whisperedmeg

[whisperedmeg]

ADJOINING ROOMS ⋆˚꩜｡ spencer reid x fem!BAU!reader

summary: you and reid are just colleagues. and hookup partners. and fake lovers for a case in a swinger’s club. but it’s fine. until it really, really isn’t.

genre: smut, angst | w/c: 8.5k

tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, situationship/fwb, coworkers to lovers, brief references to alcohol consumption, emotional avoidance/lack of communication, mentions of the swinger lifestyle (case related) (probably full of inaccuracies & stereotypes so apologies in advance for that lol), canon-typical case/violence, fingering, oral (f receiving), p in v, multiple orgasms + a lil overstimulation, soft dom!spencer if you squint, spencer calls reader good girl/baby/sweet girl, slight praise kink, aftercare, no use of y/n

a/n: never written a case-centric fic before (although idk if I’d call this case-centric — more like case-adjacent) and zooo weee mama the hours upon hours I put into this 😮‍💨 but I’m very pleased with how it turned out, so I hope someone enjoys it as much as I enjoyed writing it! I know it’s long but fingers crossed it’s worth it. (p.s. fourth pic is not indicative of reader’s appearance!! it just had the right dress + vibes)

The roundtable room always feels colder than it should. Maybe it’s the fluorescent lights, or maybe it’s the weight of what gets said in here — every case, every file, every name. Sometimes you think the walls remember too much.

Hotch is talking. His voice cuts through the stillness in that crisp, efficient way it always does. Words like “victimology” and “behavioral escalation” stack on top of each other, building the scaffolding of a case you’re supposed to be paying attention to. But your mind is already drifting — across the table, past the file folders and scattered pens, to where Spencer is sitting.

He’s chewing the inside of his cheek again. Not nervous, exactly — more like restless. His gaze flickers from the files to the floor to the case board, anywhere but you. He hasn’t looked at you once all morning.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Last week, you kissed him. Again. Or rather, he kissed you.

It was late. You were both a little tipsy from post-case beers, tiptoeing down the hotel hallway like teenagers who missed curfew. You’d said something about how quiet it was — how strange it felt after so much chaos that day. He’d nodded. Then there was a long, loaded pause, and suddenly your back was against the wallpaper and his mouth was on yours, hot and searching and almost rough.

“We shouldn’t,” you’d whispered, even as your fingers curled into his shirt.

“I know,” he’d breathed back against your lips.

And still, neither of you stopped.

You think about that now — his hands framing your jaw, the way he touched you like he’d been dying to all day — and it makes your palms itch. You press your nails into your skin, leaving little crescent-shaped indents, and force your gaze back to the board.

On it: photos of the bodies of three women. All strangled. All posed ritualistically. All in their late twenties to mid-thirties, all married or in serious relationships. All affiliated with the swinger lifestyle in the greater Chicago area.

“Preliminary theory,” Hotch says, “is that the unsub attends these parties, separates the woman from her male partner, and kills her in private. He’s not targeting them at random — he’s studying their interactions with their partners first. Police pulled together a sketch of the unsub from witnesses, but the locals haven’t been able to identify him yet.”

Spencer finally speaks. “It’s possible he’s embedding himself in the community. Not just observing, but actively participating in swinging.”

You swallow hard. His voice sounds normal. Clinical. Almost bored. You wonder how he does that — compartmentalizes so easily when you’re in the room like nothing ever happened between you.

You, meanwhile, are still trying to forget the taste of his mouth.

“Wheels up in an hour,” Hotch says, flipping the file closed. “We’ll get briefed by local PD and the Chicago field office when we land.”

He pauses and glances around the table.

“We’re also going to need to send two of you in undercover at the next club night.”

As soon as he says it, you already know what’s coming. Hotch focuses his eyes on you before he continues speaking.

“You’ve got the most experience working undercover,” he says. “And you fit the victimology. Reid, you’ll go with her. You make a believable pairing.”

You feel it. Not just the sharp jolt in your own chest, but the way Spencer tenses. A small shift in posture, like someone bracing for impact. His eyes stay fixed on the table. You just nod.

“If the unsub is targeting women in stable relationships,” Spencer begins, voice measured, “we need to appear convincingly connected — not just physically, but emotionally. Studies show that up to 10 % of American married couples have experimented with swinging, and many report that emotional intimacy drives their participation more than the physical variety. If he’s looking for that connection when seeking out victims, we’ll need to sell both.”

You almost laugh. Not because it’s funny — but because this is how he protects himself. With facts. With rationality. Like if he says the right words in the right order, it won’t matter that your mouths have already memorized each other.

“Exactly. And you two will blend in best with the age group at these clubs. We’ll do more prep on the plane,” Hotch says.

You nod. Spencer nods.

And then, finally, he looks at you.

It’s barely for a second, but it’s long enough to see the thing he’s trying to hide:

Want. Fear. Something brittle and unspeakable pressed tight beneath his ribs.

You look away first. You have to.

—

The jet hums around you. You’ve always found something oddly comforting about the sound — the steady thrum of the engine, the muted clink of coffee mugs, the gentle rustle of case files and paper.

Spencer is sitting across from you, the way he always does on the jet. Close enough to keep an eye on you if he wants to, but far enough away for plausible deniability. He’s got a file open in his lap, one leg crossed over the other, pen tapping absently at the margin. But he hasn’t turned the page in eight minutes.

You’re pretending to read, too. Words blur. You underline things at random just to look busy. The profile you and the team have already built is solid — mid- to late-thirties, white male, organized, narcissistic injury around female sexuality, history of escalating violence against women starting from a young age, currently or formerly involved in the swinger community himself.

But all you can think about is the fact that Spencer isn't looking at you again, and it’s starting to eat at you.

“God,” Morgan mutters from behind you. “This case is wild. Sex parties, swinging, murder.”

“People have all kinds of lifestyles,” JJ says, gentle and unbothered, flipping through photos. “That doesn’t make them deserving of this.”

“Not saying that,” Morgan replies. “Just… can you imagine Hotch at one of those clubs?”

A collective groan-laugh moves through the jet. Rossi makes a deadpan comment about leather harnesses. Even Hotch cracks a grin.

But Spencer doesn’t. He’s still staring at his file, unmoving, jaw tight.

The last time you were alone with him, he was on his knees.

You remember the way he looked up at you, hair falling into his eyes. His mouth was reverent. Careful. Like you were a puzzle he desperately needed to solve with his tongue.

“Please,” you’d whispered. “Don’t be so gentle.”

But he was. He always is. Even when he’s needy, even when you’re shaking — he’s still soft. Still murmuring little praises like, “You’re doing so well for me,” and “Good girl.”

And when it was over, you got dressed, said a quiet goodnight, and tiptoed back down the hall to your room alone, same as you always did. Even after countless nights together, you never slept beside him. One of you always left. It was the one boundary you hadn’t crossed. There was a seemingly impenetrable wall between the two of you, and you weren’t even sure which one of you had built it. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you, or maybe it was a joint effort.

Back in the present, the jet hits a small patch of turbulence. You jolt, fingers tightening around your pen. Spencer looks up instinctively, and your eyes meet.

He blinks once, then looks back down.

You wonder if he’s thinking about the same things you are. If the silence between you is just his version of restraint, or if he’s decided it’s easier to forget.

“Here’s some background on the club,” Hotch says, sliding a printout across the table. “Invitation-only, but you two,” he nods at you and Spencer, “are already on the guest list.”

Spencer shifts slightly. “Did they send a floorplan?”

JJ passes him a sheet with the building layout. You watch the way his fingers curl around the edge of the paper.

You want to say something. You want to joke, to ease the tension, to break the silence before it breaks you. All you can manage is:

“So. You ready to pretend to be my boyfriend, Reid?”

It comes out lighter than you feel.

Spencer’s mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, though.

“I’ve pretended to be worse,” he says softly. And for a moment, it almost feels like the past six months didn’t happen.

Then Rossi clears his throat, and Spencer looks away again.

You stare at the grain in the tabletop and trace it like a fault line, wondering how you’re supposed to fake wanting all of him when that’s already too close to reality.

—

The hotel room you’ve just checked into is a bit dated, with a king bed, fake art, heavy curtains, and neutral tones. Standard, by every definition of the word. But your eyes keep flicking to the left — where a second door sits flush with the wall you share with the adjacent room. It feels like the universe is laughing at you when you realize who’s staying in the suite next door — Spencer, naturally. And maybe it’s not a big deal. Maybe two FBI agents sharing a door between rooms isn’t a scandal. Maybe it’s even practical, since you’ll be working so closely on this case.

Still.

It feels too absurdly romantic for a murder investigation. Like the setup to a bad workplace rom-com that ends in a wedding montage and a corny piano medley. The thought makes you snort. You’ve got a deadpan sense of humor, especially when you’re tired or scared or two seconds away from thinking about the taste of his mouth again.

You groan and drop your go-bag at the foot of the bed. Your boots are already off. You’re about to get up and shower when you hear a rattle of movement on the other side of the wall.

Then: a knock.

Not at the main door, but the other one. The one that’s supposed to stay shut.

Of course.

You pad over and unlatch it.

Spencer’s standing there in mismatched socks, tie loosened, hair slightly mussed like he’s been running his hands through it for the last twenty minutes.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

You both hover for a second. There’s something soft in his eyes — like guilt, or maybe just caution.

“I, uh, thought we should talk through tomorrow. Get our story straight before we go in.”

You arch a brow. “Our story?”

He swallows. “Cover story. Our… relationship history. As a couple. So we’re believable.”

You blink. Then you laugh — short, surprised. “Right. Gotta make sure our fake relationship is fully fleshed out.”

His expression doesn’t change, but you see the muscle in his jaw jump. Like he’s trying very hard not to say something he’ll regret.

You step back. “Come on in, then. Let’s build a backstory.”

He enters cautiously, and the adjoining door swings closed behind him with a click.

You’re the kind of person who flirts when you’re uncomfortable. Who masks tension with sarcasm. Who doesn’t let people in until it’s already too late. And deep down, you hate that you’ve been soft with him. He’s seen the version of you who doesn’t deflect — the quiet version. The real one. You spent years learning how not to feel things too deeply, but now one look from Spencer and it’s like a dam breaking.

“So,” you say, cocking your head, “how long have we been together?”

He glances up to the ceiling. “A year?”

“Bold of you to assume I’d put up with you that long.”

His mouth twitches. “Six months?”

“Try four and a half. Tops.”

“Fine,” he murmurs. “Four and a half months.”

You bite your lip, a smirk teasing the corner. “And how did we meet? Office romance?”

He gives you a look of exasperation and says your name with a groan. Clearly, that hit a nerve.

You chuckle. “Fine. Come up with something better.”

There’s a beat. Then: “You spilled coffee on me in a bookstore. I insisted it was fine, you apologized profusely and offered to buy me a new shirt. Turned into a whole scene,” he decides.

You laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s believable.”

“Because I’m clumsy, or because you’re uptight?”

“Both,” he says, almost smiling.

The air shifts.

There it is again — that familiar tilt of the atmosphere. The way everything around him bends just slightly, like gravity favors his orbit.

He crosses the room and perches on the edge of the desk chair, spinning it half toward you.

You watch him from the bed, legs folded underneath you, pretending this is the most intimate moment you’ve ever shared. Which is, frankly, ridiculous. You’ve had your mouth on every inch of him. He’s said things in your ear that still make your toes curl when you think about them late at night.

“Tomorrow,” he says slowly, “we’ll need to act familiar. Emotionally and… physically.”

You nod. “We’re supposed to be in love, after all.”

That gets him. His eyes flick to yours, sharp and unreadable.

You tilt your head. “Or maybe just horny. That’s easier to fake, right?”

Silence.

Then, softly: “You’re not helping.”

“No,” you admit. “I’m not.”

You’ve always been like this — deflective to the point of recklessness when you’re backed into an emotional corner. It’s easier to make a joke than to say what you really mean. Easier to prod him than to admit you want something to give.

There’s a beat of quiet. You shift, pulling the blanket up over your legs, suddenly chilly despite the warmth of the room. The joke has worn off.

He clears his throat. “I should go, let you get some sleep.”

You nod, even though you know you’ll be restless for hours. The moment he’s gone, you’ll feel his absence echo like ringing in your ears after a fire alarm.

He stands. You stand, too. You walk together to the adjoining door like a real couple might, and that alone feels like cruelty.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, you speak, voice quieter than it had been a few moments ago:

“Spence?”

He stops, glances back. His nickname in your mouth always does that — stalls him mid-step, like he’s never truly ready for it.

“If we’re going to be convincing,” you say, trying to sound casual, “you’re gonna have to at least look at me tomorrow.”

His gaze drops to the floor before finally lifting and meeting yours again, albeit briefly. “I’ll look at you,” he promises quietly, after a long beat.

And then he’s gone.

You lock the door, press your forehead to the wood frame, and exhale. You debate a shower again.

And that’s when it hits you — the memory, sudden and sharp, sparking bright in your mind like a match catching:

Three months ago. It was late. You’d just gotten back to the hotel one night in the middle of a case that left you feeling hollow, and you’d turned the shower on to heat up while you undid your ponytail with tired fingers.

The knock at your door came soft, almost guilty. You spotted Spencer through the peephole and let him in. You didn’t need to ask why he was there — you could see it in the way his shoulders slumped from the weight he was carrying, in the way his hand kneaded at the tension in the back of his neck, in the way he looked at you with those honey brown eyes like you were the only thing in this universe that could make him feel human again.

His mouth crashed into yours before you could even register it. Urgent. Consuming. The kind of kiss that didn’t care what came after, only what needed to happen right now.

You pulled him into the bathroom by his collar, lips parted and hungry. Clothes came off swiftly into a messy heap by the base of the sink. He lifted you into the shower then, water cascading around your tangled limbs, and braced you against the wall, tiles cool against your back.

You let him take everything he needed that night. Every thrust a release, every gasp a plea. He murmured little things against the warm skin of your neck — you don’t remember what they were, but you do remember the sound of his voice: low and wrecked and achingly tender. You came with your head tipped back, body trembling under the hot spray, thighs tightening around his waist, and he came harder. Like he couldn’t stop it — like your body had pulled it out of him, with a stifled groan and a shudder that rolled through his entire frame.

You stayed like that for a moment — both of you breathing hard, the sound of the water the only thing steady.

Eventually, your thighs loosened around him and he set you gently back down to the ground. You half-expected him to lean down and kiss you, to keep the moment going, but instead, he just studied your face and softly brushed your wet hair away from your cheek. Something quiet passed between you, fragile and echoing.

Then, without a word, he stepped out.

You watched through the fogged glass as he toweled off. Pulled his shirt back on over damp skin. Buttoned it unevenly, stepped into his slacks. His hands shook a little.

You were still standing under the water when he paused at the door.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” he said, barely audible over the rush of the shower. You nodded in reply.

Just as quickly as he’d showed up, he was gone again.

You blink back into the present, your skin prickling with goosebumps.

You hate that your body remembers him like that. You hate even more that your heart does, too.

—

The club doesn’t look like a potential murder spot.

It looks like money. Like velvet and champagne and curated decadence. Everything about it is just a little too sleek — brushed brass door handles, scented candles tucked into corners, red-tinted lights that paint everything in crimson and shadows.

Spencer’s arm is around your waist.

It’s not the first time he’s touched you like this, but it is the first time he’s pretending you belong to him.

And you’re pretending not to like it.

“You’re sure you’re okay in that?” he asks, voice low.

You glance down at the dress you’d picked out with Garcia’s help via video call — sleek, black, open back. It felt like a good idea when you tried it on at her suggestion — something sexy that would blend in with the rest of the club’s clientele. But now, with Spencer’s hand resting on the exposed curve of your spine, you think Garcia might’ve known exactly what she was doing when she encouraged it.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. “You’re the one who looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

He exhales through his nose. “I just… I can’t help it. It’s you. You look—”

“Spence,” you interrupt gently. You mouth the words: “We’re wired.”

The reminder shuts him up. Somewhere in an unmarked surveillance van, your colleagues are sipping stale coffee and listening to every breath you take. Every fake laugh. Every flirtation. Watching your every move via the security cameras Garcia hacked into.

You lean in close, brushing your lips just near the shell of his ear.

“Smile, sweetheart. You’re in love, remember?”

He does smile then, a crooked thing, tight around the edges. His hand dips a little lower, warm against your exposed skin. You wonder if it’s for show or if it’s just for him.

In front of you, the club scene unfolds. Couples swirl around the open space like slow-moving constellations, orbiting each other in wine-dark booths and shadowed alcoves. The music is low enough to be sexy but loud enough to muffle secrets. There’s a large bar near the back, a velvet rope section with private rooms upstairs, and at least two couples openly making out on chaise lounges.

You pass a bowl of condoms by the entrance and stifle a snort.

You try not to think about how this place is meant to seduce. That it’s built for sex and permission and skin. And tonight, you’re supposed to be playing the part.

Spencer’s fingers brush your hip. You glance up at him, and he leans in like a man in love.

“Back wall,” he says softly. “Let me handle the couple, figure out if they’ve seen anything. You work the man in the charcoal jacket.”

You split apart in practiced sync. He heads to the couple and you drift left, letting your eyes catch on the man Spencer mentioned. He’s older than you expected, but clean-shaven, wearing an expensive watch. His gaze skims over you, then lingers. You tilt your head, sip your drink.

He bites. Of course he does. Within minutes, he’s walking you to the bar for a refill.

You lean against the edge of the bar, feign laughter, touch his wrist when he says something passably clever.

It’s an act. You’ve done this before. You know how to fake a smile like you mean it.

But you also know Spencer is watching.

You don’t look for him, but you feel it. The way you always feel it — his attention, boring deep into your skin. You imagine his jaw twitching. His hand curling into a fist inside his pocket.

He’s not an outwardly jealous person — not usually. But you’ve learned that jealousy doesn’t always wear teeth. Sometimes, it just lives quietly in the way someone stops breathing when they look at you.

You think back to the first time you saw that look after finishing up a case in Boston six months ago and letting a handsome stranger buy all of your drinks. Spencer had peeled you away from the man and the bar and back to the hotel under the guise of exhaustion and an early flight home, but you’d noticed the way he’d been discreetly watching you all night. So you’d kissed him in the hotel elevator — just to see how he’d react. Just to test how it’d feel. He’d melted into you after a few moments of your lips against his, and all of the sudden, the rest of your world faded into nothing. He tasted like whiskey and peppermint and something warmer that made your entire body ache.

You didn’t go your separate ways when the elevator dinged on your floor. And you didn’t talk about it the next day. Or the time after that. Or the one after that.

You’re still not talking about it now.

You shift your body, laughing at something the man says, and trail your fingers lightly up his forearm — flirtation, just enough to maintain your cover. It’s nothing.

But the second you do it, Spencer’s voice crackles in your ear.

“You there?”

You don’t react. Just cross your legs slowly, let your gaze slide over the crowd like you’re looking for a third. The man you’ve been flirting with is distracted by the bartender, ordering another round.

“Mhmm,” you murmur.

There’s a pause. A rustle of breath. Then:

“Eyes right. Column near the leather bench. White shirt, sleeves rolled. That’s gotta be him.”

You let your gaze drift lazily to the right, like you’re just admiring the architecture.

And then you spot the man Spencer’s referring to.

You catalog the similarities between this man and the police sketch hanging on the case board back at the precinct. His face is symmetrical, forgettable in a way that makes your skin crawl. Like someone who’s practiced looking normal. His eyes skim the room like a hunter watching a watering hole. He’s still — too still.

You can feel it, the same way Spencer can. It’s more than a hunch or a guess— it’s an instinct, a read, a real-time application of the profile living inside your brain. That man is the unsub.

“Copy,” you say lightly, but your smile is gone now.

You dip your head towards the man beside you, murmur something about needing a bathroom break, and move towards the back of the room. Once you’re out of view from the bar, you catch up with Spencer.

His fingers close over yours.

“Everything okay?”

“Peachy,” you lie.

But the word tastes like sand in your mouth. You can feel how close danger is.

Spencer’s hand releases yours and moves to rest firmly on the small of your back. His thumb rubs slow circles against your skin, barely there. It could be part of your cover, or it could be genuine affection. Regardless, it’s a silent message: I’ve got you.

You’re standing near the fringe of the crowd now, a cluster of couples trading flirty glances and low-toned jokes about partner swapping. Someone’s making conversation about a weekend retreat. A woman in a sequined dress laughs too loud. You nod along, sipping your drink, body tilting naturally toward Spencer.

And then he walks up — the unsub.

White shirt, sleeves rolled. Watchful but charming. Forgettable face, memorable eyes.

You feel the breath catch in Spencer’s chest beside you.

“Evening,” the man says easily. “You new here?”

You smile like your skin isn’t crawling, like you don’t know he’s already killed at least three women with his bare hands and left their bodies displayed like offerings.

“We are,” you say, glancing up at Spencer. “Still figuring out the vibe.”

The unsub chuckles. “Well, you’re blending in just fine.”

He’s talking to you, but he’s looking at both of you, measuring. It’s not interest — it’s a test. A subtle prod to see what kind of relationship you and Spencer have. To see how easy it might be to wedge his way in.

Spencer answers before you can. “We’re curious,” he says. “Just observing for now.”

His voice is calm, but you feel the steel in it. His hand is still at your back. He pulls you in a little closer.

“Nothing wrong with watching,” the unsub says, his mouth twitching. “Sometimes that’s the best part.”

He takes a slow sip of his drink, and his gaze settles fully on you.

You don’t flinch.

“I’m Marcus,” he says. “You two have names?”

You give a soft laugh and glance at Spencer. “We’re trying to stay mysterious tonight.”

“Suit yourself.” Another sip. “Just thought I’d say hello. Let you know there are a few playrooms open upstairs if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Playrooms. Right. You’d seen them in the floorplan — semi-private spaces for couples or groups, monitored lightly by staff but otherwise left alone.

“Thanks,” you say, casual, “we’ll keep it in mind.”

“Maybe I’ll see you up there,” he says before walking away with a wink.

Your pulse spikes, and you try to suppress it. Try to breathe around it. Spencer shifts slightly, steps closer, like he’s reading your vitals through his fingertips.

“Did you see his hand?” he murmurs, only for you. “There was blood under his nails.”

You nod once. “And a crescent-shaped scratch on his hand.”

“He’s escalating. He wants to be noticed.”

You don’t say it, but you both know what that means:

The unsub is spiraling. He’s deviating from his own profile. He’s been organized and methodical this whole time, but now, he hasn’t even washed days-old evidence off his hands. He’s losing control. And that makes him even more dangerous.

“Hotch, did you catch that?” you murmur under your breath.

“Affirmative,” comes the reply in your ear. “Garcia picked him up with facial recognition. Name’s Marcus Blackwood. His wife left him and moved in with another man three months ago. Surveillance confirms he was at the same clubs as all three victims. Do not engage until backup is in place — we’re on the way. Just keep an eye on him if you can.”

“Copy,” you and Spencer say together.

You glance toward the far end of the club and realize Blackwood is heading up the stairs that lead up to the playrooms.

“Shit,” Spencer mutters.

Blackwood is baiting you.

He wants you to follow him.

You scan the crowd — an endless pool of potential victims. The rest of the team is en route. Five minutes, tops. But that’s too long.

“Hotch said we should keep an eye on him. I can stall,” you say softly.

Spencer looks at you, and for a split second, his composure falters. It’s not fear for himself. It’s fear for you.

You touch his hand.

“I’ll be fine.”

You step away before he can stop you and move toward the stairs slowly, wine glass still in hand. You feel the heat of Spencer’s gaze the whole time.

You don’t look back.

Blackwood greets you at the top of the stairs with that same bland smile. The hallway beyond is dim, quiet, lined with half-cracked doors. You glance at one and see the vague blur of movement — flashes of skin, moans, laughter.

“I figured you might be curious,” he says.

You plaster on a sultry smile. “Curious is one way to put it.”

He leans casually against a doorframe.

“You strike me as someone who likes attention,” he says. “Like you enjoy being wanted by people who don’t belong to you.”

You tilt your head. “What makes you say that?”

His eyes flick over your body. “Just a hunch. And you dress like it.”

You laugh.

He doesn’t laugh back.

Instead, he steps in.

You step back. He steps forward. The wall is against your spine now.

“You know what I hate?” he says, voice tightening. “When women pretend it’s all for fun. Like none of this means anything. Like they’re not breaking something sacred.”

There it is: the projection. The motive. The pathology.

You keep your voice even, your smile fixed. “Or maybe they just don’t owe you anything,” you say, hand drifting toward the distress button hidden in your bracelet. Click.

And then he grabs you.

It’s fast. One hand to your throat — not squeezing, just holding, controlling. His other hand catches your wrist, hard. Pain blooms instantly. You gasp, squirm—

And that’s when the hallway explodes.

“Marcus Blackwood, FBI!” Hotch’s voice, sharp and authoritative, cuts through the air.

Blackwood spins toward the sound just as Morgan slams into him like a freight train, pinning him to the ground. You hear the clatter of handcuffs and Emily’s voice confirming: “Unsub is secured.”

It’s over.

But you’re still frozen.

You hadn’t realized how fast your heart was pounding, or that Spencer had run in and pulled you to safety before Morgan could even reach the unsub. He doesn’t ask permission — just gathers you into him.

His arms are tight, all instinct and adrenaline. You let your forehead press to his shoulder. Let yourself breathe.

“You okay?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod against him, but you can’t hide the fact you’re shaking.

“You came,” you whisper. “You got here.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“I always will.”

You don’t let go.

—

The hotel lobby is too bright.

Artificial light washes over upholstered chairs and glass-topped tables, and the scent of something overly citrusy hangs in the air. You hate it. You hate how it feels to sit still after something like that. You hate how normal it all looks.

The team has regrouped, huddled around a seating area tucked away from the elevators. Garcia is patched in through a tablet set up on the table, video call flickering just slightly.

“DNA under Blackwood’s nails matches the last victim,” she confirms. “And there’s timestamped security footage of him leaving the same club as the second victim the night of her murder. We’re solid.”

Everyone exhales. JJ leans back against the sofa. Emily’s got a paper cup of coffee she’s holding like it might anchor her to the planet. Derek’s pacing. Rossi’s talking softly to Hotch a few feet away.

You’re curled in an armchair, wearing an FBI windbreaker jacket over your slinky dress, legs tucked under you, fingers still brushing where he grabbed your wrist. The pressure’s gone, but the shape of it lingers.

Spencer’s across from you. Elbows on his knees, hands folded together. He hasn’t looked at you once since you separated from him to give your statement back at the scene.

You’re not surprised.

That’s always the case with him: once safe, he pulls away. Retreats into himself, into the comfort of something he can control. You’ve seen him do it before, but tonight it feels personal. Tonight, you’re mad about it.

“Thanks for the assist in there,” you say softly, desperate to pull him back to you.

He nods, still not meeting your eyes. “Of course.”

You fold your arms across your chest and pretend you don’t feel cold blooming again behind your ribs.

You don’t expect a grand gesture. You’re not someone who needs to be rescued. But you wish — god, you wish — that he’d stop trying to shrink the thing between you into something that doesn’t matter.

Because it does matter. You know that now. He looked at you in that club like it does. He held you like it does. And it sure as hell feels like it does, especially now.

No one else notices the tension between you. They’re all distracted, all coming down off the adrenaline high in their own ways. You wish you had something to do with your hands.

“Alright,” Hotch says, checking his watch. “Everyone get some rest. We’ll regroup in the morning before we fly home.”

The team heads to the elevators in quiet pairs, and you hang back a moment so you can ride up alone.

You’re barely through the door to your room when there’s a knock at the adjoining one. You unlock it before your brain can convince you otherwise, and once you’ve got it open, Spencer’s standing there with one hand raised like he was about to knock again. You don’t let him speak.

“You here to debrief, or to ignore me some more?”

He freezes.

“Because if it’s the first,” you continue, “we already did that in the lobby. If it’s the second, I’ve had enough of that for one night.”

His hand drops.

“I’m not here to debrief. Or to ignore you.”

There’s a beat of silence, then he steps into your room like it hurts to cross the threshold.

“I just wanted to talk,” he says. “To explain why I got weird after—”

“You don’t need to explain anything.”

You say it too fast. Too sharp. And you know he hears the lie in it.

Spencer closes the door behind him gently. Then he turns.

“I hated it,” he says quietly.

You blink. “What?”

“I hated watching you flirt with those men tonight.”

You stare at him for a long beat. Something inside you twists.

“You were fifteen feet away, Spencer.”

“I know.”

“I was undercover.”

“I know.”

“The unsub didn’t touch me until the very end, and even then—”

“I know,” he says again. “But I still hated it.”

You fold your arms across your chest, like that will keep everything caged inside. “Why?”

He looks at you like he can’t even believe you’re asking.

You press him anyway. “Why did you hate it, Spencer?”

His brow furrows. “Because you were in danger.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “That’s not it.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No,” you repeat. “That’s why you were afraid. I’m asking why you hated it. I’m asking about jealousy. I’m asking about the part where you couldn’t even look at me.”

His mouth opens, then closes.

You cross the room and stop in front of him, close enough to see the flicker in his eyes. “Do you have any idea how hard that was for me? Being there, with you? Pretending? Letting you touch me like any of this means something? And then you just… abandoned me after it was over and avoided making eye contact as if I’m fucking Medusa or something.”

“I didn’t know how to act,” he admits. “Or what to say.”

“I’m not asking for poetry,” you say, exasperated. “I’m asking for something. Anything. Because I felt like I was going to die in that club, but the worst part wasn’t even his hand on my throat. It was wondering if you’d still pretend none of this matters.”

The words hit. Spencer flinches like you’ve slapped him.

“I’m not pretending,” he says, voice hoarse. “I was scared. I’ve been scared for months.”

“Of what?” Your voice rises. “Of me?”

“No,” he says. “Of losing you.”

You laugh once, short and sharp. “You’ve never had me.”

He steps back like the words burned him. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? It’s true.”

“It’s not.”

You stare at him. Your heart is racing. You’re exhausted. You can still feel the pressure of the unsub’s hands on your skin, and Spencer’s arms around you, and the fact that neither of you seem capable of telling the truth until it’s too late.

“I’m not some fantasy, Spencer,” you say, quieter now. “I’m not just always going to be here when you want attention or sex or someone to lean on after a bad case. And I can’t keep being whatever you need if you’re going to keep pretending we’re just… coworkers who fuck sometimes.”

“I don’t think that,” he says, stepping closer. “You know I don’t.”

“Do I?” you whisper.

He looks at you - really looks, and takes another step to close the distance.

“I don’t want to keep acting like this is meaningless,” he finally says. “Or like I don’t think about you constantly when you’re not around.”

He pauses, gulps, steadies himself before he adds:

“Or like I haven’t been falling in love with you since you kissed me in that elevator in Boston.”

That knocks the wind out of you.

You say nothing. You can’t. You’re too busy holding your breath like if you let it out, your heart will tumble out with it. He looks so sincere, so raw, so threadbare.

“I don’t want temporary. Not with you. With you, I want everything,” he says softly.

And that’s when you fall into him.

It’s not graceful. It’s not soft. It’s a collision of everything you’ve both been holding back — anger and relief and love and ache, all packed into the same breath, into the greediness of your lips against his.

His hands find your waist like they’re finally accepting it’s where they belong. Yours curl into the fabric of his shirt and tug.

You move together without thinking, stumbling toward the bed.

“You should’ve said something sooner,” you murmur between kisses.

“I didn’t know how.”

You push him back onto the mattress and crawl over him, breath heaving. “You do now.”

And then your mouth is on his again.

It’s messy. Not rushed, but a little frantic — like the both of you are trying to find your way back to something you never really had to begin with.

His hands are on your hips, then your ass, pulling you down against him as your thighs straddle his waist. Your dress comes off. His belt is unbuckled. Everything about the moment feels slightly unmade yet still overwhelmingly perfect.

“I’ve thought about you every night since Boston,” he murmurs against your throat. “Every single time I’m around you, it’s all I can think about. Even when I’m not around you, you’re all I think about.”

You grind down against the shape of him through his pants and he groans, hips flexing. His mouth grazes your collarbone, then your shoulder, as if he’s tracing the map of you in reverse — starting from memory, finishing with fact.

And then — he looks at you. Really looks.

It doesn’t happen often. But when it does, it’s always like this:

Like he’s watching a sunrise unfurl from the inside. Like it’s almost too much for him to bear.

“I love the way you look at me,” you whisper.

“I’ve never looked at anyone else like this,” he replies. His voice is low, and it makes your knees go weak.

You reach for the button on his pants and he stills you with a hand on your wrist.

“Not yet,” he murmurs.

He shifts the weight, flipping the two of you and guiding you gently to lie back against the pillows. His hands trail over your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — not teasing, but anchoring. He tugs at the waistband of your lacy black underwear, and you lift your hips to aid him in taking them off.

When his mouth dips between your thighs, you nearly sob.

Because it’s not just about getting you off — not right away. It’s about presence. About reverence. He kisses the inside of your knee. Your inner thigh. Trails his nose up the side of your leg like he’s cataloging your scent. When his tongue finally makes contact with your center, it’s slow. Devout, almost. Like your entire existence is something holy he’s come to worship.

You bury your hands in his hair and exhale something like a prayer.

His tongue flicks. Sucks. Circles. Presses flat. You moan his name, and his groan vibrates through you.

Then, two fingers, slow and certain, slide in deep.

You gasp. Arch. He murmurs something soft against your thigh, but you barely catch it over the sound of your own breathing.

“That’s it,” he says, lifting his head just enough to look at you. His voice is low, frayed. “You’re so beautiful like this. All open and needy for me.”

You whimper. “Spence—fuck—”

His jaw clenches. You can almost see it before you hear him say it:

“Good girl.”

God, how those words ruin you.

Your whole body pulses.

Your orgasm hits low and hot — a deep, dragging pull in your gut that spreads outward in waves. Your thighs clamp around his shoulders. Your head tips back. You make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of — something between a sob and a moan — as it crests and crests and crests again.

But he doesn’t stop.

You whine. “Spencer. Too much—”

“I know baby,” he murmurs, voice molten. “But you can give me one more. Just one more for me. Please?”

How could you ever deny him?

Your body bows without permission — back arching, thighs twitching, another cry tearing from your throat. It rolls through you like heat lightning, wild and blinding, buzzing like static electricity.

By the time he finally pulls back, you’re gasping, wrecked, flushed all over.

He presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then another. Then your hipbone, your stomach, your breasts, your sternum.

You pull him up into a slow, grateful kiss and roll him beneath you, fingers curling around the buttons of his shirt.

“Off,” you murmur.

He lets you undress him, never breaking eye contact. When he’s bare under you, you settle against him, chest to chest.

You reach down and stroke him slowly, watching the way his lips part and his brows knit together.

He catches your wrist before you can do more.

“I’m gonna lose it if you keep that up.”

You smile and shift against him, lining up your hips.

“Maybe I want you to lose it a little.”

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

He flips you gently onto your back again and slides between your thighs, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other guiding himself into you.

The stretch makes you gasp, but the moment is slow. Steady.

He sinks in deep — inch by inch, until you’re full, until your nails are digging into his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You feel…”

“Like you’ve been falling in love with me since Boston?” you whisper, almost teasingly.

His eyes flick to yours, dark and unguarded.

“Something like that,” he murmurs with a soft smile.

He pulls out almost all the way, then thrusts back in, long and slow. You hook your thigh around his waist, giving him deeper access to every part of you. The rhythm builds — deliberate, relentless — hips grinding just right, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Open your eyes, baby.”

You do, just barely.

“Look at me.”

You do, and he holds your gaze like it’s the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

“You’re mine,” he says roughly. “Say it.”

You breathe out the words, partially for the sake of obedience but mostly because you mean them wholeheartedly. “I’m yours.”

Something cracks behind his eyes. “That’s right. That’s right, sweet girl. You’re mine.”

The praise and possessiveness tear through you. You clench around him and he stutters, breath breaking.

Your body starts to spiral again, tension building almost too fast. “I can’t—Spence, I’m gonna—it’s so much, I—”

His hand cups your jaw, grounding you.

“Yes, you can,” he says, tone dripping in sweetness. “You can. Let go. I want to feel all of it.”

He slips a hand between you and presses soft circles where you’re already pulsing. The overload is immediate — your back arches, your legs lock around his waist, and you sob his name as you fall apart for the third time, body shaking, salty tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. Spencer kisses them away, one by one.

When you finally come back to yourself, he’s still moving. Faster now, messier. His rhythm stutters as your body clenches around him, drawing him in deeper.

He curses into your neck, his voice low and a little helpless.

You press your lips to his ear. “Don’t stop, Spence. Need you to come for me.”

The tension in him coils tighter, his thrusts shallower now, more erratic, like he’s negotiating with his own body for just a few more seconds. You watch it happen — his mouth parting, lashes fluttering, that soft gasp he always makes right before—

His hips stutter. He drives in deep, one final time.

And then he shatters.

He comes hard, gasping your name into the side of your neck, arms trembling as he tries not to collapse. You hold him to you, breath shaking as you feel the aftershocks ripple through him.

It’s not clean or composed. It’s full-body and bone-deep, the kind of release that empties something unnamed. His whole weight sinks into you, like his body finally gave up pretending it could survive without yours.

Neither of you say anything at first. It’s all just shared breath and the heat of skin on skin, a heart beating against your ribs that might be his or yours — at this point, you’re no longer able to tell the difference.

Eventually, he shifts, just barely, enough to press a kiss to your collarbone.

You turn your head and kiss his temple, fingers in his hair.

His voice is soft when it comes:

“I’m yours, you know.”

And that’s the moment it hits you — quiet and certain. Like your body already knew, and your mind is finally catching up:

You love him. Of course you love him. You’ve been falling for him since Boston, just like he’s been falling for you.

You close your eyes and smile into his skin. “I know,” you murmur back. “And I was always yours.”

—

You don’t know how long you lay like that — tangled together, skin damp, hearts still syncing. The room is dark, save for the thin bar of light spilling in under the hotel curtains. The bedsheets are bunched around your thighs. One of his hands is resting on your hip, the other curled into your hair like he never plans to let go.

You stroke his back slowly, the way you’ve always wanted to — not as a way to coax or distract or ground him, but simply because you can.

“Are you okay?” he asks softly.

You nod against his shoulder. “Yeah. Are you?”

He huffs a breath — not quite a laugh. “Getting there.”

After a few more moments of comfortable silence, you speak again:

“Stay.”

He lifts his head, eyes glassy and soft.

“You sure?”

You nod again, slower this time. “I want you to.”

There’s a long pause, but then he kisses you — not rushed like before, not like something he’s afraid of losing. Just a kiss, plain and true.

He shifts off you carefully, murmuring a soft “hang on,” and grabs a tissue from the nightstand to clean you up. It’s quiet, almost instinctive. He doesn’t make a show of it — just does it gently, like it’s wired into him to want to take care of you like this.

Then he reaches down and pulls the comforter over your bodies, nudging you to lie on your side so he can curl himself around you. His chest to your back, one arm snug around your waist. You settle against him like you were designed for it — and maybe you really were.

After a while, you feel him press his lips to your shoulder.

“I wasn’t going to leave anyways,” he whispers.

—

You wake to the sound of a watch alarm beeping on the side table. For a second, you forget where you are.

Then you feel it — the warmth pressed along your back, the steady rise and fall of Spencer’s chest against you. His arm still draped around your waist. Sleepy kisses at the top of your spine, like he’s been waiting for you to stir.

“Morning,” Spencer mumbles against your skin.

You smile without opening your eyes. “Hi,” you whisper. He kisses your neck again, and you giggle. “Is this the part where you tell me it was all just a heat-of-the-moment thing and go back to calling me ‘agent’?”

He huffs a sleepy laugh and tightens his grip. “Not unless you want me to.”

You wait a beat. Let the silence stretch.

“I don’t want you to,” you finally murmur.

His voice softens. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He presses another kiss to your back, and you feel him smile into it.

—

The flight back to Quantico appears normal from the outside, but inside, you’re buzzing.

Morgan is asleep with his arms crossed. Emily has her headphones in. JJ is half-reading, half-daydreaming. Rossi and Hotch are reviewing something on a tablet in the back.

No one notices the way Spencer chooses the seat next to you instead of across. Or how his knee keeps brushing yours — casual, insistent, like an inside joke only the two of you are in on.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and you glance down, already smiling.

Spencer’s phone is in his hand and he’s looking at you, cheeks pink.

Spencer Reid: Would you maybe want to come over tonight after we land, if you’re not too tired?

You bite your lip and smile as you type back.

You: You asking me out, Dr. Reid?

There’s a pause. Then:

Spencer Reid: I’m asking you in, actually.

But next time I’ll take you out. Promise.

You glance sideways at him, trying not to grin too hard. He’s wearing that smile you love — the boyish, slightly shy one he only ever breaks out when he’s attempting to play it cool. You give him a wink and a nod in lieu of a written response, and his smile grows.

It’s in that moment — in the glow of his grin and the comfort of his knee pressed softly against yours — when you realize that maybe there was never a wall between the two of you at all.

Just a door, waiting for one of you to knock and leave it open.

ᝰ.ᐟ

masterlist

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[whisperedmeg]

Hiii I just want you to know that “adjoining rooms” is my favorite fanfic on this website. You did your big one with that

omg STOPPP you don’t even know what this means to me. that’s my personal favorite fic I’ve ever written and it was a true labor of love so thank u I am so honored 🥲🥲

[whisperedmeg]

life's been so busy i havent been able to catch up but jumping with joy seeing you liked my ideas enough to plan to write them !!! - 🧸

hehe yes I can’t wait to write them either!! the elle idea will def be down the line so don’t expect it too soon but it was a genius way to get her an appearance in the series. tysm for sending those reqs in 🫶🏼 hope you have time to catch up soon!

[whisperedmeg]

FEVER DREAM ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: you don’t get sick. you don’t let coworkers into your apartment. and you definitely don’t have vivid, full-body sex dreams about spencer reid. except today, apparently, you do all three.

genre: smut, fluff, hurt/comfort

tags/warnings: reader is elle’s sister, reader has the flu, fever dream but make it a sex dream (p in v, yapper!spencer bc it is canon to me he cant shut up in bed, orgasm denial but not intentional lol), caretaker sweetheart spencer, spencer brushes reader’s hair RAHHH, one bed trope (ig?) but he sleeps in a chair, coffee (+ tea) as a love language, no use of y/n, 18+ MDNI

a/n: I was itchinggg to write smut for them and had to find a way to make it work lmao so here’s how that ended up. & check out greenaway!reader’s apartment moodboard to further immerse yourself in the story. hope you enjoy! xo | GIF credit to @reidgif !

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

You never call out of work.

Not for migraines. Not for hangovers. Not even that time you got a black eye on a case and still showed up the next day like you hadn’t been slammed into a brick wall behind a warehouse in Albany.

And you never get sick.

But today? Today, your body mutinies.

You wake with your mouth dry, your throat raw, and your head stuffed with what feels like cotton soaked in battery acid. For a second you think it must be a hangover — but you haven’t had a drink in three days and you’re sweating through your sheets.

You fumble for your phone, knock it to the floor, and groan like someone twice your age as you reach down to grab it. The screen nearly blinds you. 9:17am — over an hour late for work. Six missed calls from Garcia. Three texts from Prentiss. One from Hotch, which you don’t open because if you have to look directly at his disappointment, you might actually die.

You unlock your phone, dial the general BAU line, and hold it to your ear with the back of your hand pressed to your forehead.

“Hey,” you croak into the voicemail box. “It’s Greenaway. I’m—” You cough so hard it short-circuits the sentence. “—dying, I think. I have the plague. Tell Hotch I’m not ditching work on purpose. Actually don’t tell him, I don’t care. I’m going back to sleep. Don’t call me unless someone’s dead.”

You hang up before you can overthink it. You’re not even sure what you just said.

You drop the phone somewhere in the blankets and cocoon yourself back into the twisted mess of sheets. You’re wearing only an old t-shirt — a faded Nirvana logo stretched across the chest, neckline loose and exposing one shoulder — with underwear and nothing else, which is standard sick-day protocol. If you’re going to suffer, you’re going to suffer without pants.

The heat in your body surges and dips like a tide. One second you’re freezing, the next you’re sweating again. You vaguely consider dragging yourself to the kitchen for water, or maybe finding something resembling medicine, but your bones feel like wet concrete.

So instead you close your eyes, and the world slides sideways.

—

You don’t know where you are.

The room doesn’t have walls. Or maybe it does, but they’re soft and golden and out of focus, like lamplight through gauze. You don’t remember how you got here, but none of that matters — not when there’s a body pressed over yours, warm and slow and careful.

He’s already inside you.

That much is clear. You’re full — blissfully, unbearably full — in the way that makes your eyes flutter shut and your throat catch on a moan you can’t quite voice. You arch into the sensation before you even think to name it.

There’s a hand on your hip, gentle but firm, calloused fingers curling like he’s anchoring himself with you. Another brushes up your ribcage and cups your jaw, tilting your face with reverence. His mouth lands on your neck. Your shoulder. Every kiss feels like possession.

You gasp.

His hips move in a steady, delicious rhythm. Deep. Dragging. Each thrust winds tighter around the point of tension buried low in your stomach, and you can feel everything — the stretch, the weight, the friction. The unbearable closeness of him. The way you clench around his cock when he pulls back just enough to make you chase it.

Your mind is moving through molasses, every thought slow and syrupy around the edges. The only thing you can process is the feeling. The sound of his breath. The warmth of his mouth trailing up to your ear.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers.

Your heart lurches at the voice. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in briefing rooms, across café tables, in hotel lobbies, on planes. But never like this. Not soaked in heat and hunger. Not vibrating against your throat like he’s memorizing your breathing patterns.

“I’ve thought about how you’d sound,” he murmurs, dragging his lips over your skin like he’s tracing every goosebump. “How you’d taste.”

Your fingers curl in his hair before you even realize they’re moving. It’s soft. Messy. And familiar, because you’ve ruffled it before.

You still haven’t opened your eyes, and you’re not sure you want to.

Because if you do, you’ll see it. You’ll see that it’s him — Spencer Reid, exactly how you’ve never seen him before.

This is ridiculous. You don’t think about him like this. You’ve spent months not thinking about him like this. But little by little — and much to your annoyance — he’s dismantled your armor without even trying. And when your hand touched his a few weeks ago and lingered for a moment too long, something shifted.

So you roll your hips up into him anyway. Your fingers dig in. And you let yourself drown.

“You always smell like cinnamon gum and coffee,” he says, breath hot against your cheek. “And like the record aisle in an old music store. And like your spicy floral perfume. Like something I want to memorize.”

His hips thrust deeper, and your back bows.

You moan — shameless, aching — and he swallows the sound with a kiss that feels nothing like the way you’ve been kissed before. It’s open-mouthed and wet and claiming, but all the while still achingly tender.

You gasp against his lips.

“You don’t ever have to pretend,” he whispers. “Not with me.”

His words slide under your skin, familiar and foreign all at once. He adjusts the angle, shifts his weight and— fuck. You wrap your legs around his waist without thinking, chasing that unbearable friction.

His hand slides up your body and holds you steady as he fucks into you harder, edged with something needier. He’s groaning now, breath ragged in your ear.

“Spencer,” you hear yourself moan. The weight of it slams into you, but you don’t wake.

His name is everywhere. It’s written into your pulse. Into the way your body breaks open for him. Into the way you’re trembling now, close, too close, the whole world narrowing to the ache between your legs and the velvet rasp of his voice.

“I notice things about you,” he breathes. “I know which coffee shop is your favorite. I know when you’re pretending not to be cold. I know how you press your nails into your palm when you’re trying to keep your composure.”

You bite your lip, breath shuddering. Your orgasm is right there — clawing up your spine, hot and overwhelming, threatening to rip you in half.

“I know you think no one sees you,” he says, thrusting once, twice — “but I do. I see all of you.”

You cry out. Nails digging into his shoulder. Hips trembling. Right on the edge, and then—

Knock, knock.

Your eyes slam open. Your body jolts.

And suddenly, you’re alone. Drenched in sweat, heart racing, muscles clenching around nothing. Your chest is still heaving like he was really here — like his hands are still on your body.

Knock, knock, knock.

You sit up in bed, disoriented and flushed, the dream still clinging to your skin. You press your palms to your face, breath shaking.

You don’t know who the hell is at your door. But you know exactly who you just came this close to coming in your sleep for.

Why the fuck would you dream of him like that? Spencer Reid, of all people — with his stupid facts and his twitchy hands and his painfully earnest everything. That is not how you think of him. That’s not what you want.

Or is it?

You groan, dragging your hand down your cheek. You feel like you’re made of wet paper towels and static electricity — shaky, overheated, slick with sweat in places you really don’t want to think about right now. You glance toward the clock. Somehow, it’s already evening. You’ve slept through most of the day. Maybe most of the week; it’s hard to tell.

Another fucking knock.

You roll out of bed with a grunt, legs wobbling. Your t-shirt clings to your damp back, and your panties are—

Nope. Not something you want to think about right now.

You spot the silk lounge shorts you peeled off the night before crumpled near your laundry basket and tug them on with trembling hands.

The knocking doesn’t stop.

“Hold ON,” you rasp, voice raw and barely there.

You nearly trip over your own feet as you stumble down the short hallway towards your door. You’re too disoriented to check the peephole. You just unlock it with clumsy fingers and swing it open.

The man of the hour, Spencer Reid, is standing in the hall holding a crumpled brown paper bag in one hand and a reusable grocery tote in the other. There’s a slightly panicked expression on his face, as if he half-expected you to answer the door with a loaded gun but is somehow more jarred by your current state instead.

“Hey,” he says.

You blink at him. “Am I hallucinating?”

His eyes dart over you — oversized t-shirt hanging off your bare shoulder, zero makeup, flushed skin, hair in a tangled, chaotic knot on top of your head. He visibly swallows.

“You look… comfortable.”

You squint. “Ouch?”

He ducks, stepping inside. “You know what I mean.”

You don’t even try to stop him. That’s how you know you’re sick — really sick. Any other day, you’d have slammed the door in his face after cursing him out just for finding out where you live.

“How the hell did you get my address?”

“I bribed Garcia to pull it from your file for me,” he says without shame. “Cake pop and a plushy for her office. She folded in under ten seconds.”

You groan and walk towards the couch, swaying slightly as the world tilts. “You woke me up,” you mutter, voice rough and thick with sleep. “From a dream.”

He winces. “Sorry,” he says earnestly. “What was it about?”

You freeze.

You should lie. Say something believable about falling, or flying, or your teeth falling out. Anything. But before you can scramble for a cover story, he’s already rambling.

“You know, dreams are often more about emotional state than content,” he says. “I don’t really believe in dream analysis or strict Freudian symbolism, but a lot of people interpret dreams as reflections of unresolved subconscious tension or desires. Wish fulfillment, repressed emotions, that kind of thing. And Jung wrote about—”

“Spencer,” you grumble into the couch cushions.

He pauses mid-sentence. Whether it’s from the interruption or the rare slip of his first name from your lips, you aren’t quite sure.

You blink. “I’m too sick for a lecture right now.”

“Right. Sorry,” he says again sheepishly, stepping further inside. “Occupational hazard,” he adds with a quirk of a smile.

He sets the bags down on your counter and begins unloading items with surgeon-level focus: two different kinds of soup, a sleeve of saltine crackers, an assortment of teabags, ginger ale, cherry cough drops, a small jar of Vicks, extra strength cold & flu medicine, and a pack of those fancy tissues with lotion in them that you secretly really like but would never spend the extra dollar on.

You watch from the couch, arms folded tightly across your stomach. “You do realize I’m contagious, don’t you Dr. Germaphobe?”

“I got my flu shot,” he replies with a shrug. “And I’ve been loading up on electrolytes and immunity-boosting supplements all season.”

You narrow your eyes. “That doesn’t make you invincible.”

“No,” he admits, meeting your gaze with a little half-smile. “I’ll be fine, though. I don’t want you worrying about that.”

That smile. Your heart lurches again — not like in the dream, but close enough to make you nauseous. Or maybe that’s just the fever.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you murmur quietly.

“Probably not,” he agrees, rummaging through your cabinets. “But here I am. Besides, I owe you.”

You drop your head back against the cushions and close your eyes. You can still feel the dream burning through your bloodstream, the weight of his body on your body, the rasp of his voice in your ear.

And now he’s here. In your apartment. Standing in your kitchen and looking like he stepped straight out of your subconscious, only realer. And worse, because he’s not touching you.

“I made your favorite tea,” he says, eventually placing a mug down on the table in front of you.

You crack one eye open. “You don’t know my favorite.”

He lifts one brow. “Orange blossom with honey. One ice cube so you don’t burn your tongue. Right?”

You stare at him.

“Right,” you mumble. “That’s… mildly disturbing.”

“I told you, I notice things.”

Those words sizzle with memories — both real and imagined.

He hands you the mug and your fingers brush his for a fraction of a second. Suddenly, the dream flashes in the back of your mind like lightning. Ignore, ignore, ignore.

You sip slowly, and after he brings you the soup and crackers, he sits beside you — not too close, not too far. You eat quietly, and he doesn’t talk. Just lets the low hum of a Cranberries record fill the room. You’re not sure when he put it on, or why he put it on, but it makes everything feel… softer.

Eventually, once your bowl is empty, he takes it without a word and rinses it in your sink. You watch, dazed, as he wipes down your cluttered coffee table, carefully scoops your wilted tissue pile into the trash, and folds the fuzzy blanket you’d kicked onto the floor during a hot flash. He doesn’t say a word about any of it — just does it, and you’re too weak to protest. Too bewildered to stop him. And maybe too grateful, also.

When he finishes tidying, he rummages in your purse (which normally you’d slap him for, but again… too weak) and pulls out a battered deck of playing cards. You blink at him.

“Go Fish?” he offers, holding them up like a peace treaty.

You snort, then cough. “You’re kidding.”

“I’m not,” he says, already shuffling. “You’re not in any shape for something more mentally complex.”

You laugh, which turns into another cough, which turns into another laugh, cough, laugh. He smiles again — small, but real — as he deals the cards out between you.

It’s silly. Mindless. Totally ridiculous. You’re losing horribly because you keep zoning out and losing track of your cards mid-turn, and you think he’s trying to let you win anyway. You accuse him of cheating at least twice, and at one point, he slides a tissue toward you without breaking eye contact and says, “You need this.” You throw a pillow at him in embarrassed rage and immediately regret the exertion.

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, it stops feeling weird that he’s here. It just feels like Spencer.

Time blurs again. You’re not sure how long it’s been. Long enough that his tea’s gone cold and the sun’s long since disappeared beneath the horizon. Your sentences stopped making sense about three sneezes ago — you’d exhausted all of your remaining capacity for coherence on the card game.

He glances toward the darkened window and clears his throat.

“Do you need anything else?” he asks — quiet now, a little more hesitant. The question hovers, and it’s clear he’s about to stand up and the spell’s about to break.

You stare at him for a second. You could —should — say no and just let him go.

But your head is pounding, and your skin feels wrong, and your hair— your hair is a fucking nightmare.

And… you’re not quite ready for him to leave.

You blink once. Then again. And say, voice cracking, “Brush.”

He tilts his head. “What?”

You nod toward the bedroom weakly. “Hairbrush. Vanity drawer.”

His brow furrows. “You want me to—?”

You nod again, weaker this time. “Please. Hurts. Too tangled.”

There’s a long pause. You think maybe he’s going to say no, make an excuse to leave.

But instead, you zone back into reality when you hear the faint creak of your bedroom door opening. The sound of a drawer. A rustle.

Soft footsteps approach again and you feel the couch cushions dipping with his weight beside you once more. You turn so your back is facing him and let your shoulders slump.

When his fingers slide into your hair to take out the bun on top of your head, you shiver.

He works gently. Carefully. Letting your tresses fall loose, starting at the ends and slowly detangling. It’s the kind of physical tenderness you’re not used to — not from yourself, not from anyone, and most definitely not from him.

You pretend you’re too feverish to notice how good it feels. But the truth is, you notice. God, do you notice.

You lean back slightly into the touch without meaning to. Your arm brushes his leg next to you on the couch. And then — for just a second — his hand rests on the crook of your neck.

Right there.

Right where his mouth — his lips, his tongue, his teeth — had been in the dream.

Your whole body goes still. Your breath catches.

The touch is innocent. Innocuous. Nothing about it is deliberate.

But still, it makes something snap behind your ribs.

You pull away, standing so quickly it makes you dizzy. “I should go lie back down.”

He blinks up at you, brush still in hand. “Right. Of course.”

You don’t look at him — you can’t. You shuffle down the hall, crawl back into bed, and bury yourself in blankets that feel a little too hot now. You expect to hear the front door click shut any second.

But he doesn’t leave. And a few minutes later, you hear the soft creak of the armchair in your room.

You lift your head and see Spencer curled up in it, long legs folded awkwardly. Watching you. Guarding, maybe. Or just refusing to go.

“I won’t stay much longer,” he promises, half-apologetic. “Just… until you fall asleep.”

Your throat is thick. You’re too tired to protest. “Okay.”

You close your eyes.

And when you wake sometime in the middle of the night, your fever a few degrees lower and the dream faded just enough to dull the ache, you realize he’s still there.

Asleep. Slouched in the chair. Mouth slightly open. One hand twitching faintly, as if he’s dreaming too.

Something about the sight presses warm against your ribs and bubbles up in your chest. You make a failed attempt to push that feeling back down before you get up and grab a blanket from your closet, draping it gently over his body.

You don’t say a word, but you do watch him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you crawl back into bed and let yourself sleep.

—

You’re back at work the next morning.

You’re still pale, still a little unsteady, but the fever finally broke sometime around dawn, and that’s good enough.

Your Doc Martens echo against the floor in the quiet corridor as you push through the glass doors of the BAU. You nod at an agent you don’t know in the bullpen, ignore the slight burn behind your eyes, and keep your pace steady.

It’s only when you reach your desk that you falter.

There’s a coffee cup waiting there.

Not the usual office brew. This one’s from your favorite place — the overpriced café three blocks away. There’s a sleeve around the cup as always, with a doodle scrawled in ink across the cardboard: a fish with Xs for eyes and a crooked crown. A half-assed tribute to the Go Fish massacre of the night before.

A pair of initials are scribbled beneath it, as if you didn’t already know who’d left it there:

-S.R.

Your throat goes tight.

You glance across the bullpen and find him already watching you. Spencer looks away fast, like he hadn’t meant to be caught. Like he hadn’t just pulled your subconscious apart twelve hours ago and stitched it back together with soup and cherry cough drops. Like he hadn’t slept in a chair in your bedroom and disappeared silently before your alarm went off.

You pick up the cup and walk over before you can overthink it.

He pretends not to notice you approaching until you’re close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your shampoo.

You lean your hip against his desk as you hold up the coffee and tap the sleeve with your finger. “This some kind of warning? Sleep with one eye open, the Go Fish King rises again?”

His mouth twitches into a grin. “You’re the one who stole all my jacks.”

“Stole? Please. I don’t cheat at children’s card games.”

“You cheat at everything,” he says, bemused.

You don’t argue. You just look at him — really look — and for a second, the room tilts. Or maybe you do.

The echo of his imaginary mouth on your skin hums through your nerves like static. You see the flash of his hand on your neck. The dream crashing over you again in a strange, hot wave.

You clear your throat and take a long sip of coffee, trying to shake the memory.

“I needed this,” you say finally. “Thanks.”

His expression shifts, surprised to hear that word from your lips. “You’re welcome.”

You pause and let your gaze flick up to his — steady and too soft — then back to the cup in your hand.

“That whole Florence Nightingale act yesterday…” You hesitate, words sticking. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know. But I figured it was my turn, after the bandaid thing.”

You glance at him again. He’s watching you carefully, like he’s trying not to spook you.

“I’m glad you did,” you admit quietly.

Something flashes in his eyes — not surprise, not quite. More like relief and gratitude and something else that makes your stomach twist.

You look away before it can settle.

“But don’t go getting any ideas about me being some helpless damsel in distress,” you add, deflecting. “I had a 101 degree fever and wasn’t myself. I don’t even remember most of it—”

That’s a lie. You remember all of it.

“—so if I said or did anything weird, you legally can’t hold it against me.”

Then you turn, raise the coffee cup a little in a half-assed sarcastic cheers motion, and head back to your desk before he can respond.

You don’t look back.

But you can feel him watching you, just like in the dream. Only this time, you’re awake. This time, it’s real. And that might be the most disorienting part of all.

You settle in, fingers curling around the cup as you slip off the cardboard sleeve and slide it discreetly into your desk drawer.

The coffee is still hot, the dream is still lodged under your skin, and your body remembers his far too well.

It never happened. It wasn’t real. But you think about his voice, low and wrecked, whispering little things into your neck.

You think about the real parts, too. The way he ran your brush through your tangled hair. The way he stayed all night. The way he looked at you like you were something worth noticing. The way you can’t seem to scare him off.

And for a moment — just one — you wonder what it would feel like to stop pretending you don’t want him.

Wait. What?

Nope. Must be the fever talking again.

ᝰ.ᐟ

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[whisperedmeg]

NIGHT WATCH ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: ever since he showed up at your apartment (and ever since that fever dream you’re pretending didn’t happen), you’ve avoided being alone with reid. unfortunately, hotch has another plan: assigning the two of you to an overnight stakeout.

genre: fluff, angst (sorta?)

tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, one bed trope but make it one car trope, they’re like really bad at the actual surveillance part of this but we’re gonna ignore that, emotional vulnerability, romantic/physical tension, mutual pining, comparing hand sizes i repeat COMPARING HAND SIZES, sex dream briefly mentioned, nerdy rambling spencer, slow burn is def burning, coffee as a looove language, no use of y/n

a/n: inspired by this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight | deleted and rewrote this twice and i can’t stand staring at it any longer so I am releasing it into the world to stop myself from a third rewrite lol. i prooomise the slow burn will be worth it, don’t hate me for dragging it out a lil 🥺 hope you enjoy xo

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

You haven’t been avoiding Spencer.

Not really.

You still talk to him during briefings. Still glance at him across the conference room table when someone says something idiotic. Still tolerate his commentary on geographic profiles without rolling your eyes — most of the time.

So no. Not avoiding. You’re just… adjusting your behavior. Sitting two chairs away. Declining too-private elevator rides. Waiting until he’s vacated the kitchenette to grab your coffee.

Totally reasonable things.

And it definitely has nothing to do with the unsolicited fever dream your brain cooked up last week where he fucked you slow and deep and said things like he meant them, and then you woke up sweaty and humiliated and half-convinced your pillow smelled like him.

(It didn’t. You checked. Twice.)

Still. Ever since that dream — and ever since real-life, not-naked Spencer stood in your apartment doorway with soup and concern and those stupid, sweet eyes — something’s felt off-kilter. Like gravity’s shifted. Like you’re walking around at a slight tilt and pretending it’s just because your combat boots need to be resoled.

Which is why you’re now standing in front of the case board, arms crossed, staring at a grainy crime scene photo like it holds the answers to fixing whatever the hell has been wrong with you lately.

You sense him before you see him.

That’s another thing you hate — the way your body now reacts to Spencer’s presence. That subtle tension in your shoulders. That flick of awareness down your spine.

You don’t look up when he stops beside you, just shy of your bubble.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Did you cross-reference the property tax records on the second address? The one the victim’s sister mentioned?”

You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Already did. Landlord’s been using an LLC. Trail goes cold in Wyoming.”

“Shell company?”

“Looks like it.”

He hums — that soft, thoughtful noise he makes when he’s filing something away. You’ve grown used to it. You even like it, not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

“Thanks,” he says after a beat.

You nod again. No eye contact. No acknowledgment of the way your palms feel weirdly warm or how the air between you feels too thick.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him hesitate, as if he might say something else.

But then Hotch steps into the room.

“Reid. Greenaway. You’re on overnight surveillance. Suspect’s apartment.”

You turn your head. Blink. “Both of us?”

Hotch nods in confirmation. “Try to keep each other awake.”

Your stomach drops.

Spencer exhales beside you. A soft, surprised sound — maybe even… pleased?

“Got it,” he says.

You nod for the third time. “Copy that.”

You stay still, eyes fixed on the board, pretending like your body didn’t just short-circuit at the idea of being trapped in a car with Reid on a stakeout until sunrise.

You hear him shift beside you, and you can feel the way he’s holding back now. It’s obvious — he wants to say something about your distance, and your weird avoidance, and how you’ve been acting like you’re allergic to his existence.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

He just lingers there — not close enough to touch, but close enough to make your skin buzz — and then walks away.

You don’t watch him go.

But you do exhale a little too hard once he’s gone.

—

You’re thirty-seven minutes into the stakeout and no one’s said a word.

Which wouldn’t be weird — silence is comfortable for you — except this one is intentional. Thick. Like fog that hasn’t cleared. You can feel it sitting between you like an uninvited third person in the front seat.

You’re slouched low on the passenger side, arms crossed. Outside, the suburban street is dead quiet. A porch light flickering. One curtain twitching. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

Spencer shifts beside you. You hear the rustle of his coat, the faint creak of the faux-leather seat under his elbow. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.

He cleared his throat fifteen minutes ago. That’s it.

You haven’t moved.

You know what this is. This is the cold front rolling in after something that didn’t happen. The consequences of a thing you’ve both silently decided not to acknowledge.

The worst part? You don’t even know what you’d say if he did bring the weirdness up.

Hey, yeah, sorry I’ve been weird! I had an incredibly visceral sex dream about you and me and then woke up to you at my door to take care of me when I was sick and so naturally I’ve decided to treat you like you’re the one who’s contagious?

Yeah. No. Can’t say that. Best to just keep your mouth shut.

He exhales beside you, and you brace for him to speak.

“Did you know some species of birds fake injuries to lure predators away from their nests?”

You blink. Look at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring straight ahead at the house across the street, face unreadable.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a metaphor for something?”

He huffs a short laugh. “No. Just… filling the silence.”

You don’t answer — and you don’t have to, because he keeps going.

“It’s called a broken-wing display. It’s usually exhibited by ground-nesting birds — killdeer, plovers, that kind of thing. They’ll limp away from the nest, dragging one wing like it’s injured, to lure a predator off course.”

You glance out the window. It’s still quiet on the street. No movement.

“And it works?” you ask eventually.

“Most of the time,” he says. “Until it doesn’t.”

Another stretch of silence.

You sip from the travel mug you brought — lukewarm and slightly too bitter. You make a face and set it down in the cupholder.

Spencer digs into his messenger bag and pulls out a granola bar. He holds it out to you without looking. You take it — warily — then check the label.

“Almond, honey, and flaxseed,” you read. “So… depression and dust flavored.”

He smiles to himself, and you unwrap it anyway. It is indeed dry as hell, but at least it gives your hands and mouth something to do.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. Two federal agents. A bad snack. A quiet night. No tension. No ghosts.

But then his elbow brushes yours on the center console — just barely — and you flinch like he burned you.

He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Just clears his throat again and launches into a tangent about the statistical likelihood of suspect movement during an overnight watch, quoting a number with way too many decimal places.

You don’t listen to all of it. But you don’t interrupt him, either. You just sit there, chewing your sad granola bar and pretending your pulse isn’t picking up, letting his voice wash over you.

—

It’s after midnight now.

The street is dead quiet, and the suspect’s apartment is still dark. The car’s heater hums low. The windows have started fogging at the edges.

And Spencer’s still talking.

Nothing urgent. Just another slow roll of facts — half-muttered, half-directed into the void. You lost track somewhere around the history of various types of surveillance equipment, but you don’t mind the sound. It’s even. Calming. Distracting enough to keep you from spiraling into your own head.

You’ve never really noticed how steady his voice is.

Not just steady — gentle. No sharp corners. It’s like he’s rounding off every syllable so it doesn’t snag on anything. Like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud, something might break.

Like you might break.

You shift in your seat, stretch your legs a little. Your elbow brushes his on the center console again, but you don’t flinch this time. Neither does he.

“I think sometimes I talk just to stop myself from thinking,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the dark window across the street.

You glance over. “That’s ironic, considering the fact that I don’t think you’ve ever stopped thinking for even a second.”

He almost smiles. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence.

“I know people expect me to be this… endless stream of logic. Statistics. Analysis. It’s what I’m good at. It’s who I am, right?”

You don’t answer.

He taps the side of his head twice, as if to reference his brain. “Sometimes I wonder who I’d be without it. If I wasn’t smart. If I wasn’t useful. Like… what part of me would still matter.”

Your stomach twists enough to remind you that you’re still capable of feeling things, no matter how hard you try not to.

You glance at him then say, “You know that’s bullshit, right?”

He blinks.

“You’re not useful,” you explain, deadpan. “You’re irreplaceable. There’s a difference, and it's way more annoying.”

That gets a laugh — real and surprised, the kind that breaks through the fog between you.

And then you add, because you’ve apparently lost all impulse control tonight:

“You know, some of us get handed a story before we’re old enough to decide whether or not we even want to be in it.”

He turns his head, just slightly. You can feel his eyes on you now.

“I mean, it’s always been that way for me at least. Elle’s sister. Even before the Bureau. She was the golden one. The one with the fire. And more recently, the one with the mistakes.”

You take a breath.

“I think I got good at what I do just to prove I’m not just a ‘substitute Greenaway’ or some sort of mediocre consolation prize.”

The words hang there between you, but not uncomfortably. Spencer doesn’t speak. Just listens, the way he always does — fully, quietly, like you’re saying something important even when you’re not sure you are.

“That’s not how I see you,” he says finally, stumbling over the statement like it surprised even him as it came out. “You were never a consolation prize. And you’re not your sister’s substitute, either. You’re…you. Completely, uniquely you.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

You glance away — to the windshield, the fire hydrant, to anywhere but him — and groan under your breath like it’s no big deal.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “Don’t know why I said anything.”

“Because it matters,” he replies gently.

You blink once, hard. Your eyes catch on the dim lights across the street before you let them fall to the dash.

“It doesn’t,” you lie.

Spencer doesn’t argue. Just shifts in his seat, like he’s settling in for something that might take a while.

“You always do that,” he says after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Say something honest and then walk it back with a joke or a deflection.”

“Self-sabotage is cheaper than therapy,” you retort with a humorless laugh.

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

You look at him this time, and he looks back.

And for some reason, that look — not the conversation, not the proximity, not the hour — is what makes your throat go tight. Just the way he’s looking at you. Calm. Direct. Soft. Like he’s already seen every jagged edge you’ve got and doesn't think any of them require running away from.

You’ve gotten so good at staying guarded, so good at keeping things boxed up behind clever retorts and strategic indifference. But here he is, sitting beside you in a parked car with fogged windows and bad coffee between you, and he’s not asking for anything. He’s not pressing. Not pulling.

He’s just… there.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You blink again then look away. “Why aren’t you saying anything weird right now? Like a fact about tarantulas or crime statistics for the 10 block radius around us?”

“I can,” he offers. “If you want.”

You don’t answer.

And still — he doesn’t retreat. He just starts talking again. Something about the psychology of repetition. The way people return to routines not because they’re comforting, but because they’re familiar. Even if they’re painful.

You should be panicking. You should be clawing your way back behind your armor, tossing out clever quips and sarcasm like smoke grenades.

But instead, you just… listen.

You sit like that for a long time, saying nothing, letting his words lap quietly against your softest parts.

And when he finally pauses — when he tilts his head like he might be waiting for a response — you say the only thing you can think of:

“You talk so much.”

Spencer smiles. It’s quiet, and crooked, and real.

“You like it,” he replies without missing a beat.

And the worst part is — he’s right.

—

You’re trying not to look at his hands.

Which is stupid, because you’ve had no problem looking at them before — when he’s jotting notes in his messy scrawl, or flipping through case files, or hastily pointing out points on a map.

But now you’ve spent the last six hours shoulder to shoulder in a car with him, and suddenly his hands feel like a problem.

Long fingers. Clean, short nails. That quiet strength to them — like he doesn’t know what he’s capable of.

You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.

Too late.

He looks over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Spencer blinks, then glances at his own lap. “Were you staring at my hands?”

Your jaw tenses. “Paranoid much?”

“No, it’s just—” His hands fidget absentmindedly. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s said something about them.”

“Said what?” you ask with a laugh.

He hesitates. “That they’re… distracting.”

You nearly choke. “Who told you that?”

He shrugs, playing it off, but his ears go pink. “Garcia once, to tease me. And a woman at a conference a couple of years ago. I think she, uh, meant it as a compliment.”

You shake your head. “Do you keep a running tally of women who compliment your hands?”

He raises one for a moment, almost defensively, and stutters out his reply: “No, I—what? I’m just answering your question.” His fingers twitch again, as if he’s suddenly hyper-aware of their existence. “They’re just hands,” he mumbles.

You arch a brow. “They’re not just hands. They’re… abnormally large.”

He squints at you. “Statistically, they’re not.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t start.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes and hold up your own. “Let’s compare. Settle the debate.”

He blinks, surprised — but lifts his hand anyway.

And when you press your palm to his, the temperature in the car shifts.

You’re both quiet.

His skin is warm. His fingers stretch well past yours, long enough to curl over the tips if he wanted to. Your thumb just barely grazes the base of his. His palm is so much larger than yours.

And for a second — just a second — you both forget to breathe.

He exhales first, barely a sound. “Huh.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

His pinky twitches as if he might lace it between yours if he had the guts. Like the impulse got as far as his fingertips before he was able to swallow it down. He shifts awkwardly, and for half a second your fingers do catch between his — it’s like the idea of intertwining them was so tempting, the universe tried it on your behalf.

The heat of him is steady, radiating across the small space between your bodies. You could close that distance. You could lean forward and—

But you don’t.

It’s not a romantic pose, not really. It’s just hands, after all. But somehow it feels like more. Like a metaphor for something much larger than what you’re willing to accept.

Your voice is low when it finally comes. “This… proves my point.”

Spencer nods with a gulp. “Yeah.”

“Your hands are huge.”

“Okay.” His voice cracks on the word.

You glance up with the intention to make a face, to deliver the sarcastic punchline forming behind your teeth — but then you see his expression.

Not smug. Not even flirtatious. Just wide-eyed, pink-cheeked nervousness. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the intimacy of the moment, or how long is too long to hold onto it. There’s almost a hint of something resembling anticipation in his face.

Something about that hits you harder than it should.

You pull away first, and he lets you.

You retreat to your side of the car, flexing your fingers like they’ve been stung. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” he says again, voice thinner now.

You side-eye him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking.”

“You are absolutely looking.”

He bites down a smile and turns to face the window, ears red to the tips.

You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, pulse high, the warmth of his palm still lingering on yours.

You don’t talk for a while.

—

Sometime after 4am, the world narrows.

The street’s gone still. The porch lights across the way have blinked off one by one. No movement from the target’s apartment. The car is dark inside, save for the soft glow of the dashboard display.

You’re exhausted.

Not in the way that makes you want to sleep, but in the way that makes your limbs ache and your brain buzz. Your body’s caught in that weird limbo between fight and collapse, and neither side is winning.

Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while.

You don’t know if he’s tired or just trying not to make things worse. He’s curled into his side of the car, one leg tucked beneath him, hand resting near his jaw like he was about to speak and then thought better of it and covered his mouth.

You drift. Not fully asleep — just… untethered.

At some point, the air shifts.

You blink awake, groggy, and realize the heater’s been adjusted. It’s warmer now, and there’s something draped across your lap.

Spencer’s coat.

Of course it is.

You glance over. He’s dozed off, head tilted back, chin angled toward the ceiling. His mouth is parted slightly. His hands are loose in his lap.

He looks younger like this. Not boyish, not innocent — but unguarded. The tension he usually carries in his shoulders is gone. His brow is smooth. The soft rise and fall of his chest is slow and even.

It’s stupid, how soft you go at the sight.

Worse than stupid, actually — dangerous.

You shift too quickly, trying to face forward again, and your elbow bumps his.

He stirs. Blinks awake.

You straighten like you weren’t just cataloging the shape of his mouth. Like you weren’t thinking about what his lips might feel like slotted between yours, the dream still lingering in the back of your mind.

He yawns into his fist, voice rough. “Sorry. Did I fall asleep?”

“Only for like… fifteen seconds.”

He gives you a look. “Really?”

You shrug. “Okay, maybe longer.”

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it unsuccessfully. “You should’ve woken me.”

You glance at him. “Yeah, I considered it. But then I pictured you jerking awake and instinctively quoting Nietzsche or something, so I decided against it.”

He huffs a laugh. Quiet. “Not entirely an unrealistic scenario.”

A long silence settles again, but it’s different this time. Less like fog, more like mist. Lighter and less suffocating.

You close your eyes for a moment. Not to sleep — just to breathe.

And then, Spencer says:

“This is probably the safest we’ve been all week.”

You crack an eye open. “You think a stakeout is safe?”

He nods, still facing forward. “Relatively. We’re not chasing anyone. No one’s actively trying to shoot us. It’s warm. We have snacks.”

You glance at the sad remnants of the granola bar left in the wrapper on the dash. “Questionable use of the word ‘snack.’”

He smiles, small and sideways.

Another pause.

Then, soft as a confession: “You know, I like being around you.”

Your head turns before you can stop it.

He’s not looking at you — just fiddling with the cuff of his shirt like he didn’t just say something borderline catastrophic.

You say nothing.

So he keeps going, gentle and doomed.

“I mean it. Even when you’re doing your whole… terrifying thing. Or pretending not to care about anything when you obviously do.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t obviously do.”

He finally looks at you. “You obviously do.”

Your stomach flutters — not in a cute way, but in a stop-noticing-him kind of way. In a you’re-letting-him-get-to-you-again kind of way.

You scoff. “You need sleep.”

“I do,” he agrees. “But I also mean it.”

You don’t respond, because you’re dangerously close to saying something real again, and if you don’t reroute, you’re going to regret it.

So you shove his jacket off your lap and hand it back.

“It’s too warm,” you mutter. “You’re going to lull me into a coma.”

He takes it without argument and folds it over his own lap without looking at you. But you can feel the softness in him anyway — like he’s trying not to break whatever this is.

So you sit there, staring out the windshield, listening to him rambling on about nothing again.

—

By the time the sun starts to rise, your brain feels like it’s turned into jello.

You’re not sure when the darkness lifted, or when the silence settled back in. You just know the sky’s gone pale — that washed-out blue-gray shade that only happens at dawn.

Spencer stretches beside you. His shoulder cracks loud enough to make both of you wince.

“Still alive?” you ask, voice rough.

“Barely.” He blinks blearily. “My back’s going to file a worker’s comp complaint.”

You snort. “Tell it to get in line.”

There’s a long, comfortable pause. He rubs at his eyes. You pull your jacket tighter around you and glance out the window — still nothing at the suspect’s apartment. Still dead quiet.

Which means this whole stakeout was uneventful. Pointless, even. And yet, you still feel like you’ve just lived through something.

You tap your fingers against your leg. “So. We spent all night in a car and accomplished nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Spencer says, voice soft. You glance sideways at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just starts unplugging the surveillance gear and packing up files.

You follow suit. No more banter. No more tension. Just movement.

Your hands feel clumsy.

You tell yourself it’s from lack of sleep. That it has nothing to do with how he said wouldn’t say nothing like he was drawing a circle around the very thing you’re pretending not to feel.

You feel it anyway.

But you still pretend.

—

The drive back to the precinct is quiet. You lean your head against the window and watch the neighborhoods blur past.

Spencer’s hands stay at ten and two on the steering wheel. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t feel far away, either.

That’s the part you don’t know what to do with — that he still feels close. Even in silence. Even in broad daylight.

Like the night didn’t end.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself it was nothing — that it’ll fade with caffeine and paperwork and the much-needed distraction of other people — when he signals and turns off the main road suddenly.

You blink. “Where are we going?”

“Coffee,” he says.

You open your mouth to protest. To say you’re fine, or that you guys don’t have time, or that you don’t need him doing that thing again — the thoughtful gesture thing — but nothing comes out.

So you just lean back in your seat and let him pull into the gas station without a word.

He parks and gets out without asking what you want.

Because, of course, he already knows.

You stay in the car. It’s not a conscious decision, really — you just don’t follow him inside. The heat’s still running, the vents rattling against the early morning chill, and your eyes sting every time you blink.

Inside the convenience store, Spencer pays at the counter.

You watch him through the smudged windshield. Watch him grab napkins even though you never use them. Watch him put the lid on tight like he always does.

When the driver’s side door opens again, he slides back into his seat with that same soft, sleep-rumpled quiet he’s carried all night.

He doesn’t say anything, just hands you the cup.

It’s warm, and the coffee’s exactly how you like it — dark and strong and jumbo-sized.

But it’s the sleeve that stops you — a rushed sketch in Spencer’s familiar scrawl. Two outlined hands, not touching — just hovering there on the cardboard. Between them, a tiny speech bubble that reads, “hi!”

You stare at it as he shifts the car into drive, pulls out of the lot like nothing’s happened.

And you sit there — hands wrapped around a paper cup, heart doing something you refuse to name — and let him.

The cup will get tossed.

But the sleeve?

That, you’ll keep.

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[whisperedmeg]

War of Hearts by Ruelle makes me think of Greenaway!Reader and Reid ToT

am I wrong to think so? :')

you are not wrong in the slightest my love. I wholeheartedly agree

[whisperedmeg]

Breaking news! Fic author starts writing a fic thinking it will be short and it turns out to be long! It is not the first time nor will it be the last!

[whisperedmeg]

NIGHT WATCH ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: ever since he showed up at your apartment (and ever since that fever dream you’re pretending didn’t happen), you’ve avoided being alone with reid. unfortunately, hotch has another plan: assigning the two of you to an overnight stakeout.

genre: fluff, angst (sorta?)

tags/warnings: reader is elle's sister, one bed trope but make it one car trope, they’re like really bad at the actual surveillance part of this but we’re gonna ignore that, emotional vulnerability, romantic/physical tension, mutual pining, comparing hand sizes i repeat COMPARING HAND SIZES, sex dream briefly mentioned, nerdy rambling spencer, slow burn is def burning, coffee as a looove language, no use of y/n

a/n: inspired by this request from @oh-yourloveis-sunlight | deleted and rewrote this twice and i can’t stand staring at it any longer so I am releasing it into the world to stop myself from a third rewrite lol. i prooomise the slow burn will be worth it, don’t hate me for dragging it out a lil 🥺 hope you enjoy xo

greenaway!reader masterlist 🥀

You haven’t been avoiding Spencer.

Not really.

You still talk to him during briefings. Still glance at him across the conference room table when someone says something idiotic. Still tolerate his commentary on geographic profiles without rolling your eyes — most of the time.

So no. Not avoiding. You’re just… adjusting your behavior. Sitting two chairs away. Declining too-private elevator rides. Waiting until he’s vacated the kitchenette to grab your coffee.

Totally reasonable things.

And it definitely has nothing to do with the unsolicited fever dream your brain cooked up last week where he fucked you slow and deep and said things like he meant them, and then you woke up sweaty and humiliated and half-convinced your pillow smelled like him.

(It didn’t. You checked. Twice.)

Still. Ever since that dream — and ever since real-life, not-naked Spencer stood in your apartment doorway with soup and concern and those stupid, sweet eyes — something’s felt off-kilter. Like gravity’s shifted. Like you’re walking around at a slight tilt and pretending it’s just because your combat boots need to be resoled.

Which is why you’re now standing in front of the case board, arms crossed, staring at a grainy crime scene photo like it holds the answers to fixing whatever the hell has been wrong with you lately.

You sense him before you see him.

That’s another thing you hate — the way your body now reacts to Spencer’s presence. That subtle tension in your shoulders. That flick of awareness down your spine.

You don’t look up when he stops beside you, just shy of your bubble.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Did you cross-reference the property tax records on the second address? The one the victim’s sister mentioned?”

You nod, still not meeting his eyes. “Already did. Landlord’s been using an LLC. Trail goes cold in Wyoming.”

“Shell company?”

“Looks like it.”

He hums — that soft, thoughtful noise he makes when he’s filing something away. You’ve grown used to it. You even like it, not that you’ll ever admit that out loud.

“Thanks,” he says after a beat.

You nod again. No eye contact. No acknowledgment of the way your palms feel weirdly warm or how the air between you feels too thick.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch him hesitate, as if he might say something else.

But then Hotch steps into the room.

“Reid. Greenaway. You’re on overnight surveillance. Suspect’s apartment.”

You turn your head. Blink. “Both of us?”

Hotch nods in confirmation. “Try to keep each other awake.”

Your stomach drops.

Spencer exhales beside you. A soft, surprised sound — maybe even… pleased?

“Got it,” he says.

You nod for the third time. “Copy that.”

You stay still, eyes fixed on the board, pretending like your body didn’t just short-circuit at the idea of being trapped in a car with Reid on a stakeout until sunrise.

You hear him shift beside you, and you can feel the way he’s holding back now. It’s obvious — he wants to say something about your distance, and your weird avoidance, and how you’ve been acting like you’re allergic to his existence.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

He just lingers there — not close enough to touch, but close enough to make your skin buzz — and then walks away.

You don’t watch him go.

But you do exhale a little too hard once he’s gone.

—

You’re thirty-seven minutes into the stakeout and no one’s said a word.

Which wouldn’t be weird — silence is comfortable for you — except this one is intentional. Thick. Like fog that hasn’t cleared. You can feel it sitting between you like an uninvited third person in the front seat.

You’re slouched low on the passenger side, arms crossed. Outside, the suburban street is dead quiet. A porch light flickering. One curtain twitching. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

Spencer shifts beside you. You hear the rustle of his coat, the faint creak of the faux-leather seat under his elbow. He hasn’t looked at you once since you got in the car.

He cleared his throat fifteen minutes ago. That’s it.

You haven’t moved.

You know what this is. This is the cold front rolling in after something that didn’t happen. The consequences of a thing you’ve both silently decided not to acknowledge.

The worst part? You don’t even know what you’d say if he did bring the weirdness up.

Hey, yeah, sorry I’ve been weird! I had an incredibly visceral sex dream about you and me and then woke up to you at my door to take care of me when I was sick and so naturally I’ve decided to treat you like you’re the one who’s contagious?

Yeah. No. Can’t say that. Best to just keep your mouth shut.

He exhales beside you, and you brace for him to speak.

“Did you know some species of birds fake injuries to lure predators away from their nests?”

You blink. Look at him out of the corner of your eye.

He’s staring straight ahead at the house across the street, face unreadable.

You raise an eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a metaphor for something?”

He huffs a short laugh. “No. Just… filling the silence.”

You don’t answer — and you don’t have to, because he keeps going.

“It’s called a broken-wing display. It’s usually exhibited by ground-nesting birds — killdeer, plovers, that kind of thing. They’ll limp away from the nest, dragging one wing like it’s injured, to lure a predator off course.”

You glance out the window. It’s still quiet on the street. No movement.

“And it works?” you ask eventually.

“Most of the time,” he says. “Until it doesn’t.”

Another stretch of silence.

You sip from the travel mug you brought — lukewarm and slightly too bitter. You make a face and set it down in the cupholder.

Spencer digs into his messenger bag and pulls out a granola bar. He holds it out to you without looking. You take it — warily — then check the label.

“Almond, honey, and flaxseed,” you read. “So… depression and dust flavored.”

He smiles to himself, and you unwrap it anyway. It is indeed dry as hell, but at least it gives your hands and mouth something to do.

For a moment, it almost feels normal. Two federal agents. A bad snack. A quiet night. No tension. No ghosts.

But then his elbow brushes yours on the center console — just barely — and you flinch like he burned you.

He notices, but he doesn’t say anything. Just clears his throat again and launches into a tangent about the statistical likelihood of suspect movement during an overnight watch, quoting a number with way too many decimal places.

You don’t listen to all of it. But you don’t interrupt him, either. You just sit there, chewing your sad granola bar and pretending your pulse isn’t picking up, letting his voice wash over you.

—

It’s after midnight now.

The street is dead quiet, and the suspect’s apartment is still dark. The car’s heater hums low. The windows have started fogging at the edges.

And Spencer’s still talking.

Nothing urgent. Just another slow roll of facts — half-muttered, half-directed into the void. You lost track somewhere around the history of various types of surveillance equipment, but you don’t mind the sound. It’s even. Calming. Distracting enough to keep you from spiraling into your own head.

You’ve never really noticed how steady his voice is.

Not just steady — gentle. No sharp corners. It’s like he’s rounding off every syllable so it doesn’t snag on anything. Like he’s afraid if he speaks too loud, something might break.

Like you might break.

You shift in your seat, stretch your legs a little. Your elbow brushes his on the center console again, but you don’t flinch this time. Neither does he.

“I think sometimes I talk just to stop myself from thinking,” he says suddenly, eyes still on the dark window across the street.

You glance over. “That’s ironic, considering the fact that I don’t think you’ve ever stopped thinking for even a second.”

He almost smiles. “Yeah.”

Another beat of silence.

“I know people expect me to be this… endless stream of logic. Statistics. Analysis. It’s what I’m good at. It’s who I am, right?”

You don’t answer.

He taps the side of his head twice, as if to reference his brain. “Sometimes I wonder who I’d be without it. If I wasn’t smart. If I wasn’t useful. Like… what part of me would still matter.”

Your stomach twists enough to remind you that you’re still capable of feeling things, no matter how hard you try not to.

You glance at him then say, “You know that’s bullshit, right?”

He blinks.

“You’re not useful,” you explain, deadpan. “You’re irreplaceable. There’s a difference, and it's way more annoying.”

That gets a laugh — real and surprised, the kind that breaks through the fog between you.

And then you add, because you’ve apparently lost all impulse control tonight:

“You know, some of us get handed a story before we’re old enough to decide whether or not we even want to be in it.”

He turns his head, just slightly. You can feel his eyes on you now.

“I mean, it’s always been that way for me at least. Elle’s sister. Even before the Bureau. She was the golden one. The one with the fire. And more recently, the one with the mistakes.”

You take a breath.

“I think I got good at what I do just to prove I’m not just a ‘substitute Greenaway’ or some sort of mediocre consolation prize.”

The words hang there between you, but not uncomfortably. Spencer doesn’t speak. Just listens, the way he always does — fully, quietly, like you’re saying something important even when you’re not sure you are.

“That’s not how I see you,” he says finally, stumbling over the statement like it surprised even him as it came out. “You were never a consolation prize. And you’re not your sister’s substitute, either. You’re…you. Completely, uniquely you.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does.

You glance away — to the windshield, the fire hydrant, to anywhere but him — and groan under your breath like it’s no big deal.

“Sorry,” you mutter. “Don’t know why I said anything.”

“Because it matters,” he replies gently.

You blink once, hard. Your eyes catch on the dim lights across the street before you let them fall to the dash.

“It doesn’t,” you lie.

Spencer doesn’t argue. Just shifts in his seat, like he’s settling in for something that might take a while.

“You always do that,” he says after a moment.

“Do what?”

“Say something honest and then walk it back with a joke or a deflection.”

“Self-sabotage is cheaper than therapy,” you retort with a humorless laugh.

He nods. “Yeah. I know.”

You look at him this time, and he looks back.

And for some reason, that look — not the conversation, not the proximity, not the hour — is what makes your throat go tight. Just the way he’s looking at you. Calm. Direct. Soft. Like he’s already seen every jagged edge you’ve got and doesn't think any of them require running away from.

You’ve gotten so good at staying guarded, so good at keeping things boxed up behind clever retorts and strategic indifference. But here he is, sitting beside you in a parked car with fogged windows and bad coffee between you, and he’s not asking for anything. He’s not pressing. Not pulling.

He’s just… there.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You blink again then look away. “Why aren’t you saying anything weird right now? Like a fact about tarantulas or crime statistics for the 10 block radius around us?”

“I can,” he offers. “If you want.”

You don’t answer.

And still — he doesn’t retreat. He just starts talking again. Something about the psychology of repetition. The way people return to routines not because they’re comforting, but because they’re familiar. Even if they’re painful.

You should be panicking. You should be clawing your way back behind your armor, tossing out clever quips and sarcasm like smoke grenades.

But instead, you just… listen.

You sit like that for a long time, saying nothing, letting his words lap quietly against your softest parts.

And when he finally pauses — when he tilts his head like he might be waiting for a response — you say the only thing you can think of:

“You talk so much.”

Spencer smiles. It’s quiet, and crooked, and real.

“You like it,” he replies without missing a beat.

And the worst part is — he’s right.

—

You’re trying not to look at his hands.

Which is stupid, because you’ve had no problem looking at them before — when he’s jotting notes in his messy scrawl, or flipping through case files, or hastily pointing out points on a map.

But now you’ve spent the last six hours shoulder to shoulder in a car with him, and suddenly his hands feel like a problem.

Long fingers. Clean, short nails. That quiet strength to them — like he doesn’t know what he’s capable of.

You catch yourself staring and snap your gaze away.

Too late.

He looks over. “What?”

“Nothing.”

Spencer blinks, then glances at his own lap. “Were you staring at my hands?”

Your jaw tenses. “Paranoid much?”

“No, it’s just—” His hands fidget absentmindedly. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s said something about them.”

“Said what?” you ask with a laugh.

He hesitates. “That they’re… distracting.”

You nearly choke. “Who told you that?”

He shrugs, playing it off, but his ears go pink. “Garcia once, to tease me. And a woman at a conference a couple of years ago. I think she, uh, meant it as a compliment.”

You shake your head. “Do you keep a running tally of women who compliment your hands?”

He raises one for a moment, almost defensively, and stutters out his reply: “No, I—what? I’m just answering your question.” His fingers twitch again, as if he’s suddenly hyper-aware of their existence. “They’re just hands,” he mumbles.

You arch a brow. “They’re not just hands. They’re… abnormally large.”

He squints at you. “Statistically, they’re not.”

“Jesus Christ, don’t start.”

“I’m just saying—”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes and hold up your own. “Let’s compare. Settle the debate.”

He blinks, surprised — but lifts his hand anyway.

And when you press your palm to his, the temperature in the car shifts.

You’re both quiet.

His skin is warm. His fingers stretch well past yours, long enough to curl over the tips if he wanted to. Your thumb just barely grazes the base of his. His palm is so much larger than yours.

And for a second — just a second — you both forget to breathe.

He exhales first, barely a sound. “Huh.”

You don’t move.

Neither does he.

His pinky twitches as if he might lace it between yours if he had the guts. Like the impulse got as far as his fingertips before he was able to swallow it down. He shifts awkwardly, and for half a second your fingers do catch between his — it’s like the idea of intertwining them was so tempting, the universe tried it on your behalf.

The heat of him is steady, radiating across the small space between your bodies. You could close that distance. You could lean forward and—

But you don’t.

It’s not a romantic pose, not really. It’s just hands, after all. But somehow it feels like more. Like a metaphor for something much larger than what you’re willing to accept.

Your voice is low when it finally comes. “This… proves my point.”

Spencer nods with a gulp. “Yeah.”

“Your hands are huge.”

“Okay.” His voice cracks on the word.

You glance up with the intention to make a face, to deliver the sarcastic punchline forming behind your teeth — but then you see his expression.

Not smug. Not even flirtatious. Just wide-eyed, pink-cheeked nervousness. Like he doesn’t know what to do with the intimacy of the moment, or how long is too long to hold onto it. There’s almost a hint of something resembling anticipation in his face.

Something about that hits you harder than it should.

You pull away first, and he lets you.

You retreat to your side of the car, flexing your fingers like they’ve been stung. “I’m going to pretend that didn’t happen.”

“Okay,” he says again, voice thinner now.

You side-eye him. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“I’m not looking.”

“You are absolutely looking.”

He bites down a smile and turns to face the window, ears red to the tips.

You stare straight ahead, jaw clenched, pulse high, the warmth of his palm still lingering on yours.

You don’t talk for a while.

—

Sometime after 4am, the world narrows.

The street’s gone still. The porch lights across the way have blinked off one by one. No movement from the target’s apartment. The car is dark inside, save for the soft glow of the dashboard display.

You’re exhausted.

Not in the way that makes you want to sleep, but in the way that makes your limbs ache and your brain buzz. Your body’s caught in that weird limbo between fight and collapse, and neither side is winning.

Spencer hasn’t said anything in a while.

You don’t know if he’s tired or just trying not to make things worse. He’s curled into his side of the car, one leg tucked beneath him, hand resting near his jaw like he was about to speak and then thought better of it and covered his mouth.

You drift. Not fully asleep — just… untethered.

At some point, the air shifts.

You blink awake, groggy, and realize the heater’s been adjusted. It’s warmer now, and there’s something draped across your lap.

Spencer’s coat.

Of course it is.

You glance over. He’s dozed off, head tilted back, chin angled toward the ceiling. His mouth is parted slightly. His hands are loose in his lap.

He looks younger like this. Not boyish, not innocent — but unguarded. The tension he usually carries in his shoulders is gone. His brow is smooth. The soft rise and fall of his chest is slow and even.

It’s stupid, how soft you go at the sight.

Worse than stupid, actually — dangerous.

You shift too quickly, trying to face forward again, and your elbow bumps his.

He stirs. Blinks awake.

You straighten like you weren’t just cataloging the shape of his mouth. Like you weren’t thinking about what his lips might feel like slotted between yours, the dream still lingering in the back of your mind.

He yawns into his fist, voice rough. “Sorry. Did I fall asleep?”

“Only for like… fifteen seconds.”

He gives you a look. “Really?”

You shrug. “Okay, maybe longer.”

He runs a hand through his hair, trying to smooth it unsuccessfully. “You should’ve woken me.”

You glance at him. “Yeah, I considered it. But then I pictured you jerking awake and instinctively quoting Nietzsche or something, so I decided against it.”

He huffs a laugh. Quiet. “Not entirely an unrealistic scenario.”

A long silence settles again, but it’s different this time. Less like fog, more like mist. Lighter and less suffocating.

You close your eyes for a moment. Not to sleep — just to breathe.

And then, Spencer says:

“This is probably the safest we’ve been all week.”

You crack an eye open. “You think a stakeout is safe?”

He nods, still facing forward. “Relatively. We’re not chasing anyone. No one’s actively trying to shoot us. It’s warm. We have snacks.”

You glance at the sad remnants of the granola bar left in the wrapper on the dash. “Questionable use of the word ‘snack.’”

He smiles, small and sideways.

Another pause.

Then, soft as a confession: “You know, I like being around you.”

Your head turns before you can stop it.

He’s not looking at you — just fiddling with the cuff of his shirt like he didn’t just say something borderline catastrophic.

You say nothing.

So he keeps going, gentle and doomed.

“I mean it. Even when you’re doing your whole… terrifying thing. Or pretending not to care about anything when you obviously do.”

You narrow your eyes. “I don’t obviously do.”

He finally looks at you. “You obviously do.”

Your stomach flutters — not in a cute way, but in a stop-noticing-him kind of way. In a you’re-letting-him-get-to-you-again kind of way.

You scoff. “You need sleep.”

“I do,” he agrees. “But I also mean it.”

You don’t respond, because you’re dangerously close to saying something real again, and if you don’t reroute, you’re going to regret it.

So you shove his jacket off your lap and hand it back.

“It’s too warm,” you mutter. “You’re going to lull me into a coma.”

He takes it without argument and folds it over his own lap without looking at you. But you can feel the softness in him anyway — like he’s trying not to break whatever this is.

So you sit there, staring out the windshield, listening to him rambling on about nothing again.

—

By the time the sun starts to rise, your brain feels like it’s turned into jello.

You’re not sure when the darkness lifted, or when the silence settled back in. You just know the sky’s gone pale — that washed-out blue-gray shade that only happens at dawn.

Spencer stretches beside you. His shoulder cracks loud enough to make both of you wince.

“Still alive?” you ask, voice rough.

“Barely.” He blinks blearily. “My back’s going to file a worker’s comp complaint.”

You snort. “Tell it to get in line.”

There’s a long, comfortable pause. He rubs at his eyes. You pull your jacket tighter around you and glance out the window — still nothing at the suspect’s apartment. Still dead quiet.

Which means this whole stakeout was uneventful. Pointless, even. And yet, you still feel like you’ve just lived through something.

You tap your fingers against your leg. “So. We spent all night in a car and accomplished nothing.”

“I wouldn’t say nothing,” Spencer says, voice soft. You glance sideways at him, but he doesn’t elaborate. Just starts unplugging the surveillance gear and packing up files.

You follow suit. No more banter. No more tension. Just movement.

Your hands feel clumsy.

You tell yourself it’s from lack of sleep. That it has nothing to do with how he said wouldn’t say nothing like he was drawing a circle around the very thing you’re pretending not to feel.

You feel it anyway.

But you still pretend.

—

The drive back to the precinct is quiet. You lean your head against the window and watch the neighborhoods blur past.

Spencer’s hands stay at ten and two on the steering wheel. He doesn’t speak. But he doesn’t feel far away, either.

That’s the part you don’t know what to do with — that he still feels close. Even in silence. Even in broad daylight.

Like the night didn’t end.

You’re halfway to convincing yourself it was nothing — that it’ll fade with caffeine and paperwork and the much-needed distraction of other people — when he signals and turns off the main road suddenly.

You blink. “Where are we going?”

“Coffee,” he says.

You open your mouth to protest. To say you’re fine, or that you guys don’t have time, or that you don’t need him doing that thing again — the thoughtful gesture thing — but nothing comes out.

So you just lean back in your seat and let him pull into the gas station without a word.

He parks and gets out without asking what you want.

Because, of course, he already knows.

You stay in the car. It’s not a conscious decision, really — you just don’t follow him inside. The heat’s still running, the vents rattling against the early morning chill, and your eyes sting every time you blink.

Inside the convenience store, Spencer pays at the counter.

You watch him through the smudged windshield. Watch him grab napkins even though you never use them. Watch him put the lid on tight like he always does.

When the driver’s side door opens again, he slides back into his seat with that same soft, sleep-rumpled quiet he’s carried all night.

He doesn’t say anything, just hands you the cup.

It’s warm, and the coffee’s exactly how you like it — dark and strong and jumbo-sized.

But it’s the sleeve that stops you — a rushed sketch in Spencer’s familiar scrawl. Two outlined hands, not touching — just hovering there on the cardboard. Between them, a tiny speech bubble that reads, “hi!”

You stare at it as he shifts the car into drive, pulls out of the lot like nothing’s happened.

And you sit there — hands wrapped around a paper cup, heart doing something you refuse to name — and let him.

The cup will get tossed.

But the sleeve?

That, you’ll keep.

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[whisperedmeg]

https://www.tumblr.com/whisperedmeg/790617140271120384/looking-for-alaska-also-changed-my-brain ma’am the tapestry 😭 i’m dead. that’s gotta be 2014-2017 era isn’t it

lmao you’re right on the money because it was 2016 :’) it was cool and trendy at the time I swear!!!

[whisperedmeg]

Have you read the love hypothesis, and did you hear about the movie? I AM SOOO EXCITED

yesss I have! I’m so excited too. the casting wasn’t what I initially expected but I’m totally sold on it now. I can’t wait, I love a good cheesy book-to-movie romcom

[whisperedmeg]

Top 5 Greenaway!reader fic ideas 🙈🙈

(No pressure if you’re not comfortable)

hahaha you sneaky nosy anon!!! kidding ily for being invested enough to ask. smooches for u. not gonna share anything toooo detailed and give anything huge away, but here are five general plot points/storylines that will happen at some point:

1. greenaway!reader sarcastically calls Hotch “dad” (similar to the scene with elle & gideon in the “derailed” episode) at the end of a case briefing. he scolds her for it but secretly has to push down a smile bc he also thinks it’s funny lol (this is from a request!)

2. despite her usual aversion to hanging out with coworkers outside of work, reader will somehow get roped into a girls night with the BAU ladies and end up wasted off of garcia’s homemade margaritas and drunk call a certain handsome doctor for a late night ride home 🤪

3. greenaway!reader hates her birthday. she does everything in her power to make sure no one even knows it is her birthday. but spencer knows, because of course he does, and he finds little ways to make it special anyways.

4. at some point down the line, reader is gonna get hurt on a case. she ends up being fine, but it’s bad enough to really scare the team. spencer is a wreck over it. elle shows up after garcia tracks her down bc they need a family member to make decisions for reader while she’s unconscious. chaos ensues. (also from a request!)

5. reader & spencer get assigned to interview someone a few hours outside of the town the case is located in. a horrible storm floods the area while they’re driving back and they’re forced to stay at a motel for the night until roads reopen. only problem? there’s just one room available. and it’s only got one bed.

DISCLAIMER that several of these won’t be happening until much further into the series so don’t hold your breath. but I will hint that a fun one is coming next! 😉

[whisperedmeg]

i am sooooo invested (and also have no clue who the unsub is but I’ve got a few suspicions 👀👀👀)

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱𝐞𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐫 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: a series of young women are being murdered in your town, and you — the host of a true crime podcast — are determined to investigate the case yourself, even if it means constantly getting in the way of a team of profilers and putting yourself in danger once or twice.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x podcast host female!reader, criminal minds typical violence, case details, mention of sexual violence, abduction, addiction, and drug use, season 2 bau team 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 14k 𝐚/𝐧: just letting you know I made a taglist for people waiting for the next parts! (part 3 — august 2)

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐/𝟒

───────────────────────────────────

executioner — an official who carries out a sentence of death on a condemned person.

───────────────────────────────────

previously...

You managed to get some shut-eye only around dawn, but when you woke up, you didn’t feel rested at all, so you suspected you hadn’t really fallen asleep, that maybe your brain had just briefly disconnected from your body and stopped registering the passing hours on the clock. But maybe that was better than dreams where everything was hair. Hair being cut, hair in tins, hair between your fingers, sliding along your arms like a plague.

In the morning, you washed your face with ice-cold water to wake yourself up. Life went on—you still had to go to work, carrying that heavy feeling of uncertainty on your back. On top of that, the knowledge that the case had been handed over to the BAU filled you with mixed feelings. For the most part, you were relieved, they were professionals, the best when it came to catching serial killers, which was a glimmer of hope. But on the other hand, their presence and the fact that they knew about your existence, meant you had to be more careful getting involved in the investigation…

…walking into the kitchen to make yourself some coffee, you screamed at the top of your lungs.

The man kneeling by one of the cabinets jumped in surprise, hitting his head on it with a loud thud and cursing. It wasn’t until he stuck his head out and gave you a confused look that you pressed a hand to your pounding heart, realizing it was just Danny.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” you blurted out in an apologetic tone, trying to mask how shaken you were. After the stress you’d gone through yesterday searching the station, your reactions to everything had become sharper, more intense. “I just scared myself more than anything. What are you doing here so early?”

Danny let out a breath through his mouth, rubbing the spot on his head where he’d hit it.

“There’ll be a bump, but it’s nothing serious. What am I doing here? Your mom asked me to fix the faucet, and it just so happens this is the only time I’m free today,” he said, nodding toward the open cabinet just under the sink where the pipe ran, and only then stood up, resting his hands loosely on his hips. He gave you a casual, half-smile. “I forgot you get up this early for work. But looks like you’re in for a rough day, look like you didn’t sleep a wink.”

“I did. For like fifteen minutes.”

Danny snorted.

“What kept you up? Digging through the details of some old case again?”

Neither he nor your mom followed your online activity all that closely, but from time to time, they’d ask out of curiosity, show some genuine interest. You tried to look just as relaxed as he did when you shrugged your shoulders.

“Why dig through old cases when I’ve got a current one right here?” you said. You really wanted it to come off as a joke, but after what happened the day before, you couldn’t manage it. Your voice came out tight, like from somewhere deep down, and Danny furrowed his brows. You cleared your throat quickly. You could tell him about what you’d found yesterday. “No but seriously I always have trouble sleeping when the full moon’s close. Heard a lot of people do.”

“That’s interesting.”

“Mhm. Some people also turn into werewolves.”

“True. There really are two types of us.”

You lifted the corners of your mouth slightly.

Danny went back to working on the sink while you started packing your lunch for work. You barely spoke, lost in thought and moving on autopilot. You didn’t even notice the sound of honking outside—Danny had to point it out.

“That’s probably for you.”

You frowned and walked over to the kitchen window, lifting it only to spot Charlie’s car in your driveway. He never picked you up in the mornings—you weren’t on his way, and he always had to drop his younger brother off at work first. You froze for a second.

Your first instinct was pure anger, remembering how you had to go to that abandoned station alone, even though he’d promised to come with you. You wanted to ignore him, let him honk again and then drive off. But then you remembered—you hadn’t talked to him yet about why he left.

You hadn’t realized Danny had been watching the expression on your face the whole time. He must’ve noticed the hesitation and tension, because he asked,

“What? You two had a fight? I can give you a lift if you want, I’m almost done with the sink—”

“No need. I mean, thank you, but...I need to talk to him.”

He nodded.

You stepped out of the house with your arms crossed over your chest. Instead of getting into the car, you stopped by the driver’s side window, quickly noticing that Charlie’s fourteen-year-old brother, Conrad, was sitting in the back seat. You wanted an explanation first and only then would you decide whether or not you even wanted to ride with him but you didn’t want to bring this up in front of someone else. With a cold expression and a sigh, you walked past the car and got in.

“Hi, Conrad,” you said to the younger boy.

Focused on his game, he just muttered something in response.

Your eyes moved to Charlie. His face looked even more drained than usual, like he hadn’t slept either. But that didn’t make you feel any more sympathetic, and you had no intention of being kinder to him just because of that.

He gave you an I can explain kind of look, but you shook your head.

“Just drive. You don’t want your brother to be late for school, do you?”

You could tell that only guilt was keeping him from rolling his eyes at your passive-aggressive tone. When you arrived at the school, you patiently waited as Conrad grabbed his backpack, got out, and disappeared into the crowd of other students.

Still, you didn’t say a word. You waited for Charlie to speak first.

There was no time to pull over and talk; you'd be late for work, so he started driving again. From the look on his face, it was clear he was deep in thought.

“Okay,” he began with a sigh. “I know I shouldn't left you there yesterday…”

“Oh, you don’t say. I literally had to get home with the FBI…”

“I know, I figured, but listen…I panicked. Just imagine, they’re looking for a serial killer, and here I am, alone in the car, parked outside a potential crime scene…”

“Oh, poor you. They might’ve asked you questions, and you’d have to answer them.”

You saw him sigh heavily, clearly frustrated that you weren’t understanding his very valid explanations, and worse—were throwing sarcasm at him, painting him like the asshole he didn’t think he was. He opened his mouth again, then closed it like he gave up, then went through the same motion again but before he could say anything of substance, the car jolted.

Your gaze snapped to the windshield. Charlie had slammed the brakes just in time to avoid hitting another car. For a moment, neither of you moved. Then he pressed one hand against his face, so hard it looked like he wanted to scrape the skin off.

You shook your head.

“What’s going on with you, Charlie?” you asked.

He ignored the question and started driving again. That tightening in your chest returned. Somehow, you had momentarily forgotten about yesterday only to now remember more than just the day before. You mentally reached back over the last few weeks, piecing together his recent behavior.

“Should you even be driving in this state?” you pressed.

This time, the answer came quickly and sharply.

“What state?”

“That state. You’re…constantly distracted, you go to the backroom three times and forget why every time, most of the time you talk to me like I’m attacking you. When I ask you to edit episodes for me, you send them back at four in the morning. You drink ten like coffees a day,” you started listing.

His expression was dismissive, defensive even. He let out a loud scoff as he parked in front of the store. You looked at him seriously, confrontationally.

“Do you even sleep?”

Another scoff, and your lips pressed into a thin line. Neither of you was getting out of the car yet.

“I’m asking, because I’m your—”

“Did you see the chair?” he interrupted you, turning his head in your direction. His pupils were dilated, deeply, his usually deathly pale face now had color, but not a healthy one, he looked like he had a fever.

Confused, you pressed your back into the seat.

“What chair?”

“There. In the station. The electric chair, supposedly that’s what he uses to kill them, right? You talked about it in the podcast?”

You delayed your answer, simply unable to string a sentence together. Where that sudden change of topic come from?

“There was no chair there, Charlie. Nothing…nothing was found.”

Charlie was looking at you, and his face expressed nothing. You felt uncomfortable in the atmosphere that had settled between you. Sure, you’d originally wanted to confront him, but suddenly everything turned strange. Maybe you pushed too hard, or maybe it wasn’t your fault at all, and something was just wrong with him in general.

Your hand opened the door on its own.

“I’m going inside,” you said. “You can go back home if you need to. I can handle the shop on my own.”

He didn’t respond to your offer. You looked at him silently for a moment longer before actually heading toward the store, unlocking the door and raising the blinds once inside.

You stopped by the window, looking at his figure still sitting behind the wheel. You narrowed your eyes, and it seemed like his hand reached into the pocket of the hoodie he was wearing, pulled something out, and stared at it.

But then he got out of the car, and driven by impulse, you stepped away from the window.

*

You didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the day.

Charlie spent as much time as possible in the back, only coming out when there was a customer. He served them stiffly, not even glancing at you. You did your best not to look at him either. For that one day, you treated each other like air.

It got a little boring without even the background noise of whatever game he always played, and the spiral of your thoughts and worries made the shift drag on painfully slow. Especially that last hour. You turned your back to the counter and started tidying up the shelves a bit.

The small bell above the door rang, signaling someone had walked in.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you said almost automatically, because you just knew it was him. Like every day at the same time, he came in so you could set his alarm for 4 a.m. You turned around and froze for a second, slightly surprised. You quickly recovered.

“You’re not Mr. Benson.”

Agent Reid was wearing a striped shirt with a tie, a dark red vest, and a dark suede blazer instead of his FBI vest. His glasses were resting straight on his face, not crooked to the side, and the lenses weren’t coated in white dust like they had been after you quite literally fell on him from the roof. He had come to you in plain clothes, alone, but you weren’t about to kid yourself—he knew you worked here, and he hadn’t just randomly decided to stop by a tech store.

Your factual remark didn’t seem to surprise him in the slightest. He observed you from the other side of the counter with a rather friendly look, but something told you to keep your distance.

“As far as I know, I’m not,” he replied, a flicker of a tight-lipped smile crossing his face—but when you didn’t return it, it disappeared almost instantly.

You braced yourself against the counter with both hands, lifting your chin slightly.

 “How can I help you?” you asked. “Need your phone fixed? Buying a new USB cable? Or is it something more serious. Like you were sent to talk to me and make sure I won’t tell anyone about—”

 “Careful,” he cut in, tilting his head slightly to the side. You bit the inside of your cheek, wondering if the word hair would even make it past your lips, or if you’d stammer through it. “You’re about to spill the thing I’m supposed to make sure you don’t spill.”

“And then you’ll lose your job.”

Reid looked up, pretending to consider that.

 “You know, I get the feeling I’m too valuable for them to fire me over something like that,” he said.

You stared at him without blinking, but you couldn’t tell whether he was deliberately arrogant, just pretending, or if that was his hidden nature.

He gave a small nod.

 “Well, maybe you’re the one who should be worried about that. Attacking a customer in your third sentence?”

“Did you take that as an attack?” you raised your eyebrows. It was the second time someone had accused you of that. On the same day. “Well, I just wanted to know where I stand. Should I be worried about whether our store’s inventory meets your needs, or about being thrown into a room full of two-way mirrors and interrogated again?”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” he reassured you. “No point in questioning you again. Whatever you didn’t say to us, you mentioned openly on your podcast.”

“And as we all know, everyone in Quantico is a devoted fan of it.”

A narrowing of his eyes.

“I’d argue not everyone. But as you’ve gathered, we’re familiar with it. Anyway,” he paused to take a breath, and his expression shifted slightly, as if he’d just remembered he came here with a purpose but had gotten sidetracked. “I’m not here to remind you of anything, or to keep tabs on you. I just…” he searched for the right word, gesturing lightly with his hand “wanted to make sure you’re okay. And also, I’ve got a small favor to ask.”

Genuinely curious, you parted your lips to ask about the favor when Reid’s eyes shifted to something behind you. You turned and saw Charlie standing in the office doorway, glaring at your visitor with clear hostility.

“You here to buy something or just to chat?”

It worked on you like an instant trigger. Red flag to a bull. You hadn’t spoken to each other all day, but the tension had only been building.

“To chat. With me. And it’s none of your business, so drag your ass back to the storage room where you’ve been sulking all day,” you snapped, then turned back to your customer like nothing had happened.

Reid was frozen for a second, lips slightly parted, then he closed them and let the corners curve up just a little. A glint of amusement flickered in his eyes. You figured Charlie had followed your suggestion.

“Was that the friend who let you go into the transformer station alone yesterday and then ran off at the sight of the police?” Reid asked, enunciating every word carefully, making Charlie sound like he sucked even more than he already did.

You nodded almost automatically. Only afterward did it occur to you that, if this were to be divided into sides, you and Charlie were supposed to be on the same one—and Reid on the opposite. Somehow your brain chose that exact moment to remind you of it, as if you’d gotten too distracted.

“He’s usually reliable,” you said diplomatically.

“Usually…?”

“Well, lately…” The words came to you again. Those past few weeks and Charlie’s odd behavior. But it was too complicated to get into with a profiler. So you held your tongue and returned to the foundation of your conversation.  “You mentioned a favor.”

“Oh, right,” he said, apparently remembering, and to your surprise, he suddenly looked genuinely sheepish and his previously piercing gaze dropped downward.

 “It’s… it’s not exactly a favor for me. More like for my friend…an agent on my team, but I’m the one delivering the request...”

He trailed off, lifting his eyes to you as if hoping you’d just guess what he meant. You had no idea. He sighed.

“So, Garcia, the one who introduced us to your podcast and vouched for it as a decent source of information, she really wants me to take a picture with you. For her.”

Somehow, a smile found its way to your lips. Wide, mostly from disbelief.

“You. A picture. With me. For her,” you repeated robotically, pausing between each phrase. It sounded like something you wouldn’t believe even if you told yourself.

You shook your head slowly and pressed one hand to your temple for a second. Reid watched you, waiting for your response, looking both mildly embarrassed by the request and slightly amused.

“No, stop, tell me you’re joking. I’m still not recovered from the fact that the FBI listened to my podcast, you can’t just walk in here and also ask me for a picture!”

You said it too loudly. Reid’s eyes flicked toward the back room, but you couldn’t care less about Charlie, and judging by how quickly Reid’s gaze returned to your face—drawn by your disbelieving laugh—he didn’t either.

“Of course, you’re totally allowed to say no,” he said. “And honestly, it’s probably best if you don’t post it anywhere—”

“How else will people believe me?”

“That’s the thing, ideally, there won’t be any people—”

“I’m kidding. I’m not about to share my fame with you,” you said dryly, making Reid huff a short laugh. Before he could reply, you extended your hand between you. “Show me your phone. That way, you’ll know I won’t show it to anyone.”

It was just too ridiculous of a life experience, not to mention a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and a blow to your ego, to say no.

Reid slowly handed you his phone with the camera already open, and you motioned for him to come closer to the counter. He obeyed, his brows twitching slightly when you leaned in on your side just as much.

You made sure not to look serious. Your lips pushed into an exaggerated pout meant to absurdly contrast his utterly awkward expression.

“Wow, my first picture with a fan. Mom, I’m famous,” you said, handing the phone back to him.

He accepted it, glancing down at the screen and lingering on the image for a second.

“I hope Garcia likes it. Maybe she’ll frame it in gold and hang it on her wall.”

His eyes snapped back up to you like he’d been electrocuted.

 “Please don’t,” he said, horrified.

You couldn’t help it and you burst out laughing.

He looked like he wanted to join you, but some frayed thread of professionalism held him back. Still, he couldn’t quite suppress the twitch at the corner of his mouth or the ease softening his features. Something you decided, on impulse, to take advantage of.

“So, what’s new with the investigation?” you asked as casually as if you were industry buddies who routinely swapped updates, even the classified kind.

He fell for it like a naive lamb. Your earlier laughter and the smooth flow of conversation between you had completely dulled his vigilance.

“We sent the hair in for analysis and, well, within the next 24 to 48 hours we should have confirmation on whether it really belonged to…” He paused, then narrowed his eyes. “Wait, did you just trick me into giving you information?”

He caught on.

You gave him a half-smile, feeling zero guilt for the maneuver.

“Well, you kinda walked right into it,” you murmured. “And admit it, that was clever.”

“I can only admit it was clever,” he said, reluctantly.

You gave him a look.

 “You got your picture. Now you have to finish the topic. What about the hair? What if it turns out it belonged to them?”

Reid held your gaze for a moment, clearly debating with himself. He was probably wondering whether you could really be trusted to keep sensitive information to yourself. But eventually, he sighed, realizing he’d already said too much anyway.

“Then we’ll just continue the investigation with that information,” he said. “And it’s…well, it’s pretty key. It might even help us deliver the profile.”

“So you don’t have a profile yet.”

“You know I can’t—”

The bell above the door chimed. You glanced toward it, then back at Reid, your eyes silently asking him to stay just a little longer. He visibly hesitated you saw it but then he shook his head and made for the exit.

You watched him leave with your eyes, then turned toward the new customer.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Benson,” you greeted the man.

*

You placed the tray of cookies in the center of the garden table carefully, making sure not to knock over anyone’s coffee or tea. Then you took a seat in the wicker chair beside your mother, facing your two neighbors. Elena and her fourteen-year-old daughter, Keasy.

Your garden was spacious, and your mother took great pride in keeping it well-maintained, so afternoons like this weren’t uncommon. During this particular one, though, your mind was both close and far.

Close—because the subject was close to your heart.

 Far—because the subject was close to your heart.

“But is it, like, confirmed confirmed?” Elena asked quietly. You noticed people always lowered their voices when talking about tragedies, as if that might somehow soften their weight. “I mean, I’ve heard it from several people already, but I don’t know if I should believe it… shouldn’t that kind of info be classified or something?”

In short, in case anyone was confused. The hairs you’d found at the transformer station had been confirmed to belong to Georgina, Gita, and Judy. The bodies of the first two had been found earlier, but Judy’s hadn’t until now, which confirmed that your instincts about her disappearance had been right from the beginning.

You didn’t feel even a shred of satisfaction.

You’d rather have been wrong.

It hadn’t solved much, aside from confirming that the station had been the site of executions.

Murders, really.

The area had been locked down even tighter, but no arrests were made. The killer was still out there. And yet, one question began to follow you like a round-the-clock shadow, always present. They had found the hair of three victims, most likely shaved off to allow for the placement of electrodes from the electric chair, and hidden in cans as some grotesque form of trophy.

Three victims.

But there had been four girls.

What about Maddy Baker?

The discovery of her body, in a hospital gown, her head shaved—had shocked everyone.

You too, even on a personal level. She was a few years younger than you, and you used to tutor her, often spending time at her house with her and her parents, both pharmacists.

She volunteered at the local animal shelter. You’d often run into her walking dogs.

She had bronchial asthma

She had honey-colored hair.

But it hadn’t been found with the others.

Had the killer not added it to the collection?  He’d shaved her head—that much was clear.

So what had he done with it?

Kept it? Why?

Was he personally connected to her?

Why had he suddenly abandoned the place where he committed his murders?

Did he sense that people were beginning to suspect someone’s presence at the abandoned station, and that police involvement was only a matter of time? If so, that would mean he had to be from around here. Close enough to keep up with local rumors and whispers.

It also suggested he was smart.

Did he decide to pause his killing spree? Or did he simply move it somewhere else?

Nobody knew what happened to the electric chair.

These questions circled endlessly in your mind. It was crowded and loud in there, filled with thoughts that refused to settle. And yet, you couldn’t pull any words from yourself, none that felt right for the podcast. You had paused posting updates about The Executioner, but that didn’t mean you had stopped watching the case.

The case consumed most of your attention. Even now, you only snapped out of the spiral of those repeating questions because of a sudden scoff from Keasy. The girl was wearing a gray hoodie, playing with its drawstring, her hair tied into two thick brown braids. She was side-eyeing her mom.

 “Mom, nothing in this town is classified. And if it is, not for long,” she commented and it was hard to argue with her.

Suddenly, she locked her brown eyes directly on yours. She gave a slight nod in your direction.

 “Like the fact that a young FBI agent visited you at the store recently.”

There was a smirk on her lips. Yours parted in surprise. Your mom and Elena both turned curious eyes on you.

 “How do you know that, you little smartass?” you asked with a disbelieving snort.

 She was absolutely right. Nothing in this town stayed a secret.

Keasy gave a slight shrug, a proud look on her face, like she didn’t want to reveal her sources. Your relationship had always been a bit sibling-like, full of teasing. You looked at her with raised eyebrows, expectantly, already knowing she’d tell you anyway.

“Mr. Benson,” she replied shortly. You tilted your head with curiosity. Right, Mr. Benson had entered the store while Spencer was inside, but when had Keasy talked to him? As if reading your thoughts, she added, “I’m kinda seeing his grandson now.”

“You’re joking.”

 “FBI agent,” your mom suddenly spoke, holding a bitten cookie in her hand, her worried gaze focused on you. “What did he want?”

“FBI agents have phones that need fixing too.”

“I’m being serious,” she said, and from the look on her face, you could tell she wasn’t joking. You saw Elena exchange an awkward glance with her daughter, but like everyone in this town, they loved drama too much to try and soften the conversation. “I know you’re recording something about the case, but you’re not getting involved in the investigation…are you?”

You sighed, searching for an answer that wouldn’t be a flat-out lie.

“Well, of course I’m getting slightly involved in the investigation—that’s kind of what my work is about…”

“That is not your work,” your mother cut in sharply. “It’s just some silly internet project that could get you into danger. What if… the person killing these girls is listening to it?”

“You think that’s possible?” Elena asked, genuinely intrigued but also clearly frightened. “That he’s listening… to something about himself?”

“Very possible,” you answered with a nod. “Psychopaths, assuming that’s what he is, often follow how the public reacts to their crimes and what the media says about them.”

“Assuming that’s what he is?” Keasy repeated, frowning. “Aren’t all killers that?”

“No, a lot of people think so, but in reality—”

“That’s not what matters right now,” your mother interrupted. “We’re talking about you putting yourself in danger. If the FBI is interested in you, they must think you’re getting too involved…”

“And is that a bad thing?” you shot back defensively. “If my too involved helps spread awareness about the case and the victims, warns women, maybe even contributes to finding the killer—”

“Finding the killer is the job of the police.”

“Who did nothing when Judy went missing! The ones who came after the murders don’t know anything about the people here. They’ll be doing interviews and witness statements, all of which I already gathered myself. And in the meantime, while they’re doing that, another girl could get hurt. So I think it’s morally right for me to keep going with my own investigation…”

“No. I don’t even want to hear it,” she said, cutting the air with her hand.

You pressed your lips together, but you were ready to keep fighting, ready to defend your point and your decision. At that moment, you didn’t care that the two of you were ruining a peaceful afternoon with the neighbors. You understood she was worried, but how could she call your work stupid? You stared each other down, and you saw she was preparing to say something else, her temper matching your own.

Then, timidly, Elena chimed in.

“Did I just hear your doorbell?”

You both fell silent, listening. After a moment, the faint ring of the doorbell reached your ears. You exhaled through your nose and stood up, stepping ahead of your mom.

“It’s probably Danny. You invited him, right? I’ll get it.”

You left the garden quickly, let the man inside, and even greeted him warmly. But you didn’t return outside with him. That was the whole reason you’d jumped to answer the door—you wanted to use it as a chance to slip away.

Your mother’s words had hit you twice: first, with anger. Then, they struck something deeper, reawakening a dormant sense of resolve.

Judy Perkins was dead, which meant another woman could go missing soon.

There was no time to waste.

You went upstairs to your room and grabbed your recording equipment. For the first time in days, you actually felt able to say something.

Not new information.

A request.

For your listeners to send you anything they knew.

There might’ve been more people like the one who told you about the station. People who knew something, maybe had some kind of gut feeling or suspicion, but didn’t know where to take it. It felt too trivial, in their eyes, to bring to the police. Or they were afraid of exposure. You offered them a way to speak up anonymously, and you fully intended to follow up on everything they sent.

Keasy’s words about your town’s people gave you a lot to think about. Here, everything was always somehow connected.

Almost in a frenzy, you started going back through the information and notes you’d collected so far. Over the following days, you didn’t just go over the theories your listeners submitted. You reanalyzed everything and everyone from the beginning.

You visited Georgina’s ex-boyfriend for a follow-up conversation. She’d broken up with him shortly before her death. He wasn’t exactly eager to talk. You didn’t deny that you were a bit pushy.

You watched Gita’s stepfather. The one people said had abused his family. You had no explanation for why he would suddenly start murdering in such a specific way, but it gave you a sense that you were doing something, not just sitting back and reading what others sent in. You’d bump into him at the store by accident sneaking glances at his cart full of alcohol.

Sitting in your car, parked just down the road from Gita’s house—far enough not to raise suspicion—you found yourself thinking about the murders again. The electric chair as the murder weapon. Its connection to execution was obvious. But what was execution a symbol of? Justice. Or rather, the desire to carry out justice, no matter how subjective it might be.

From that point on, two paths branched out in front of you, two questions.

Justice, but for what?

And second: who carried out the executions?

Of course, The Executioner.

But there were usually more people involved. Medical and technical staff. People who had acquired the knowledge of how it worked and had seen it with their own eyes. People who could’ve been affected by it.

You contacted your one listener who always seemed to know real things, things from unknown sources.

Still sitting in your car outside the Kopeckis’ house, you didn’t pay attention to anything around you. Night had already fallen, and the streets were empty, bathed in the soft glow of the streetlights.

Then came a reply from blackqueen6969.

A full list of names—every person involved in the last execution ever carried out in the state of Connecticut. The killer was Robert Taylor. The very first case you ever covered on your podcast.

He was strapped to the electric chair in 1964. Known as The Devil of Bristol, he lured women into his car with charisma, good looks, and the reputation of a decent man. Even in prison, he received fan letters. There was a surprisingly large number of people who believed in his innocence even though one woman had escaped and managed to call the police, which directly led to his arrest.

You’d chosen that execution for one simple reason: it was the last one. The people who’d carried it out might still be alive. They might agree to talk to you.

You tapped out the phone numbers blackqueen6969 had sent, pretending to be a journalist writing a book on the history of executions.

Only one person agreed. Yes, it took a few minutes of faking wide-eyed passion, of raving about how much you cared about this book, how honored you’d be to speak with someone so brilliant, before his ego was stroked just enough to say yes.

Michael Pershing. The Executioner of Robert Taylor himself.

You couldn’t have gotten luckier.

You scheduled the meeting with him for the next day, in Richmond, around lunchtime.

The call ended, and for a brief second, you couldn’t believe it had actually worked. You wanted to squeal out loud in excitement, but instead of a happy little shriek, what came out of your mouth was a startled yelp.

Someone had knocked on your car window.

Through the glass, you saw a police officer standing on the dark street outside, his lips moving as he said something to you. You stared forward for a moment longer, biting back a loud curse. Then, because you had no other choice, you rolled the window down.

“Good evening, officer,” you greeted, giving him a nod.

It probably came across as arrogant, because it was. You didn’t exactly have a glowing relationship with the local cops. Too many times you’d asked for comment and gotten shooed off, or been accused of bothering someone’s family, which had never actually happened. Either way, neither of you was ever thrilled to see the other.

The officer sighed, leaning in toward your window with a tired look on his face.

“Why are you sitting here?” he asked bluntly, voice colored with weary condescension. He clearly wasn’t in the mood for your usual games.

What a shame. Because you were.

You shrugged.

 “Answering a message. Like a model citizen and responsible driver, I pulled over to the side of the road so I wouldn’t text while driving. Would you rather I replied while behind the wheel?”

“You stalking me, bitch.”

 Another figure approached your car.

The officer’s hand landed squarely on Mr. Kopecki’s chest before he could get too close.

“Watch your mouth.”

“She’s harassing me! Follows me wherever I go, watches my house. What the fuck is your problem?”

Right. You’d kind of forgotten you were still parked in front of his house. You pressed your lips into a thin line and glanced at the officer, who was now flicking his gaze between the two of you, clearly waiting for your explanation.

“Well… that’s not true,” you tried.

“Not true?! Not true?! You’re literally sitting outside my house, you fucking psycho!”

You pointed straight at him, locking eyes with the officer.

 “He’s being aggressive. I’d recommend a breathalyzer. And maybe a nice little trip downtown. Who knows what he’ll do once he gets back inside, wouldn’t want anyone getting hurt—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” the cop cut you off, running a tired hand down his face. This was probably his last call of the night and he clearly wanted it over with. You relaxed slightly, guessing he'd let you off just because he didn’t feel like dealing with it.

“Step out of the car. I’m taking you in.”

Your eyes flew wide.

“I was literally answering a text!”

“Out. Of. The car.”

You let out a sound of protest and shot him a pleading look, but he didn’t budge. Point to him for not cuffing you, but still—soon enough, you were sitting in the backseat of the patrol car as it sped toward the station. Arms crossed, you silently hoped Kopecki was fucking proud of himself.

You really, really needed to be out by tomorrow. You had a lunch scheduled with Michael Pershing.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t exactly use that as your defense. And honestly, there wasn’t much else you could do either. Your only option was to keep your mouth shut, pretend to be polite and cooperative, and hope they let you out quickly…

 But that didn’t sit right with you.

Not when you had a better idea.

You slipped your phone between your knees and fired off a quick message. No time to wait for a reply. You turned it off, tilted your head back, and caught the officer’s gaze in the rearview mirror. Then gave him the faintest, knowing smile.

He sighed, more to himself than anyone else. His partner threw him a confused look.

When the car finally stopped, you waited until one of the officers opened your door, gesturing for you to get out.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, stepped out onto the dimly lit station parking lot, and then—

“We’ll take it from here,” a male voice cut in, as two pairs of footsteps approached the patrol car.

Morgan didn’t even bother flashing his badge, which told you BAU and your local police were already well acquainted.

“We understand if you had reason to detain her,” Reid added, shooting you a suggestive, faintly mocking look.

You dragged a finger across your throat in a slow motion while holding his gaze—an unsubtle gesture, quickly dropped when the officer to your left noticed. You let your hand fall casually to your side and greeted him with a polite smile.

Reid cleared his throat. “But she’s a witness in our case and we need to speak with her. It can’t wait.”

You nodded in agreement, as if anyone gave a damn about your opinion in that situation. One of the officers waited a second out of courtesy, then shrugged like he couldn’t care less. The other one wasn’t as quick to let it go.

“Hey, you can’t just—”

“Let it go,” his partner cut in, shaking his head slightly. Then, quieter, under his breath, “Seriously, I don’t have the energy to deal with her tonight…”

Both Reid and Morgan heard it and looked at you, in sync. You tried not to look overly proud. None of you said anything until the police officers disappeared from your line of sight, which, given the darkness, happened rather quickly. Your lips parted first. There were so many explanations you wanted to let out, you wanted to share your theory, of course stretching the facts a bit and not saying where you got your information.

 Morgan beat you to it.

“You better have some kind of explanation…”

“A reasonable one,” Reid specified.

 “As it happens, I do!” you declared energetically, because, in fact, you did. One of their pairs of eyebrows rose first, unconvinced, Reid seemed to have a bit more faith in you — after all, it was him you texted. And he was the one who decided to come pick you up. You hoped he saw that note of gratitude in your gaze, which you tried to communicate. He wasn’t the best when it came to eye contact though.  “And it is something reasonable, or at least I think so. It’s not totally out of nowhere, otherwise I wouldn’t have messaged you…by the way, thanks guys, for being here. Wait, can I call you guys…”

 “Unusual, but acceptable,” Reid agreed so quickly it proved he was following your rambling with engagement and keeping up, which, to be honest, didn’t always happen.

 “What a relief, I know some people who would’ve called that insulting a federal officer on duty…”

 “To the point,” Morgan cut in.

You drew in a breath. Thoughts snapping back into place. You started from the beginning , about how you asked your listeners to send you tips and how you verified them, and then moved into your own attempts at profiling the unsub, secretly cringing inside, fully aware that two literal professionals were watching you. Still, you tried not to show it, avoided looking too closely at Spencer and the focused way his eyes squinted behind his glasses, and pushed on.

The last execution in the state, Robert Taylor. The people involved. Tracking down their identities (you claimed you found them online).

“And the main idea is,” you continued, gesturing animatedly, “To meet with them. But not as the police. I mean, undercover. For example… I don’t know, a journalist writing a book about crime. Just a loose idea. And that way, figure out if any of them could be connected to this somehow. Like, the most obvious first pick would be Michael Pershing. If, purely theoretically, someone had arranged to meet him…”

You trailed off, waiting for their reaction.

Of course you saw that exchange of glances. With growing unease, you searched their faces for signs of dismissal, scorn — maybe pity. Pity would’ve been the worst of all.

That poor, foolish girl who has no idea what she’s talking about… so embarrassed for her.

You didn’t expect the knot in your stomach to tighten that much.

"Did you come up with all of that on your own?" Morgan asked, a strange mix in his eyes — clear, dominant skepticism, but also a hint of curiosity.

You nodded in confirmation. Reid, meanwhile, rested his chin on his fingers, thinking.

"What you said has a fairly stable foundation," he offered enigmatically, causing you to tilt your head slightly. You caught his gaze, and for the first time, he held it. When he spoke about psychology or profiling, he always seemed more confident. "A person who participated in or conducted executions might have severely blurred moral boundaries and a distorted sense of right and wrong. They may believe it's in their hands or even their duty to deliver justice. Tying this back to the last execution carried out in Connecticut makes sense. What it doesn't fully explain, though, is why he’s targeting young women specifically."

You felt strangely lighter listening to him, the way he actually talked with you, how he genuinely considered your theories instead of dismissing them outright just because you didn’t have their experience.

"I hadn’t thought about that," you admitted honestly, pausing. Reid seemed to only just realize you two were making eye contact, because he abruptly broke it. Shame. It had helped you speak more clearly. You cleared your throat. "Childhood trauma? Bad experiences with women? I’m guessing here, I know, but like, 90% of the time it’s some shit like that…”

"We can’t generalize like that," Morgan interjected suddenly, his tone surprisingly calm and focused.There was no trace of pity, something that had already caught you off guard earlier and kept doing so. He gave a small nod, as if agreeing with you, and you could hardly believe it. "But the premise is definitely worth attention, and it’ll get it. But you," his tone regained its edge "are absolutely not going to keep investigating this on your own, you understand? You had an idea, and it was helpful, but from here on out, it’s our responsibility. Under no circumstances are you to meet with anyone from that list."

Biting the inside of your cheek, you nodded with feigned obedience.

 "Of course. I wasn’t planning to. That could be, like, fatally dangerous."

"Alright. If that’s understood, let’s get you home..."

*

You checked your reflection in your car mirror. Five minutes until your meeting with Michael Pershing.

You hadn’t slept half the night preparing your entire persona and backstory. You’d chosen the name Phoebe Wright because it was simple and sounded somewhat journalistic, in your new project you were focusing on the history of executions in the United States, on how the methods and public opinion had changed. And since you came from the state of Connecticut, it was an honor for you to speak to the man who carried out the last one.

You adjusted the sleeves of your elegant blazer and, with a notebook under your arm, stepped out of the car.

The place didn’t require you to dress like that. You were literally meeting for lunch at a breakfast diner whose specialty dish was bagels. But whenever you imagined the executioner, your brain served up the image of a distant man, with a piercing gaze, the kind of man you subconsciously want to impress.

You were excited as fuck.

Because even if this man wasn’t the killer, he was still someone your passion for criminology simply wanted to meet. And to record an episode, but that was impossible. Phoebe Wright didn’t host a podcast.

Right before pushing open the glass door, you whispered a few words of courage to yourself and stepped inside, ready to conduct the most important interview of your entire amateur career.

Michael Pershing turned out to be the most ordinary man in the world. White polo shirt, a silver chain around his neck, and gray hair. Stocky, with a broad nose. Had you sat down with the wrong person?

“What, were you expecting the Grim Reaper?” he scoffed at you.

There was nothing friendly in his eyes. He looked bored, like he had ten more interviews lined up before noon and had already slogged through eight of them. The words slipped out before you could stop them. And Phoebe Wright was supposed to have better control over her tongue...

“No, but deep down I was pretty sure you’d have a killer sense of humor.”

His expression changed. Froze entirely for a second. Then suddenly, he burst out laughing. Smoker’s laugh, rough and crackling.

"I like you," he said, pointing at you with a thick finger, a wedding band glinting on it. His laugh vanished as quickly as it came, and in a blink he looked bored again. And they say it’s the younger generation with no attention span. “This might actually be an interesting interview. What you wanna know?”

Straight to the point. You were starting to like him, too.

You cleared your throat; everything you wanted to say was already carefully prepared.

 “As I mentioned during our phone call, I’m working on a book ab—”

He cut you off with a dismissive wave of his hand.

 “Oh, don’t repeat what you said on the phone!” he barked, loud enough that the waitress, who had just placed his plate in front of him, quickly retreated from your table. Eggs and bacon spilled from his bagel. “Just get to it. What you wanna know. Do I feel guilt sometimes, would I still choose this career if I could go back, how did I manage to get into a relationship and what does my partner think about it…”

You raised your brows. It looked like he was very eager to talk about himself.

Good.

 If he wanted direct questions, even better.

You leaned your forearms on the table between you, nodding slightly.

“1964. The execution of Robert Taylor.”

He grimaced.

 “The Devil of Bristol.”

“Knew you’d remember.”

“How could I forget? They caught him, he waited three years for an appeal, and after it was all over, people lost their fucking minds. Constant noise, saying he was innocent.”

“In your opinion, was he guilty?”

He laughed mockingly in your face.

“In my opinion? Yes, of course. I’m not a fucking moron like the rest of them. Especially those women who wrote him letters, just a group of brainless idiots…”

You let him rant about society for a moment. The topic was warming him up and loosening his tongue. Maybe it’d be easier to draw some real information out of him. You asked what his role in the execution was, in each one. You asked for a detailed explanation of the process, which took over thirty minutes.

“And what did you feel,” you asked, watching his face carefully “when you pulled the switch?”

You didn’t expect him to be honest. He’d probably give you an answer he thought you wanted to hear, something curated. The real feelings, the true experience of the executioner—those he’d keep to himself, and they’d only flicker across his face for a split second. It would be your job to catch them. To interpret them. To decide if he could be responsible for the recent murders.

There was nothing in his eyes when he said, “Hunger.”

You didn’t flinch, but a chill ran down your spine.

 “Hunger?” you echoed.

He looked you in the eyes for a moment, let you dig around in them as much as you wanted. His lips twitched, and for a second, you thought he might burst out laughing again.

“The execution was early. Around seven. They’re usually done later in the evening. I hadn’t had dinner yet and I was fucking starving. On top of that, the bastard’s last meal request was for this insanely overcooked steak,” he shook his head, like he still hadn’t gotten over it. Like he still held a grudge. Over the fact he had to wait an extra hour for dinner.

You needed to take a slightly deeper breath, sort this out in your head.This man was definitely…an interesting, alarming specimen.

You looked out the glass window next to your table just as he changed the subject to his preferred cuts of meat and suddenly, you sat bolt upright. Quickly, you forced yourself back into your usual posture. But he didn’t notice, too caught up in his own rambling.

In the parking lot, right next to your car—thankfully unfamiliar to them—another vehicle pulled in. One you knew very well, since you'd ridden in it just yesterday. And you immediately recognized the face in the front seat, in his signature tweed blazer and a tie knotted neatly at the neck, mid-sentence as he spoke to his absent partner who was busy rummaging for something under the seat.

He was cleaning his glasses with that thoughtful expression of his, then slid them back onto his nose and looked up.

Right as you were staring at him.

He froze mid-sentence, completely still, then his eyes widened.

You shot to your feet.

“Excuse me for a moment. Restroom,” you croaked out to Pershing, and without waiting for a response, bolted across the rectangular diner toward the corner where the bathrooms were tucked. Out of the corner of your eye, you caught Morgan finally finding what he’d been looking for—and the moment both of them got out of the car.

Shit, shit, shit.

They’d told you very clearly yesterday not to do this.Not to meet with anyone from that list.

And where were you right now?

At a meeting with him.

Hidden around the corner, you spun in place, hovering without entering any of the three restrooms. You wanted to stay back there, behind the wall—they couldn’t possibly know you’d planned to meet someone here. Maybe they’d just stopped by for lunch while working a lead in Bristol, following up on the information you’d given them yesterday. If it were anything more, Reid wouldn’t have looked so shocked to see you.

It was also possible they hadn’t recognized Pershing. There weren’t any photos of him online. If he hadn’t noticed you, maybe you could’ve ducked into the restroom and waited them out…

“What are you doing here?”

Reid’s voice came out in that conspiratorial whisper-shout combo. You peeked around the corner in panic—Morgan wasn’t looking your way. Good. He was too busy placing an order. So they really were just here for lunch.

You grabbed Reid’s shirt and yanked him a few feet away so no one could see him talking to anyone.

He gasped in surprise—and then groaned when your heads collided. Ouch.

You took a step back, rubbing your skull.

“I came here for lunch?” you half-asked, half-said.

Reid shook his head, clearly not buying it in the slightest.

 “In Bristol? Two hours from Fairview? For lunch? You are a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Ha! Says the guy who got totally tricked by me last night—”

“What?”

“You didn’t tell Morgan I was here, did you?” you cut in quickly, changing the subject.

Spencer paused, adjusting the shirt you’d just yanked. His glasses had tilted slightly askew, so you reached up to fix them for him.

His eyes went wide, startled, then he caught himself and cleared his throat. Twice. And once more for good measure.

“N-no, I didn’t,” he stammered. Inhale. “I didn’t. I figured I’d find out what you were doing first and then decide if it was worth getting you into trouble.”

You shot him a grimace, though deep down, you appreciated it.

 “Thank you, your grace. Now maybe let me explain, and then you can decide if it’s worth it or not,” you offered.

Before you could say anything else, someone appeared right in front of you, and both of you jumped like kids caught sneaking around. It wasn’t Morgan, though, just some guy on his way to the bathroom, who brushed past without a word.

“Okay, so,” you began. “The man in the white polo shirt you probably saw when you walked in? That’s the executioner of Robert Taylor. I arranged a meeting with him, pretending to be a journalist and an author which is also why I look insanely good today,” you said, smoothing your blazer for emphasis.

Reid was dressed similarly, and the two of you did kind of look like you’d just walked out of an office meeting.

When he parted his lips to speak, you raised a finger to cut him off.

“And before you tell me how irresponsible that is, I just want to say that the conversation was going really well and I already got a few interesting bits out of him, so it would be a shame—a big, big shame—to waste this opportunity. So please, pretty please, don’t tell Morgan I’m here.”

You even pressed your hands together in a prayer-like gesture, looking at him with pleading eyes.

Reid looked at you for a moment with an unreadable expression, like he was preparing to say something several times but kept changing his mind. Finally, he rolled his eyes slightly upward and let out a deep sigh. You couldn’t tell if that meant yes or no.

He gave a subtle nod, more to himself than to you.

“I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he began.

You opened your mouth to protest, but he raised a single finger to your lips and continued, “I’ll talk to him and come up with something to get him to leave me here. And then I’ll come back and…” he exhaled again, like he couldn’t believe what he was saying, “…we’ll finish the conversation with Pershing together.”

He said it with a firm tone, but his eyes searched your face, clearly wanting to know if you liked the idea. For a moment, you stood completely still and speechless. Then you jolted like someone had stuck a pin in you and closed the distance between you, throwing your arms around his neck in a chaotic, unexpected hug, swaying him from side to side in some kind of victorious dance.

“Oooh, thank you!” you practically sang, squeezing him tight.

Reid froze, rigid and startled, clearly having no idea what to do with his arms or his face. You didn’t blame him.

You stepped back with zero shame about your outburst, flashing a grin toward his now slightly pink cheeks. “Thank you. I swear you won’t regret this decision. Together, we’ll definitely be able to confirm or rule out whether he has anything to do with it.”

You said it with a confident, full-of-faith nod, one that Reid, seemingly involuntarily, mirrored. It wasn’t until he shook his head slightly that he managed to speak again.

 “I’ll—I’ll go talk to Morgan,” he announced. He was just about to step away when something seemed to occur to him. “I’ll text you when he leaves, so you can come out safely, go back to the table and then…I dunno, I’ll have to figure out how to join the conversation, maybe say—”

You waved your hand in a calming gesture, a confident smirk on your face.

 “Don’t worry about that, my dear. Go do your thing, and I’ll handle the rest. I’m a master of improvisation,” you said proudly.

Reid’s eyebrows rose slowly.

“Not gonna lie, that’s exactly what I’m afraid of,” he muttered.

 “Nothing to be afraid of. Now go on, shoo shoo,” you said, waving him off. “We don’t have all day.”

You could’ve sworn you saw a soft smile bloom on his face as he disappeared around the corner, a smile just for himself. Waiting for his message, you unconsciously wore the exact same expression.

When the message finally came through, you returned to the table. Pershing was finishing up his bagel, and remembering the chill that had crept down your spine just before the conversation was interrupted, you were secretly relieved that someone would be with you from now on.

“Sorry that took so long,” you said, catching a glimpse of Reid approaching the table, uncertain whether it was time to join you. You waved him over with a discreet motion. “But the good news is, from this point on, we’ll be joined by my assistant. I think I mentioned him during our phone call. And if I didn’t, I’m mentioning him now.”

The men didn’t greet each other in any particular way; Spencer simply slid into the seat beside you.

“Assistant, mhm,” hemuttered.

You elbowed Reid hard enough that he bit his lip to keep from making a sound. Pershing couldn’t have cared less whether one or two people were conducting the interview—he pushed his empty plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin, placed it on top, and cast a glance between the two of you, already looking somewhat impatient.

“There’s one matter my…friend here hasn’t brought up yet,” Reid began, his voice carrying the faintest trace of irony. “And we both felt it would be incredibly valuable to hear your undoubtedly insightful opinion on the subject.”

Before you’d parted ways earlier, you’d handed him your small notebook containing notes from your conversation, but you hadn’t expected him to go through them so quickly. Turns out he had, and he’d clearly taken to heart the part about how much your interviewee liked to be praised.

“We’d like to know if you’ve heard about the series of murders in the town of Fairview.”

Pershing let out a scoff so fast it was clear he hadn’t even thought about it.

“Where?” he asked, dismissively.

“Fairview, just under two hours from Bristol,” you chimed in. “But the location itself isn’t that important. The case has been getting enough attention that you might’ve heard about it. Someone’s been killing young women, even teenagers, in a style that mirrors executions. Most likely using an electric chair—”

“What’s that got to do with me?” he cut in. “I don’t even know where that is. I don’t watch the news. And if you’re wondering what’ll happen to that killer when they catch him, well, they sure as hell won’t fry him. That’s been banned over forty years ago. And I’m not the one who’s gonna do it.”

“But this killer sees himself as a self-appointed executioner,” you said. “We’re trying to understand where that belief might come from.”

“What’s that got to do with your book?”

“A lot,” you answered sharply, not even blinking, tired of the subject constantly being derailed. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Reid glance at you, then turn his steady, observant gaze on the man across from you, and leave it there. You had a gut feeling he already had some idea of what was really going on.

“My book wants to examine the topic of executions from the broadest possible perspective, across different decades, different social climates. In depth.”

“Then I hope you find someone who wants to talk about that. Maybe the local PD. Because I don’t even know where the hell that backwater is, and I don’t know anything about that case,” he replied, his tone just as firm as yours. “I came to this meeting to talk about my experience. You said you had questions about the last execution in this state, and that’s all I’m here to answer. I can tell you how many times Robert Taylor appealed his sentence, how he escaped prison once, what he had for his last meal, and how his wife and teenage son, a kid, really, watched him fry. I’m not wasting time on anything else.”

You clenched your jaw, unsure how to steer the conversation back to the Fairview murders. Your eyes shifted to Reid, hoping he’d know how to navigate it—or at least be puzzling over it the same way you were. Maybe he’d have an idea.

But instead, he was staring at Pershing with a cold, tilted gaze.

“In that case, we won’t waste any more of your time,” he said, and your eyes practically bulged out of your head in shock.

Even the man across from you froze, caught off guard by the sudden shift.

Reid, calm and controlled, leaned slightly forward, his eyes cold but his mouth forming a polite, artificial smile.

“Enjoy your afternoon.”

“He has nothing to do with it,” he stated confidently, gesturing with just one hand, his slim fingers slicing smoothly, almost sensually, through the air. “With Fairview, I mean. Sure, his behavior shifted the moment we brought it up, but not because he’s guilty. It’s because he’s a self-centered jerk who only wants to talk about himself.”

You stopped just by your car, at the driver’s side door, facing each other with barely a meter between you.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” you scoffed, forcing a joke to try and soften the awful knot curling low in your stomach.

It didn’t really work. Your lips didn’t twitch, your voice didn’t rise. In fact, it came out quieter than usual, thoughtful and low, tinged more with discouragement than humor. And whenever your tone dropped an octave like that, it was always a dead giveaway that something was off.

Reid must’ve picked up on it, because his brow furrowed slightly, and his dark eyes settled on you with a soft, concerned look.

 “Are you okay?” he asked gently.

You lifted your eyes to him, saying nothing for a moment before shrugging.

“I really thought this would lead us somewhere,” you admitted, pressing your lips together. One of your hands found the car door handle, but you didn’t press it—your fingertips just danced lightly across its surface. You were disappointed, and suddenly you regretted that he’d even come with you. Maybe you’d rather just go home alone and forget about this false lead you'd pinned so much hope on. “But I just wasted time.”

“No, you didn’t,” he replied, shaking his head slightly from side to side.

You rolled your eyes, already expecting him to disagree, just out of decency.

“Even if you didn’t find a connection between him and Fairview, I can tell from your notes that the conversation meant something to you. And right, I’ve got your notebook,” he said, pulling it from the inside pocket of his blazer and holding it out toward you. You wrapped your fingers around it gently, but for a moment, he didn’t let go. “Robert Taylor was the first case you covered on your podcast. It was worth meeting his executioner if only to hear details no one else could’ve given you. Like the fact that his wife and teenage son watched his execution, which is almost unthinkable, considering the boy’s age. That probably wouldn’t happen today.”

“I meant I wasted your time” 

“That’s what investigations look like. Sometimes we follow leads that take us nowhere—it’s just part of the process. You didn’t waste my time.”

You looked at each other in silence for a moment. You bit your lip, trying to read if he really meant it or was just saying what he thought you wanted to hear. After a few seconds, you figured—he had no reason to lie. You gave him a small, grateful nod for those words. And that’s exactly when something he’d said earlier caught up to you, and your eyebrows slowly, suspiciously rose.

“Wait, wait. How do you know what the first episode of my podcast was about? Did you listen to it?”

He looked slightly flustered, though tried to keep a pseudo-casual demeanor as he shook his head. “No, I mean yes. Someone...someone from the team had to go through it. But we already established you’ve got fans in Quantico.”

“Yep, I do. And no wonder my podcast is genius. But I didn’t think you specifically had listened to all of them from the very beginning.”

“Research purposes,” he said, and you could swear there was the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“Sure,” you scoffed. “Or it was my incredible storytelling and razor-sharp sense of humor.”

“And above all else, your stunning humility. Should we head back now?”

You glanced to the side, only just realizing you were still standing in the parking lot by the car, your hand resting on the door handle. Right. You should head back. You’d taken the day off work and didn’t have anything else planned, but Reid? He was literally working on the murder case in your town. Since you’d dragged him all the way out here, it was only fair to drive him back. Just the two of you. Two hours on the road.

Spencer took the passenger seat.

“But I will admit,” he said after clearing his throat, “analyzing your podcast was one of the better assignments I’ve ever had. It wasn’t just informative, it was...well. I laughed a few times.”

You froze mid-buckle at those words, then turned your head toward him, tilting it slightly, a smile forming on your lips almost instinctively.

You spent those two hours talking—surprisingly—about things that had little to do with the only common ground you'd really shared so far. And you needed that. You needed a momentary departure from the weight of it all, especially after the day you’d had, and the several before it, where your thoughts had been entirely consumed by The Executioner.

It was your last chance for that kind of relief. And maybe the only reason you were able to bear the news that awaited you once you returned.

It was afternoon. Even from a distance, you could see the BAU vehicle parked in your neighborhood, right outside your next-door neighbors’ home. But in hindsight, ever since you'd crossed the town line into Fairview, something had felt off. Heavier than usual. 

Your fourteen-year-old neighbor, Keasy, was missing.

*

From the beginning of the day, your head was only searching for an opportunity to find itself in a horizontal position.

And well, since the day at work was, as usual, calm, you allowed yourself that. To close your eyes, stinging from lack of sleep, but not to give in to dreams—nightmares, to be precise.Three days had passed since Keasy's disappearance, and it felt like time in the town had stopped. Except for your life. Unfortunately, it had to keep moving forward, even when it wasn’t clear if hers still was.

They managed to determine who had seen her last—it was the boy she’d recently started seeing, who turned out to be five years older than her. But despite that age difference and the rather mixed opinions about him, suspicions didn’t really turn in his direction.

Everyone knew who was behind Keasy’s disappearance, everyone knew it wasn’t just a disappearance—it was a kidnapping.

The BAU and the local police were doing what they could, but from what you knew from Reid, with whom, due to lack of time, you communicated only sporadically, and from your own, old, reliable sources, there simply was no trace of her.

No witnesses. No leads.

Just like in the previous cases.

There was a soft scraping sound by your ear. You opened one eye to see a cup of coffee set down on the counter in front of you, and a man’s hand pushing it in your direction. You opened your other eye and sat up, resting the weight of your head on your palm.

“If you really can’t manage today, go home early,” Charlie offered, his hands shoved awkwardly into the pockets of his red hoodie. He avoided your gaze, and the sound of his voice struck you as strangely unfamiliar.

Right. You hadn’t spoken in days.

So much had happened since then that the reasons for the silence now felt distant, irrelevant.

“We’re basically done anyway. I’ll close up on my. No problem.”

Your dry lips parted slightly in surprise at the suggestion, but after a moment they closed again, and the two of you just stared at each other in silence. If the last time you looked at him he seemed awful, now he had clearly hit his lowest point. His face was thin, the skin stretched tightly over the bones, almost translucent. A beanie on his head, with strands of long, clearly unwashed hair sticking out from underneath. His eyes bloodshot and sunken, with purple circles around them. It hit you then that his preference for loose hoodies probably wasn’t just about fashion. It was also a way to hide his increasingly thin frame. A lump formed in your throat, and you lowered your gaze to the coffee cup in front of you, wrapping your hands around it.

“Thanks, Charlie. But I’ll stay till the end, as you said, we’re basically done,” you replied in a soft tone, one that suggested you weren’t holding anything against him anymore.

Charlie nodded, leaning back against the counter on the same side as you. A long silence passed before he spoke again, hesitant and slightly remorseful.

“So…we’re good? We’re talking again?”

You nodded without hesitation. It wasn’t just that your anger had passed, or that seeing him in that state stirred something in your heart and made you not want to leave him completely alone (although mostly that) it was also that work was boring as hell when you weren’t speaking to each other. You smiled faintly.

“Back to normal.”

Charlie returned the expression, one that looked almost foreign on his worn-out face. Then the sound of the bell above the door rang out, signaling someone’s arrival. You both looked toward Mr. Benson, walking in right on schedule with his phone in hand.

“Good afternoon,” you greeted him, already reaching out your hand. Silence followed as you set his alarm for 4 a.m., but just before handing the phone back, a question slipped from your lips before you could stop it. You could blame your talkativeness, or the way your mind was wrapped up in the case. Either way, you couldn’t help yourself. “How’s your grandson holding up, Mr. Benson? I mean, he was quite close to…Keasy.”

Her name was hard to say. Which made podcast recording especially difficult. You’d known the other victims—Maggie, who you used to tutor, and Judy, who you’d chatted with a few times—but not like this. They hadn’t lived across the street your whole life. You hadn’t handed down clothes to them or had them playing in your yard.

Mr. Benson made a sour face. At first, you thought you were imagining it—you even glanced at Charlie, but he was staring at the man too, just as shocked.

“Well, serves her right,” Mr. Benson said, dismissively, coldly.

You froze, stiffening all over.

“Same goes for the rest of them, if you ask me. Nothing but little whores with no decency,” he went on, taking the phone right out of your hand so suddenly that it practically slipped from your fingers.

He turned to leave, then paused, like remembering something.

“Well, maybe not that one. Whatever her name was. The one from the Bakers, you know, the ones who run the pharmacy. Good girl, smart, pretty. Always said hello. Didn’t deserve that. If that freak was right about any of them, well it sure wasn’t her…”

Charlie moved suddenly and sharply, and for a moment, you were sure he was going to react. His jaw was clenched tight, hands balled into fists and shoved into his pockets. But instead of doing anything, he just squeezed his eyes shut, his brow furrowing hard, and turned away, heading toward the back room with a quick, staggering gait.

You followed him with your eyes, confused, then turned your gaze back to Mr. Benson. For a moment, you didn’t know what to do at all. His words had gone off like a bomb, Charlie’s reaction only added to the chaos, making it hard to think clearly. You should probably go after your friend—right? The only thing you were sure of was the burning fury inside you. Fury at the disgusting, morally bankrupt man standing in front of you.

You stood from your seat and leaned over the counter, meeting his eyes with your own, blazing with anger.

“Don’t come here again,” you ordered.

You waited just long enough for him to leave and for the door to shut behind him before you headed straight to the back room. Inside the tiny, quiet space, Charlie was standing in front of one of the cabinets, hunched over, head buried in his arms, his body shaking either from tremors or dangerously erratic breathing.

You approached him immediately, placing a hand on his shoulder, but he flinched at the touch, so you quickly pulled it back.

“Charlie, what’s going on?” you asked.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, forehead furrowed with worry, silently watching as he tried to regain control, to slow the frantic breathing that at times sounded like quiet sobs. At one point, he started shaking his head with his mouth slightly open, as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t force the words out. His hands slipped back into the pockets of his hoodie, fidgeting, like he was touching something, turning it over in his palms.

Suddenly, something clicked in your head. But first your friend, and his panic attack.

“N-no, don’t say anything,” you instructed him firmly. “Just breathe for a moment, okay?”

You had to repeat yourself once more before he started to follow the instruction, closing his eyes and breathing through his nose so deeply that his nostrils flared. The shop remained unattended, but at that moment, you didn’t care. Something else was festering in your mind, something that made sense of everything that had been going on with him lately—how his appearance and behavior had changed. You waited a little longer, giving him a moment to collect himself.

Maybe you should’ve asked more gently, but you didn’t know how.

“Are you using drugs?” you asked, your tone serious.

Charlie only opened his eyes at that question, locking onto your gaze. He held it for a long moment without answering, and that was all the confirmation you needed.

“God, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner,” you muttered, some shame aimed directly at yourself.

Now everything seemed so obvious. But clearly, you’d been too absorbed in yourself to notice something was seriously wrong with your friend. Or maybe you did notice. You just didn’t do anything about it.

He started shaking his head, denying it.

 “I’m not… it’s not that—”

“Then what do you have in your pocket?” you asked, confrontational.

The shaking intensified, turned almost frantic. The fear was just another confirmation—you didn’t want him to keep denying it. You weren’t trying to shame him or push him away. You just wanted the truth. So you reached for his pocket yourself.

For someone who had been slow and sluggish for months, Charlie suddenly found enough strength to grab your hand before you could even touch him, squeezing it hard. You let out a hiss, but he ignored it, not loosening his grip.

“Do you ever listen to a damn thing people say to you?” he snapped, pushing your arm back so forcefully your whole shoulder rotated and you had to take a step.

Yes, your heart jumped slightly with a flicker of fear, but you weren’t about to back down at the first hint of aggression. You’d known him for too long—you could’ve guessed his reaction wouldn’t be meek.

“Show me what’s in your pocket,” you demanded.

You remembered how he’d taken something out after your argument, staring at it while sitting alone in the car. Probably another dose of whatever it was he’d been taking. It all added up—and it only fueled you more. Maybe even too much. Looking at the tension on his face, you softened slightly, tried to shift your stance to something gentler.

“Charlie, you know you can trust me. I’ll help you, if you need it. If… I don’t know… if you’re scared I’ll report it to the boss, just know I’d never—”

He shook his head slightly, eyes closed, like he couldn’t take another word.

 “Move.”

You blocked him even more.

“Show me what’s in your pocket.”

He tried to push past you, but failed. The difference in strength between you wasn’t significant, especially not when his body was this weak, almost sickly. You literally grabbed hold of his hoodie, stopping him from leaving the back room.

Charlie tilted his head back with a sigh of frustration.

 “Jesus fucking Christ,” he ground out through clenched teeth, then reached into his hoodie pocket. He shoved something into your hands. Before you could even register what it was, he used the slack in your guard to push you back hard enough that you stumbled. As he left the room, he turned around briefly, spreading his arms with a bitter smile. “Happy now?”

You dropped your gaze to the small, orange plastic container.

You hadn’t been wrong for a second.

It was filled with pills.

*

It wasn’t even the next day when you heard the doorbell and knew it was Charlie.

After your confrontation, he had left the shop, leaving you alone. Ironic, really—he was the one who had suggested you go home early. Okay, maybe not the best time for irony.

After he squeezed your hand and pushed you, combined with everything else going on in your life outside of him, you probably had some unspoken right to just cut him off. Well, no one would be surprised that you didn’t. Just fifteen minutes later, you texted him asking to meet. A message he ignored. But you knew he read it. And you knew he would come.

After all, you had all his pills.

You hid them in the drawer of your desk, keeping them as a bargaining chip, just so you could talk to him a little longer. Just so you could ask how it had even started, and what you could do to help.

So, the doorbell, the steps up the stairs, the uncertain way he sat down on the edge of your bed, and silence. There was silence between you the whole time. Heavy and deafening.

The room was lit by your bedside lamp, the same color as the pill bottle hidden in the drawer of your desk, where you sat now.

Charlie kept his eyes fixed on the pattern of ducks on your bedspread. When he swallowed, it was so loud he might as well have shouted.

“I’m sorry for how I acted toward you,” he said stiffly.

“You’re only saying that so I’ll give you your pills back?”

“Yes.”

“You could at least try to make it less obvious.”

He pressed his lips together and shrugged apathetically.

“What for?”

Exactly—what for?

You slid down from your seat, still lightly leaning against it, arms loosely crossed over your chest. Charlie’s eyes gleamed with hope, thinking maybe you were moving to hand him back what was his. It was a pathetic sight.

"I need it," he said after a moment, placing heavy emphasis on the word need, his whole face tightening with it. "You obviously don’t get it, but for me this is... it’s the only way to, I don’t know, move forward."

You let out a sharp laugh.

"Charlie, you’re not moving forward. You’re barely dragging yourself."

“A small step is better than none.”

“Don’t bring up motivational you-can-do-it believe-in-yourself businessman quotes when we are literally talking about drugs!”

His hands slapped against his thighs with a tired sigh.

“I told you, this isn’t something you can understand. Just give it back, okay? If you don’t, I’ll get more anyway. It’s not a problem.”

You stayed silent. You knew he would say that, had even expected him to use that argument. But you couldn’t get past the moral block of physically handing your friend something that was slowly destroying him.

“No,” you answered plainly.

 He rolled his eyes.

 “Can I use the bathroom?”

You had your own bathroom upstairs, with the door right in your room. You gave him a look.

“Just so you know, I didn’t hide them in there. Don’t even think about going through my cabinets.”

“I just need to piss, psycho.”

You waved a hand.

“Be my guest.”

Charlie lazily got to his feet, with a look on his face like it had taken the effort of climbing Mount Everest. Then, with equally energetic movements, he dragged himself toward the room and closed the dark wooden door behind him. You were glad he had disappeared from your view for a moment, it meant you had time to think about what you were going to say to him when he came back. At least he wasn’t stubbornly denying his addiction anymore, and you considered that a good start.

As your eyes wandered around the room in thought, across the dark wooden floorboards and the walls covered in posters and photos, they eventually had to return to the place where Charlie had just been sitting. Your bed, the duck-patterned bedding, something lying on it.

And it didn’t belong to you.

You glanced toward the bathroom door—your friend was still inside.

You pushed yourself away from the desk and walked to the bed, picking up the object that must have slipped from his pocket when he stood up. Your brow instantly furrowed. It was a small crocheted bunny with button eyes, made into a keychain, with a clasp that allowed the tiny, adorable mascot to be attached to just about anything.

You carefully lifted the object, as if it might shatter upon falling. Your hands, for some reason, were trembling, so dropping it was actually a pretty likely outcome. You held your breath for a moment, as if oxygen deprivation might sharpen your other senses. And that strange feeling in your core.

Charlie wasn’t the kind of guy who’d clip a small, cute plushie onto anything, but even if he did, he’d wear it attached, not hidden in his pocket, right? You shook your head slightly, not knowing why you were analyzing it so much. Maybe he just got it from someone, maybe he bought it, found it. There didn’t have to be anything deeper behind it.

You were about to toss the oddly familiar plushie back where it had been, but then you glanced to the side and locked eyes with Charlie, just as he was stepping out of the bathroom. Upon seeing you, he froze in the doorway with one hand still on the handle, his gaze falling on what you were holding.

Your fingers closed more tightly around the little bunny.

If there hadn’t been anything deeper behind it, you wouldn’t have felt such tension in your body. You stared at his pale face for a long moment, without blinking or moving. Charlie parted his lips, then closed them again—his lower lip was trembling nervously. If there wasn’t anything behind it, he wouldn’t be reacting like that.

“That belonged to Maggie,” you said. “Maggie Baker.”

taglist: @mgg-lover4eva @jp600fox @garcialuvs

[whisperedmeg]

Top 5 favorite shows? 📺

in no particular order:

1. criminal minds. duh lol

2. one tree hill. A MASTERPIECE OF 2000s TELEVISION

3. the vampire diaries. another 2000s masterpiece

4. law and order SVU (older seasons only — the show kinda sucks nowadays but I still watch it bc what am I supposed to do after 25 seasons, stop??)

5. schitt’s creek. I am waaay overdue for a rewatch

tbh I don’t watch a lot of TV especially not new TV, I mostly just rewatch the same series over and over again lol. but honorable mentions to gossip girl, stranger things, daisy jones & the six, friends, the office, big little lies, and it’s always sunny. I knowww I’m forgetting something

[whisperedmeg]

evidence of said bracelet

also this canvas I made for my college dorm (the boho tapestry beside it is reallllly aging me isn’t it). i used pieces of old maps for the lettering and thought i was just the coolest most creative person ever back then lol

omfg and this artsy fartsy insta post (long since been archived lmao). who did I think I was?? showing toes on main when I was a child???!! the legs!!! the quote!!! the filter!! the mug of tea with way too much milk in it!!!

looking for alaska also changed my brain chemistry. i feel you babe.

it is a canon event I fear (especially for those of us who were teens in the early-mid 2010s I think). I studied abroad in college and took photos of my “great perhaps” bracelet I made w letter beads on everyyyy possible occasion lol

[whisperedmeg]

looking for alaska also changed my brain chemistry. i feel you babe.

it is a canon event I fear (especially for those of us who were teens in the early-mid 2010s I think). I studied abroad in college and took photos of my “great perhaps” bracelet I made w letter beads on everyyyy possible occasion lol

[whisperedmeg]

top 5 books maybe? 📚👀

yessss love this question!! another one where my answer changes all the time, but I have a few long-standing favorites.

top 5 books (no particular order bc that requires too much commitment and I am #avoidant)

1. looking for alaska by john green - I know, I know, cliche answer. like meg, john green, really? but this book genuinely changed my brain chemistry when I read it for the first time at 16 and means a lot to me for personal reasons so it’ll never leave this list

2. the great gatsby by f. scott fitzgerald - another cliche I know but I can’t help it, I love this one and always have.

3. beach read by emily henry - i am a suckerrrr for a good romance novel but I like romance novels that have a bit more depth (read: trauma) to them than just straight up cutesy fluffy romance, and beach read is just the perfect book for that. I love everything emily henry has written but this one takes the cake

4. the kite runner by khaled hosseini - another book that changed my brain chemistry. horribly sad and a lot of TWs to go with it but I think everyone should read this at least once if they’re able

5. to kill a mockingbird by harper lee - ok yes another common cliche but I LOVE tkam. read it for the first time as an assigned book in 10th grade lit and fell in love. I reread it at least once a year. a classic for a reason!!

honorable mentions to funny story and book lovers by emily henry, one golden summer by carley fortune, the book thief by markus zuzak, gone girl by gillian flynn, and little fires everywhere by celeste ng

[whisperedmeg]

Top 5 CM episodes/Spencer moments?

oh gosh starting off with the hardest question!!! these are so hard to choose & change depending on my mood/vibe etc but I’ll do my best

top 5 eps (in no particular order)

1. LDSK

2. mosley lane

3. the fisher king (can I count part 1 & 2 as one ep?? bc I am oh well)

4. sex birth death

5. minimal loss

honorable mentions to 52 pickup, true genius, it takes a village, entropy, seven seconds, and profiler profiled

top 5 spencer moments (also no particular order)

1. the pool makeout scene w: lila. duh.

2. “this is calm and it’s doctor”

3. the way he goes INNN on the pedo dr dad in the uncanny valley

4. his prank war against morgan in s7

5. pretty much all of his interactions w/ cat adams in entropy

honorable mentions to his magic tricks, “I never have any normal fans 😕,” “reid! is your name samuel?” “😬 sorry 😁,” boyband reid (I know that’s not a moment but ya all of it), and his little “please?” when he goes to see elle in her hotel room in s2e5

I feel like I’m forgetting a million episodes and moments but that’s what I can come up with off the top of my head