Monarch

YOU’RE HOME.

You have been for the past four days. Atleast, you’re pretty sure it’s been four days— you haven’t been counting. After what seemed like case after case, the team was allowed a ‘cooling off period,’ by no one else by the ‘angel’ Erin Strauss.

Your house is a mess. Clothes litter the floor, stained and collecting dust. At this point, that closet in the corner of your house served no purpose at all. Similarly, plates littered your kitchen table. Remaining food had began growing mold; your stomach refused to hold anything down. The stench of rotting meals clinged to your walls like a kitten to a scratch post, leaving marks as if scratching your wallpaper with its claws.

You yourself are no better— you’ve been sitting on the floor for God knows how long. It hurt at first, your stomach begged and pleaded for meals that you refused to make. It wasn’t like you were going to eat it anyway, it’d be a waste of money. By now, your nose had grown adapted to your own foul scent, but you’re sure that if any of your neighbors came knocking they’d become sick.

The clothes you had been wearing for the past two days began to feel like they had merged with your skin, damp with a mix of sweat and other things you didn’t want to think about. You’re gross. So, so gross. And no matter how severely you punish yourself for it, your body won’t budge.

You can’t move. You won’t move. Not even as your hair had become greasy and unkept. Even the unyielding hunger pangs stabbed at you like knives.

What brings you back to life is the sound of your phone going off. Shakily, you bring yourself to your legs; legs that ache and throb with every step you take.

Aaron Hotchner.

Your breath catches, a smile grazing your cracked and bleeding lips as you pressed the device to your ear. A voice comes out that isn’t yours, but it’s one you prefer to your own anyway. It’s light and airy, sugary and a notch down from childish— it’s what you’ve practiced.

“Hello, sir! Everything okay?”

As always, his voice is calm and composed. “Can you be here in 30? Triple homicide in Las Vegas, Nevada. We’ll be there for more than a few days. Pack accordingly.”

Your body springs to life, as if a switch was flipped deep within your very soul. Energy that had been lost flooded your senses, and all the misery accumulating inside of you dissipated into the rancid air around you.

“I can be there, make sure to wait up for me!” You giggled, rocking on your feet with an almost manic giddiness.

He hums in humor before hanging up. “I’ll keep the plane on the ground.”

Your arm falls to your side, head shifting to what seems like finally percieved the world around you for the first time in days. Slowly, your eyes shift to your upper thighs— drinking in the dried crimson that now stained you.

It’d be best if you covered up. No wants to see that.

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When you get there, the mood lifts. It’s not loud, it nowhere near noticible to the human eye. But you notice. You notice how Aaron stands a bit taller, how Derek’s smile grows teasing despite how his jokes have become increasingly rare; Jennifer sparks conversation with you even if her view on humanity made small talk seem worthless, and— if you’re lucky— you can resurface a silly side of Emily that she was sure died a long time ago. Not to mention how Penelope gushed about you the minute she saw you.

Because you’re easy to be around. Easy to tease, quick to listen, and whenever you spoke you seemed to always know exactly what to say. Part of you felt bad for lying like this, slipping a mask on and lying to your friends faces so selfishly. The other half of you, echoing and driving you forward, reminded you that this was a necessary evil. You were making them happy, and in return they made you feel loved. They wouldn’t like the real you, anyway.

Everything works out this way for everyone.

Almost everyone.

“Home sweet home huh, pretty boy?” Derek chuckled, ruffling the younger males already messy hair.

They’re walking ahead of you, boarding the jet. Beside you, Jennifer catches as you stare so intensely into Spencer’s back that she’s sure you could burn through him if you wanted. You knew she knew, but you couldn’t help but keep staring anyway.

He never speaks to you. Not unless he absolutely needs to, anyway. Outside of cases, you never receive any response from him that’s more than two words. You wanted to hate him so badly, but the way he looked at his team— with eyes so big and adoring, pushed you to keep trying. If only he could look at you like that, with so much devotion it’d make any onlookers vomit. You wanted it more than anything.

Yet you never got it. Day after day, all you did was starve for it.

Jennifer snaps you out of your fantasy with a warm rub of your shoulder. “He doesn’t hate you.”

“I know,” you mumbled, glancing shamefully at the floor. “He doesn’t hate anyone. He’s so kind with you all and— JJ, am I doing something wrong?”

She sighs, not in any sort of annoyance, but in pity. For a moment, she watches Spencer and Derek board the plane before she turns you towards her. Her eyes are caring, more than that they’re understanding. As if she’s been in your place before.

“You’re not.” The blonde began, her voice firm. “You’re trying your hardest every day, and we notice that. We appreciate you. Spence..”

She breaks eye-contact to look around, as if the correct wording could be found anywhere else but her mind. When she’s nervous or unsure, you noted, she tends to slightly shake her head.

“Spence has been through so much more than we can ever understand. But he’s not doing any of this to hurt you. He just has a hard time trusting—“

The words die in her throat, mouth opening but refusing to utter what came next.

You do it for her, sadly— though whatever else you were feeling was pushed down your chest and into the deepest pits of your stomach. “Strangers. I— I get it. He doesn’t know me. That’s… okay.” Even if I’ve been here for a good few months and he’d get over himself and his stupid fear of he just talked to me—

Before you two could talk anymore, Aaron peeked his head out the door. Jennifer and Aaron communicate something with their eyes, and she gently guides you into the plane.

“He’ll come around. If anyone can get someone to open up, it’s definitely the sweetheart of the BAU.”

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SOMEONE WHO APPEARS HAPPY ALL OF THE TIME IS NEVER TRUELY HAPPY AT ALL.

Spencer didn’t consider himself to be a pessimist. The term was incredibly vague and didn’t at all properly convey the extent of which life experiences can limit the expectation of positive outcomes. Not to mention it’s been watered down significantly, alongside being ‘a nihilist.’

He settled with being a skeptic. His mind never stopped racing anyway, and life has beaten into him that people are the most important beings to scrutinize. No matter how unassuming they appear, how docile, you can never properly guess what goes on inside another persons mind. So, he found himself clinging to the method of assuming everyone he came across can and would harm him in some way.

To anyone else, it would sound like paranoia. He himself knew this— but after years of his optimism taking from him, his motivation to maintain healthy and moral diminished almost entirely. It was safer this way. And it’s not like he didn’t have people he loved— his team was the family he unfortunately never had. His appreciation of the team never faded, not even after those three months at Millburn; it just capped after them. Maximum capacity was the best way he’d care to describe it. There was no room, in his heart or mind, to risk another betrayal.

So when a new face skips into the bureau, ignores his requests to be left alone, and grows close to his team within less than a month— he has the sense to keep his distance. You didn’t seem to have any malicious intentions. If you did, he was 100% percent sure the team would’ve caught you the minute you walked in. But that confrontation never came. The chaos that came with change was absent as the days drifted by.

Like a serpent, you slithered your way into their good graces. Despite himself, he’s noticed how you brought life back to the briefing room that had been doormat for years now. Logically, he should’ve dropped the games and been polite the second Aaron cracked a smile around you. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t let himself.

So, he kept his interactions with you minimal. A simple ‘yes,’ or ‘no,’ was enough. Even if you pushed, somehow managing to figure out his interests— he’d made the mistake of not bribing Garcia to say quiet— Spencer somehow found the will to avoid you. Whatever you were hiding with that soft smile of yours was enough to repel him. Even if it meant ignoring his growing fascination on what keeps you so.. you.

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Several murders. All women. It’s your textbook case— a man was done wrong in his childhood, likely by a crucial female figure, and takes it out on the weak. With the bustiling atmosphere of Las Vegas, the streets were the perfect hunting grounds for hungry men searching for vulnerable women.

Aaron speaks first, arms crossed as the team debriefed within the Las Vegas Police Department. “The hardest part here is isolating our UnSub. He’s emotional, yet calculated enough to only attack and capture these women in areas too populated for anyone to notice.”

Emily chimed in next, her hands gliding over the files provided. “How is he getting these women alone? Surely someone’ll notice, none of these women are loners— they had friends and family that’d report their disappearances?”

Your gaze followed the conversation, waiting for the opportunity to jump in. You’ve been decent, stunning average for a new recruit— but “okay,” doesn’t last. Eventually, you’re going to need to step it up. And right now, in this cramped little back room, you saw a shining offer to leave a mark.

“We’ll figure that out. We don’t have time to brainstorm.” Aaron cut in, beginning to group the team together to investigate.

Emily and Jennifer,

Rossi and Derek,

He would stay behind to continue gaining foundational intel.. meaning there was only one person left for you to work with.

Spencer seemed to notice this as well, his previously focused gaze widening slightly as he shot his boss a betrayed look. Aaron, judging from the way he slightly shook his head in refusal, was having none of it.

“You two. Go investigate the latest crime scene. It’s fresh.”

His tone was final. Over your shoulder, you watch as Spencer’s hand tightens against his satchel. Nervous, probably. Was working with you seriously that much of a burden? You hadn’t done anything to warrant this. It was taking a considerable amount of effort not to freak out, but you keep it cool. You’re getting much better at that.

Following him out, you neatly folded your hands infront of you. He made sure to keep distance between the two of you, keeping a couple paces ahead.

“Must be good to be back home, huh?” You tried, not bothering to try to keep up. “Hard to imagine someone like you grew up here. You seem like a midwestern kinda guy.”

Instead of entertaining your banter, he keeps his head forward. “How’d you know I grew up here?”

“Ahaha,” im a creep who dug into your past because you hate me? “Overheard Derek mention it once… I have a pretty good memory too, Reid.”

He hummed absentmindedly, approaching your designated vehicle and opening the drivers side. Spencer wasn’t fooling anyone, from the way his eyes narrowed in slight discomfort as he took in the wheel, you could tell that he hated driving. Apparently, he hated letting you be in charge of the car more, so here you were.

The sound of your heels contrasted the silent movement of his dress-shoes as you got in the passengers seat. Analyzing his strangely comfortable attire— you spot the faint visibility of what appeared to be two differently colored… cartoon socks? You hadn’t paid any attention to his outfit before, but you were desperate enough to pick him apart with your eyes and find any conversation starter.

“You.. mismatch your socks?” You question, your tone light and teasing. A mistake, apparently.

He retorts quickly, using the excuse of checking the side mirrors to hide whatever embarrassment was beginning to show on his face. “Is that a problem?”

A bit taken back by his boldness, you deflate slightly into your car seat. It was rare that’d you’d ever admit this, but you were losing hope. You give a pout, playing up the role of a kicked puppy as you click your seatbelt into place.

“No,” you mutter. “Not at all. Sorry.”

When you both reach the crime scene, you’re met with the usual barrage of reporters. Spencer seemed used to it, unflinching even as cameras flashed directly into his eyes. You, however, were still adjusting. The attention felt good, you’d admit, but the constant questions and yelling made your head pound like a cheap drum set.

“Any updates on The Las Vegas Victimizer?”

You couldn’t help but furrow your brow, is that the best they had? Las Vegas Victimizer? Dear God these people suck.

“Is it true that he’s taking from public spaces? How can we be sure that you’re keeping the people safe?”

Okay, that was a bit more reasonable of a question.

“New hire!”

Is that what you’re being reduced to in the press?

“Long sleeves in the summer? What’re you hiding?”

And for a second, you fight the urge to go still. If you were to look down at your sleeves, you’d give them a clip to publish. You’d gather attention around yourself and away from the case at hand. You’d become a liability. Worse, the team would know. They’d all know.

Instead, you turn, giving a dismissive smile to the camera— as if you hadn’t heard the question at all. Getting a glimpse of your face would probably distract them from your lack of an answer anyway. As you focus your attention forward, you notice that Spencer had stopped walking so far ahead. Instead, he dropped behind a couple of steps. That same reporter pushed a bit harder, centimeters away from breaching the designated space for reporters to reach you. Almost instinctively, you watched the man who didn’t give you the time of day up until now reach his hand up and forceably shift the camera away.

“That’s enough. We have a job to do.”

There was something about how protective he sounded that got you. Externally, it sounded as though he was trying to hurry and reach the dumpsite. But when you listened closer, the way his voice sharpened and snapped made the demand sound addictingly personal.

It was so much more than clinical professionalism, Dr. Spencer Reid had the instinct to protect you.

That means that he cares. Some part of you, that sly and selfish aspect of you that you locked away, wanted to know more. If that reporter had done more, if he had grabbed you and curled up your sleeve— if he had showed to the world your jagged cuts of scars, all on varying levels of healing, how far would Spencer go? Would he scoop you up? Drag you away? Or would that wrath building up inside of him jump out— would he attack because of you? For you?

“Let’s keep going,” Spencer guided, cutting you out of it as his hand pressed against your shoulder, leading you under police tape and towards the dumpsite. He almost sounded remorseful.

Swallowing, you gave a thankful nod, greedily committing every second of this to memory before you two finally reach the body.

And oh, the body it was. Poor Lilliana Grant was brutalized, but not in typical fashion. Her face, her body; they were spotless. Intentionally left without any sort of scarring. Well, from what you could see. The autopsy results Emily and Jennifer went to collect would probably give you more to go off of. But from how deflated she was, you both quickly realize that her organs had been removed.

There was no way that your UnSub was the usual emotionally unstable type. Not with this amount of precision.

“To do something like organ removal without leaving additional scarring takes surgical expertise,” Spencer mumbled, loud enough for you to hear but no higher.

He squatted beside the body, gazing at the victim with a care genuine enough to remind you of how pure-hearted he really is. His hands never wander to places they shouldn’t, even in the name of “work.” In the most beautiful way, he treated the poor girl like art. Observing and analyzing, never taking.

As he looked over her scars, your line of sight dragged your attention to her hand. Left hand, ring finger to be precise. For a second, you let the act slip as you noticed a slight indent.

As you stood beside him, you craned your neck down to examine closer.

“She was married. From how red the indent is, he must have ripped it off of her before he killed her.” You note, looking around for where the symbol of marriage had run off to. “He must have taken it alongside her organs.”

A flow had begun, with Spencer retrieving a piece of paper from the woman’s breast pocket. “And left this in exchange.”

Your hands rested on your knees, looking at the scribbled letters in fascination. It definitely wasn’t English, or any other language you’d recognize.

But, without a moments hesitation, Spencer spoke again. “It’s Latin: ‘Inis vitae sed non amoris.’ The end of life, but not of love. It’s said to mean an immortalization of love, as it persists after the mortal body is destroyed.”

He cut himself off before he could ramble further, shaking his head, as if silently scolding himself before he continued observing the body.

Too focused on the case to praise his shockingly fluent Latin expertise, your hands fidget in thought. This wasn’t at all what the initial profile predicted. You both came expecting some sort of indicator of disrespect towards these women, yet all you’ve found is evidence of devotion.

“He’s honoring these women.” You commented, taking out your phone with speed that even shocked you a bit. “Uhm, I’m gonna go call Garcia. I have a theory.”

Your mind was racing, jumping across all sorts of topics. It was as if you were there when Lilliana’s life was taken from her— each and every second was plotted out within your mind. Well, if your little theory was right, of course.

What you fail to see, is how he looked up and watched you walk away. Maybe it was how quickly you were able to overcome how flustered the journalists — using the term very lightly— had made you. Maybe it was how your mind took in information, or maybe it was how your eyes slightly lit up with an idea, but his will to keep you far from him was growing pathetically weak.

If he were honest with himself, the very edges of his will were shrinking away from the beginning. Your first week was filled with constant favors and apologies from your coffee incident. He felt like a pathetic child for how he brushed you aside, but had himself convinced that his efforts were overpowering yours.

Yet, as he watched you step aside, his hand ran down his face as it dawned on him that fighting himself to keep away from you was going to be so, so much harder than he originally thought.

On your end, you had messily dialed Garcia’s number, pressing it to your ear and tapping your foot as you waved passing officers hello.

“Hello my sweet little kitty cat!” A familiar feminine voice sung, clearly escatic to hear from you. “Tell me that big brain of yours has something for me?”

Leaning forward on your feet, you spoke in rapid succession. “Hello, Penelope! Yeah— uhm, Spencer and I are at the UnSubs most recent dumpsite and I— sorry, we found a romantic Latin note our UnSub left behind, as well as evidence that Lilliana Grant was married before her death. The UnSub had ripped her ring off of her finger before killing her.”

The blonde hummed along. “Following. Whatdya need, sweetie?”

Sweetie. Ugh, you needed that. “Oops! Sorry, rambling. Do— do you think you can cross reference the rest of the victims with domestic abuse reports? I’ll explain more when Spencer and I get there—“

“On it! No need to explain. Go get em’, clever girl!”

She hangs up just in time for Spencer to round the corner. When you turn, your eyes meet. Wow, is this the first time he’s looked you in the eye? Seriously? It’s.. really nice. His eyes are as soft as you remember, softening the jaded look his harsh stubble gave him. Kind of like puffy clouds during a rainstorm.

Your hands politely fall into your lap, giving him a cheeky smile. “I’ve got everything we need. We should head back?”

“You’re going to have to let me know what your theory is on our way back, can’t read your mind, yknow.” He replied, though his tone no longer held any bite. Was— was he trying to tease you? It came off wrong, like he was quoting something from a movie. It was as adorable as it was strange. Incredibly so.

The words seemed to have burned his tongue, because his hand shot to his mouth as he quickly speed-walked back toward the car. You followed after, fighting for your life not to let out a giggle or two.

“You’re sitting in the passengers seat?” You quipped. At this point, you’ve memorized every curl pattern in his head from how often he turned away from you.

He mumbled into his hand, face heating up as he desperately tried to redeem himself. “I—uhm, I need to preserve energy. Physical exhaustion is directly tied to cognitive decline. If— if I want my mind to work as fast as it usually does I need a moment to— to rest.”

…And to think that you used to see this man as cold and intimidating.

Shrugging playfully, you pull off and begin your journey back to the Las Vegas Police Department. Both of you are too distracted by one another to put anything on the radio. Vaguely, you remember how bold he was being earlier. Your lips press together as you give him several hesitant looks. Option one, you let his little corny one-liner go, and maybe he’ll warm up to you as a reward. Option two, you get bolder, and savor something real.

You two reach a red light, and your head makes its turn to face him. With all of his might, he’s trying to cool his expression and play up the cool experienced agent look, but with your earlier interaction, it doesn’t hold up one bit.

“So, about earlier..” you cheekily begin, only for him to stammer to cut you off.

“That— I was trying to gauge your theory without scaring you off.” He began, failing to resist speaking with his hands. “I just looked awkward— to make you feel better. Yeah.”

For the first time, your laughter isn’t carefully crafted. It’s loud and you, a snort following a shameless chuckle. “Yeah. Making me feel so much secure about my skills, yknow. You may not be a mind reader but you sure can make a gal feel better, y’know.”

He lets out an offended breath, but doesn’t appear upset. “Okay— okay, ha-ha. Just drop it!”

The light turned green, and the car peeled off with an almost careless speed. If you listened close, something you were so capable of doing, you could hear him let out a few shaky breaths of humor. His shoulders gave a light shake as he did, a grin undeniably under those long fingers of his.

You laugh a bit more before you catch him staring, eyes wide with an unreadable feeling in them. It hits you, then, that he saw you. Under the air-headed agent, under the silly sweetheart girl act that seemed to fool everyone else, Spencer Reid saw you.

It scared you more than anything else in the world.

The laugh dies on the spot. You tried to fake a small giggle to appear less obnoxious, but there wasn’t a point. Your face sorta just.. fell, returning to its quiet shy girl look as you continued driving.

Before he could say anything, your finger shoots to the radio. His mouth opens and closes promptly, brows creasing as he searches for something on your face. Whatever it is, he won’t find it. You’d make sure of it.

Gross. You’re so fucking gross. He’s looking at you like you’re a pig. Proud of yourself? I bet you are. Attention-seeking whore.

As you ate yourself alive, the radio decided that now was the perfect time to play Brittney Spears. The both of you finish the drive in silence. Him, steadily watching you and trying to make it less obvious than it clearly is. You, trying to pretending like you didn’t just psychologically shape shift right in front of him.

When you two return, you give him a quick wave before racing back inside, leaving him baffled. What was that? The two of you were having a good time, weren’t you? Yet your face fell like he had mocked you. There was no way he couldn’t have accidentally insulted you right? No way, you were laughing!

He couldn’t wrap his head around why you tried to hide your laugh from him. Why realizing that he was in awe of you made you shut down. It froze him in place, a puzzle— not that he couldn’t solve— that he didn’t know existed. He couldn’t let this go.

IT WAS BUSY ON YOUR FIRST DAY

Of course, being fresh meat meant that you weren’t burdened with those boulders of labor. In fact, your only job at the moment seemed to be silently standing around and making sure not to disturb the others. Your hand nervously rested on your elbow, eyes flickering between them all as you remained on the outskirts of the bullpen. You came in today hoping to make a good impression, but you were starting to get the feeling that you wouldn’t leave an impression at all. That scared you more than the chance you completely humíllate yourself.

Finally, Prentiss— a raven-haired older woman with sharp eyes and an aura of quiet confidence— broke the ice.

“God, I am exhausted.” She caved, leaning back against her chair and letting her forearms rest on her forehead.

Her sentiment was met with varying levels of agreement— ranging JJ’s ‘amen’ to Derek’s humorless chuckle. What caught your eye, though, was the older brunette off to the side. He didn’t really seem to react at all. Not maliciously, you read, but out of a detachment from the situation. Now that you thought about it, he hadn’t moved for the better part of an hour.

But that wasn’t your focus— your focus was the golden, shining opportunity right infront of you. Straightening your back, you piped up from your embarrassingly distant corner.

“I could.. go and grab you guys some coffee? There should be a café down the street— I saw it on my way here?”

Slowly, the team turned towards you. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that they didn’t know you were there in the first place. Some looked you up and down, others gave you a weak smile of appreciation that didn’t quite make their eyes.

To seal the deal, you added. “My treat. It’s no problem, I swear.”

Your heart pounded so fast you thought you’d die, cracking your fingers shakily as you eagerly awaited their approval like a starving mutt. It was pathetic, honestly, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Finally, one of them— Derek Morgan— snickered in genuine awe. “Can’t say no to free coffee, now can I? Little kettle in the breakout room isn’t doing anyone here any favors.”

“I think our sugar expired last week.” Prentiss added, sighing at the memory of spitting out spoiled tasting coffee. “If I’m gonna poison my gut health, I might as well enjoy it.”

As if his acknowledgement opened a floodgate, the others nodded along. Your heart swelled with relief; you were helpful. You were doing something other than kicking your feet and looking pretty and they appreciated it. This was it.

“Great!” You cheered, growing slightly flustered by how your voice cracked. You needed to wheel it in… preferably before you start doing backflips and handstands to make them laugh. “Okay— I’ll— I’ll get your coffee orders? Yeah. I’ll get the Tech Analysts—“

“Garcia.” Spencer cut in, his eyes having yet to lift from his work. “Her name is Garcia.”

Swallowing, you nodded. As if hypnotized, your eyes focused on where the voice had come from. His expression was sharp, but it wasn’t loud. It had this quiet detachment that froze you cold where you stood; not in intimidation, but in nervousness. Did he hate you?

Derek playfully swatted his shoulder, but you could tell it also functioned as a warning to play nice with the new kid. It didn’t do much for you, though, because he refused to even look at you.

Despite his rough exterior, there was a beauty in him. His words conflicted profoundly with the softness in his eyes. They were cold and dark, yes— you’re used to seeing those— but the way they never grew wide with rage, how they remained in place, calm despite whatever went on in his head— it was an art. You sure hoped he didn’t hate you; because if he did, the way his presence made you feel was going to be a big problem.

“I know her order. Best if you don’t disturb her— she’s working.”

Whatever cheesy compliment you had died in your throat, replace by a quiet nod as you abandoned your plan to head toward Garcia’s office. You’re already messing up, you snapped at yourself, your nails quick to dig into your palms. Hasn’t even been a day and you’ve already made a fool of yourself.

Everyone’s watching, their expressions friendly yet calculating— they’re watching you, then Reid, then you again. Subconsciously, they’re waiting for you to retaliate; they don’t trust you yet. You don’t blame them, you wouldn’t trust yourself either if you were them… for many reasons.

Instead of making a fuss, you pull your lips into a smile, nodding eagerly and turning away.

“Alrighty! I’ll just get down everyone’s orders and head on down!”

Playful hoots of joy fill the area— and from the corner of your eye, you couldn’t help but stare at Reid. He didn’t want you here.

He hates you.

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YOU ADMIT, YOU WERE DESPERATE.

Spencer told you firmly before you left not to get him anything. It was the first time that entire day that he had stared you in the eye— and it was to make his demand clear that he did not want you buying him coffee.

“The coffee here is fine. I don’t need you to get me anything. Focus on getting everyone else what they need. I’m serious— buying me coffee won’t win my affections, so don’t waste your time or money. Please.”

It wasn’t the favor that he emphasized he was against— it was who planned to do him the favor. He didn’t you to buy it.

Being rejecting so harshly time and time again was beginning to irk your nerves. Sure, you managed to hold up the front infront of everyone else— or atleast, you hoped you did— but the minute you got out to the street you couldn’t help but stomp pathetically in frustration. Your heel somehow persevered, even as you kicked at the corner of the nearest building. When your little tantrum was over, embarassment set in.

Were you seriously losing control over this? What had you gained? An aching foot that’ll swell later and the urge to scream in the middle of the day.

You really are pathetic.

…

You buy him a coffee anyway. Something simple! Black coffee. No sugar, no added flavors, nothing. He seemed like a simple guy, so maybe— once the coffee is in his hand— he’ll flip a switch and stop staring at you like you were a liability.

Anticipation bubbled within you on your way back, your mind cultivated scenerio upon scenerio of the team rewarding your generosity with words of affirmation and maybe a hug if you got lucky. To be held and cared for, seen in a light so bright that no one— not even that lingering voice in the back of your mind— could remind of how disgusting you were underneath. Your hands trembled with excitement, a more genuine grin spreading across your face as you stepped into the elevator.

“Thank you, agent. You’re a sweetheart.” Hotchner would admit, maybe quietly when everyone was turned away.

Jennifer would give you a teasing side hug, her breath shaky with lighthearted laughter. “You’re a lifesaver.”

That’d be nice, wouldn’t it? To be known as something so delicate and worthy of love.

Derek would ruffle your hair for sure. Call you ‘kid,’ since you were much younger than them. The name would stick, and he’d pinch your cheek whenever you said something funny. Or adorable, you weren’t picky.

And Spencer—

You snap out of it once the elevator dings, your appearance is meet with a pleathora of ‘yess!’ And ‘thank God’s’. Suddenly, that tired atmosphere you entered had morphed itself into something calmer. Not yet bubbily and lumiated with joy, but noticibly turning away from that feeling of suffocation. Because of you. The idea of such a thing, being a savior instead of a serpent, it made your head empty and your shoulders lighter. Almost perversely, you tasted the fantasy, lost in your own mind as you passed out their orders.

Distantly, you heard someone— several people— call something out. Everything moved too fast, however, and you became helpless to the unforgiving power of time..

“Spence— Spence she has coffee in her hand!”

..And the fact that kicking that building wall had destabilized your heel. For your childish antics, you were punish by tripping over your own feet, your heart dropping to your stomach as that final cup of coffee you ordered— the one you were explicitly told not to buy— was sent flying into the air; right onto the chest of one Dr. Spencer Reid.

What processed first wasn’t the sharp pain of your knees slamming onto the floor, but the brown stain forming on the older man’s seemingly precious cardigan. The grey fabric became soiled with the caffine, the mark stood out like a boiling, hot thumb. His breath hitched, naturally caught off guard as he was ambushed with the very thing he practically begged you not to bring into fruition.

Jennifer placed a hand to her mouth, fighting down the urge to snort. Emily’s mouth laid agape, slowly setting down her own drink to access how she was going to deal with this without alerting an already very stressed out Aaron Hotchner.

“Ah…”

Derek, on the other hand, let out a loud laugh before heading out— likely to fetch napkins to clean whatever got onto the surrounding desks.

Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

Your fingers dug into your thigh, threatening to draw blood as you gave an awkward laugh. That awkward laugh didn’t land well, as Spencer harshly pressed his palm against his arm.

“I told you not to get me anything.” He managed, exasperated. “Why would you—“

Spencer cut himself off with a sigh, helplessly looking toward Jennifer and Emily for help.

What is the matter with you? You’re a moron. Sitting here like some God damn toddler. Say something!

“I’m— I’m so sorry, Spencer.”

You sound stupid, are you kidding me? You should’ve stayed home. God, you’re an attention seeking, worthless bitch who can’t do anything right!

“Don’t beat yourself up,” Emily reassured, watching Jennifer trail behind Spencer as they sought to meet up with Derek.

Your minds racing as you try to keep yourself from sweating. That smile you keep on your face grows tight, and you hope you look more pathetic than you do angry. Your dreams seem to come true, thankfully, as his frustration seemed to melt away into annoyance. He probably thought you were incompetent, didn’t he? You were.

“I’m— I’m really sorry, Prentiss. I just— I thought he’d..” Your voice trailed, making your voice smaller.

She helped you up, her rough hands carrying an ironic warmth as she steadied you to your feet. Her head shook with amusement as she wiped your shoulders. The woman had a way of making you feel just a bit better about yourself. It seemed to come naturally to her.

Consider yourself blessed that any of these people can stand to be around you. You’re seriously sitting here dumbing yourself down— for what? Pity? You’re disgusting, and they’ll see you for what you are.

“Hey,” Derek called, handing you some paper towels and placing his hand on your shoulder. When had he come back? “Don’t worry about the mess, sweet girl, we all mess up. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

Swallowing, your eyes snapped towards him. It slid off his tongue so quickly, with such casualty it seemed as though it had always existed. That it was meant for you.

Sweet girl?

Amongst the rampage of your thoughts, there emerges a silence as the petname settles. You don’t feel Emily pat your head and then leave. You don’t hear the silence of the now empty bullpen. You only feel what can only be described as sunshine on your bones, hugging them with a tenderness you were unaware existed. If you were thinking at all at that moment, you’d cringe at how weak the idea of being known as sweet made you feel.

Because you can do it.

You can be their sweet, bubbily girl.

All they have to do is allow you to be.

Not in a tragic sense, he failed to mourn the great tragedy he had learned to experience. He forgot how. No, his tragedy followed him like a dog. When he rested, it laid beside him. When he ate, it knelt before him, its tail wagging in excitement.

When you’re suffering daily, dread and anguish become baseline. It grew increasingly rare for Spencer to feel anything but that pooling feeling of misery in his chest. Oddly, it drew him closer to its source. The BAU, as dangerous and harmful as it was, was a familiar hell. One he could navigate. One he could believe in.

His team, the closest thing besides his mother he had to a family, shifted with him. Prentiss grew colder— and they both pretended they didn’t see her mother in her eyes. JJ’s softness faded; she shouldn’t have became a field agent. Hotch hadn’t smiled in years— Foyet took that with him. Derek’s laughter became more of a chore than genuine, and Penelope’s quips became more of a desperate plea for things to go back to the way they were before.

They won’t, and they never will.

Well, until you.

Young and impressionable, he resented you at first. You had something irreplaceable— a light in your eyes that was snuffed out of his a long time ago. He sees it in your smile, and he hears it in your voice. Everyone does. Against himself, he’ll admit that your presence was a guilty pleasure. In you lied his hope; that there was still good in this world. That maybe, if he keeps you safe, he can finally be good too.

⛧°｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧

FALSE!SUNSHINE!READER . . .

WAS BORN ON BROKEN SHARDS AND EGG SHELLS.

On the interior of the hole you called home, spikes of rage and tension picked and poked at your skin long before you could understand the spillage of blood it caused. For as long as you could remember, or as much as your mind allowed, the world was dark. Around each corner was a shadow, under every crevice a lie. Life was cold— naively, you spent your childhood believing that you’d eventually find warmth.

Somewhere along the way the darkness got to you, too. Its seed planted inside of you, nourished with how desperately you tried to repress it. Inside your chest, where your heart should be, lies the closet with the skeleton of your sins within it. With every insult ignored to keep the peace, with metaphorical or literal punch you took to relive the pain of others, the closer grew weaker and weaker— that sick and festering monster within you ran itself against it.

Soon, you became sick. Cruel and sadistic— mortifying of yourself yet unable to keep it down.

So you’d pretend. You’d mask anger with giggles, the sharpness of your canines with smiles— you’d shed yourself in order to appear benevolent. Anything was better than opening that closet within you. The mask even became comfortable at some point— you could go months masquerading before you’d crash. For some people, for you, it was even safe. You were finally soft. You were finally normal.

So when you join the BAU, young and all smiles, you wear your clothes bright and keep your voice delicate. If you can’t help the rot inside of you, you can do what you do best.

Lie.

“I’m anything you want me to be. Please, I’ll be anything you want me to be.”

⛧°｡⋆༺♱༻⋆｡°⛧

FALSE!SUNSHINE!READER’s PLAYLIST:

01:43 ━━━━●───── 03:50

GOODBYE, MY DANISH SWEETHEART, mitski

GET GONE, fiona apple

MOTHER MOTHER, tracy bonham

FAST AS YOU CAN, fiona apple

SHAME, mitski

HEAVEN SENT, esthero