‧˚₊Dr. Reid Dreamscape₊˚⊹

Hi! Welcome to one of my many blogs dedicated to characters I fixate on. I don't write a lot of smut, but it's sprinkled in, so please don't interact if you're underage. I'm 23, and all the 'reader' characters will be adults as well. Thank you.

I shouldn't have to say this, but please do not copy my work with or without credit!!!

~ Dreamscape Master List~

‧˚₊Dr. Reid Dreamscape₊˚⊹

‧˚₊Call of Duty Dreamscape₊˚⊹

‧˚₊Daryl Dixon Dreamscape₊˚⊹

Spencer Reid Masterlist~

Angst- ~You're still my person. Even if I'm not yours.~ Part one ~You're still my person. Even if I'm not yours.~ Part two Δεν θέλω να σε αφήσω Part one τότε μείνε μαζί μου ^Part two

Fluff- Alexithymia Part one Alexithymia Part two Novalunosis

Smut- Something Sweet

Full-Length Fic- To be Loved is to be Changed

Chapter Six

Synopsis: There is a break in the case, but at what cost? Tags: Canon-typical violence, case break-through, fast-paced, nerdy talk about comic books, Spencer is a nerd! Notes: I'm pretty sure the 'twist' villain was seen a mile away, but I really don't care. I made Spencer a super nerd, sue me; it's cute. Masterlist! Chapter Word Count: 2,519

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June 3, 2018 Mary Shelley,

Thank you so much for the cookies. They are a million times better than what I made a few weeks ago. I included an original copy of The Spectacular Spider-Man as a thank you. Don’t try to send it back; I’ve read it and re-read it for many years. I think it’s time someone else enjoys his story.

I am feeling better, thanks to your letter and your rambling. I love it when you talk about things you’re excited or passionate about; it is very refreshing compared to the things I usually talk to others about. Never apologize for being you. I like you just the way you are.

I do like comics, if it wasn’t obvious by my gift. I have a preference for Spider-Man, as he feels more down-to-earth compared to most ‘mightier than thou’ superheroes of today. He is a people's hero, is what I’m trying to say. But, compared to all fantasy tropes, I like Sci-Fi fantasies like Star Wars, or Epic fantasies like The Lord of the Rings. I don’t always read non-fiction.

I’m happy to hear that you’re enjoying a classic, though. Authors like Emily Brontë and Jane Austen influenced the literary world for hundreds of years after their books were published. I like to think they even influenced a lot of modern culture as well, as much as we have strayed from the modesty and strict social cues of the 19th century. I’d like to thank you for taking my recommendations seriously and broadening your horizons, but as you said, they aren’t serious, and there is no pressure to read anything I mention.

In other words, I greatly enjoyed The Hunger Games and can see why it influenced the Young Adult genre over the last couple of years. I wish I could discuss these books more freely with you, but I respect your choice to keep this wonderful thing going. I hope you’re having a great week, and I look forward to hearing from you again.

Sincerely, Spencer Reid.

________________________________________________________________

“What's got you so serious, Sweet Tooth?”

Spencer had been the first of the team to show up to the conference room after Hotch called a meeting. He hadn’t realized he was so focused on his phone that Derek was able to sneak up on him. Flipping his phone face down and setting it on the table, Spencer pretended he wasn’t drafting his first text to you. He got your number before he left you at the morgue. His excuse was that he wanted you to be able to contact him if anything were to happen. But, not so deep down, he was hoping you’d message him before then.

Unfortunately, being captivated only got him so far because he had been drafting the text for three hours. As much as he loved telling his co-workers that he had grown out of that shy, closed-off boy they had met so many years ago, wasn’t that much different. His confidence was definitely higher, as were his social skills thanks to Penelope. But what kind of protocol or social cues does one use in a situation like this?

Clearing his throat, Spencer regarded Derek and put on an insouciant smile. “Checking the news. They keep talking about The Shadowbox Killer, but nothing else has happened.” His lie wasn’t entirely untruthful; he was looking at the news, but the news reminded him of you, and before he knew it, he was trying to text you again.

Derek’s face shriveled in disdain. “I wish these news-hungry journalists would stay out of our business. I mean, there are ways to get your news in less invasive and dangerous ways. They’re almost as bad as paparazzi.”

“Tell me about it.” Spencer heaved a sigh that had much more to do with the unsent words sitting in his text box than the scheming journalist problem they had. His brain was fried trying to come up with an organic, natural way to bring up anything other than the fact that you were the girl he’d been writing to and kind of, maybe, just a little bit falling in love with, having fun talking to.

As the rest of the team filed in, Spencer’s mind shifted his awkward attempts at communication and the beautiful smile he couldn’t shake into a box filed ‘later’. Now, he was focused entirely on the case and the information he’d learned just hours ago. Emily and J.J sit to his left as Derek and Tara sit to his right. Hotch sits on the other side of Tara, and Rossi takes the empty seat next to J.J. Penelope stands at the front of the room with her computer and remote ready for anything.

“Okay, let’s start with the information Reid gathered from the mortician.” Hotch commands. Each of his team members had dark bags under their eyes. It was apparent from that, and the exhaustion that pulled everyone down, that this case was getting to them. It had been entirely too long since the first body, and their need to catch this guy was starting to go from professional to desperate.

Spencer spoke up, tapping his case file on the desk before opening it up to a neat stack of papers. “The body had been unusually clean. I confirmed with the lead mortician that bleach and other harsh chemicals weren’t used in their process of cleaning the bodies. Usually, most morgues and funeral homes use anti-bacterial soaps and disinfectants, not household cleaning solutions. This was the first red flag. The victim's fingernails were void of any debris or DNA, despite physical markings of defense.”

“There could be a chance that she didn’t fight back,” Tara interjects. “The markings are just on her forearms, indicating that she at least braced herself and/or tried to protect her head. Unlike the other victims who were probably already under the influence of the oxycodone our unsub used to subdue them.”

As everyone starts talking and laying out the information to get the bigger picture. Penelope sets up the digital case board and projects it on the big screen at the front of the room. As images of the bodies came up, Spencer couldn’t help but worry about the amount of violence you had been subjected to. You were already torn up about it. He wondered if starting something with you would only put you in the way of more violence.

Emily’s voice takes him out of his brief lapse of thought. “So what we have so far is a white male, approximately in his early to mid twenties. His kills have been victims of opportunity rather than a surrogate. He uses a drug to subdue, so he isn’t very strong, or he could be extremely insecure.”

“Likely impotent.” Hotch adds. Emily continues.

“Yes, he could be impotent as well. Based on this, he is probably quiet and well-mannered. Maybe someone who sticks to the background or even apologizes for things that aren’t his fault.”

“They were both women, so based on the intensity of the injuries and the fact that some of the damage was done while the victims were alive, we can safely assume that this man has had a problem with one or multiple women. An incel, maybe. Someone with misogynistic views in any capacity.” David absentmindedly rubbed his hand through his beard. A tick everyone knew had to deal with stress.

J.J cleared her throat, her voice tight. “And he has some influence with the Virginia City Morgue. Given that the body was able to be scrubbed of any evidence. Have we checked if the first victim was cleaned like that as well?”

“I checked in with her after our second victim tested positive. The first body wasn’t nearly as covered, but there were trace amounts of bleach and isopropyl alcohol on the fingertips. There is a high chance that our unsub works at the morgue. Between the body first showing up and the end of the autopsy, it is likely the bleaching took place in the middle of the operation. Somehow, the body was left unattended for enough time for our unsub, or anyone working for the unsub, to clean the body and avoid detection. If the body was cleaned afterwards, any damning evidence would have otherwise been caught.” Spencer flipped through every file in his head, every face he passed the few times he’d visited the morgue. Only one stood out.

“Have we ruled out Chief Bailey and the lead mortician as suspects?” Derek asks.

“No, she didn't do this.” Spencer suddenly says, his mouth moving ten times faster than his usual filter allowed.

Penelope agreed with his outburst. “I know ‘she’s been my best friend for ten years’ doesn’t account for anything like this. Because you never truly know a person. But she would never do something like this.”

“It’s true.” Spencer, once again commenting without thinking. “When I met with her earlier tonight, she was crying for Ms. Kent. She showed more remorse for someone she didn’t even know than a killer would have.”

With a smirk, Derek leaned forward to be within eyeshot of Spencer. “So the lead mortician is out. I didn’t think it was that serious anyway; she’s too sweet.”

“Exactly,” Penelope says, her hands on her hips as she looks at everyone in the room. Her eyes seem to say, ‘Anyone else accusing my best friend will suffer my wrath.’ Spencer was happy you had a friend like Penelope; your letters make your life seem so lonely.

“Alright,” Hotch was looking at Spencer in the way only a profiler will look at something they’re trying to read. So for the rest of the meeting, Spencer kept his mouth shut.

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It was 3:15 in the morning, and the BAU was still wide awake. Roughly two hours ago, the team gave the profile to the local police. They kept the suspect, Kyle Brenner, a secret from the media. The police were told to keep any detail away from the hound-like journalists. No gossiping, no telling wives, no tweeting, or even emailing his name. Kyle was profiled to be weak, but unpredictable, and they were right. Another body came through the morgue, your voice shaking from across Spencer’s phone.

He and the team suited up. It was exactly twenty-five and a half minutes to get to Virginia City Morgue. Call it pattern recognition. Call it skill. Call it instinct. Whatever it was, it was telling Spencer that something bad was about to happen. He was in the van, seated in the backseat with Tara while Emily and David rode in the front seat. They were speeding down the highway, running red lights and weaving through traffic. Spencer was told not to warn you. Any whiff of their arrival would send Kyle running. Four weeks and three days. They’d been tracking him non-stop, turning over every stone, unlocking every door they could. There was no chance they could let him escape. Not even if your life was on the line.

In the darkness of the night, lit only by the passing city lights, Spencer gripped his phone as tightly as he could. He’d been ordered not to contact you, but it was taking everything in him not to at least send a quick text. It would be so easy. Turn on his phone, type in his password, and enter the sentence that had been running around his head since they strapped into their Kevlar vests. But the image of you dead- lying in a pool of your own blood, hand reaching forward as your eyes drain of life- keeps him from doing anything but staring at the blank screen.

Twenty minutes was too long. In the time it would take them to get there, plenty of things could happen. But to keep himself from fixating on the bad, he focuses on the hum of the van as it speeds down the road. When they finally get there, police cars and the other van pull up at the same time. Spencer gathers his courage and palms his weapon.

The team is instructed to creep into the building. No flashing lights or sirens are to be turned on, no screaming ‘FBI!’ Their mission is to remain as silent as possible, get civilians out of the way, and capture Kyle Brenner. Spencer, David, J.J, and Tara enter through the front doors while the rest of the team sneak around to the back so they can enter through the morgue's cold room.

As his group clears rooms and sends civilians outside and into safety, Spencer’s heart hammers with anxiety. That gut feeling pounded on his chest like a false heartbeat, slamming into cartilage and threatening to break free. The closer he got to the back rooms, the harder that pounding became. Gun aimed forward, Spencer cleared room after room until he heard his friend’s voice through his ear piece.

“Brenner is gone. The entire building has been swept. He was here not too long ago, though.”

Spencer lifted his wrist to speak into the microphone. “How can you tell?”

“We have a casualty. Penelope’s mortician friend is unconscious and beaten pretty badly. She’s alive, just knocked out.”

Before he knew it, Spencer was rushing down the hall and into the cold room. The scene before him turned his blood cold. You were strapped to a stretcher, your eyes fluttering in and out of consciousness. The morgue itself made it out worse than you, but all Spencer could think of was the gash on your forehead and the already blackening eye as you looked past him. Papers and other supplies were scattered about on the floor; your desk was turned on its side. Your pretty lamp had been shattered. There was a body askew on the examination table, half open.

As they took you into the ambulance, Spencer was approached by Derek. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine.” Even he could hear the breathlessness in his voice, but he did nothing to mask it. You were alive. All you had gotten were a few bruises and a knock to the head. You’re going to be fine. Right?”

“Listen, man, I don’t know what it is about you and that mortician lady, but she’s going to be fine. From the blood, it looks like he made it out worse than her. I think she was able to stab him. From the size of the missing piece of that lamp shade, I figure he’s leaving a significant trail. Or he’s dead somewhere.”

“You think she was able to do that?”

“Look at the scene, man. She put up a pretty good fight. And she doesn’t have a stab wound. Where did that shard go, and where did all that blood come from? Kyle.”

Spencer’s heart rate slowed a fraction. “Yeah. That could help. He’s severely injured, so he’s more likely to mess up or even show us where he is.”

Chapter Five

Synopsis: Spencer puts two and two together. Tags: Slight angst, canon-typical violence, awkwardness, Spencer is an Idiot, slight miscommunication (you two just assume shit about the other). Notes: Masterlist!- Thank you, those who chose to read; it means a lot to me. Chapter Word Count: 3,126 ⊹˚₊‧───────────────‧₊˚⊹

May 27, 2018 Dear Spencer Reid,

I’m so glad you got to see your mother again! She sounds like a wonderful person. However, you’d have to be pretty amazing to raise someone as extraordinary as you. I think she and my grandma would get along; apparently they both like scrapbooking. Maybe they could share tips.

I got some new books today; I think you’ll be proud of me. It’s not quite what you recommended, but they’re still classics. (What can I say? I love me a good romance.) The local bookstore had Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice in these thick, leather-bound copies, and they reminded me of you. I’m reading Wuthering Heights right now. I think you might have called me to the dark side, Spencer. I guess they’re classics for a reason. I still like my Mary Shelley, though; nothing can beat her.

I hope you enjoyed The Hunger Games. I know it isn’t your forte, but if I’m reading out of my comfort zone, then I think you should too. Don’t worry, I won’t make you read any ‘mindless romances’. I’ll stick to the modern classics. Are you just into very old books that sometimes aren’t in English, or do you like other things too? Like comics? I know they might seem juvenile, but a good superhero story is to die for. Plus all the amazing art out there. There’s just something about a compelling plot coupled with remarkable art that has me on the couch for hours. Then again, with your brain, it’d take you less than a minute to read one.

Sorry for the tangent; I finished reading Batman Returns last week. It's got gritty, unique art that still has me thinking about it. Highly recommend, by the way, if you’re interested. I don’t blame you if you’re not. Really, none of my recommendations are serious. I just like sharing something that has impacted me, as immature as they are.

Anyways, I hope you’re having a good week and that you get well soon. I included some of Mrs. Magill’s cookies with this week’s letter. I thought you’d need a pick-me-up. I'd better get your letter, Mr. FBI agent, or I’m coming for you. Joking, obviously. I’ll miss you if you don’t respond, but don’t ever feel obligated. I’ll understand.

Sorry for the rambling, Mary Shelley <3

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It was another slow day at headquarters. The bullpen was quiet as Spencer and his teammates caught up on the stacks of paperwork that piled up over the last few back-to-back cases. As bored as he was, Spencer was glad they weren’t chasing a killer down. He liked saving people, but he hated the fact that people had to be saved. There was a darkness in the world that he was unfortunately all too familiar with, and it was a refreshing change to just sit at a desk and tackle words instead of psychos.

There wasn’t much paperwork getting done, though, as Spencer’s mind kept wandering to other, more interesting things. It had been a week since the party at Rossi’s, and he couldn’t get that night out of his head. It was like any other party they’d put together; good food, great wine, and excellent company. But this time, there was a new factor that made everything about that night stand out. Penelope’s friend stood out like a catch in the light. Something shining in the sand that draws attention to reveal a sparkling piece of treasure. You seemed so familiar, like a friend he knew a long time ago. But when he sifted through his memories, he couldn’t find your face. Other than that day in Virginia City Morgue, Spencer came up blank. It was giving him a headache.

Every time he tried to focus on his paperwork, some of the stapled sheets being weeks overdue, all that seemed to flash into his mind was your smile. The faint sweet smell that followed her; it was either strawberries or vanilla; Spencer never got the chance to discern it. The way you could bounce off of his ramblings with your own, never once looking at him like you were waiting impatiently for him to shut up. He had to have met you before. It’s impossible to feel like you know someone so deeply within only a couple of hours. He was Boy Genius, the man with an eidetic memory who can read 20,000 words in one minute. How can he forget such a kind and gentle face?

“Easy there, Pretty Boy. Don’t think too hard, now.” Derek was suddenly behind him, whirling Spencer around in his office chair. “There has got to be something else on your mind; there’s no way a cut-and-dried arson case is stalling your thinking gears.”

“Ha ha.” Spencer tries to turn back around, intent on actually focusing this time, but Derek’s grip on the back of his chair held steady.

“What’s got you thinking so hard?”

Spencer didn’t blame his friend for being worried; they all go through things. It's only natural to check up on someone groaning and sighing at a piece of paper. But he couldn’t give Derek the ammunition of him thinking about a woman. “Nothing. I didn’t get enough sleep last night; it’s catching up to me.”

“I’m on my way to the break room; want me to grab you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, please. Two sugars.”

“A cup of sugar, got it,” Derek says with a wink.

Spinning back around, Spencer gathers his papers, taps them on the desk a few times, and gets back to work. Out of his peripheral vision, he notices his pencil cup was askew and adjusts it, only to notice the dust covering his computer monitor. Suddenly, his desk was so egregiously disorganized that he forgone his work entirely. Derek dropped off a mug of coffee, raising an eyebrow at Spencer fussing over an already clean desk, but couldn’t comment due to Hotch calling out from the conference room.

Relieved from his spiraling thoughts about sunshine and connection, Spencer took the opportunity to compartmentalize and abandon his work at his desk. When he entered the conference room, the rest of the team filing in with him, any distracting thoughts were pushed to the side.

Penelope walks in last, her usually bright and sunny expression shrouded with doom and gloom. She points her remote at the big screen and pulls up the last thing Spencer was expecting. “We finally have another one.”

On the screen, images of a mutilated body assault the room. It was almost exactly like the first body; each limb and organ separated from the torso and set out in a twisted display of knowledge. Except this body was missing its head.

“So he strikes again.” Derek muses, his calculating eyes scanning over the information in the manila folder between his hands.

Spencer does the same, his own gaze scanning far faster. There were only a few specific details that caught his attention:

The victim was 36-year-old Maggie Kent- an elementary school teacher instead of a retired, elderly saleswoman.

The cuts were cleaner and more skilled than the body before.

The missing head and the organs inside.

And the defense marks on her forearms.

“So this woman is about thirty years younger than our last victim, and it took him four weeks to act again. Is there anything we can nail on this guy?” Derek scoffs and tosses the profile halfway across the table.

“This is nothing we haven’t seen before.” Hotch is cool and calm, as always, hands clasped on the table in front of him. “Is there anything we can use to connect the two victims?”

“Well,” Emily starts. “Vivian Avery was 62 and worked as a saleswoman for Pseudo-Med, but retired a few months ago. She had been married for 40 years, had three children, and was on her neighborhood’s Board of Directors.”

J.J. pinched the bridge of her nose. “Maggie Kent was in her thirties, taught English to ten-year-olds, single, and was pretty closed off from her community. There’s nothing that stands out.”

Spencer turns to Penelope, who was already furiously typing on her laptop. “Could you see if-”

“Already on it, Boy Wonder. The fact that you even have to ask baffles me.”

Hours go by, and the team is at a standstill. The crime scene told them very little that they already didn’t know. They ran everything through their minds thrice, checking every detail just to try and land something solid. Breakfast and lunch had already been ordered, eaten, and cleaned up; Spencer was on his fourth cup of coffee, and they still had nothing. Spencer was staring at the crime scene photos taped to a whiteboard they’d rolled into the conference room. Spinning in his chair, he closed his eyes and imagined what they’d profiled so far in an attempt to un-turn a stone.

He was a young, white male. Early twenties. Skilled with a knife and knew the human body well enough to create diabolical displays. His victims were ones of opportunity, left perfectly laid out in low-traffic areas. He had to have some medical background, a way to access oxycodone, and a schedule that allowed him to abduct, dissect, and dump a full-grown adult.

“He lays out the bodies in a private place, but displays them so artfully that they’re meant to be found. The victims lived only a few blocks apart from each other, so he is definitely a local, but what is his motive?” Talking to himself always helped him think; the sound of his voice almost cemented each thought into his head.

Tara sat in the seat next to him, making his jump a bit as he was forcefully pulled from his thoughts. “This makes no sense. He leaves very little behind. No DNA. No pattern besides the obvious. I mean, he’s good.”

“Yeah, but we’re better.”

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The brick wall was impenetrable. Same M.O, same execution. It wasn’t like they hadn't encountered a tricky mystery before, but Spencer had a bad habit of fixating on things he can’t figure out. So, as punishment for skipping dinner and refusing to move away from the whiteboard, Hotch sent him on an errand to the morgue. He needed the fresh air, as hard as it was to admit. But, like a magnet, his brain kept trying to pull him to the conference room and the case board he’d spent so long working on.

The morgue was practically empty except for the chief and a few lead morticians. He flashed his badge to the receptionist, who waved him through, and used the time it took to walk all the way to the cold room to ease his frustration and bad mood. When he got closer, he could hear someone talking. Words couldn’t be made out, but he could hear the deep sadness present in a stuttering quiver. With the door cracked, he could get closer to assess the situation without revealing himself. Spencer drew nearer, hand hovering above his holster, and peered into the room.

“Please, bless this poor soul and cleanse her of her pain. Allow only comfort and peace to travel with her soul…”

There was no one else but you. No hostage situation nor a confrontation he’d have to de-escalate. You were just- hugging yourself. Tears were streaming from your face, and your lip was quivering with each word. The more Spencer watched, the more he understood. You were merely mourning the victim's loss of humanity in the rawest show of empathy he had ever seen.

“Make sure she gets home untouched by the violence that stole her away.”

Spencer knocks a couple of times, making sure to keep the sudden noise quiet so as not to startle you. Still, you jumped at the sound of your name. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

The smile that graced your lips was sweet, but sad. You wiped your tears with the sleeve of your shirt and stepped away from the body. “No, no. I was told you’d be coming. I just got caught up in the moment.”

“No, there is nothing wrong with that. Compassion is very rare nowadays.”

There was an awkward silence as Spencer racked his brain for a natural way to bring up the information he needed. Instead of coming up with a segue, he ended up staring at your lovely eyes. Despite the unshed tears and redness, Spencer found himself getting lost in the vastness of your soul.

“Um.” You cleared your throat and got a clipboard from the desk nestled in a corner. “You’re here for a reason, not to listen to me get emotional. I have the report ready, but there really aren’t any differences between the two victims.”

“I would still like to go over everything; even the smallest detail will help our case.”

You hand him the clipboard, your fingers brushing for a mere second. He could feel the minute jolt that shot through your fingers, and when he looked back at you, faint color stained your plush cheeks. Spencer thought it was curious. They were in the cold room; there was no reason for your blood to be heating with the chill that was sticking to his skin like permafrost. He ignored it, but was unable to shake the image once you sat at your desk to catch up on work while he double-checked the file.

There are a few noticeable differences, but none that stand out enough to add to the profile. Defensive marks on the forearms indicate that something must have gone wrong and she had the chance to fight back. But other than that, it was almost a carbon copy of the M.O from before. Dehydration, slight malnourishment, bondage marks, disfigurement. Spencer was checking each note on the file with the body, eyes darting from the clipboard to the examination table in quick movements as his brain fired off theories. Except, his brain stopped working. There was something awfully familiar about the notes. It wasn’t the list of similar injuries and observations, but the handwriting itself. He knew that handwriting very well; he had spent months analyzing every detail of the person behind it. How did it take him this long to notice?

In a brief moment of complete instinct, Spencer whirls around and faces you. You are still sitting at your desk, but you are looking at him now. Eyes wide and curious, you raise an eyebrow as if to say, ‘Everything okay?’ Spencer racks his brain for an excuse, but all he can come up with is:

“Sorry, I thought I heard you say something.”

“That’s okay. The morgue at night tends to do that to people. They won’t come alive, I promise.” You say, mocking Scout’s Honor and giggling at him.

In an attempt to hide his shocked expression and embarrassment, he buried his face in the work once again. This time, though, all he could think of was the woman not a few feet away from him. No wonder he found you so familiar. He’d spent weeks turning over every memory possible to understand why he couldn’t remember your face- when in fact, he’d never met you at all. Not in the traditional sense.

You were in front of him, sitting at a desk like his whole world isn’t shifting on its axis. Mary Shelly. He knew that wasn’t your real name, and now that he knew what it was, Mary Shelly didn’t fit anymore. You were every bit what he imagined you to be and nothing like he could have predicted. Beautiful, mesmerizing, magnetic.

Spencer internally smacked himself for not noticing the obvious similarities between the two. At the party, you were so charming and warm that he was immediately pulled in from the moment you set foot in David’s kitchen. What he didn’t know then, about the woman he was having one of the best conversations he’d ever had with a stranger, was that she was the woman he’d been thinking about every night for months. It all makes sense now.

“Did you find something?”

Startled out of his reverie, Spencer turned to face you. Conflicting emotions clashed inside him as he regarded you. “What?”

You were too close and not close enough. “You’ve been staring at that clipboard for almost five minutes, mumbling to yourself? Did you find something we didn’t?”

“Oh, uh. No. I’m just-” Spencer, again, tries to pull an excuse from his frazzled mind. “I’m having trouble reading your handwriting.”

That same color comes back to tinge your cheeks red. “I’m so sorry. Here, let me get a printed version.”

When you walk out of the room, Spencer almost slams the clipboard onto the floor. “What is wrong with you?” He whispers to himself in shame.

He calms himself with a few deep breaths. Compartmentalizing was the most useful thing he learned on the job. Not confidence, not courage, but the skill to put aside inner feelings to get the job done. He could afford to lose his shit in the comfort of his apartment, not at a morgue where he was supposed to be weeding out differences in M.O. And especially not in front of you.

You come back holding a small stack of papers. Muttering another apology, you hand it to him and rush back to your desk. The pages are still warm. He thanks you and stresses that your handwriting isn’t too bad; he just ‘had a long day’. Spencer went back to work but still has trouble removing you from the back of his mind. A half hour goes by, and Spencer finally notices something. If she fought back, there should be skin or debris under her fingernails. But, both in the file and on the body, there was nothing. It was like she was scrubbed clean.  With your help, Spencer was able to test for bleach and wasn’t surprised to find out that the body had been scrubbed.

“Do you usually clean bodies with bleach?” He asks, knowing that you were still in the room with him.

She scoffs. “Of course not; we use anti-bacterial soaps and disinfectants. Bleach is too harsh and disrespectful…Why?”

“Who has access to Ms. Kent?”

You were up and walking towards him, your hands wringing so hard your knuckles were turning white. “Me and Chief Bailey. Do you think someone here did it?”

Surprisingly, Spencer reached out to you and placed a gentle hand on your shoulder. Where your skin met, Spencer’s fingers were tingling with a feeling he couldn’t place. “There isn’t anything definitive yet, but someone here tampered with evidence.”

“Oh, my God. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Hey, it’s okay. This is the best piece of information we have; we’re going to catch this guy.”

Taking a deep breath in, you square your shoulders and look at him with such determination; he is almost intimidated. “What can I do to help?”

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A/N If you notice ANY grammar or spelling mistakes. No, you don't. This isn't beta-read, and I'm copy-and-pasting from my posts on Ao3. For some reason, Grammarly has just been reduced to shit because it misses A CRAP TON of mistakes. I'm sorry if it takes you out of the story; I'll edit as soon as all the chapters are done. <333

Chapter Four

Synopsis: You are invited to a dinner party at David Rossi's house. Tags: Dinner party, slight angst, mentions of Maeve, Maeve is alive btw, first actual interaction with Spencer. Notes: I loved writing this chapter. Chapter Word Count: 3,351

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April 19, 2018 Mary Shelly,

This letter will be very small, and I apologize. I will be gone for a few weeks for work and won’t be able to access pen and paper like usual. I hope you aren’t too disappointed. Stay safe and positive. I will write to you again when I get back.

Spencer.

________________________________________________________________

Looking at yourself in the mirror had you second-guessing everything. You wore your nicest dress, as per Penelope’s request, but you didn’t feel very pretty. Instead, you felt sick with nerves. You hadn’t been out to party in a really long time, and you were starting to feel your palms sweat with apprehension. Before, you partied without a care. Too many drinks, too many strangers, not enough security. After your assault, you hadn’t even wanted to step one foot in the party scene.

You didn’t know what memories or feelings this evening would bring out, but you had to remind yourself that Penelope would be there for you. If anything, you’d shadow her all night and beg her to come over for a Twilight watch party instead. It was the cowardly thing to do, but Penelope would understand. She always understands.

A knock on your apartment door brings you out of your anxious train of thought. With one last look at your dress, you brush off some invisible dust and make your way through your home to answer the door.

“Sunshine! You look so sexy, oh my goodness!” Penelope does a little dance that ends with her bumping your hip with hers. It was a much-needed refresher for your brain.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, cutie. Are those new earrings?”

“Oh, you mean these?” She asks, dramatically brushing her blonde curls aside to show off the gold and pearl bubble earrings that dangle from her ears. “Someone very special to me got them for my birthday.”

You gasp, your hands flying to your make-believe pearls. “You mean there is someone else? What happened to the bond we share?”

Penelope puts a finger under her nose to mimic a mustache. “Don’t worry, baby-doll, she’s just a fling. You’re my one and only.” She wiggles her eyebrows as you press the back of your hand to your forehead.

Once the dramatics wind down, both of you are belly laughing; you lead her further into your apartment. “They look good on you, Pen. I’m glad you still wear them.”

“What else can I say? You have great taste. They’re my fancy pair.” She grins ear to ear over a cup of water. “Are you ready to meet my team?”

Her unspoken words, Are you ready to see Spencer, didn’t go unheard. “I think I’m ready, but don’t be surprised if I’m making an excuse to leave early.”

“Oh come on, sweetness. He won’t figure you out. All you have done is write letters to each other. I don’t think even the best profiler can figure someone out with just that.”

You sit down next to her, the pretty fabric of your dress complementing the pinks and magentas of hers. “It’s not about Spencer.”

She places a warm, comforting hand on your knee. “Honeypot, talk to me.”

“I haven’t been to a party since…” You avoid saying anything specific, but use your eyes and expression to try to convey what you were saying. She sighs, understanding overcoming her face in place of worry.

“This isn’t a club scene, hun. It's just a small get-together with very trusted and very safe people and their spouses. It’ll just be dinner and drinks. The only reason we’re even having this tonight is so we have some place safe to relax from the cases we’ve been stressing over. I thought it would be the perfect time to introduce you to them since all of you are all equally important to me.” She pauses and looks into your eyes. “You don’t have to come, you know. I know I can be pushy when I set my mind to something, but if you’re not ready for something like this, then no one will be upset if you don’t show.”

“I’m okay, Pen. I just needed a little pep talk. It's been way too long since I've met up with people and let loose.” You take a deep breath to gather yourself before standing and offering a hand to Penelope. “Come on, we’ve got a party to be fashionably late to.”

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David Rossi’s house might have been the most magnificent house you’d ever been to: modern architecture, massive windows, multiple stories. The outside was lit with twinkling lamps lining the pathway from the glorious driveway to the extravagant front door. Impressed, you gape at the view while Penelope rings the doorbell. When the door opened thirty seconds later, laughter and smooth jazz filled your ears. Because of your awe at the property, your nerves had settled. Throughout the guided tour of the house, where you admired expensive art and impressive decor, you hadn’t thought much about meeting a room full of strangers.

That distracted calm went out the window as soon as you entered the kitchen. Gathered around a marble-topped island was Penelope’s team. The heart of the BAU. They were all beautiful and intimidating all at the same time, arm in arm with equally handsome pairs that matched so perfectly. You felt like a sore thumb. If it weren’t for Penelope and her amazing fashion sense, you would have felt silly.

“My friends!” Penelope shouts. All eyes turn to the two of you. You only recognized one pair of stunning hazel eyes, but you refuse to meet them. “I have brought a prize to share with you all!”

Penelope leads you closer to everyone, and you awkwardly wave. “Hello.”

“Guys, this is my bestest friend in the whole wide world.” She turns to you to give you a wink, then starts introducing everyone by their names. “This is Derek Morgan, my Chocolate Thunder; you know him. Jennifer Jareau, or J.J, or literally the sweetest woman on earth. Aaron Hotchner, our boss. Emily Prentiss, badass number one. Tara Lewis, badass number two. David Rossi, playboy extraordinaire. And last but not least, our Boy Genius, Spencer Reid.”

Everyone waved or politely shook your hand. They were all so nice and bright and smiley; so far from the idea of intimidating FBI agents that you had in your head. It wasn’t nearly as awkward as you expected it to be, as they were all warm and welcoming. Despite that, though, you still felt very inadequate. Who wouldn’t be in a room full of FBI agents and their spouses?

David claps, drawing attention to himself. You internally thank him for taking the spotlight off of you. “Alright, esteemed guests, make your way to the backyard for drinks while I finish dinner.”

Penelope loops her arm with yours and excitedly drags you out into the backyard with the rest of the team. Everyone splits into different groups on the back porch, the hum of conversation taking over the crickets. You end up in a circle with Derek, Emily, Spencer, and, of course, Penelope.

Derek was the first to start talking, directing the conversation from work to you. “So what do you do besides work in a morgue?”

“Well,” You start, unsure of what to say to avoid sounding lame. “I like reading and baking. And I like collecting different types of tea.”

You want to slap yourself for saying the most boring thing, but Emily chimes in before you can backtrack. “I got way into tea while I was in London. What's your favorite?”

“I have an extensive Chai collection. I can’t get enough of the stuff, but my favorite was a limited-edition French Vanilla Chai I found at the grocery store. Do you have one?”

Emily enthusiastically nodded. “I have a fondness for Earl Grey, but when I was traveling as an Interpol agent, I was introduced to Lemon Basil Oolong that stole my heart.” She ended her statement with a wink.

“I’ll have to give that one a try, then.” You were slowly becoming more relaxed as the conversation flowed between the five of you. The five of you talked like all adults did: new TV shows, interesting news, grocery prices. You were slowly settling into your skin, your shoulders dropping to a more comfortable position as you followed the conversation and chimed in when you had something to add. It wasn’t long until the conversation was steered back to you.

Spencer was idly wringing his hands as he stood under the porch light, his features haloed in a way that made him seem almost untouchable. “You said you liked reading? What kind of genre do you prefer?”

It was odd to hear him talk. His voice was not far from what you imagined: warm and bright. Kind. You thought for a bit, unwilling to settle on an answer that would lead him to figure out who you were. “I’ve dabbled in quite a few genres; modern and classic romance, young adult, fantasy, and mystery. But I like a book with a unique element.”

“What defines unique to you?”

“Well, I read this book a while ago, about a girl who makes a deal for immortality and freedom in 1714 France. The catch? She is cursed to be forgotten by everyone she meets.”

Spencer’s eyes widen a fraction, and the smile that crosses his face would outshine the sun itself. “That is very interesting. I read a book recently about a woman who fights to bring magic back to her oppressed kingdom. It's deeply rooted in African culture and folklore. I had such an amazing time reading it.”

“I’m so glad you liked it!” Your lips moved faster than your brain could, and you scrambled to fix your mistake. “I- I mean, I’m surprised you liked it. From what Penelope told me about you, you like ancient books in their original language, not young adult fantasy.”

You could hear Penelope giggling from beside you, but before you could chastise her, she was walking away with Derek and Emily. You were officially alone with Spencer for the first time. His attention was still on you, so you schooled your features from panic to nonchalance.

“I also enjoy many different genres. I actually recently took to reading more contemporary books rather than ones that were written decades ago.” He looked more relaxed than he did that day in the morgue. You couldn’t lie; you enjoyed this version of him far more than the others you were used to.

“Have you got a favorite?”

Enthusiastically, he nods his head. “Yes, a friend of mine recommended The Hunger Games. I know I'm late to the party, but I love it so far.”

You choose to ignore any mention of your paper persona just to save face. If you didn’t plan on revealing anything, at least tonight, you can’t fixate on anything he says about ‘a friend’. “I love that series too. I really like the way Susan Collins takes the horrors of today and spins it into a commentary on the government and how the future will look if we don’t do anything.”

Spencer blinked once. Twice. Then laughs. The sound was magnificent, and you found shame in your hesitation to start things with him. He was obviously a kind guy, so you didn’t have the excuse of him being a closeted douche bag. And though you two have different tastes, you clearly have a lot in common. Which was refreshing compared to the people you interact with nowadays. Maybe you shouldn't hide in the shadows as you planned. 

“I tried talking about the nuances of The Hunger Games with Derek, and he shut me out because it was a ‘teenage girl’ book. I mean, the series literally exists because Susan was channel surfing between war footage of Iraq and reality TV.”

“Right!” You say a little bit too loud. “I heard her say that in some interview. Just because it's in the point of view of a sixteen-year-old girl doesn’t make it ‘teenage trash’. It's obviously a comment on our state of the world in the form of an easily digestible pill that she can get away with telling in the face of power.”

“Exactly! I’m so glad someone gets it.” There is a lull in conversation where the beat of your heart is louder than your thoughts. Spencer was just looking at you, his eyes slightly narrowed and his expression unreadable. “Have we met before?”

“I-uh, what?”

A chime of a bell saves you from having to answer Spencer’s question. David stood in front of the sliding glass door with a bowl of pasta in his hands. “If you will proceed to the dinner table, dinner is served. Morgan and Prentiss, can you grab the salad, the bread, and the wine?”

As Derek and Emily head inside to gather the rest of dinner, you use the distraction to separate from Spencer and find Penelope. She was already sitting at the table in the middle of the backyard, laughing at what J.J was commenting on. When you sit next to her, she elbows you playfully and leans into your space to whisper.

“How did it go? You and the genius looked like you were getting along?”

Still a bit stunned from the heart attack Spencer unknowingly gave you, it took you a while to form the words. “He asked if we had met before.”

“Oh,” Penelope states. “Well, he is a genius for a reason. And you were talking about books. Isn’t that like one of the big things that got you letter-sending in the first place?”

“Yeah.” You thought on it for a bit. It wouldn’t be so bad to even be Spencer’s friend. It doesn’t have to evolve into anything. “I think I'm going to tell him who I am. I mean, he’s going to figure it out anyway.”

Penelope could barely control her squeal of delight. As the rest of dinner was retrieved and distributed amongst everyone, she thankfully kept her mouth shut. That didn’t stop her from trying to sneak in questions every time the attention was focused elsewhere.

“When are you going to do it?”

“How are you going to do it?”

“Will it be tonight?”

“Are you going to make it a grand gesture?”

There wasn’t really a plan. You just wanted it to be by the end of the night. Or maybe in your next letter, in a confession safe from immediate rejection. You texted her from under the table, telling her that you’d keep her in the loop from now on but made her promise not to ruin anything. The rest of the night went on without a hitch. You sat next to your best friend, ate some amazing food, and had great conversations with some fascinating people. It was the most you’d done socially in a really long time, and you had forgotten how good it felt.

Spencer was only a few chairs away from you on the opposite side of the table. Now and then, the two of you would chime into the conversation or hold a little bubble of your own. It was really nice to hear from him within seconds rather than waiting days. Plus, his voice was so nice to hear; you felt like you could listen to him talk for hours and never get bored. At one point, after dinner was over but everyone was still chatting at the table, you excused yourself to the bathroom. You touch up your makeup, adjust your outfit, and make sure everything looks presentable so if you gain the courage to confess to Spencer, you don’t look like you’d slept in your outfit. On your way back to the party, you take your time to admire David’s home.

It was obviously lived in, but decorated sparsely. There were paintings, statues, and vases that screamed wealth. You were insanely jealous of this man’s home, but nothing can compare to the little apartment you’d worked on for years. Everything in your home was just the way you liked it; a little slice of paradise you curated with your bare hands. You were walking across the grass back to the table when you overheard the conversation that was taking place.

“I mean she’s doing fine. We don’t really talk, though, after what happened. I hear she’s teaching somewhere on the coast.”

The air had gone from playful Truth or Dare to somber. It was just one ten-minute bathroom trip. You sat down and noticed the tight-lipped grimace on Spencer’s face before he abruptly stood and politely excused himself. He said he just needed to use the restroom, but from the look on his face, he was upset.

You turn to Penelope, who was watching Spencer leave with a sympathetic face, and nudge her with your shoe. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“Someone,” She said pointedly, her eyes narrowed at an obviously drunk Derek. “Mentioned his ex.”

“It’s been a year; I didn’t know it would still be a sensitive topic.” Derek had his arms up in defense before he deflated and laid his head on the table before him. “I feel bad.”

“Oh,” You felt your heart drop a bit. Sure, it had been a year, and you weren't exactly looking to start anything romantic with him, but the thought of his still being hung up on someone sent a little pang of jealousy through you.

“It was so long ago,” Penelope whispered. “And it didn’t really end well.”

Apparently, she wasn’t whispering nearly as quietly as she thought she was because Aaron clasped his fingers in front of him and joined in for the first time in what felt like all night. “It’s a shame. I don’t blame her for leaving, but she was so good for him. I’d never seen him so happy. Life just got in the way.” His tone was melancholy, like he understood, firsthand, what Spencer had gone through. 

“I never saw Spencer as the type to get in a relationship,” Tara commented as she nursed a glass of red wine.

“Oh, she was perfect,” J.J said, and Emily nodded her head before also including herself.

“She was smart enough to keep up with him, and she never treated him like a dictionary. They were literally soulmates in my opinion; I wish they could have worked it out.”

The conversation was now happening without you, the team going on and on about how perfect and amazing Spencer’s ex was. It was like a punch to the gut. She was nothing like you. Where she was elegant and poised, you were awkward and clumsy. She was on Spencer’s level, enough to keep up with his genius and even challenge him. You can barely do math in your head.

There were too many emotions to deal with: disappointment, jealousy, doubt. While your plan was to tell him who you were and hope for friendship, a part of you was hoping for more. These past six months you’d gotten to know him a fair amount, and you liked what you knew. And meeting him, having an actual conversation with him, was maybe the best and worst thing you could have done for these growing feelings.

Things should have stayed on paper.

You regret even allowing Penelope to get your hopes up. Pretending to check your phone, you make a show of noticing the time and exclaiming you had plans and needed to get home. Penelope gave you a look that told you she knew better, but you kissed her forehead and said goodbye to the team. Spencer was still inside the house, and he was clearly upset, so you left through the fence gate on the side of the house.

𝑀𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

The postal system is known for getting addresses wrong and giving people someone else's packages. Who would have thought a letter that wasn't addressed to you would change your life so drastically?

Chapter One- Chapter Two- Chapter Three- Chapter Four- Chapter Five- Chapter Six- Chapter Seven- Chapter Eight- Chapter Nine- Chapter Ten- Chapter Eleven- Chapter Twelve-

Link to Ao3 post!

Chapter Three

Synopsis: You confess to Penelope about your secret Pen Pal. Tags: Filler Chapter, Cute brunch with Penelope, Slight insecurity issues, Text Dialogue, Mild Fatphobia. Notes: This is kind of a slow chapter, but it is essential for some of the upcoming plot points. Also, I know both hands in the middle image are white, but fret not, dear reader; I make it my mission to write Reader as blank as possible so any race or religion can put themselves in this story (which every author writing an x-reader story should imo). Here is the link to The Masterlist! Chapter Word Count: 3,224

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April 6, 2018 Mary Shelly,

I respect your choice of pen names. Mary Shelly has written quite a few amazing works, including eight novels, an unknown number of short stories, some plays, and even some non-fiction. I just recently read her 1826 novel The Last Man. If you like Frankenstein, then I highly recommend it. That is, if you haven’t already read it.

I’m glad to hear your past week was good, though I cannot agree with your aversion to monotony. I sometimes wish my life was as predictable as yours. But I wouldn’t give up my work for the world. Your landlady, Mrs. Magill, sounds like a treat. She reminds me a lot of my mom, from the way you describe her. She also had a knack for making someone feel better after a bad day. When I was a kid, on days when she felt better, she’d make me these chocolate chip cookies that still outmatch any bakery I’ve tried. I’ve actually tried to remake the recipe, but it turns out I’m not that great at baking.

My week has been chaotic, as usual. But it's gratifying. I was a guest speaker in a Forensic Analysis class again, but kids these days don’t seem to pay attention to anything other than their phones. I know, I can hear you now; I sound like an old man. Don’t worry, I hear it too. Do you imagine my voice when you read my letters? I do. I imagine your voice as calming and a little low. Is that weird? I hope not.

Anyways, I hope your week is better than last. Say hi to Mrs. Magill for me and see if she makes cookies. I’d like to try out recipes that aren’t from the web.

Hope this letter makes your day, Spencer.

________________________________________________________________

It had been almost two weeks since you had seen anything like that mutilated body come into your morgue. Every time you opened a cold drawer, or a new case came through the double doors, you held your breath and waited until that familiar white sheet was pulled back. Mixed emotions flooded you every time you were met with your usual cadaver. One part of you screamed in frustration that whoever killed that poor woman was still walking free. But another body meant the FBI could find this guy, as horrible as that was. Another, more human part of you felt immense relief that you didn’t have to see that level of hatred and violence inflicted on a person again. It was the worst case you’d ever worked on, and at multiple points during the examination, you had to give the reins over to Chief Bailey while you lost your lunch.

It was far too much excitement than what you were used to. All the anxious waiting and sudden flashes of emotion; you were getting whiplash. Kyle had even taken to commenting on your behavior. ‘It’s just a body.’ He’d tease. ‘Aren’t you a lead mortician?’ For the first time in five years, you took a sick day. You just needed one day to get back on your feet. It wouldn’t do anything about the image of that body flashing through your mind every chance it got, or the shake in your hands when you heard the news, but it would give you time to think of literally anything else.

Instead of locking yourself in your apartment like you had planned, cozied on your couch with a nest of blankets and some cheap wine, Penelope had convinced you to go out with her. Her excuse: she also wanted to take a break from thinking about The Shadow Box Killer, as the media has taken to calling him.

Penelope sat opposite you in this little cafe, sipping her very pink and foamy drink. “Anyways, I guess they call him that because of the way he displays the body? Like insects in a shadow box? I wish the news stayed out of our business, but who am I to knock a few journalists out of the spotlight?”

You sigh, the drink in front of you equally sweet but not nearly as brightly colored. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about work?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. These news crews just get my blood boiling.” She straightens and brushes imaginary dust off her flower-printed corset top. “Work mode disabled. How have you been, Sunshine?”

“The usual.” You stir your drink with your straw, mind absent. “Nothing exciting has happened since…you know.”

She nods, her soft, blonde curls bouncing with the movement. Reaching across the table, she pats the top of your hand with hers. The difference between her perfectly manicured set of gel nails and your chipped nail polish was enough to make you laugh. “I get it. I’d say you’d get used to it, but I’d be lying. There really isn’t getting used to this. So, let's not talk about it. How’s Mr. Letters doing?”

In the blur of the week, your meeting with Spencer was forgotten. Two weeks ago, the object of all your thoughts had just waltzed in like nothing special. You had barely kept it together enough to give the presentation, though; with the seriousness of the case, it was easy once you looked at Mrs. Avery. You hadn’t even been able to talk to her about her co-worker being your secret pen-pal. But that was more your fault than the world getting busy.

Unfortunately for you, Penelope could always sense when you wanted to change a subject. “Come on! You can’t keep leaving me in the dark with this guy! It’s like the perfect meet-cute; you have no idea how much I want to shake some sense into you right now!”

“We just write letters to each other, Pen. Nothing is actually going on.”

The look that crossed her face in that moment could have silenced an entire kindergarten class in three seconds flat. There was no messing with Penelope Garcia. “You’ve gotta be kidding me. Girl. I’ve seen the box of opened envelopes. Don’t tell me there isn’t anything going on. Are you going to at least meet the guy, feel out if you want to start anything other than sitting at your desk with a quill like some old-timey vampire?”

The memory of watching Dr. Spencer Reid walk through your workplace doors replayed like an old movie. His smile was much different than the one he wears in the photo the internet showed you. It was kinder and a little more awkward than you were expecting, but that made it much more inviting. And when he grabbed your hands? In the moment, you were more focused on your rage and disgust at the killer. But when you remember the moment now, you wish you could have savored that moment. There’s no telling if you’ll ever see him in person again.

Penelope gasps, her eyes wide and accusing. You realize your mistake then. “How could you?! You’ve met him? And you didn’t tell me?” She’s screaming now, and you almost have to press your hands against her mouth to get her to quiet down.

“Okay, okay.” It was long overdue that you tell your friend the truth. You just hadn’t been able to give up that slice of peace just yet. There's something about having something all to yourself, something that no one else is privy to, that makes you want to hold on a little tighter. “We met. Two weeks ago. It was short; he didn’t know who I was, and we probably won’t ever meet again.”

She’s just staring at you, mouth opening and closing as if she was trying to find something to say. You know better, though; she was putting on a show because you kept something from her. After a good thirty seconds, she speaks slow and steady. “So you met this guy two weeks ago, and I’m just hearing about it now? Why keep this from me?”

Face hot with shame, you can’t help but look down at the table. Absently, you pick at the pastry crumbs before you. “I’m sorry, Pen. I didn’t mean to keep it from you. At first, I didn’t think it would actually turn into- whatever it is- but then the longer I kept it from you, the more I kind of liked keeping it to myself. It’s not like anything will come from this anyway.”

“Sunshine.” Penelope laments, “Will you at least tell me who he is so I can make sure you won’t get kidnapped and killed?”

“I’m safe, don’t worry.” You laugh, knowing you couldn't be safer with him. 

This time, instead of dramatically showing her concern, she takes your hands and squeezes them. “You can not promise that. For all you know, he is the worst kind of man out there. Let me look him up and make sure he is who you say he is. I don’t have to tell you what I find…unless he is bad.”

Maybe you should have come clean from the beginning; you didn’t realize how much stress you were putting on her with this. “Okay. But you won’t have to look him up. You know him. Please don’t be mad…” You bury your face in your hands, embarrassment blocking your next words. “It's Spencer Reid.”

“No way!” She screams. This time, the entire cafe turns to look at the two of you. She raises her hands in apology, mouthing sorry while she settles back into her seat to whisper-yell at you. “You are killing me! Okay, okay, okay. Tell. Me. Everything.”

You start from the beginning, when you first got his letter, and explain the very short story of yours and Spencer’s ‘relationship’. “But I never gave him my name. And now, it kind of feels too late to? If that makes sense. I’ve put on this persona, and I feel like if I let him know who I am, then he’d be disappointed.”

“Oh, Sunshine. He’d love you. I can set the two of you up. You know they don’t call me Master Matchmaker for nothing.”

“That’s sweet, Pen, but no. I don’t think I want that, yet.”

She frowns but nods. “Can I ask why?”

“He’s a literal genius, a badass FBI agent who saves lives on the daily, and he’s like literally the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.” You look down at yourself, unhappy with the way you feel compared to the idea of him. “Then look at me. I dropped out of my residency; all I do is go to work and go home. I don’t have anything special to offer him.”

“We both know you dropping out was not your fault. Don’t ever blame yourself for that, okay? And yeah, Spencer is a Boy Genius, but he is also a major nerd and is super awkward. You’re putting him on this pedestal. Plus, you are much more than that. You have an amazing sense of style, you care deeply about the people you love, you are smart, hardworking, and passionate. Just because someone has achieved more than you doesn’t mean you’re behind. Maybe six degrees isn’t who you are. That doesn’t make you less than. It just makes you something else. You wouldn’t compare a NASA scientist to a High school teacher, would you? Both are important and needed in their own right. All I’m trying to say-”

“I get it, Pen.” Laughing, you lace your fingers with hers and rub the tops of her hands with your thumbs. “Thank you. You’re literally the best. ”

“You got that right, Sunshine. I don’t take counsel with commoners, so know your worth.” She smiles at the waitress who sets the check down and pays without ever allowing you to think you could pay. “Now, tell me all about how you feel about Spencer. I need to catch up on everything.”

“Okay.” Your cheeks hurt from smiling, but it was a price you were willing to pay to be friends with the one and only Penelope Garcia. “But I need a touch-up. We can talk while I get my nails done. What do you think for this week? A metallic green that looks like a beetle or pink and blue iridescent like pixie wings?”

“Oh! Do the iridescent ones! Pink is always my go-to.”

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Sometimes, Penelope makes you regret telling her about Spencer. She has always been very invested in your love life, even before him. So now that her two closest friends are technically ‘courting’ each other, she can’t help but inject herself. It is times like this, when she is blowing your phone up at work, that you severely regret telling her.

October 3, 2018 (7:47 am) Please! Just tell him! I need my two best friends to date so I can come to their wedding and both the Bride’s Maid AND the Man of Honor!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(8:05 am) Pen

(8:05 am) I’ve already told you this. I’m not sure if I want him to know.

(8:06 am) Come on! He’s so sweet; he’ll love you!!!!!!!!!!!

(9:30 am) Fine. I’ll tell him if you’ll quit texting me at work.

(9:33 am) But it’ll be on my own terms. No more pushing. Please.

(9:34) You have my word, buttercup!;;;)))))

As much as you wanted to be annoyed with Penelope, you felt appreciation more. She was the only friend that stayed after you dropped out of your residency and took up a job as a mortuary assistant instead. And ever since then, she’d been your only friend. Keeping Spencer a secret from her was a mistake. You liked having a little slice of life to yourself, but in all honesty, your whole life was kept to yourself nowadays. It feels freeing, in a way, to have Penelope back in the loop of things.

“I thought being on our phone during work hours was against the rules.” Kyle's smug smirk was really getting on your nerves. The more he got comfortable at Virginia City Morgue, the more his unpleasant personality came out.

“I’m answering a quick text; you were spending hours scrolling through Reddit.”

He gave you a weird look. A cross between ‘whatever grandma’ and ‘god she’s old’. You’d expect nothing less from a twenty-three-year-old man, but you at least expect some decorum. The two of you work in silence for the rest of the shift, only talking when it was necessary. For the last three weeks, it was either snide comments or silence. It wasn’t necessarily unpleasant, but it wasn’t a great time either. He set off alarm bells, though you didn’t know which ones. You didn’t mind working with him, though; if he kept his mouth shut he you actually had a good day. 

Again, you go through your day without incident. No mutilated bodies and definitely no handsome FBI agents knocking your door down to rescue you from such a boring day. It’s been so long since you saw him, but his face was still so vivid in your mind. From the way he spoke to himself, you’d think he’d be more traditionally ‘nerdy’, but he grossly misunderstood his charm. One look from him and you were tongue-tied.

You were packing your purse, a knitted little piece that Penelope made you while she was sick with the flu three years ago, when you felt Kyle behind you. He was way too close. Not close enough to be in your personal bubble, but closer than he had ever been.

“Can I help you?”

Kyle smirks, checks his phone for ten seconds longer than necessary, and smirks once more. “You wanna grab a drink after this?”

There was nothing you wanted less than to hang out with your co-workers after work. But you couldn’t exactly say that out loud. “I’m sorry, I’m meeting a friend. Maybe next time?” There was no friend, and no plan for next time, but maybe you can blow him off until he gets the hint.

“Ugh, whatever. I don’t like fat bitches anyway.” He walks away rubbing his lower back.

Appalled, but unsurprised, you flip him the bird on his way out. “Fucking troglodyte.” Mumbling under your breath wasn’t what you wanted to do in retaliation, but he was already through the swinging double doors.

You wished you had friends to hang out with. Going to a bar did sound fun. Really fun. But all you had was Penelope, and she was busy saving the innocent lives of the world. So you accept your Saturday night in. In preparation, you stop by your corner store and pick up some supplies for a BONES marathon. A cheap slice of Hunt Brother’s Pizza out of the warmer, a small bag of your favorite chips, and a little sweet treat; you had some baby carrots and celery in the fridge to add for a guilt-free meal. To top off your snack run, you grab a six-pack of your alcoholic drink of choice and head to check out.

It wasn’t a night in with the latest update from your well-spoken FBI friend, but it was a close second and a perfect way to end the week. The neon of the nightlife surrounded you as you exited the corner store with a ring of a bell, the sweet middle-aged woman working the counter wishing you a safe drive. It was a nice night, in your opinion. The warmth of summer had worn off some weeks ago, now replaced by an ever-cooling breeze that kissed your skin. It was just cold enough that you were finally able to break out your long sleeves and velvet; shame as it was to cover them up with your lab coat.

Just as you were about to unlock your car, your phone buzzed in your pocket. It was a sweet little tune, something Penelope programmed one night when you were in the shower. You hadn’t even thought to change it.

(9:45 pm) I’ve got a proposition for you my sweet Sunshine!!!!

(9:45 pm) Hit me, Girl Wonder

(9:46 pm) Okay so

(9:46 pm) My team and I are having a little get-together, and everyone is bringing someone

(9:46 pm) And since I’m in between lovers at the moment, my first thought is, of course, YOU

(9:47 pm) Come with me? You’ll get to see our Boy Genius again;)))))))

(10:01 pm) I don’t know, Pen. I’ve never met your friends, and I haven’t been in a room full of strangers in a while.

(10:02 pm) Plus, I’m not sure I’m ready to see him again.

(10:02 pm) Oh, come on! I’ve already mentioned you were coming!

(10:04 pm) Penelope Garcia!

(10:04 pm) Admit it! You wanna see him! You’re just scared. He won't bite, and you don’t have to tell him who you are. I just want to share my life-life bestie with my work-life besties!

(10:10 pm) Fine. I’ll go. But you better not pressure me to confess my feelings or reveal anything.

(10:10 pm) SCOUTS HONOR!

(10:10 pm) Thank you, thank you, thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(10:10 pm) You won’t regret this. I promise. Now, it's tomorrow night. I’ll send you the address.

(10:11 pm) You'd better wear your sexiest dress. Everyone will be all dressed up, so use this excuse to break that hot ass body out and show it off!!!!!!!!

Chapter Two

Synopsis: A new case leaves the BAU team baffled. Spencer is sent to speak with the mortician and is left with more questions than answers. Tags: Canon Typical Violence, Gore, Case Fic, POV Switch, Ongoing. Notes: Here's the link to The Masterlist. I will have a mastelist up with all the chapters once they're all written. If you want the five other chapters, here is the link to the Ao3 post. Chapter Word Count: 2,204

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February 22, 2018 Dear Dr. Spencer Reid,

I got your letter to Stephen Witwick in my mail. Don’t worry, I sent it on its way and made sure it was going to the right address this time. I’ve got to admit, most people just email these days, so finding a handwritten letter in my P.O box was a nice surprise compared to the other ‘wrong number’ messages.

I Googled you. You’re a pretty impressive person. Thank you for breaking up the stagnancy of my life; I really appreciate this little slice of something different. I hope you’re having a good day, and I hope I can provide the same kind of joy you gave to me.

Best Wishes, A Potential Friend.

P.S There’s no expectation for a reply. I just found it very nostalgic to put pen to paper again.

________________________________________________________________

In the years Spencer has spent in the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, he still hadn’t gotten quite used to the turbulence of taking off. The jet’s small cabin was cozy enough to offer false comfort against the unpredictable elements and scenarios while flying, but nothing shields him from the shaking and rumbling of the jet while it takes off. He has distractions, though, to keep his mind occupied: a hard-cover copy of Children of Blood and Bone, his earbuds and iPod, and his leather-bound copy of Frankenstein. The fantasy book was a recommendation from his mysterious pen pal; something suggested once the topic of favorite books came up. It was just outside of the usual reading material that he brought a backup in case he ended up not liking Children of Blood and Bone. And Frankenstein was in a similar genre, so in a way, he was still honoring her recommendation of outlandish fantasy.

They were heading back to Virginia. A run-of-the-mill harassment-turned-homicide case brought them all the way out to Mississippi and stuck them in a hotel for the whole weekend. He was a tough catch, but nothing they hadn’t dealt with before. Now, as they were only an hour away from their home in Quantico, Spencer wanted nothing more than to be back in his apartment. He missed the soothing atmosphere he painstakingly built over time, his specific brand of coffee, the plushness of his own, worn-in mattress.

Instead of thinking about what he wasn’t doing, he refocused his attention on the thick pages before him. Children of Blood and Bone was a little amateurish for him. Compared to his usual go-to genres and styles of storytelling, this was way below his level of comprehension. He loved books that challenged him or taught him new things. Despite this, he was having a hard time putting the book down. The entire trip, when he wasn’t occupied by the case, his nose was buried between the pages of African folklore and compelling story lines.

There hadn’t been more than a handful of minutes at a time to put towards the book, but Spencer was already more than halfway through it. He was so enthralled that when the team suddenly sat up straight, it took him more time than he cared to admit to realize that his attention was supposed to be on something else.

Garcia's voice was coming from a laptop’s speakers while her charming smile only appeared seventy pixels at a time. “I know you guys haven’t even been back to show me your pretty little faces, but the local police department contacted us about a body that they want us to take a look at.”

She looked just as tired as the rest of the team, who groaned in frustration but immediately went into work mode. Hotch asked questions, while the rest bounced back and forth with theories and ideas. When Penelope sends the crime scene photos to their tablets and phones, Spencer is flooded with both disgust and intrigue.

Prentiss swipes through the photos, her brows furrowed with concentration. “It looks almost scientific. The way the body parts are laid out next to each other? It seems like a twisted version of an anatomy display.”

“Even the organs are neatly arranged in their original positions.” Spencer was in awe at the craftsmanship of the display. The edges were neat, and the precision of the arrangement was only a little bit off. This guy definitely knew his way around the human body. “He is by no means a professional in any medical field, but he has some experience.”

Morgan shivered at the same time Penelope did. “This dude is definitely messed up.”

“The lead mortician at Virginia City Morgue did an autopsy and examination of the body and is ready to talk to you once you land. This is some gnarly stuff, but on the bright side, there is only one body.” Garcia, as usual, tried brightening the mood.

“Yet.” Hotch refutes. “Prentiss and J.J., you two go to the crime scene and see if there is anything the police missed. Spencer and Morgan, you go talk to the mortician. David and I will set up at the station. Until then, look over the information Garcia just sent to you. We’ve got fifteen minutes until we land; make the most of it.”

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The Virginia City Morgue was as familiar as the police station. White walls, white ceiling, white floors. Just like every other morgue he had visited, it reminded him of the sterile hallways of a hospital. Spencer and Morgan were led to the cold room in the back by a tall woman who introduced herself as Chief Medical Examiner Bailey. When they were introduced to the lead mortician, the woman who examined the mutilated body alongside the Chief, Spencer was thrown off by the character that stood before them. Bright smile and kind eyes. Usually, when the team is sent to meet with a mortician for a case, they’re met with somber, tired folks. The woman before him, she was brimming with positive energy.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you guys. I’ve heard a lot about you.” She said, holding her hand out for them to shake. Spencer politely declined and offered her a small smile in its stead, while Morgan embraced the greeting.

“All good things, I hope,” Morgan responded. There were plenty of things that Morgan could do that Spencer wished he could, but instantly charming a stranger was at the top of his list. “What do you have for us?”

She straightens her posture, becoming more professional compared to a few seconds ago. “Well, whoever cut up Mrs. Avery here knew what they were doing. They are educated enough that they cut in almost perfect anatomical sections.” She points to various parts of the body. “Each limb is severed at the joint with minor damage to the cartilage. Same goes for the fingers, toes, and the head. The edges of the skin, where the blade cut, are clean. All except for the neck.”

Spencer looks at the serrated bits of flesh that lined the neck both on the torso and on the head. Both sets were shaky and uneven. “So this guy cuts apart someone with no issue until he gets to the head?”

“He probably felt remorse? Hesitation at seeing his victim's face?” Morgan was at the other end of the table, looking at the severed toes.

The mortician chimes in, her knuckles white against her clipboard. As cheery as she was on the outside, this examination was clearly getting to her. “The dismemberment of the limbs and head happened postmortem. The fingers and toes were ante-mortem. Cause of death was asphyxia, though there were traces of Oxycodone in her system. She was also dehydrated and had nothing in her digestive tract.”

Spencer turned to Morgan. They seemed to be on the same page. This time, when Spencer acknowledged the mortician, he took her hand in his. It was awkward, and a little uncomfortable, but the slight shake in her hands lessened as he gently squeezed her fingers. “Thank you so much for your help. You’ve helped us a lot.”

“Of course. I just hope Mrs. Avery gets the justice she deserves.” Spencer was pinned by her gaze. Her eyes were intense instead of vulnerable like he had anticipated. She didn’t seem to be used to the violence they were used to. He had assumed, by a simple interaction, that she was naive and still held that glittering hope towards the world. But there was something much more to her than he first thought. Then again, he was never good at reading people on a social level.

Morgan squeezed her shoulder as he walked by them. “You just made our job a lot easier. We’ll catch him, don’t worry.”

She let go of Spencer’s hands. He hadn’t even realized they were still touching until the absence of her left him feeling cold. Morgan and Spencer said their goodbyes and headed down to the police station to meet with the others. The car ride was a little awkward with Morgan teasing Spencer on his lack of social skills, but luckily for him, the station wasn’t very far away. When he entered the building, Spencer made a beeline for the coffee pot he could smell from the entrance. With the cup of energy warming his hands, he met with the others in the conference room. There, he was met with the usual sight: Hotch and Prentiss sitting at the table talking on the phone, and Rossi at a whiteboard covered in printed pictures and papers. Morgan was right behind him, holding two coffee cups.

“What did the mortician say?” Hotch asked without even looking up. They were most likely on the phone with Penelope if Prentiss’s instructions were to go by. Morgan relayed what they learned, keeping his voice a little louder than usual so Penelope could hear from the other end. When they were done reporting, Hotch waved them off. “At this point, we are at a standstill. I hate to say it, but we might have to wait for another body before we could get anything.”

Morgan groans, agitation clear in his tone and body language. “I hate when this happens. There isn’t anything we can do?”

“No.” Hotch finally looks towards them. “The most we can do now is work in shifts. Prentiss and I have already volunteered for the first shift, then Morgan and Rossi, and Spencer and J.J. Go home, get some rest; we will call you if anything happens. We need you at your best.”

Before anyone could protest, Hotch leveled the team with a scolding glare. It wasn’t a request; it was an order. Spencer gave his coffee to Prentiss, knowing that until something substantial happens, they won’t be calling anyone.

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Spencer’s apartment was exactly how he left it. It eased his mind to find everything where he remembered. There had been far too many surprises in his and his teammates' homes for him to waltz into a room and not look for signs of intrusion. It wasn’t until he got to his kitchen, intent on making some coffee and getting to work reading the files on the case, that he realized just how tired he was. Eyes heavy, vision slightly blurred, body refusing to move faster than a snail's pace. He needed sleep. But if he didn’t have the mental capacity to read up on the case, he sure as hell couldn’t read the multi-page letter sitting on his kitchen counter. Though when was Spencer known for being compliant?

On his way to his bedroom, he snatched the letter off the counter and went through the comforting routine of opening it. His finger gently dragged through the seal without ripping the envelope, a feat that took weeks of practice, and pulled out the notebook paper.

At first, the letters were neat and impersonal. The language was proper and formal. Now, after six months of writing to him, the letters have gotten so personal that he could smell her perfume on the paper. This week, she had written him two pages, front to back. Her words were so calming, it was like talking to a friend. In a way, they were friends. Friends who have never seen each other, heard each other’s voices, or interacted more than once every week and a half.

He felt like he knew her, though. And when he started to read about everything that she had seen, heard, or felt during the past week, he felt like he knew her just a fraction more. She was so kind, always speaking of strangers she had met like they were the best part of her day. The only negative thing she had to say in the entirety of the letter was how her new co-worker was making her feel. Immediately, fatigue forgotten, he started drafting a letter about self-defense and any other advice he could think to give her in the moment.

Synopsis: The postal system is known for getting addresses wrong and giving people someone else's packages. Who would have thought that a letter that wasn't addressed to you would change your life so drastically? Tags: Hidden Identity, Slow Burn, Case Fic, Full Fic, No Smut, Fat!Reader, Posted on Ao3, Ongoing. Notes: This is the first chapter of To be Loved is to be Changed! I posted this originally on Ao3, so if you're hooked, there are six more chapters out. Hope you enjoy! <3333 Here is the Masterlist! Chapter Word Count: 1,892

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February 12, 2018 Stephen Witwick,

I want to thank you for letting me speak to your school about behavioral profiling. It’s not very often a high school uses this level of knowledge to protect its students. Your theory that profiling, as a skill, will help kids identify and avoid potential threats is not only admirable, but much needed all over the country. I hope that my words reached your students and are able to help them should they face the danger you’re trying to prevent them from facing.

In other words, if you plan on continuing the program, my colleagues are also willing to guest speak about predators and their tells. I would like to recommend self-defense and awareness classes, both of which we are willing to teach as well. I hope all is well in Charlottesville.

Best Wishes, Dr. Spencer Reid.

________________________________________________________________

“Pen, it was fucking terrible. All he did was talk about himself, his finance business, or how he likes ‘His women big.’”

Your phone was squished between your shoulder and your cheek as you went through the motions of your usual morning. The soft, dusty orange and blues of the sunset streamed through the large front windows, painting the lobby with warm and comforting light. Compared to the rest of the day, where the sterile white of the walls almost glowed in the fluorescent LEDs, the morning shift was always your favorite. You wave to the receptionist on your way to the back office, and offer her a polite smile instead of your usual greeting.

“I’m sorry, buttercup. I have a guy on standby I think you’d get along with. He’s sweet and a little nerdy; you’ll love him.”

You roll your eyes as you clock in. “No thanks, Pen. I think I’m done with the whole ‘dating scene’. The pool just isn’t what it used to be.”

“Ah,” She says, and from that syllable alone, you could tell she has her pink, fluffy pen between her teeth. All her attention was on you now. “Does this have something to do with a certain pen pal?”

The clock on the wall read 6:15 am. “Absolutely not. No way. I’m just tired of being disappointed. Listen, Pen, I have to get to work.”

“Both of us know that’s a lie. You don’t have to clock in until 6:30. You’ll have to tell him about me eventually!”

“Don’t hold your breath. Nothing will come out of it.” You put on your lab coat with one hand, not willing to hang up despite your lame excuse to end the conversation. As you walk deeper into your place of work, you willingly keep the lights off in favor of the small Tiffany lamp on your desk. It lit up your workspace well enough, and anything was better than the horrid LEDs that pinch at the back of your skull.

“That you know of. Baby cakes, I am the master of lurrrvee, don’t try and convince me you don’t have some feelings for this dude.”

Heaving a sigh, you pick up your pen and begin on some late paperwork. “I don’t even know this guy. All we do is send letters to each other. That’s not really a solid basis for a good relationship.”

“Then tell him your name, let him know you, meet the guy, and get married so I can be your Maid of Honor. I’m not getting any younger.”

“We’ve been over this.”

“Oh come on! Without risk, there’s no reward. You’re obviously into this guy; I mean, it’s been six months, and you’re still, like, religiously writing to him. And he’s writing to you! There’s obviously something there.”

You think on her words, mulling them over in your mind like rocks tumbling in a stream. “I don’t know. I like how things are right now. There’s no pressure to perform. No expectations to be a certain way.”

“But he is still perceiving you. There is still a version of you in his head. You can’t hide from that. Why run when you can take the chance? What’s the worst that could happen?”

A sarcastic laugh bursts from you without permission. “You are a part of a group of individuals that track down and profile the world’s worst. I’m surprised you even asked that.”

“Yeah, but I got your back. You have that very same group of individuals at your side. No matter what happens, you are safe. And the chance that this guy is the type we chase down is very low. Not everyone is a psychopathic murderer.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.” There is a stern knock at your door, and you look up to see your boss standing in the open doorway. “I actually have to go now. I’ll talk to you later. Are we still on for tonight?”

“You bet your sweet ass we are.”

Quickly, you hang up the phone. It was 6:25, so you weren’t exactly in the wrong for being on your phone, but you had clocked in. Hopefully she’ll go easy on you.

“You’re to train our new medical assistant.” She waves someone into the room, that scowl on her face never leaving. “He came from Bronson’s Funeral Home, so he knows his way around a cadaver. Show him the rules and make sure he doesn’t mess up. If he does, it's on you.”

Her tightly pinned hair and shin-length pencil skirt were a direct representation of her personality. Sometimes, you regret your stance on personal expression, especially when she looks you up and down with a cold and calculating glare. Compared to her, your eccentric choice of style made you feel inferior, even if you stuck to the dress code. But after watching Penelope wear whatever she wants as an FBI agent, you'll never conform under pressure. 

“Yes, ma’am.’

Without another word, she whirls around and leaves you alone with the recruit. He introduces himself as Kyle Brenner. A young guy, with the attitude to match. He struck you as someone who led a life without being told no. Except for a major limp, he checked every box of a douche-bag incel: the smirk, the empty eyes. Everything about him put you on edge. 

You showed him the ropes, carrying out your normal routine while he shadowed the first few cadavers until you were comfortable with his knowledge to let him perform a solo autopsy. There was very little conversation, as much as you tried. All his answers were either disinterested, one-liners, or awkward silence. You didn’t let it get you down, though; not everyone is inclined to become friends, especially at work.

By the time your lunch break rolled around, you were ready to go home. You missed the last assistant. She was sweet and liked some of the same things you did; too bad she couldn’t handle the blood and guts of the job. Kyle was sitting at an empty dissection table, phone three inches from his face. His volume was so loud you could hear the concerning rhetoric spewing from whatever bottom-of-the-barrel podcast he was listening to.

In an effort to ignore him, you take out your best stationery and train all your attention on your first draft. You usually reserve your writing for home, where you could play whatever music you wanted to and kick back with a glass of wine, but you had evening plans with Penelope. You were kidding yourself, though; all you could think about since reading his letter last night was what you planned on putting in your response.

In your neatest handwriting, you begin to draft your letter. You write about your landlord intimidating a few extra bucks out of you and your elderly neighbor baking you cookies because her grandson stood her up…again. Throughout your break, you lose yourself in your thoughts. He complained about being teased at work; with his wording, you figured he wasn’t too upset about it. They all seemed so close. Even if it weren’t for Penelope always talking about her team and their bond, Spencer’s letters reveal that they are a lot closer than the media portrays them to be. Though that was probably for safety.

In the months that the two of you have been writing each other, neither of you have crossed the threshold into ‘too personal’. There are comments and self-deprecating jokes, but the two of you never ask anything that crosses that unspoken boundary. You know his name, his face, and what he deems appropriate to mention. And of course, his address. But he knows nothing about you. At least, he knows less about you than you know of him. Sometimes you feel guilty, but then you remember who he is. An actual genius, a bad-ass FBI agent, and a known mind in the intellectual community. Who are you compared to that? Just a mortician.

You were almost halfway done with what you wanted to say when the back doors swung open, and chaos greeted you. Three paramedics wheeled in a body bag while sirens blared from outside. Your boss, Chief Medical Examiner Bailey, greeted them with a stern look and confusion.

Immediately, you and Kyle are up and in work mode. With your letter abandoned, you meet Chief Bailey at the examination table as the paramedics unload and unzip the body bag. What greets you turns your lunch into stone. Usually the bodies you examine die of natural or mundane causes. Very rarely do you get to examine homicide victims. Her body was separated in segments. Arms and legs apart from the torso, every finger and toe unattached. It was like she was a puzzle, each piece of her body set apart from each other. What really made you gag, though, was the evidence baggies full of her internal organs.

“What the hell is this?” Chief Bailey questioned.

A paramedic handed her a cellphone, a harsh voice crackling over the line. Chief Bailey answered. The two talked for minutes that seemed to stretch into hours. She ‘Yes.’, ‘I understand.’, and ‘Of course.’ her way through the conversation before hanging up and eyeing the body lying like a disturbed anatomy display. She says your name, and you find yourself unable to look away.

“You will help me perform the autopsy. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit will be here in a few hours to collect all the information we gather. We must be thorough and quick.”

You nod your head in one curt movement of understanding. “Kyle,” You say to the kid in the corner. Your eyes were still on the body as you pulled on a pair of latex gloves from the box next to the examination table. “Go home. Get some rest. I have a feeling we’ll be here all night.”

τότε μείνε μαζί μου

"Then stay with me."

Spencer's POV

Synopsis- They say there are 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Well, I'd like to add one more- Revenge.

Category- Heavy angst, retribution

Warnings- feral Spencer, angry Spencer, grieving Spencer, beating someone half to death, blood and gore, thoughts of violence, actual violence, Spencer goes ape shit the way Hotch beat Foyet. Vivid details of someone's nose breaking, blood, lots and lots of blood, OOC, I paint a very graphic image of Spencer's snap.

Notes- I love writing angst, I don't know why I just hope you enjoy it. And I'll make good on my promise for something tooth-rottingly sweet, so don't get too angry with me <3 This goes out to @slipk-holy for helping me edit, you're the best!!!

Wordcount- 3,123

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Spencer sits in the middle of his apartment, his last words to your lifeless body still echoing throughout his otherwise empty mind.

"I'll wait for you my darling, you better be waiting for me on the other side."

Spencer was not a religious man. But when it came to you, he believed in miracles. He believed that someone out there plucked you from your divine path and placed you in his life. Spencer prayed to whoever had put you in his life to return you. He pleaded to hold you in his arms once more, but there was no answer.

He never believed in the afterlife. He thought of it as nothingness, a lack of consciousness where one ceases to exist on any plane. The idea of holding you, of seeing you once more clung to the fibers of his mind. It kept him from breaking entirely.

So maybe Spencer was a man of religion if only it meant you awaited him with open arms.

He hadn't moved in such a long time, his back aching from the upright and cross-legged position on his hardwood floors. Spencer lacked the motivation to crawl onto the couch or drag his body into the shower. He hadn't had the motivation to do anything really, other than replay the memories he held so dear to his heart.

But as he looked around his apartment, still teeming with the life you lived there, disdain rose up his throat like bile; burning a path through his body until he was boiling over with it.

Your most recent book was still open on the coffee table, the collection you brought with you still mixed with his on the massive bookshelf. Your slippers were still haphazardly strewn across the floor where you left them that morning, the echo of your halfhearted attempt to convince him to call in sick was still so fresh.

He felt something hot and putrid clawing its way out of him, singing every piece of skin and bone it touched on its way out. It was nasty, and vile, leaving a trail of change in its wake. Spencer could feel the mutation in his soul. He could feel the emptiness devour him whole, chewing on his bones for every last morsel he had to offer.

All that was left was a devastating rage. A fury that threatened the world around him. An indignation that promised singed handprints wherever he touched. A wrath so powerful he was no longer the man he was proud of. He was a stranger, an offensive mockery of what once was.

And the best part?

Spencer didn't care.

Spencer didn't care as he stood up and kicked the coffee table into the wall sending glass shattering all over the floor. He plucked the book out of the pile of carnage, not giving a shit about the splinters of glass embedded into his fingertips.

Spencer didn't care as he ripped the pages out of the book, hurling the empty hardback through the window. He watched with a sick satisfaction as the destruction sparkled around him.

Next was his bookshelf, the stories and words he'd share with you when the two of you couldn't sleep now flung across the room. The bookshelf was toppled, and not a care in the world was given as it crashed to the floor.

Spencer was a whirlwind of devastation, a tornado of obliteration so fierce there wasn't a corner nor cabinet that was untouched by rage.

Wherever you lingered, he destroyed. The chair you'd always sit at was slammed into the wall. The mug you favored was shattered against the floor. Every instance of your memory, of your ghost, was annihilated by his hand.

When he got to the bedroom, his chest heaving with firey vengeance, he paused.

Your side of the bed was still crinkled, the indention of your head imprinted on the pillow. Your Kindle was still charging on your nightstand. Your knickknacks and decorations still hung in every corner and on every shelf.

It was like you were just at the store and he should start dinner so it would be hot for when you got home. Like you were in the shower or on call. Anything but dead.

He couldn't tear apart the last remaining proof that you lived, that you had grasped his heart with your bare hands and allowed him the same privilege.

No, he couldn't bring himself to taint the preserved capsule of the life he shared with you with anger. Or sadness. Or the grief that left him raw and vulnerable. He couldn't even step one foot past the doorway.

He closed the door.

There was no use in even trying.

Before he could move on to the bathroom, the itch in his fist for more destruction too tempting for someone so usually non-violent, his phone rang somewhere in the apartment.

Spencer didn't feel like answering it or talking to someone about his wife and the chokehold her death has on him. He was perfectly content in watching his world crumble around him alone.

But it rang. And it rang. And it rang.

In a sudden burst of energy, Spencer marched right up to the source of the maddening noise. His mobile phone was neatly tucked into his satchel pocket, at fifty percent, just the way he left it after unceremoniously tossing the stupid fucking bag to the floor.

Spencer grabbed the phone in one hand and his heaviest lamp in the other. There was something so twisted about the relief that flooded him every time he brought the base of the lamp down on the phone.

His teammates would call it overkill if the phone was a person and the lamp was a knife. They would profile him as someone who was devolving, someone so close to snapping almost entirely that they had to act swiftly. In a way, he was. In a way, he was exactly like the monsters they hunted for the bloodlust that raged through him was for one thing only.

No amount of superficial destruction could keep his need for violence a bay. No, Spencer needed something organic to put his fists through. But for now, the insistent ringing of his phone has stopped, and he felt just a tad bit better.

Until his landline rang.

There was no breaking this phone, the technology old but surprisingly durable. So he only had one choice left if he were to save the last remaining shred of sanity he was clinging to.

"What the fuck is so important that you have to call me every six seconds?!"

He seethes, face hot with ire.

"Woah," J.J, breathes into the phone. "Calm down, Spence. I'm just calling to check up on you."

"Don't call me that."

"Sorry, Spen-. I'm sorry. I just needed to know you were okay."

Spencer was beyond annoyed, beyond aggravated. He could feel himself splitting at the seems with hatred and violence.

And Spencer didn't care if he was taking it out on his friend. Spencer stopped caring a long time ago.

"Oh, I'm fucking fantastic J.J. Just beaming with joy! It's not like my wife died not even twenty four hours ago. No, everything's happy unicorns and God damn rainbows."

J.J. just sighed.

"Spencer, I'm just trying to be there for you."

He could hear the desperation in her voice. But instead of comforting him like it should have, like it had done in the past, it irritated him even more.

"Sure, thanks."

Spencer was ready to hang up, ready to unplug the phone and toss it out of the broken window. But he heard something in the background, and his attention was once again drawn away from his agony.

It sounded as if someone were speaking to J.J., their tone urgent and dead serious. Spencer couldn't make out the words, but he could make out the importance of them.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing. We're just having some problems with an unsub."

He knew exactly who she was talking about, knew why she was purposefully vague with him. And the second it all clicked, the second a plan swiftly formed in his head, he was dead set on a path.

"Okay... just- stop calling me for a while."

He played into the grieving husband shtick, not letting a drop of indignation seep through his voice. Arousing suspicion would nip his brilliant plan in the bud, and Spencer just couldn't have that.

J.J. was hesitant to agree, with her being an amazing friend and all, but ultimately relented. Spencer just needed space is all, at least that's what she told herself.

Spencer gently sat the receiver down, an eerie calm settling over him. It was a rage he'd never felt before, one that guaranteed an end. A retribution.

Revenge.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

It was easy for Spencer to just walk into headquarters.

Too easy.

Maybe it was because of the pallor of his skin, or the dark bags that had become so much darker. Maybe it was even the shabby robe he still wore; his pajamas reeking of depression.

Either way, Spencer didn't linger for long. The faster he was in and out, the less suspicion he'd raise. The less suspicion he arose, the longer he'd have with his ultimate agenda.

It was calculated perfectly, executed just so. Swiftly enter the building, sadly waving to the guards all the while mumbling about friends, and help, and shoulders to cry on. Sympathy was so easy to wrangle, so easy to manipulate.

They let him in, their eyes downcast to avoid the miserable expression on his face. He should be upset at how easy it was to get in. There really should be more security. But then again, he didn't really care, did he?

He breezed passed the main office, passed the badge check, and into the elevator. Now would probably be the point where reality would hit. Was he really planning on interfering with an ongoing investigation, just to get answers he could deduce himself?

But none of that even registered as he watched the numbers slowly click up.

The lobby leading into the bullpen was empty, void of his friends or the others he knew only in passing. He was alone. The perfect environment to enable his downward spiral.

That collected calmness puppeteered him like a marionette, its hooked claws pulling the strings of his limbs towards the hallway that led to the interrogation rooms.

This is where he heard the commotion of the BAU in action. Hushed demands, muffled yelling, the occasional sigh of frustration. They hadn't noticed him yet, his socked feet concealing his footsteps.

He popped his head around the corner, watching as Hotch, Morgan, and Emily whisper to each other in front of the viewing window. J.J. and Rossi were sitting inside the room, their backs towards the window and their undivided attention upon Dimitri Cain.

Just the sight of the man had his blood boiling, his fingers twitching, and his throat closing around a violent burst of every emotion possible.

Anger- because his wife was dead and he was the man responsible.

Sadness- because he was reminded that he could never look upon the love of his life ever again.

Jealousy- because he wasn't the one in the room, demanding answers and getting them.

Joy- because he was closer to scratching that itch than he thought possible.

J.J. and Rossi exit the room, their faces grim and arms crossed with frustration. The five of them move away from the interrogation room.

"We need to form another plan,"

He heard Hotch say, his voice tight and stern.

The team agreed and left the door in the hands of a guard whilst they plotted. Now was the perfect time. He couldn't believe the luck he was having.

Maybe there was such a thing as the divine.

"You're not supposed to be here, Dr. Reid."

The guard said as Spencer approached.

"I was called in to help, you can ask Hotch but I doubt he'd enjoy being second-guessed."

"I just don't think-"

"Please..."

Spencer pleaded, and the tone he used was genuine this time. There was no manipulation nor tactic to persuade, only unadulterated desperation.

"I need something to do."

The words unsaid seemed to be as loud as those spoken, the guard's face falling with sympathy as he hesitated.

I need something to distract me.

Only a brief second did Spencer play with the idea of attacking the guard. He knew of all the pressure points to swiftly and quietly take him down; it wouldn't be hard to get what he needed.

But the guard stepped aside.

"Thank you."

The heavy door was opened.

Spencer stepped through, his body tingling with a blazing fire.

The door clicked shut.

He was alone with the object of his undoing. The breaker of his world. And there was nothing more dangerous than a desperate man with nothing to lose.

Spencer sat across from Dimirti, the man in question eyeing him with a speculating gaze.

"You're gettin' nothin' outta me."

Dimitri leaned back and blatantly challenged Spencer.

"I just have a few questions."

"Are you even a fuckin' fed? You look like shit."

Spencer unconsciously mimicked Dimirti's stance, staring the man down with an unbreaking mask of tranquil fury. He let his silence answer for him, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in the chair.

"Alright, I see how it is."

"And how is it, Dimitri?"

"It's that reverse psychology shit, not gonna work on me."

Spencer just shook his head.

"Just ask me the stupid fuckin' questions already so I can get this shit over with."

Spencer hummed, clasping his hands in front of him and leaning forward on his elbows.

"Why did you take her?"

"Again with this bitch-"

"Watch your fucking mouth."

Eyes wide, Dimitri stilled. Then, realization glided across his face. A slow smile spread, tainting Spencer with its wickedness.

"You're the husband."

It wasn't a question but a mere statement.

You got what you want, I have a husband-

Please! I don't want to die!

Spencer pounced like a lion, toppling the table with Dimitri still cuffed to it. He was lost in the rage, mind, and body willingly subject to the agonizing fury that was slowly becoming a shield.

He couldn't hear anything, not a thought registered. Only the broken screams of his wife as she pleaded to live.

Spencer straddled Dimitri, completly in control as the man beneath him writhed.

Something sick and twisted bloomed inside him with the first punch. With the second, that evil forged a bond with his soul. Once pure and golden, Spencer Reid was now as dark as the blood that seeped from Dimitri's nose.

On the third punch, Spencer could feel the cartilage break. The splintering of his knuckles was nothing but an afterthought to the satisfaction and relief that plagued him.

Dimitri wiggled under him, trying with all his might to kick him off or slide his hands out of the cuffs. But Spencer kept going.

He brought his fist down again, Dimitri's face already swollen beyond recognition. The deep burgundy of Dimitri's blood sprayed across Spencer's face, across his chest, and outward into the air.

Unbeknownst to Spencer, he was giddy. His face stretched in a feral grin, every tooth shining with glee as he continued to pummel Dimitri into the stained marble floor.

Someone was screaming, the ragged and unfamiliar sound muffled like it was underwater. His ears were ringing, adrenaline and undiluted grief pushing everything Spencer ever was deep into an iron box and tossing it down the hole you left in his heart.

It wasn't until he was ripped from Dimirti, that he realized he was the one screaming.

"You killed her!"

Spencer thrashed against the strong body behind him, the grip under his arms unmoving despite his best efforts.

"You killed my wife!"

Feebly, Spencer tried to continue the beating, swinging his long legs towards the motionless body lying on the floor. Something wet hit his face, the sensation shocking his senses back into the present.

Derek was behind him, growling his name like Spencer was a rogue unsub who refused to listen.

He was dragged out of the room, his limbs now hanging numbly at his sides. Cold metal was wrapped around his wrists before anyone even tried talking to him.

Spencer welcomed the bite, savoring the only thing he could feel.

"What the hell were you thinking?"

Hotch was in his face, his eyes wide with frustration. The team was behind him, but Spencer didn't even spare them a glance. He just looked past Hotch, unseeing and unfeeling.

"Spencer!"

Finally, he dragged his emotionless gaze towards his boss who was frothing at the mouth with anger.

"I don't know."

"I don't know, I don't know? What do you mean, 'I don't know'? I should fire you!"

"Then do it."

What did he have to live for anyways?

A team that would only look at him with pity? A family that would treat him like he were made of glass, cracked and begging to be shattered.

Hotch huffed a sigh, hands on his hips.

"Listen, kid. I know exactly what you're going through. Vengeance isn't the answer."

"Says the man who did the same exact thing I just did. The only difference between you and me is that you got your retribution immediately."

Spencer hated the look of understanding that creased Hotch's brows, the empathy that threatened to undo all the apathy that was holding him together.

"This anger isn't going to bring her back..."

Spencer knew this. He knew nothing could bring you back. No amount of praying, religious devotion, and possible rituals would bring you back to him.

The simple truth was that he was lost without you.

He didn't know how to live without you by his side.

Something dripped onto his hands clasped in his lap. When he looked up and could see nothing but his swimming vision, he realized he was crying.

An unstoppable sob wracked his body, forcing his shoulders to cave in and his chest to implode. The damn was bursting, his walls cracking with each broken cry.

When he took a deep breath, a feeble attempt to control the crumbling mess that was his mental state, it all crashed around him.

His throat burned with the intensity of his scream. All his grief, all his anger, and sadness, and desolation were unleashed. He curled in on himself, hugging his sides as if he were able to replicate the feeling of your embrace.

The team surrounded him, hushed assurances, and murmured comfort as they all wrapped their arms around him. It still wasn't enough.

It still wasn't you.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆