally snap, unable to stop it, meeting his dark eyes with a challenging glower. “Like, I don’t know, avoiding your problems?”

His cockiness fades, his eyes narrowing in an equally toxic glare. His arms go rigid, veins flexing as they always do when you pick a fight, as if he’s trying to contain some part of himself. “Very funny. Your use of the word like is very elementary, L/N.”

“So is your passive aggressive defense,” knowing yourself well enough to escape this situation before you do something you regret, you stand. “But hey, we all got our flaws. Sometimes god just hands out more to others.”

Sending a manipulative, annoyingly playful wink his way results in something in him snapping. His posture straightens, and his jaw tightens. “What exactly are my flaws?”

Your mind races and answers before you can stop it. Horribly attractive, too good with kids, cheekbones and jawline should be a sin, and seem a little too happy with everyone else.

But of course, you write those off as intrusive thoughts and reply with a snappy, preplanned, remark. “You don’t realize I’m not your personal punching bag, Doctor, that’s one. If you have a problem with everything that’s happened, I’m not your relief system.”

His lips part, and that’s the only reaction you see before you start off, not sure where you’re heading but wanting away from here.

You make it to the staircase, hoping your anger will billow down with every step, but see Spencer’s already at the top of the short set of carpeted stairs.

His leverage above you must’ve given him a confidence boost, because his question is spewed violently. “Don’t deflect how you’ve been for the last seventeen months on me.”

Every hair on your body stands up, tensing for a flight or fight response. “Hypocritical responses are just a thing for doctors, aren’t they?”

The hatred in his eyes makes you want to either wince or put up a stronger defense. “Could say the same for jealously within underachievers.”

There’s a sharp pain of something within you, but the frustration and offense overcomes whatever it may be. Stalking up the stairs, you stop next to him, faces dangerously close.

“Keep telling yourself people are jealous of you, Dr. Reid, might help you sleep at night.” You brush past him, not bothering to glance at his reaction.

Something extreme had to happen to melt off the frustration. But hell’s waters would have to run cold.

And they, along with your blood, did so when the sun withered away to darkness that night.

. . .

“Good morning my lovelies,” Garcia says as she hands the only paper version of the report to Spencer, “but unfortunately, it is not a good morning for the loved ones of Jacey Klein and Jasmine Pinnock.”

Pictures of the women, alive with smiling faces, and dead with a bullet hole in their heads, land on the screen, Garcia turning away. The map tells them that they won’t be needing to do any traveling; it’s here at home.

Hotch’s eyebrows furrow even further, taking a quick glance around the table. “Where’s L/N?”

Morgan sits up further, equally as confused. “You haven’t seen her either? We just assumed she called in sick. . .”

“I saw her leave early yesterday,” JJ pipes up, taking a swift glimpse at Reid, “she looked pale, frustrated, and not herself.”

Spencer pretends not to notice his co-workers accusing look. Hotch takes a thought and then speaks. “I’ll call her. Garcia, explain what we know.”

Penelope hesitates, worry creasing her forehead, but she brings herself out of it. “Both were found in an alleyway downtown, within twelve hours of their disappearance, a day apart. Mild signs of torture and a single gunshot to the head.”

“Any similarities between the two?” Rossi enquires, noticing the racial difference.

“Both were successful, dependent women. Pinnock was in real estate, Klein owned a Sandwhich shop. Last known locations were on 28th Avenue, different apartment buildings but close in proximity.” Garcia’s voice wavers as it comes near the end, the realization dawning in on her.

Hair raises on everyone’s necks. “And,” Garcia continues, “that’s where Y/N’s apartment complex is.”

Spencer’s mind is unable to process it all for a moment. Mostly, that all of the supposed hate inside of him shattered within those moments.

Silence falls on the team, eyes bouncing to the empty chair next to Emily. Hotch is the first to take initiative. “We can’t assume that she’s been victimized. She could just be at home.”

“Yeah,” Morgan’s fear quickly shifts into low tolerance, “where two other abductions have taken place near by.”

“We need to get down there,” Emily already stands on her feet, “just in case. It’s not like her just to not call in.”

No one asked Spencer, however, he feels like he owes an explanation, an answer for her location. She was just at a friends. With her family. Something that could relieve the tension and soothe his churning guilt.

He doesn’t hear any of what the team says next, only that in the next minute, all but him and JJ are gone. She looks on, worried though confused, as his usually soft almond eyes harden to stone.

He has an IQ if 187, and doesn’t have the answer to why this is happening now.

. . .

Your head hurts so horribly it feels ice cold. Blinking irritates your corneas and your temples, also aching with purpling bruising.

A giant pit sits in your stomach. Momentary confusion rushes through you when you can’t feel your arms as you regain more consciousness; oh, they’re asleep. Behind you, but asleep.

The angle and placement of your body tells you that your seated at a 90° angle, a chair with a back, uncomfortable.

A groan stabs at your dried out throat; you can’t tell wether you’re that thirsty or your vocal cords are worn out from something you can’t remember. Like screaming.

Was that a footstep or another misplaced vocalization? Any minute you’re alarm will go off or a call will come in and you’ll be at the BAU in half an hour, glaring at Reid-

That’s it. Reid. You remember last storming away after spitting insults at one another. But after that?

What happened next?

Your eyes finally adjust to the dim lighting. All that’s in front of you, the only thing able to penetrate the complete darkness, is a single light bulb.

And it slowly dawns on you that this may be the last source of light you’ll ever see. Because you’re fully awake, and don’t recognize the faint smell of cigarettes in the air.

A sudden feeling of eyes on you engulfs you, chills running down your weakened body. Someone’s here, in this midnight, and their intentions are not good.

You can’t even place the vile feeling when hot air breaths on the back of your neck and true fear jolts you forwards.

And the last thing you remember, is still, walking away from Spencer.

. . .

Spencer had never been to your apartment prior to this day. He never expected to even be invited. But truly, the only thing he truly never, ever, expected, was to be here under these circumstances.

If it wasn’t for the nausea he has been experiencing for the last hour, he could’ve smirked at how much the rooms suited you. They screamed you, even down to the scent of your perfume he could never escape.

JJ had went downstairs to speak to the men and women working the lobby, leaving him and Emily in the middle of a new crime scene.

After a few minor observations were made, silence fell upon the two, both still trying to understand why this happened. How.

Spencer found it a struggle to breathe correctly every other breath, because the dull ache in his chest had only been growing. He shut down completely and still is unable to operate, no words forming.

Your perfume lingers in the air, mocking him, reminding him that he is here and you’re not. He never had been invited here, and yet, here he is. And you’re another missing persons case.

JJ pops through the door, sweet growing on her hairline. “She never came through those doors,” a voice crack, “security camera shows her leaving and never coming back.”

Spencer has a quick flashback of when he was shot in the knee and forced to walk with a cane for some time. When the pain worsened and he had no choice but to buckle, he’d simply put all his body weight on the sturdy stick.

His knees weaken and he absentmindedly reaches for that cane; a bitter reality check hits him that no cane could help the pit he’s in.

“No,” Emily breaths, brushing her hair out of her face, “no, no, that can’t be. She has to be somewhere. She’s not -“ her denial crashes. “It’s been over twelve hours already!”

Spencer never once felt the urge to scream at any of his teammates to shut up. In that moment, his throat clogging up is the only thing that prevents that.

The other two were killed within twelve hours. And you’ve been missing for sixteen.

Sixteen hours that’ll haunt him for the rest of his life.

. . .

The team regrouped back at the BAU after examining every crime scene as quickly as they could. Spencer could almost see the hairs falling off of everyone’s bodies.

“What do we know?” Hotch asks, extra stern and extra tense.

“Pinnock got out of a cab right outside of her apartment building at 9 p.m, Tuesday. Never made it in.” Morgan’s knuckles were bleeding and no one knows why.

“Klein was dropped off by a friend a few buildings down from her building and also never made it in,” Rossi supplies, “Wednesday night, around 9 p.m as well.”

“No sign of sexual assault on either bodies and mild wounds,” Garcia’s shaky reassurance is only able to soothe the team for a minute. At least that’s off the table.

Hotch closes his eyes. Spencer wants to do the same but thinks he’d faint. Eighteen hours, the last two of absolute hell.

What was it about her that made him so angry, anyway?

“The best we can do is hope that she’s still alive. She knows how to give them what they want in order to keep them from,” the words die off in Hotch’s throat, “the mild violence shows that torture isn’t whats get him off. Seems like frustration if anything. He could just be getting fed up with them when they’re not complying.”

Spencer speaks for the first time in half an hour, possibly a new record. “And what is that?”

Something in his dark choice of tone causes the team to reel back. Yet they have no answer, either. No one seems too.

Hotch, not taking his eyes off of the doctor, speaks again. “We need to put a statement out. Someone must’ve seen something. Perhaps it will frighten him enough, maybe fuel his ego.”

No one has the energy to argue. Though, Spencer is the first to leave the room.

. . .

“You were always the main goal, you know.”

You haven’t see his face yet. Only felt his breath, sensed his movements, and forcibly listened to his drawling voice.

“Really?” You learned already he doesn’t like snarky remarks. The blood tricking down your chin reminds you. Your words came out as almost flattered, though reluctant to truly believe it.

His chuckle echoes. You gathered you were underground, from the dampness and the lack of any exterior noise. “Indeed. I noticed all three of you at once, but I thought you’d be too difficult.”

You pray he sees the genuine, horrified, confusion. “Three? Three what?”

His quiet shuffling stops. “I thought you were in the FBI. Did you not hear?”

“I didn’t make it into work this morning,” your answer was stupid and he lets out a bark of a laugh at it. You’d been here overnight already.

“Of course you didn’t. You were with me. Shame they had to die, I really didn’t want too. But they didn’t know how to listen. They didn’t understand me like you do.”

Show no emotion. Emit no fear.

“How well do I understand you?” You ask, praying that wasn’t the wrong choice of words. Stinging at the back of your head, mixed with the strong scent of blood, shows he doesn’t mind getting physical.

“You’ve been here twenty hours. They only lasted twelve.”

If you weren’t sat down and tied up, you definitely would have buckled down onto the floor. Twenty hours. You’d only been awake for two. What happened to you in those unaccounted eighteen?

You shudder at the possibilities, fighting the urge to become sick. The team has to know.

“How long are you going to . . how long am I going to stay here?”

His laughter this time is different. It tells you of nightmares God would shun.

“Until you decide to scream like they did.”

. . .

“Early this morning, two bodies were discovered in a downtown alleyway. Jasmine Pinnock and Jacey Klein we’re positively indentified, and we have the right to believe that their deaths are connected. On top of that, late last night, one of our own, Agent Y/N L/N went missing from the same street Pinnock and Klein lived on.”

From behind, Spencer can’t see JJ hold up the copy of the head shot all of them had to take every year or so. He doesn’t need to look at it to remember, however.

He remembers everything down to the finest details. But something about that day forced him to remember every second, and every heart beat. That picture held no exception.

Your eyes were determined and proud. He could sense from the day he met you, that you had no cockiness from the position. There was only one goal of yours and that was to help.

Your lips were up turned in a phony smile; he knew this because your nose scrunches when you truly smile, a fact he wish he could forget but he knew that even if his eidetic memory dissapeared he would never forget it.

The outfit you wore branded his mind. It made his breath run cold that day and it hasn’t reheated since.

It was the day he decided he had to hate you, and he couldn’t ever let himself know why. But he knew he had to make you hate him first.

“You should button that last button. We’re in a professional environment.”

He had been in a conflict about his true guilt over those words everyday since. But now he knew, faced with a crowd of reporters who looked on in sympathy at your face that may never be seen alive again, that he truly, deeply, hated himself for it.

And with every second, the chances that he’d never get to tell you that increased.

He turns and walks out of the frame, slowly enough to not take the attention of off JJ’s words that only might bring you home. He hates himself, never had he ever hated himself so harshly before.

What was it about you that made him so frustrated? He convinced himself everytime he couldn’t stand your prescence however he kept coming back for more. And you were always there to take it.

He didn’t think he’d miss you if you ever left, and here he was, missing the hell out of every part of you. Why?

Emily quickly follows behind him, having been paying close attention to him ever since the dots were connected. She catches him outside, alone, and silent.

“Spencer,” she says after a moment of deliberation. “Hey, what’s gotten into you?”

He keeps his eyes ahead, intensely glaring at the world itself. “One of our teammates is missing and you’re asking me why I’m like this?”

Emily blinks, tilting her head. “I didn’t think you’d care this much.”

There that unnecessary urge comes again, and he bites it away. “Just because we don’t get along doesn’t mean I don’t have basic human decency towards her.”

He should have known he couldn’t keep it hidden from a profiler, much less a friend. Emily’s eyes drag over him, taking in every detail of his stressed stance.

When it clicks, she gasps lightly.

“Spencer . . what is it?”

He never was a confident and cold person, and her simple question is all he takes for his callousness to falter.

His eyes droop down. Pain fills them, hints of tears, as well.

When he breathes in, there’s a split second of peace. But reality crumbles down when he breaths out.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself if she’s dead, Emily. I can hardly function now. I can hardly live with myself when she’s alive and hating me. How can I survive knowing she died hating me?”

. . .

He disappeared soon after explaining to you the horrid details of what led up to these moments. You had a hand print on your cheek, and a bleeding eyebrow, now.

He’d been watching the three of you for three months, waiting, planning, fantasizing. He called you dominant; his dream was to make each of you submissive.

You tried to not let his confessions rattle you enough to forget important details. More specifically, what landed you here.

Your mind stuttered everytime you got to the part where you stormed off from Spencer, because, oh god, the last interaction you had with any of your team was a petty argument.

The last time you saw Spencer, you were glaring at him and him at you.

Would that truly be the last?

You shut your eyes tightly, wincing at the slight spark of pain, but the overwhelming feeling of guilt consumed you mostly.

It didn’t sit right. This wasn’t how you and Spencer were supposed to end. There is no plan on how exactly but that wasn’t it.

It couldn’t be. No, not in hatred and anger. Not when there is still so much to say.

You still. What is there to say?

“You should button that last button. We’re in a professional environment.”

A cold and bitter chuckle leaves your dried out lips and sore throat. All you had felt was hurt when he said that originally, but now, it was a dear memory.

You decided then and there that Spencer disliked you, and it wasn’t easy to pretend like you did, too.

Until it became so difficult you couldn’t even look him in the eye for longer then a few seconds and you were thinking of him while possibly moments from death.

You were tied to him with a red string either of you could easily snip but both parties refused.

You left him after insulting him. And you sat there, wanting nothing more then for him to run up and untie you.

“Your little friends got your name everywhere.”

The sudden return of the man makes you flinch. But his voice isn’t angry, it’s pleased. You smell his burning celebratory cigarette as he nears, small sparks burning up from orange to ash in front of you.

“They seem upset. I would be, too, if you left. But I know you wouldn’t. You’re the good one. Am I right?”

A answer begins and dies in the same spot in your throat. Your mind is concentrated on a certain genius who may or may not hate your guts. But none of it matters, anymore.

You’re answer is delayed and a circular burn crinkles your skin. Again. And again.

. . .

“Hello, this is Agent Jennifer J-“

“JJ?”

The phone almost drops out of her hand. “Y/N?!”

A small, tired smile lines your bleeding lips. “It’s me.”

The team’s head snap towards the blondes like meerkats peeking over their hill. An excess of emotions pools into JJ, who’s hand shake as she speaks again.

“I’m gonna put you on speaker, okay?” You manage a hum, the weakness causing concern to layer and layer.

“Are you alright, Y/N?” Hotch asks standing over the phone. Your eyes shift to the black form a few feet away.

You did something wrong. But since you were so good at first, you get a parting gift.

“I’m alive,” you breathe, unable to come up with the right words when you’re also currently loosing blood and aching.

“Can you tell us where you are?” Hotch tries again, sensing the danger through the phone screen.

“I don’t know. But uh,” though tears don’t show yet, your throat continues to thicken. “He saw your conference. He - he liked it. And uh, I just wanted to let you all know -“

The door opens and you can head it from the line. The voice that distantly is heard repairs and breaks your heart all over again.

“Is that her?!”

“Spencer,” you practically dry-sob out, the pain in his words cracking your soul since there’s nothing else left. He’s been worried. Maybe just as much as you.

Hotch begins to protest as Spencer apparently reaches for the phone, but then, yours is snatched from the shoulder is lays on.

“Let her talk to him. Alone.”

The new voice quiets them immediately. You look at the unknown man in confusion as someone puts you on mute.

“That’s the name you kept mumbling when you were asleep. I think he’d appreciate hearing you die the most.”

How could you predict you could memorize a faceless man so vividly?

The phone is placed back on your ear, resting on your shoulder, right as communication continues.

“Y/N? Are you okay? What happened?” His questions are practical, though, you know you don’t have time for that. Not now. You have one last shot.

“Are you really alone?” He pauses before telling you he is. “You know I . . I don’t know why I’m so relieved you’re on the line.”

Spencer, truly alone, as the team suspected it would be best for both of you. Though, Garcia listened in, not daring to breathe.

Hearing your voice makes his heart clench. He nods, pressing his lips together. “I don’t know why I’m so relieved that you’re okay.”

The present emotion in his words causes you to gently wince and let out a delicate breath. The man still lingers, reminding you that your time is ticking. Speak now or forever be filled with regret.

“Do you hate me, Spencer?”

He expected more of a distress plea for help, or asking him to tell someone else her final words for them. Not this. And he freezes.

“No. No, I never did.”

Y/N manages a dry chuckle, wanting to be able to see his face as he admitted this. “Gotcha.”

Spencer’s able to laugh quickly as well, closing his eyes, trying to picture her smile behind the phone. He has the chance to make amends and he takes it without thinking.

“You know I . . I’ve hated myself since the day you arrived. I didn’t really register it then but . . I can see it so clearly now. I hate that it has to be now.”

“See what?” She cuts through, not caring about who hears the desire coming clearly through. Her heart rate increases from the sickenly slow pace it had dipped down too.

Spencer’s mouth dries. He could feel what he felt but could not explain it. He remembers his job is to also bring her hope, so he tries to explain that to her. “If I could see you right now, I’d be able too show you. So I will eventually, Y/N.”

Tears weld up in her glassy eyes, knowing what she’s about to say to him is going to break him entirely. “He said this is my final goodbye, Spencer, my final wish.”

Her suspicions are confirmed when a small whimper comes from the line.

In the panic that ensues, also comes a new sense of determination. So before she can say goodbye, he speaks, forgetting the logical aspects and using what JJ once told him would tell him everything he once thought he’d never understand.

“I don’t hate you, Y/N. In fact I think I may be infatuated with you and don’t know how to express it so I just do whatever I can to get your attention, good or bad.”

Her droopy eyes widen and gain some sort of glow.

“And I literally have been sick all morning because the last time I saw you I was an asshole and I was so afraid I’d never be able to take that back or tell you how sorry I am.”

Penelope’s eyes glisten, hand covering her mouth.

A small sob tells him his words are clearly heard. Fresh warm tears roll down his smooth skin, his hand thumping the table at an impossible speed.

“Spencer,” she breaths, heart opening up like a book he could read in a second to him, “I - no!”

The line suddenly cuts dead.

JJ’s cell drops out of his hand and clatters onto the floor.

“Wait, Wait, I got the location!”

. . .

segunda parte coming soon!

#criminal minds #doctor reid #mgg #spencer reid #dr reid #criminal minds imagine #reid #cm #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid angst #angst

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vibingintheritzcar · 4 years

Text

Sharpened Claws

Plot : The FBI takes one of the biggest risk in its history when it calls for the help from a woman under the most coveted witness protection in history - and a history that almost garuntees a place with no god.

Content : Usual mentions of a case in the show - be warned, though nothing is graphic, certain aspects are heavier. I’m sure if you watch the show you can handle this, but sometimes seeing it written out is harder to bare.

Suicidal thoughts and tendencies, as well as severe depression, self hatred, and anxiety is mentioned though this story is NOT mental illness recovery based

Chapter two, chapter three, chapter four

MASTERLIST

Chapter One - The Country’s Last Resort

Narrator ;

Spencer Reid tapped his pen on his desk, oblivious to the obnoxious noise and the glares from the others in the room.

Yet even as much as the constant fidgeting annoyed the rest, not one made a move or a noise to quiet him; for when Spencer Reid was fidgeting, he was thinking.

And his brain at full working speed is exactly what the team around him needs. His mind is arguably one of the teams major weapons, and all hands needed to be on deck.

It’s almost unreal, what he is. So unreal that many would point a finger and accuse of an act. There was no way this man, barely past thirty, could know so much. When faced with something they don’t understand, people tend to resort to denial, even anger.

When Spencer Reid is faced with something he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t do the same. Instead, he fights until he does.

What started out as a simple case, slowly turned into one of his greatest battles.

“Kid, you gotta take a break. There’s nothing else we have. It’s gonna be impossible to break this code until we get something more.” Derek Morgan says from next to him, standing over his hunched figure.

There’s a sense of protectiveness in his voice. Of course, Morgan isn’t at the age where he can be considered paternalistic, only a decade older. However, early on, he took on the role of a sense of guidance.

“There’s gotta be something here,” Spencer shakes his head, biting down on his swollen bottom lip. “Something. Someone’s able to interpret this without any other clues and I need to understand why.”

“It’s probably because they helped make it,” Derek tries, under eye bags being the only temporary sign of his true age. “You need to take a break.”

“Whoever our unsubs are, they’re not gonna take a break.” Spencer replies in a lowered tone. “Anyone could be next.”

“I understand that, kid, I know. But we can’t put all of our effort and time into this one thing. There’s other priorities.”

Spencer abruptly stands, unable to sit or stand still when he begins one of his tangets. On his feet, him and Derek have no height difference. That’s where their similarities end.

Spencer’s lean, but not scrawny, having put on a decen bit of muscle over the last years. He’s white, thought not extremely pale, and the most rapid changing part of him is his hair. Short on the sides, thick locks of soft curls topple over his forehead, occasionally brushing infront of his almond shaped brown eyes.

Derek’s the muscle of the group, apparently having a serving of protein powder with every meal. Black, bald, and an intimidating stature, you’d never expect to see the two of them on the street together. His dark brown eyes heavy with concern for the younger man, noticing the tension in his body.

“But what if it’s the answer to everything? What if,” Spencer walks over to the bulletin board, pointing out what he intends too, “solving this will give us what we need? And everything else will suddenly make sense?”

It’s a possibility everyone had thought off once or twice. However, they were at a deadend long ago, and nothing has changed since. “We all understand that,” Derek explains. “I do, too, trust me. But it’s not certain. All that is is that we got four dead politicians and two of ours gone, too. We cannot have you completely focused on this - there’s other priorities.”

Spencer closes his eyes, lowering his chin. Saying that the entire building hadn’t been rocked was an understatement. It’s like every room had gone cold.

Behind him, on the bulletin board, six headshots are in place in a line. Five of them male, the end female. Ages varying between thirty-nine and sixty-four. Four worked closely, the other two, even closer.

‘Deceased’ is the only word underneath all six. Followed by name, birthdate, place of work, cause of death, death date. All had died in a span of two weeks.

“Let’s get you home and some sleep,” Derek sees his silence as the perfect opportunity. “We will solve this. We just need some time.”

Reluctantly, Spencer allows him to lead him out of the room. He almost doesn’t want to leave, feeling much safer in a FBI headquarters rather then a downtown apartment.

However, safety isn’t his biggest concern. Taking a final look back at the board before the lights flicker off, he remembers what is.

Whoever’s done this, may even be smarter then him.

. . .

Jennifer Jareau slides through the overwhelming crowds of men and women in suits, her slim figure and familiarity in the situation helping her move without issue.

Usually, she’d share some smiles with co-workers or others. No one had smiled in the Behavorial Analysis Unit for two weeks.

In her seven years with the BAU, she had been apart of some big events; though possibly not text book worthy, enough to still invite conversation in the public years later. Every one seemed to out do the last, so she expected something big sooner or later.

But not like this. No one had ever even suspected something like this.

Her blonde hair, usually neatly styled, suddenly’s able to react to the environment. Frizzy and vulnerable to any inconvenience. Her skin, usually a warm tan, appears paler from lack of sleep and stress. Usually blinding blue eyes are cloudy.

Just by looking around, an outsider would think every one in the room caught a virus. Sickly. That’s how everyone is.

She meets up with five others in what is called the Bullpen, directly in the middle of it all. They all are just as distressed, including Spencer and Derek.

“Panics getting worse. Two weeks with no answers, the whole cities loosing it, not to mention the country.” Jennifer, or commonly referred to as JJ, is in charge of spreading information to the public and media. The word goes straight to her.

“What are we gonna tell them? We have no leads, no suspects?” Emily Prentiss stands next to Derek, arms crossed. Her ebony hair rests a little past her shoulders, on pale skin. Her eyes hold the same type of night, filled with a flickering fire.

“We can’t tell a grieving country that we have nothing.” An older man says sternly, hints of fear in his voice. Dave Rossi’s, veteran in the BAU, hair starts to noticeably grey, striking against his tan Italian skin.

“The Internet is loaded with conspiracies already. They’re overlapping any possible information about the murders themselves.” The final woman is the most striking - wearing every possible color of the rainbow, blonde hair teased, and a brightly colored lip. Penelope Garcia is the technical analyst, and resident sunshine. Lately, her light has been dimming.

“The presidents been bunkered up for a week now. How much longer until he snaps?” Spencer asks, unable to put himself in the position of the man in power.

“Or until the country snaps?” Rossi’s rhetorical questions aren’t uncommon, but this one sends chills down everyone’s spines.

“We have nothing.” Emily says when the silence becomes too heavy. “They’ve pulled this off somehow. And now it looks like they’re gonna get away with it.”

“If these unsubs are never caught, who knows what that’ll mean for the FBI? CIA? Homeland Security? It’ll just be another failure - but. . on this level?” Derek’s words sit in the air. There is never much to say anymore.

They are about to part ways when a stern man with furrowed brows walks up to them, urgency in his strides. Aaron Hotchner, their statue of a supervisor, keeps his voice low. His dark and thick brows haven’t unfurrowed at all since it all began. His hairline might’ve receded prematurely.

“Strauss needs us all for a meeting. Now.”

For a moment, they expect the usual. Passive aggressive orders and remarks from the woman, and then a threat to disband them. But Hotch speaks again.

“We might have something.”

And that something will soon become what the entire country will lean on.

. . .

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