#cipher!reader

That’s why the library at this hour was perfect. Rows of untouched books, the soft sigh of the air conditioning, the uninterrupted solitude of early morning. No voices. No small talk. No eyes watching him. There was only silence.

Until there wasn’t.

The sound was unmistakable: a thunk, a heavy book hitting the floor somewhere deep inside he stacks. The noise cut sharply through the silence and Spencer froze mid-word, pencil suspended in the air.

He didn’t even breathe.

Nothing followed. He thought that maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe it was the pipes in the walls or the building settling – old libraries were always full of strange creaks and murmurs, weren’t they? But then it came again: the scuff of boots dragging across carpet, followed by the low clatter of something – another book? A bag?

His pulse stuttered. Because who else would even be here?

It was only the second week of term. Students didn’t come here at sunrise unless they were getting paid to shelve books – or were possibly drunk, having stumbled into the wrong building the night before. This was his time. His carefully curated hours of work and focus.

He swallowed, and realized the back of his throat was dry.

Because someone was out there.

His first instinct wasn’t to get up. It was to catalogue, to run through the list of possibilities: A janitor? Possible. Another early bird? Maybe, but unlikely. Did libraries like these get rodents?

His mind flicked through news stories, grainy headlines of violence in places meant to be safe. Campus security reports, probabilities, government statistics he shouldn’t know by heart but did.

His hand tightened around his pencil. The graphite was worn to a stub from his morning’s work, but he wielded it like a pathetic weapon regardless. His mind conjured the image of trying to stab someone with it, and immediately spun off into calculating the force it would require to break through a jacket. (Not much, technically, but the wood would likely snap before it did any real damage.)

The sound came again, this time accompanied by a low muttering.

Against his better judgement, Spencer rose from his chair. His body felt stiff, all sharp angles and nerves. He should sit back down, ignore it, focus on Clairaut’s theorem and leave the strange noises alone. But his feet had other ideas.

He was already moving down the aisles with hesitant steps, pencil still in his grip.

And then, he saw you.

You were crouched low between two towering shelves, a surrounded by a small pile of books. Your boots were scuffed, jeans ripped neatly at the knees, and a faded sweater hung loose on your frame, one sleeve rolled up, the other drooping almost to your fingers.

You didn’t look up immediately. You were too absorbed, fingertips tracing the cracked spine of a Soviet-era cipher manual, turning it over like it was a sacred artefact. The way you handed it – careful, almost reverent – struck him. People didn’t usually treat books that way.

Spencer’s breath actually hitched, the pencil suddenly feeling unbearably heavy in his grip. At once, the quiet library seemed so alive.

Then you looked up.

Your eyes met his, steady and unreadable, but not startled. You weren’t even mildly surprised to find someone watching you.

“Hey,” you said simply, voice low and warm, like you were welcoming him into a secret club of early morning library goers. Then you turned back to your book, thumbing through it’s pages like nothing had happened.

Spencer opened his mouth to say something, but the proper words tangled up and fled.

Instead, he blurted: “You’re loud.”

You blinked and looked back at him, a smile tugging at your lips. Not mocking, but amused. Almost tender.

“Loud?” you echoed, pulling a headphone out from beneath your hair. A faint stream of music bled into the quiet – something upbeat, vaguely 70s. You raised an eyebrow. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to break the sacred silence.”

“No, I mean—” Spencer dragged a hand through his hair, painfully aware of how awkward he sounded. His thoughts were tangled, tripping over one another. “It just… startled me. Most people aren’t here at this hour and… yeah, you’re… loud. Not that I’m trying to chastise you or anything, I just—making an observation.”

You tilted your head slightly, and allowed your eyes to drag across his features. The sweater vest, the glasses sitting slightly lopsided on his nose. You were studying him as much as he was studying you. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? You spend a lot of time by the coffee cart.”

Spencer’s cheeks burned. The thought that someone like you had noticed him at all was staggering. His words rushed out in a clumsy jumble.

“Yeah, I’m there a lot. I—I like coffee.”

He wanted to press more. After all, he was sure he’d remember seeing you by the coffee cart, with your messy hair and ink-stained fingers.

You laughed softly. “Lucky me then,” you said, still crouched on the ground, “seeing you again.”

Spencer swallowed, feeling heat rush to his cheeks. In a desperate attempt to keep the conversation from dying, his brain scrambled for something – anything – relevant to say.

“What are you listening to? The music—” he blurted.

You glanced down at the headphone dangling between your fingers. “Bowie.”

“Bowie?”

“David Bowie.”

“I—I don’t…” Spencer hesitated, frowning slightly.

“You don’t know Bowie?” Your tone was incredulous, but not cruel, an eyebrow raising at his revelation.

“I mean, I’ve heard the name, but I’m not… familiar with his music.”

You shook your head with mock despair, rising from your haunches. “Seriously? You’re missing out. Here—”

Before he could protest, you were at the end of the aisle, pressing one of the headphone gently against his ear.

Spencer froze, every nerve screaming at once. You were close – close enough that he could catch the warmth of your skin, the scent of coffee and something sweet. Vanilla, maybe. He stiffened instinctively, caught between wanting to lean away (germs, proximity!) and wanting to experience whatever this was.

The first notes floated into his ear – strange, lilting, beautiful.

“Wow,” he whispered. The word wasn’t even about the music.

You smiled, folding your arms casually. “See? Told you it was good.”

Spencer carefully removed the headphone. His fingers hovered uncertainly, as if he wasn’t quite sure where to put it. Back in your hand? Drape it over your shoulder? He panicked and just held it out awkwardly. You took it back without any comment.

He wanted to say something intelligent, something about Bowie’s voice or musical structure.

“You liked it?” you prompted, curious, your smile softening into something more shy – like you’d just shared a secret with him and genuinely wanted to know what he thought.

“I—yeah. It’s good. He has an… interesting voice.”

“Interesting? Yeah, I’ll take that.”

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, knuckles whitening around the pencil as if it would provide him with advanced musical knowledge.

“I just… I don’t have a lot of references,” he explained. “My music taste is limited to classical. And—yeah—that’s different from this.”

“Just classical, huh?” You nodded and tucked the detail away for later. “We’ll have to fix that."

Spencer’s brain caught on one word: we.

He stared at you, dumbfounded, as you returned to your books and gathered them up with effortless strength. He glanced at the rest of the spines – modern European history, something about linguistics, political philosophy. Heavy hitters.

“Well,” you said, adjusting your grip and tucking one headphone back beneath your hair. “I got what I came for.”

“Oh,” Spencer said lamely. “Um… good. That’s good.”

You gave him a crooked little smile, hugging the books to your chest, unconcerned with how heavy they were.

“You like that word – ‘good,’” you observed. Your gaze flicked to the pencil clenched in his hand like a weapon, and back up to his face. “You studying in here?”

“Yeah, I—I was just…” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the library’s center. “Reading.”

“Obviously,” you said with a soft laugh. “Come on then.”

And just like that, you started walking toward the front of the library. Spencer hesitated for a split second before instinct kicked in and he followed, a step behind you.

By the time you reached the main hub, dawn light was bleeding through the tall windows. Spencer’s books sat dead-center on one of the tables, a chaotic sprawl of open pages and notes.

You stopped, eyebrows lifting. “You were sitting there?”

Spencer frowned slightly, confused and caught off guard. “Yes?”

“You know there’s a better spot, right?”

“Better?”

“Yeah.” You tilted your head toward the far corner of the library. Tucked behind the stacks was a small alcove, which you’d already located on the second day of term. “Nobody ever sits back there. I think because there’s a big spiderweb above the seats – and it’s kind of hidden. It’s quiet, even during the day. Much better than sitting out in the open. Unless you like that, of course.”

But judging by the fact Spencer was here in the early hours of the morning, you assumed not.

Spencer glanced at his current table, the mess of open notebooks and scribbled margins, then back to you.

“Maybe I’ll try it.”

You smiled, content with the fact you’d provided something useful for him. You shifted the books in your arms again and smiled.

“Great,” you said, taking a half-step back toward the doors. “Enjoy. Tell me how you get on with it, yeah?”

He nodded. The simple question rolled over him like a strange, warm tide.

“Okay,” he said.

You turned, your boots scraping softly against the carpet again as you headed for the exit.

Spencer stood there a moment longer, his fingers flexing around the pencil. It was only once the door had closed behind you that he realized he didn’t have your name. Or your course. Only that you had a fondness for Bowie and a spider-web covered desk in the corner of the library.

He considered running after you, but by the time he’d come to that decision a decent amount of time had already passed. He shuffled lamely back to his desk, staring down at his open notes, his pulse still racing.

And he concluded this was not the last time he’d be seeing you.

Spencer had been at the library for forty-eight minutes and seventeen secods. He was pacing the stacks like a man searching for something he’d lost. Which, in a way, he had.

Library girl.

That’s what he had started calling you in his head. It was embarrassing – stupid, even – that he couldn’t come up with something better, but what else could he do? He didn’t know your name. Didn’t know your course. Didn’t know if you lived on campus or just had an affinity for early-morning libraries.

All he had was an imprint of that morning: your smile, the worn boots, and the lingering echo of Bowie’s voice tangled somewhere in his brain.

Naturally, he’d gone down a Bowie rabbit hole since then. It had started innocently – a quick search on Bowie’s influence on glam rock – but three hours and twenty-seven google searches later, he was listening to Life on Mars? At 2 AM and wondering if you’d just him for not discovering Bowie’s brilliance sooner.

His roommate had noticed.

The guy wasn’t nosy – actually, he was probably the most laid-back person Spencer had ever met – but even he had raised an eyebrow when Spencer started leaving their dorm earlier and coming back later. Spencer, who typically avoided the library’s busiest hours, now wandered the campus like someone with… plans. Or, at the very least, intentions.

“Big day, huh?” his roommate had once teased, some point during the third week of term, when Spencer shoved books into his bag with uncharacteristic urgency. Spencer, of course, didn’t explain. Because how do you explain: I’m trying to run into someone I barely know because they smiled at me once in the library? He’d just muttered something about ‘research’ and hurried out the door.

His search hadn’t been going well.

He didn’t know your schedule, only had that single, stubborn image of you crouched between the stacks. So he staked out the library. Every morning for two weeks, he sat in the same corner (your corner), pretending to study while his eyes flicked to the entrance every few seconds. But the alcove remained stubbornly empty.

On day three of his search, he had been desperate enough to wander back to your aisle. It felt oddly intimate, stepping into that space again. He glanced around like some trace of you might have been left on the shelves.

On the seventh day, he spotted one of the books you’d taken out – returned, spine slightly more worn than before. Proof. You were still here, somewhere. Relief flooded him, followed immediately by disappointment. He’d missed you. If only he’d come an hour earlier, or later, or – something.

By the second week, his roommate (now friend, reluctant life coach and semi-professional tease) had started keeping a score board after dragging an explanation from Spencer.

“Day nine,” his roommate said, leaning against the wall as Spencer grabbed his bag. “What are we thinking today? Library girl: real, or just a caffeine-induced hallucination?”

Spencer muttered something about statistical probabilities and the size of campus enrollment. His roommate grinned and added another tally under ‘fail.’

So now Spencer was pacing the stacks again, telling himself to stop obsessing because clearly you were one of those fleeting moments life hands you just to take away. Each day, the chances that you had been a caffeine-induced hallucination were only growing, and he was starting to give up hope, until—

There you were, at the end of an aisle, chewing on your lip as you perused books on the fourth shelf.

For three whole seconds, Spencer’s brain stopped. Then all his thoughts collided into one big, clumsy word: “Ohmygod.”

He stood for a second too long before his feet just… moved. Spencer wasn’t sure if he walked or floated, but suddenly he was there, walking toward the end of the aisle like an accidental stalker.

You looked up and pulled your headphones off immediately.

“Hey!” you said, voice bright with recognition. “Library guy! We meet again.”

Library guy.

“You—” He pointed at himself. “You remember me?”

“Yeah. You wielded a pencil at me.” You tilted your head, amused. “And you didn’t know Bowie.”

The words tumbled out of him, unstoppable and chaotic: “Actually, I—I do now. I mean, a listed to a lot of Bowie, because you said I should – well, you didn’t say I should exactly, but you implied it. And I liked what you played me the other day – ‘Changes,’ Right? So I thought maybe I’d like the rest of his stuff – and I do.”

“Wow. You did your homework.”

Spencer froze, realizing the sheer insanity of his words. “Homework?”

“Well, you clearly binged Bowie for, like, a week straight,” you teased, leaning one shoulder against eh shelf. “I’m impressed, Library guy.”

“I—uh—I have a name,” he said, awkwardly half-extending a hand before retracting it to scratch the back of his neck. “Spencer. Spencer Reid.”

“Nice to meet you, Spencer,” you said, offering your name to him in return. He repeated it silently, rolling it over in his mind, erasing any chances of it being forgotten.

“I—uh,” he started, and his voice cracked slightly. He tried again, smiling in that lopsided awkward way that made his ears burn. “I’ve been sitting at that desk you recommended.”

Your brows lifted. “You braved the spider corner, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, and rubbed at the back of his neck again with a sheepish nod. “It’s actually great. Really quiet. No one bothers me. So, thanks. For that.”

“You been studying there a lot?” you asked, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder.

Spencer couldn’t exactly admit that he’d been there every day, clocking more hours in that corner than most people spent in their dorms. So instead, he nodded once and mumbled, “yeah, quite a bit.”

“You know there’s a whole campus out there, right? Sunlight? Fresh air?” You gestured vaguely toward the tall windows. You gave him a look that hovered between teasing and exasperated.

Spencer blinked at you, like you’d just suggested something absurd. “You’ve been studying… outside?”

“Yeah,” you said, grinning as you slid a book from the shelf, brushing off the thin film of dust on its spine. “The lawn’s great for studying. And people watching.”

“The lawn,” Spencer repeated, like the word itself was foreign, like the concept of studying outside had only just been invented.

He then felt an almost ridiculous wave of annoyance crash over him. He’d been looking for you in the wrong places this whole time.

“You should try it sometime,” you teased. “Get some vitamin D, Spencer.”

For once, someone was saying his name like he wasn’t just a collection of quirks and equations. Like he was just Spencer. It knocked all thoughts from his brain, and the next words were out before he could stop them, bypassing his brain entirely and barreling into the open air.

“Like… now?”

His stomach plummeted. Now? Now?! How desperate could he sound?

Your fingers tightened around the book, head tilting as your grin sharpened with amusement. “Now?” you echoed, as though testing the word.

Spencer opened his mouth, then promptly closed it again, feeling heat climb his neck. “I mean—only if you’re free, and if it’s not a—”

“Yeah,” you interrupted softly, a the edges of your grin tilting into something more gentle. “Sure. Why not?”

For half a beat, he just stared at you, wide-eyed and stunned, before nodding dumbly. “Great. Okay. Let me grab my things quickly.”

The two of you walked to the alcove where he’d left his books, and you watched quietly as he gathered his things and placed them into his bag with methodical precision. He swung it over his shoulder, getting it settled against his side.

Outside the library, a cool burst of mid-morning air washed over you both. It was a lot brighter out here, sharper, and Spencer surveyed the students sprawled lazily on the lawn outside, or moving in loose clusters from one class to the next.

“So,” you said suddenly, glancing sideways at him as you descended the library steps, “what composers do you like?”

“What?”

“You said you like classical music,” you reminded him, brushing a strand of hair from your face as the wind teased it forward. “So I figure I need to do my homework on it – since you did yours on Bowie.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, your words sinking in. The idea that you’d want to know his favorite composers – his favorite composers – was so unexpected it almost short-circuited his brain.

“Oh. Um. Well—uh—Bach,” he blurted first, because it was easy. Obvious. Safe. You nodded encouragingly, your eyes fixed intently on him, urging him to keep going. And that was enough to break his verbal dam.

“But also Rachmaninoff. And Debussy – ‘Clair de Lune’ is actually scientifically proven to elicit emotional responses due to its harmonic progression, which I think is fascinating – and who else…?” He paused to think, and caught your eye, realizing he had just spoken far too quickly. “Sorry.”

You were smiling at him though. Really smiling.

“Don’t apologize,” you said. “You’ll just have to make me a list or something.”

You surveyed the patch of grass the two of you had reached, and concluded, “Here’s good.”

You dropped onto the patch of grass, setting your books in a neat little pile beside you, legs crossing as you got comfortable.

Spencer hesitated for half a second, then awkwardly folded himself down opposite you, knees drawn up. He shifted restlessly, like he wasn’t sure how a human body was supposed to sit comfortable outside, and clutched at the strap of his bag like it would help.

His pile of books was somewhat more haphazard than yours, the corners of his notes poking out and rustling in the gentle breeze.

You glanced at the stack, eyes narrowing as you read the complex titles. You tapped the cover of the top one with a single finger. “So… what are you studying that requires this amount of notes?”

“Engineering,” he said shyly, picking at a corner of one of his pages before his fingers hesitantly nudged the book closer to you for you to see. “That’s my… focus.”

You picked up the book, gently thumbing through it, brows rising “Engineering? That’s—” you gave a low whistle, placing it back down. “Intense.”

“I guess.” He reached out as if to straighten the book you’d placed back down, though it was already perfectly aligned. “I’ve been focusing on mechanical systems. Well, mostly. I’m still refining my thesis proposal.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “Thesis? You’re already doing a master’s?”

He hesitated, throat working. “No. A PhD.” Another hesitation. “My second one.”

There was a beat of silence as you processed that.

“Hold on.” You leaned forward, studying him even harder. “This is your second PhD?”

The tips of his ears flushed pink as you stared at him. You smiled, leaning back on your hands .

“Overachiever much?” you teased lightly.

He flushed more. “I—I just like learning,” he mumbled, as if that explained away the magnitude of his academic achievements, trying to make himself appear like less of a curiosity.

“So you must be some sort of genius, right? I don’t know anyone who already has a PhD at our age.”

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I’m not—well, I mean, technically I have a high IQ, but… I don’t really like calling it that. ‘Genius,’ I mean. It’s just numbers. And memory. And—” he paused, realizing himself he was about to spiral into a breakdown of what IQ scores actually meant.

You tilted your head, amused again. “Oh, yeah. You’re definitely a genius.”

His lips parted soundlessly, like he wanted to argue but couldn’t think of a single logical way out. Instead, he pressed his fingers into the grass, picking nervously at the blades before finally muttering, “I guess. Yes.” Then, desperately wanting to turn the conversation away from him, he gestured at your pile of books. “Russian?”

“Yeah,” you said with a grin. “I’m majoring in linguistics. Double minor in history and Russian studies. Because, you know – why make life easy for myself?”

“And you said I was the overachiever.”

You laughed at that. Actually laughed. It caught him off guard. It wasn’t sharp or mocking, but light and airy. Like you couldn’t help but find him funny in a way that didn’t make him want to sink into the ground.

“Touché,” you said, winking playfully at him. “But seriously, engineering? That’s brutal.”

Spencer shrugged, though it looked more like a nervous twitch. “It’s… structured. Predictable. I like when things make sense.”

You hummed thoughtfully, the sound low and amused. “See, I think I like when things don’t make sense. Languages are messy, unpredictable – there’s always some exception to the rule. It keeps you humble.”

“But that would drive me insane,” he said, voice soft but earnest. “I’d want to know why something broke the rule.”

“Exactly,” you said, grinning. “That’s why linguistics is fun. It’s like trying to have a conversation with history.” You laughed softly and shook your head. “Now I’m rambling on,” you said, pulling a book into your lap and pulling a pen from your pocket. “You wanted to study, right?”

What Spencer wanted was for the conversation to continue, but he nodded regardless, grabbing a book and following suit. The shift from conversation to quiet study felt surprisingly natural.

For a while, neither of you spoke. It wasn’t the brittle silence Spencer was used to, the kind that pressed on his lungs and made every shift of his pencil feel like a disruption. This was… different.

The grass itched a little beneath him, and the sun filtered lazily through the leaves above, but all he could really focus on was you.

You had two books precariously balanced on your lap now, and you were leaning forward, your hair falling into your face as your fingers traced the pages with a careful reverence. Every now and then, you’d scribble something in the margins – a quick note in looping script – or tilt your head in thought, lips parting slightly as you silently mouthed words.

Spencer should have been reading. He knew he should have been reading. The book resting on his lap had been open to the same page for what felt like an hour, the words blurring together as his mind kept drifting away. Yet no matter how hard he tried to focus, his eyes kept drifting back to you.

There was something about the way you focused. The quiet intensity of it reminded him of the way he got when he was caught in the pull of a problem, unable to stop until he solved it. He found himself wondering what it was like to be inside your head – what thoughts and half-formed ideas lived there.

You looked up suddenly, but if you noticed him watching, you gave no sign.

“I’ve got a lecture to catch,” you said, snapping him back to the moment. “You have a list for me?”

“A list?”

“Yeah—of your guys. Bach and Debussy and… that other one.”

“Rachmaninoff,” Spencer supplied. He glanced down dumbly at his notes, then back up at you. “No. I could email it to you?”

The silence that followed made his heart slam in his chest. He was sure he’d overstepped. But then your lips curved into a slow, amused smile.

“Email?”

He nodded earnestly, cheeks coloring. “Yeah. I use it for most of my research correspondence. It’s… reliable.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s surprisingly formal for sharing music recommendations.”

Spencer blinked, not sure if it was a compliment or an insult.

“I—it’s just easier to keep track of everything that way…” he explained quietly, trailing off as he watched you tear a sheet from your notebook and scribble down your email.

“Alright. Hit me with your emails then,” you said, and held the paper out to him. He took it from you hesitantly, let his eyes trace over the letters numerous times before meeting your eyes again.

“I’ll try not to flood your inbox,” he said with a small smile.

“Oh, no. Please do. I think your emails would be the most interesting thing in there.”

Spencer’s cheeks flamed hotter than they had all morning. He stumbled over his words, trying to come up with a response to your words, but you were already smiling and walking away.

“Bye, Spencer,” you called over your shoulder.

He barely managed a breathless, “Bye,” before watching you disappear around the corner of a building.

Spencer’s roommate was in the dorm when Spencer returned, looking up from his work.

“Okay, so what’s the verdict? Still no library girl?” he asked, going to draw another tally on the ‘fail’ side of the board.

“I found her,” Spencer muttered, fishing out the scrap of paper from his pocket. He pinned it to the back of his desk, staring at it in silence for a long moment.

Behind him, his roommate laughed.

“Adding a point to the scoreboard then. One for Spencer – finally making a move!”

a/n: i have PLANS for spencer's roommate just you wait and see *deviously rubs hands together*

also, do you guys get my vision of baby spencer having an epiphany looking at her while "changes" plays i hope you do

CIPHER HAD A PLAN. There was a time, albeit a regrettable period of time, where she had everything figured out. A time where her name wasn’t Cipher at all. A time where she actually had access to weapons that could save her life. A time where the injury she was currently sporting could have been avoided. She still remembered the feeling of her skin being torn by the blade. The kid who’d stabbed her– yes, kid, had done so in an act of protecting his mother. 

His mother, who, after everything she’d done, still had her son’s undying loyalty. His mother, who had killed herself to escape the blame. His mother, who had forced him to do unspeakable things. Things that she herself remembered doing all too well. Things that would scar him forever. If the higher ups were as harsh and unforgiving as she remembered, his mother’s conditioning might very well send him to prison.

Well, that and the fact that he’d stabbed her, an FBI agent. However, that was the least heinous of his multitude of crimes. There was the obvious (murder), arson, grand theft auto, theft of a service weapon (not hers, because she didn’t have one), breaking and entering, driving without a license– and of course, the little mishap he’d had with the knife that ended up in her thigh. Cipher sighed. A long, exasperated sigh. Everything inside her tingled with adrenaline and pain. She still remembered how he’d managed to get to her. He was crying– the oldest trick in the book, really, so she should have seen it coming– and when she knelt down to talk to him, he unfurled like a hedgehog and got her right by her femoral artery. He’d been aiming for her stomach, but she had faster reflexes than he did. A pro of being in the murder business, she supposed. Cipher gave herself some leniency. At the time, both her and the team still thought that the mother was the one committing the crimes, not him. So really, had she not reacted when she did, she could very well have died. At least, that was what Spencer told her. His voice echoed in her ears. “You’re lucky he missed your femoral artery,’ he had said. "If he hit it– which I’m sure was his intention, we profiled that he’ll go for the kill no matter what– you would have bled out in under sixty seconds.”

“Careful, Dr. Reid,” she replied. “Keep this up and people will think that you’re starting to like me.”

He’d scoffed. “I don’t like you, but my friends do. And as much as I’d enjoy you being gone, a death in the team would traumatize the people I actually like. So, since you seem to be very keen on making mistakes, I have to prevent your death as best I can.”

She’d rolled her eyes. “Yeah right. Just admit it; you like me. It’s nothing to be ashamed about, Dr. I am quite attractive.” He’d flushed at that, and she took that as a sign to enjoy a moment of Reid-less peace. Of course, he had to run his mouth again, interrupting the glorious silence between them. 

“Did you know that–’”she’d tuned out after that, unable to take any more ‘fun’ facts from Reid. They were never as fun as he made them out to be. 

Soon after that, Agent Hotchner had dragged Spencer out of Cipher’s hospital room in order to question her. She assumed that he was there to tell her that ‘okay, you’ve proved yourself, you can have a gun now.’ But no, of course he wasn’t! Instead, he used that voice. The one He’d used when He wanted something from her. The one she always obeyed, every time. It felt unnecessary, like a breach of protocol. He had been instructed (by her) not to use that unless it was absolutely required for the benefit of a) the team, or b) the case. (She’d also made it clear that for the benefit of Spencer Reid didn’t count.)

“I’ll ask you one more time. You stabbed Tyler. Why?” Oh, right. Tyler. She’d stabbed him? She didn’t remember much after removing the knife from her leg, but maybe she’d stabbed him. It was a possibility. 

“I stabbed him?” She asked, the daze (caused by The Voice) wearing off, just a little bit. It had always done that to her. Cloaked her in obedience and stripped her of all situational awareness. Cipher. Hated. It. She’d made that clear from day one. It was the one thing from Revenant left inside her. No matter how much the therapists had tried, they were unable to scrub that trigger from the frame of her mind. They’d discovered hundreds of other tiny minefields, had been able to recondition her into forgetting those– but The Voice remained. Once the higher ups had been notified of her lack of progress with that particular part of her conditioning– they’d decided to use it. Trained Agent Hotchner until he had it down to a science. That way, if she got out of hand, he’d be able to control her. 

There was nothing on this planet that she despised more than The Voice. 

He seemed to notice her discomfort and decided to dial back on his tone, just a smidge. Just enough to lure her back into feeling comfortable speaking again. 

“You did,” he said, softer than usual. The whiplash was enough to send her spiraling. “He’s in the ICU now. You stabbed him three times. Twice in the gut, once in the shoulder. Strauss is calling it an unnecessary use of force against an innocent.”

Innocent. It made her blood fucking boil. It was so typical of Strauss to do something like that. Cipher was to be sent to the gallows, yet this boy– this boy, who was in the same situation as she was all those years ago– got a fucking free pass because it would damn her further. 

“He stabbed me.” Was all she could manage to say. “Assaulting a federal agent is a serious felony. Or have the rules changed since I joined?”

He gave a dry, humourless laugh. “No.” He sighed. “They haven’t. But you’re on strict watch, Cipher. Anything that can be used against you will be used against you. You know that.”

“I am very aware of Section Chief Erin Strauss’ game of middle school targeting.”

He sighed again, like she was aging him twenty years due to her existence. It made her want to scream. Sometimes, these things happen. Sometimes, she gets hurt and has to fight back. Cipher is good– but she’s not fucking invincible.

“It’s not a middle school game of targeting.” He finally said. “She has her reservations, and she has reasons for them. Valid reasons, Cipher. You didn’t exactly make it easy for her to find you. The search cost thousands of dollars.” He paused, giving her a moment to let that sink in. “Shooting her probably didn’t help her in deconstructing those reservations.” 

“I don’t give a damn if she has reservations, Hotchner. I care that she’s letting her preconstrued image of me get in the way of justice.” She said, leaning back in her uncomfortable hospital bed and pretending that the wince she let out was just a yawn.

“You could call me Hotch.” He said. “Everyone else does.”

“I’m not everyone else, SSA Hotchner.”

“No,” he sighed. “Unfortunately, you are not.”

—

CIPHER SPENT THE NEXT THREE DAYS IN A HOSPITAL BED. The whole time, she was getting updated by Hotchner about Tyler’s state. Whether he was going to live or not. Normally, she wouldn’t have cared. He tried to kill her, that was damning enough. She really should have had more empathy, considering that she’d been spared after doing the same thing– but she wasn’t a good person, and she’d never claimed to be. 

She cared because whether he lived or died was the difference between a note in her file and a re-evaluation of her deal. Re-evaluations were bad. In the five years she’d been working at the BAU, it had only happened once. The time she’d stolen a gun from the suspect and shot him in the head. It had been the only kill she’d made since her escape from Him. 

Strauss had been absolutely furious. She’d lectured– no, fucking had a one-sided screaming match with Cipher about breaching trust and BAU protocol. When she’d pointed out that Emily had to do the same a few months back, well. She didn’t know a face could turn that red. It was a weak excuse, and she knew it. Erin had nearly exploded. She’d tried to remind the Section Chief that it was either kill or be killed, but she wasn’t hearing it. ‘I don’t care if you’re about to die, the only time you are permitted to use a weapon is if someone else’s life is in danger!’ Someone else’s life. Cipher knew that she wasn’t very… valuable, per se, in Strauss’ eyes, but she hadn’t expected that.

The next week, there was an updated version of her contract sitting on her desk when she came in. Underlined thrice was the new condition. ‘ Under no circumstances is [CODE NAME] Cipher permitted to use lethal force in situations that involve his or her own mortality. In the instance that another agent or victim is in a situation that requires the use of lethal force, [CODE NAME] Cipher may be granted access to a weapon.’

It became clear then, that the FBI did not care whether she lived or died. So, if her actions ended up being what killed Tyler– then she’d have broken her contract. At best, she’d be assigned to another unit. At worst, she’d be imprisoned or put into WISTEC. God, she didn’t know if she’d be able to handle another identity. She’d spent years stripping herself of the obedience– of the plain, boring personality He’d given her. She had built who she was now from nothing. All the sarcasm, the sharpness, everything defensive about her had been carefully curated over a decade. She wasn’t about to do that again just because some woman who’d never had to make the decision to end someone’s life or not said she was out of line. 

The rules were ironclad– and they said that this was a violation capable of  destroying her life.  

—

TYLER FITZ-RAMBEAU SURVIVED CIPHER’S BRUTAL ATTACK, Agent Hotchner informed her. Though there’d be scarring, he’d survive with no lasting damage. His family had no right to sue the FBI, and technically, while she’d broken a rule– there were no deaths caused by her ‘recklessness’ as Hotchner put it, which meant she was probably in the clear. Cipher didn’t care. Reckless meant she’d stay alive. Reckless meant that she wasn’t broken beyond repair. Reckless meant that people would think twice before trying to kill her. But when she pointed that out, he hadn’t even looked at her. He’d just reminded her that being cautious and level-headed was another condition.

‘Fuck the rules,’ she wanted to say. ‘The only ones I follow are my own.’

Instead, she nodded like she’d actually consider changing. Like she was still capable of changing. He glanced up at her then, looking her over once, twice. Taking in her defiant expression, her posture– all of it, then snorted and went back to completing his paperwork. She should have been offended, but he was right, and she had no energy. There was no way in hell she’d “grow from this experience and make better decisions in the future” or “take it as a way to learn and grow”, because fuck that. She hadn’t stabbed Tyler because she felt like it, she’d stabbed him because she didn’t want to die. Because the other option was to just lay back and take it, since she couldn’t exactly point a gun at him and tell him to get on the ground. 

Apparently, having control over her meant more than her life to the Bureau. Then again, she wasn’t surprised. Her life had always held very little value to the people who surrounded her. Except to Him, her life was valuable. He treated it like it was something precious, something to be preserved. She got high off of the admiration and “respect” he had for her, and what ended up bringing her down from that high was handcuffs and a death sentence. It had shattered the illusion, like a rock to a window. Shards of glass, everywhere, and she desperately had tried to put the pieces back together with nothing but her bleeding, trembling hands. 

It was with those hands that she’d shaped Cipher. The scars that ran up and down her back told stories of resilience and someone who didn’t crack– didn’t break, didn’t allow herself to falter under any circumstances whatsoever. She held her future with the very same fingers that had pulled the trigger of a gun too many times. 

Cipher was His worst nightmare. 

Cipher was perfect.

THE 911 CALL MAKES HER SICK TO HER STOMACH. The voice sounds young. Too young to be dealing with whatever is happening at Liberty Ranch. She’s no fool; that place is completely godless. All she has to go on is the call. And yet, she’s already made up her mind about what kind of people run the ‘church’; sick, twisted individuals that singlehandedly make her hope that hell exists.

She’s never been religious. The thought of it, of a God, in her mind, is absolutely ridiculous. If he does exist, well. He abandoned her a long time ago, no regrets. It was only fair she did the same. 

Of course, so-called ‘divine intervention’ can be accredited to dumb luck. She has a plethora of counter arguments to disprove the existence of an all powerful creator. Just ask Reid, he found out the hard way a few months ago.

A voice rings out into her head, snapping her back to the real world. It’s Spencer, of course, poking her in the thigh and asking her if she was listening. She wonders why his years of profiling hasn’t given him the necessary tools to find the answer to his question through body language alone— unless, of course, he’s being annoying on purpose to piss her off. That’s a valid possibility. It’s working, too.

She ignores him. 

He does not ignore her ignorance. No. Ignoring. Whatever. In fact, it only serves to encourage him to continue… poking her.

He’s poking her. Not mentally, though he does that often. Physically.

Jesus fuck, can this man get any more annoying? Apparently, he can. In addition to touching her, he’s making a point to avoid any kind of pattern. One tap. Then two. Then four. Back to one— oh wait, now he’s doing it in fives. Absolutely wonderful.

Daily affirmations: You are not going to kill Spencer Reid.

Maybe she will, if it means he’ll stop—

“Stop that,” she hisses. “You’re a professional. Act like it.”

He gives her a disapproving look. “You’re one to talk about being professional at work. You resort to petty insults that have no effect on a daily basis.” He’s not even trying to keep his voice down.  The state police officer who is driving the car glances back at them with a peculiar look on her face. 

Cipher’s this close to making good on her threats. 

“They have their intended effect.” She says, matching his tone. Usually, she tries to maintain a certain level of… “friendliness” (it’s somewhere in between genuinely nice and saccharine nice) with local officers. “You’ve professed experiencing feelings of absolute insanity when prompted afterwards, have you not?” Both he and the officer, Nancy, grimace.

This time, she glares at the officer. Quickly, the brunette’s eyes divert and refixate on the road in front of her. Thank god, she wants to piss Spencer off in peace. Is that so hard to get nowadays? Last time they were here, Colorado police weren’t this nosy. They didn’t care if she and Spencer fought, they got on with their jobs and ignored it. Though, she supposed, if she was out in the open, anyone had a right to comment on it.

She just doesn’t like being judged, that’s all.

For the rest of the drive, she remains unseen. Spencer, sensing the tension, decides to remain silent for the remainder of the drive. Cipher just looks out the window, watching the green grass and blue sky blend together as the car accelerates. Branches of trees whip across her eyesight, blinking by in an instant. 

She’s circling back to the call. To the girl, who they’ve identified as Jessica. Likely. The “he” in question, is rumoured to be a man called Cyrus, a despicable creature who allegedly practices both polygamy and forced marriages. You’d think that, if he had multiple wives, at least one of them would want to be with him. 

“I’m only fifteen.”

It makes her sick.

—

SICK IS AN UNDERSTATEMENT. When she sees that man— hears the way he talks about girls, children— she thinks she might throttle him. But she doesn’t, though it takes nearly all of her willpower. She and Spencer are introduced as child victim interview experts. She watches his face intently, eyes raking over his features again and again, just waiting for it to change. For guilt to settle in. For his calm, composed facade to splinter under pressure.

Cipher’s only reward is seeing his lips twitch downwards, his eyes narrowing just a little bit. Defensive. He can see her judgement, knows deep down that it’s undeniably true. This is wrong, and somehow, he’s managed to convince about a thousand people to abandon their morality at the doorstep of a church. Just because some man said it was God’s will. Had they cracked open a single bible, read a single verse— they’d know that the opposite was preached, but manipulation and evil are strong. She knows that much. She always has. 

As they begin their trek through sun-scorched grass, towards the entrance, Cyrus says something that makes her blood boil. He’d come to greet them when they’d arrived, and had even tried to shake her hand. 

“You know,” he says, pushing the double doors open to reveal a polished interior. “How far from God’s word must we have strayed for there to be the need to invent a job called child victim interview expert?” He’s trying to sound innocent, she can tell. Cyrus wants to get on their good side, convince her that she agrees with at least some of his views, get his foot in the door to make her someone she sympathizes with. She’s seen this before. Men like him try to convince the BAU that it wasn’t their fault, that they just couldn’t take it. That they’re sorry, and they’ll do better, they promise.

They’re fucking liars, that’s what they are. That’s what this man is, what he’ll always be. No amount of anything can change that. People like him, no monsters, will claim they want to change, to be better— only after they get caught. They won’t care before, they’re perfectly fine with claiming victim after victim until they’re stopped, and only then are they fucking sorry. 

It’s bullshit. 

And now Spencer’s wearing that look, the one that tells her that her emotions have been splayed all over her face for the past minute and a half. Quickly, she schools her expression as best she can. 

“The job only exists as a response to people doing inhuman things.” She fixes her eyes on him. She knows. He deserves to know that she knows, he should be feeling all the turmoil he’s capable of feeling in whatever’s left of his disgusting heart. 

It’s men like him that want to make her believe in hell. Cipher isn’t religious. She’s thought about this before, she thinks about it all the time. She can’t be, it goes against her nature. She’s practical. She can differentiate between truth and stories told to make others feel better about the things they can do and the things they shouldn’t but think about regardless. 

But there’s no torture strong enough on this earth to adequately punish those who manipulate and mold others into something they should’ve never had to worry about being.

—

SHE’S COMPLETELY GONE. Jessica Evanson— a bright, young, fifteen year old child is convinced that it it would be alright to marry a man twice her age. To have his children. To sleep with him. That ‘God’s will’ justifies everything and anything. The problem is, anything can be God’s will if you’re smart enough. Clever enough. Charming enough. Cyrus is one of those people, she spotted that the moment she had the misfortune of meeting him. 

“We go to school, we do our chores, and we treat ourselves with the respect that God demands.” And, oh God, does Cipher want to shake her. Yell. Scream that this isn’t right, that no matter what god says, this isn’t how things are supposed to be. That it’s not God who is telling her anything, but rather a mortal man with a convincing demeanour. 

“But you’ve never been off the ranch?” Spencer cuts in. That’s good, his talking is useful for once. She’s not sure she can keep speaking.

“I brought Jessie here when she was two.” Cipher recognizes her face, Kathy Evanson. Jessica’s mother. She looks her over once, then twice, and feels her body surge with something that feels like rage. How could a mother do that? Bring her child straight into danger, into a place where she’ll be groomed and tormented by thoughts and actions that aren’t her own, things that shouldn’t be done— the streets would have been better.

“Or would they?” A voice in her head says. “Look at what they did to you.” 

No. No, this girl is not her. She never has been, and never will be. Their stories differ, intersect for a few moments and then split apart. This girl still has a life ahead of her.

She takes a second, then, to remind herself of the reality that surrounds a cult. They prey on the weak and vulnerable. If she had to guess, she’d say that Kathy Evanson was a single mother struggling to feed her child. And then a church reached out, offered food, maybe. She just had to go to one Sunday Service.

And that was how they got their hooks in. They promised her something she didn’t think she was strong enough to provide on her own— a good life for her daughter.

She can respect that. She has to. She cannot damn this woman and paint herself as a saint who did not know any better.

“You’ve talked to lots of children in your line of work. Tell me, are their lives somehow better than ours?” Some of them, yes. Most of them, no. But damn it, Kathy. She thinks. Don’t try to justify this.

“We devote ourselves to God,” Kathy says, clearly noting the expression plastered on Cipher’s face. “That doesn’t mean we’re not devoted to our children.”

“We’re not here because of your religious beliefs.” Cipher states plainly. 

“Why are you here, then?” Jessica asks.

Cipher says the only thing she can think of that isn’t shouting at the girl. She doesn’t deserve that. It’s not her fault. “We received a…” how can she put this. Appalling? Disturbing? Terrifying? There’s nothing she can say that won’t convince Jessie not to trust her. “A 9-1-1 call.” Good. That’s good. Tread carefully. “Telling us that, allegedly,” she makes sure that she emphasizes the word, performing, making it sound like she’s not accusing someone who is basically god to this little girl of something despicable. “-someone is abusing some of the younger girls here. Is that true?” Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Spencer tense. 

“You’re talking about Cyrus.” Jessie says. 

“What makes you say that?” Cipher asks. She’s trying to keep it together, she really is, but she can feel herself pulling apart at the seams.

“Jessie,” Kathy prompts. “Come on.”

“Is it inappropriate for a husband to share a bed with his wife?”

She’s going to throw up. 

“You— you’re married to Cyrus?” She asks. Fuck, Jessie recoils at her tone. Keep it together. Keep it together. Do not scream. Do not scream. She watches Kathy shrink away, guilty. Guilty.

“Cyrus is a prophet. It is an honour to bear his children.” God, no. No, no, no. She’s wrong. This isn’t an honour, it’s abuse. She’s being abused, and she can’t even see it— she sounds grateful? She can’t— this isn’t right, surely she can tell—

“Jessie,” Spencer says her name softly, a stark contrast to Cipher’s accidental half-outburst. “You’re fifteen years old. The state of Colorado requires parental consent.”

Cipher sees the guilt that covers Kathy. The regret. The shame. She knows it well, it’s an old friend she’s never been able to shake away. “She gave consent.”

Just as Cipher’s about to continue, the door bursts open. Cyrus storms in, accompanied by two men. They all have guns. They all look angry, their jaws clenched and their bodies taut. She moves, trying to cover Jessica, but Cyrus is faster. He grabs her arm, pulls her forwards. She lets out a noise, but when the man next to Cyrus raises his gun, she falls silent. Shit. 

“We just got a very strange phone call from a news reporter. Is there anything you want to tell me? About a raid, maybe?” He asks her coldly. 

She can hear yelling outside, she thinks she catches the word “warrant”--- oh. She knows this all too well, she’s seen it play out before, just… on a larger scale. Almost a decade ago. 

The children don’t deserve this. 

“There’s a raid,” his tone is even. Like he’s been preparing for this, waiting for it all to unfold. He steps forward, eyes flickering across her face. Looking for deception, though she doubts he’ll be able to find it. 

A raid. She just hopes he doesn’t interpret the recognition she feels as foreknowledge. He grabs her wrist tighter, and when her whole body jerks backwards, he seems to make up his mind. Spencer takes a step forward, opening his mouth—

“They didn’t know.” Cyrus decides.

“Take them to the basement with the others.”

Just as they begin to move, the sounds of gunfire begin to ring out around them, muffled by the thick walls of the compound.

Well, fuck.

—

THE BASEMENT IS CHAOS. People are screaming, people are crying. Guns are scattered on the floor, and she sees a mother trying to corral all the children away from the weapons. They’re there for anyone to take, literally anyone. The disarray (and danger) of the room is a clear sign to her that this was not planned. Cyrus is a monster, someone who has long since lost any sense of morality. But he’s smart, and he knows that getting anyone killed today will ruin his chances of ever being released from prison. He didn’t know this was going to happen. He’s just as clueless as she is. They’re in the same leaking, sinking, fucked up boat.

Wonderful. 

“Where’d all these guns come from?” Reid asks, motioning around the room with his eyes. 

“Oh, let me just ask my crystal ball. Let’s see… maybe God?” She says. He rolls his eyes, glancing at her quickly with a special look he curated just for her. It’s a mix of fuck you and I hate you and are you serious? Normally, when she gets him to use it, it at least elicits a smile from her. But not today, not when she’s still royally pissed off. 

“I don’t know,” she gives him a real answer. “Garcia checked with the state police.”

She watches as Spencer takes a sharp inhale, chewing on his lip. 

Nancy’s arguing with one of the armed men, she doesn’t know why. Cipher steps towards them, hoping to catch their conversation. “It’s the state police,” Nancy says. “I’m an officer of the state. I can talk to them, if you’ll just let me—”

“Well, there’s nothing we can do right now.” Says the man currently blocking the door, blocking Nancy from doing something stupid and possibly getting to experience the feeling of a bullet ripping through her body. For an officer, she seems to be quite stupid; willing to risk her life over a situation of which she has zero control.

“I can talk to them!” She argues. “They’re with me. There’s no raid planned, so they must have gotten something wrong.”

Spencer dashes forwards, planting himself next to her. He places his arm on her shoulder, concern filling his honey brown eyes. “You can’t do that,” he says. “It’s dangerous. This is a raid; there’s a 26.87% chance that you’ll get hit by a stray bullet.”

Nancy narrows her eyes in determination. “You don’t know that. They’ll listen to me. Hell, I grew up with half these people.”

“That doesn’t mean anything if they can’t see or hear you, Nancy.” Reid pleads. She doesn’t listen, though. She wants to be a hero. Cipher can see it now; pretty girl, underestimated all her life. Picked a job with “no real impact”, like all the boys in her class told her she would. Now, desperate to prove herself, desperate to be a hero. Has anyone ever told her that things don’t tend to end well for heroes?

She watches as Nancy bolts past Spencer, past the man guarding the door— and as Spencer tries to pull her back, fingertips grazing the fabric of her shirt before she rushes out of his grasp. Spencer strains against the guard, but he doesn’t budge. 

Fuck. Now, they’ve lost her. Now, she’s gone on a suicide mission. Now, they’re not sure if they’ll be able to get her back. 

It’s only a few more minutes until she hears someone coming down to the basement. It’s Cyrus, ushering the man guarding the door away as he passes. 

“Where’s Lunde?” Spencer asks.

Cyrus’ lips pull into a thin, tight line. “It wasn’t us.” He replies. She grimaces. Now, things have gotten ten times worse. Now, everyone involved with the extraction will also be emotionally involved. She knew this was going to happen. 

Nancy should have listened to Spencer. 

But Cyrus is moving again, taking his gun with him. Spencer’s eyes go wide, and he follows the man. “You can’t shoot it out with the cops,” he hisses. “You have children here!”

“I didn’t start this.” He says, glancing at the door. “They did.”

Double fuck.

—

“TO FOLLOW BY FAITH ALONE IS TO FOLLOW BLINDLY.”

BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.

BEHAVIOURAL ANALYSIS UNIT- QUANTICO, VIRGINIA.

“---WHAT IS CURRENTLY BEING CALLED A ROUTINE QUESTIONS-AND-ANSWERS MEETING BY COLORADO CHILD SERVICES HAS TURNED INTO A VIOLENT AND DEADLY STANDOFF BETWEEN COLORADO AUTHORITIES AND A FRINGE RELIGIOUS GROUP KNOWN AS THE SEPTARIAN SECT.”

JJ stops in her tracks when she hears the news anchor say those words. She does a quick double take, glancing between the screen and her computer. She can’t have heard that right. She checked. Double checked, actually. Nothing was supposed to be taking place today, not when Reid and Cipher were inside. 

“Morgan!”

The brown haired man turns to look at her, cocking his head to the side.

“Look.”

She watches his face fall. Disbelief, horror, panic—

“Hotch!”

“Tactical warrant service team forced into a retreat after a thirty minute gun battle…”

“JJ,” Morgan says. “That’s not the ranch where Reid and Ci—” she nods solemnly, rushing over to his side. “They’re still inside,” she confirms.

Hotch exits his office, looking tired. That is, until he sees the TV. The red banner. The news announcer. His face drops.

“It is believed that at least three of the child service members are still trapped within the compound.”

“Let’s go.” He says. “JJ, get Rossi. Tell him something went wrong at the ranch. Reid and Cipher are in danger.”

She nods.

—

AARON HOTCHNER DOESN’T EVER THINK HE’S BEEN MORE FURIOUS. The state police, it turns out, had not been informed that there were undercover FBI agents in the Septarian Sect today. They’d been planning a raid for six months, gathering information— but had failed to mention that when JJ had called the ADF to confirm. As it turns out, Jim Wells, attorney general, lied to them. He was challenging the Governor for his position in the next election. It’s highly likely that he was trying to avoid having his case poached, which was fair— but it’s also impossible for him to have not known the stakes when he was asked by the ADF. He knew this was a possibility, and decided not to tell anyone anyway. He can already see the charges stacking up. Negligent homicide. The counts depend on if Reid and Ci make it out alive. 

Aaron can already feel a headache brewing. He’s put in the order to have Leo Kane, former leader of Liberty Ranch (currently incarcerated for both tax evasion and assault with a deadly weapon) transported to the scene to get an idea of what the compound is like. 

He thinks he already knows, but he’ll have Morgan interview Kane anyway. 

 —

“WE CALL THIS THE ‘MINIMAL LOSS’ SCENARIO. EVERY PERSON WE GET OUT IS A LIFE SAVED. WE WON’T SAVE THEM ALL.” Rossi explains. The team of hostage negotiators are listening carefully, trying to commit every word to memory. Aaron can see it on their faces; none of them want to be the reason somebody dies today. He can’t be objective, he knows that. Those are his teammates, locked in there. His— his friends, trapped and alone, with no feasible way to escape. He’d be lying if he said it didn’t scare him, but that’s all he’ll allow himself to think. He’s scared, yes, but there is a time and place for emotions. Now is not it.

“All of us have to be prepared for that scenario.”

Hotch isn’t. He knows he’s not. Realistically, this is a death sentence. Realistically, he’ll be lucky if he gets Reid or Cipher out alive, that both… It's rare. 

The phone, the one Rossi had set up to make negotiations, begins ringing. He watches as Dave picks it up, presses it to his ear. He talks, words that Aaron isn’t paying attention to, though he knows he should be. He manages to de-escalate the situation, like Aaron knew he would, despite the older man’s reservations. Despite their emotional involvement, though involvement isn’t strong enough of a word. Intertwined, maybe. They’re emotionally tangled up in this case, tied together, a knot that won’t untangle easily. It’d be easier to cut it out with scissors, but each strand that gets severed is a life lost. It’s not an option.

They’ll just have to wait this out, hope for the best. Personally, Aaron Hotchner is praying that Cipher won’t do something stupid, won’t get herself hurt. 

When he hears the phone click back into the receiver, Rossi sighs a breath of pure relief. “They’re alive,” he says. “Reid and Cipher are fine.” Thank god. His entire demeanour shifts, his entire body nearly slumps over in undiluted solace.

He checks out of the conversation after that, allowing his mind to relax. He catches something about mics, planting bugs in the compound. 

“How familiar are Reid and Cipher with our playbook?” Aaron asks. 

“Very,” Rossi replies. “The BAU wrote the CIRG handbook.”

“So they’ll know we’re trying to get ears in at all times.”

Rossi nods. “They will.”

—

“PREPARE THE WINE,” CYRUS’ VOICE ECHOES OUT INTO THE CHURCH, THE LIGHT FROM THE STAIN GLASS PAINTING HIM, MAKING HIM LOOK HOLY. Though Cipher supposes that’s exactly what he is to these people. Holy. “We are celebrating.” Cipher and Reid have been placed in the back of the chapel, watching as Cyrus and someone else begin to hand out cups full of red liquid. Wine. They’re given to the children, too, which is both a surprise and concerning to Cipher. She has to wonder why. She knows all about the Eucharist, too much for her own liking. But she’s never really seen wine being given to children during mass before. It’s suspicious.

“Everyone drinks!” Cyrus shouts. “Everyone rejoices.” He waits a few moments, allowing the people in the crowd to sip from their cups. He watches them intently, narrow eyes flitting across the crowd. 

“Because today, we are one day closer to being with Him.” Cyrus says just as Spencer elbows her in the stomach. Hard. It takes everything in her to not whirl around, face him directly. She can’t do that, it would draw too much attention to the pair. 

“Look at Jessica’s body language,” he comments. “The way she looks at him.”

Cipher fixates on Jessica. She has her body angled towards Cyrus. She’s standing as close as she can get to him, barely giving him enough room to perform. Her eyes are glassy, just a little bit, they remind her of someone she once knew.

She tears her own gaze away, before she can twist open that can of worms. 

“She literally worships him,” Spencer comments. “There’s no way she made that 9-1-1 call.” Cipher knows what that feels like, doesn’t she? Believing in someone so wholly, with all of yourself, sincerely, just leads to manipulation. She knows that now, and she wishes she knew it then.

Cipher jerks her head in Kathy’s direction. “Look at how she comes between Cyrus and her daughter,” she notes. “She’s trying to protect her. She’s inserted herself between them. Like a shield.” Reid nods. Oh, look. He can be cordial. 

“Drink to acknowledge Him, and I will guide our way.” Cyrus booms. Everyone who has a cup, drinks. They tilt their heads back in almost perfect unison, not stopping until nothing remains in the crystalline glasses. 

“We drank the poison together!” Cyrus yells. Horrified gasps come out of the crowd. Children, sensing the agitation of their parents, begin to cry. Some stay still. Some look to be at peace. Some panic. It’s a mixed reaction, probably what Cyrus wanted. Cipher’s eyes widen. This wasn’t in the profile. She’d assembled something quick in her mind, rushed but hopefully accurate. Clearly not, if she’d been so egregiously wrong about something like this. Suicide.

No, he was too proud for that. Too proud to go out in such a way, with a method so full of cowardice. He liked to incite fear beforehand; it didn’t make sense for him to want to watch all his diehard believers slowly die on the floor in front of him.

“And God will wipe the tears from their eyes, and there will be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. And there will be no more pain, for all of the former things have passed away.”

“What do we do?” Cipher whispers. Some people are openly sobbing now. Gasping for breath, clutching their children close. Others are silently weeping, their hands pressed to their faces to hide their shame. Some are unaffected, sitting docile, arms folded in their laps. 

“Nothing.”

“These people just drank poison!” She hisses. But even she has her doubts about what was in the glass.

“No, Cyrus told them they did.” He says calmly. “But I think he was bluffing.” She stares at him, mouth slightly agape. It would make sense, it would fit her profile— but if he’s right, then why?

“Why— why do you think that?” She asks.

“Just after he told them about the poison, he waited for them to react. Then,” he points his head in the direction of a man, about fifty feet away, standing by one of the stained glass windows. “He nodded at Cole, who started writing something down.” He’s right, of course, there is a man writing things down. 

“He’s scanning the audience for reactions,” she realizes. “So he knows who’ll stay with him to the end. He’s weeding out the ‘weak’.”

Another thirty seconds go by. Then a minute, then two. Finally, at the five minute mark, Cyrus raises his hand. “Be still.” He says. Instantly, all heads snap in his direction. Everyone’s eyes are fixated on him, waiting. Waiting. 

“There was no poison.” The criers falter. The ones who stayed silent show no change at all. “Instead, a test of faith.” 

He continues. “Because your adversary, the devil, waltzes about as a roaring lion!” His shout shocks the crowd, several children start crying again when the shrill noise rings out. “Chosing whom he may devour.”

“Watch each other for signs of weakness,” he snarls. “You are your brother’s keeper.”

With that, he waves his hand, dismissing them. Cipher and Reid share a glance, a glance of worry and concern.

He’s clearly unstable. There’s no telling as to what he’ll do next.

—

“HIS NAME IS CHARLES MULGREW. HIS MOTHER WAS FIVE MONTHS PREGNANT WHEN SHE SHOWED UP ON OUR DOORSTEP. HE TURNED OUT TO BE ONE OF THE SMART ONES.” This is said by Leo Kane, former leader of the Septarian Sect. Morgan’s talking to him, Hotch is observing. He’s doing anything and everything to keep his mind off of what could be happening to his team in the ranch. 

“Amazing memory, that kid had.” Kane reminisces. “Anything he read he could repeat back to you. And he did. Mouthy son of a bitch, that one.” 

Morgan nods. “Why did he leave the ranch?” He asks. Kane takes a while to respond, clearly thinking of a way to explain the timeline of events. This is going to be a long story, Hotch can tell that much from the way Leo makes himself comfortable in the chair he’s sitting in. 

“When he was seventeen,” Leo drawls, “a couple of our… younger girls came to me and said that he’d been messing with them.” Morgan looks taken aback. “You mean sexually?”

“Yessir.” He nods. “Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m a libertarian. But these girls were too young for a seventeen year old to be messing with.” 

“So you kicked him out for that, right?” Hotch hopes he’s going to say yes, for both Morgan’s sake and the sake of the girls. 

Leo gives them an incredulous look. “Yes sir, I did. His mother took him to Kentucky. Hadn’t heard anything from him for years.” He takes a breath, anger now spreading across his face. “And when he finally showed up again, he said his mother died, he found God, and he wanted to come home.”

Everyone in the room pauses. Aaron finds himself letting out a sigh of relief, breath he didn’t even know he’d been holding. “How does a kid like that get rid of you?” Morgan asks. Leo takes another inhale, fingers rubbing at his temples. 

“One day, he came to me and said God told him I should leave the ranch.” 

“And what did you say?” Hotch wonders aloud. Leo doesn’t even spare him a glance, staying fixated on Morgan. “Oh, I’ll tell you what I said. I said; if God felt that way, God could tell me himself.

“And then?”

“And then he put a gun to my head and told me, ‘He just did.’”

Leo continues. “Took me twenty years to build that ranch. I’ll do anything I can to help you send that seedy sonofabitch straight to hell.”

It’s then that they hear a commotion. JJ is shouting, saying something Aaron cannot decipher. He steps outside the tent, and nobody is calm. “Hotch!” Rossi yells. “You have to see this!” Instantly, panic shoots through his body. Is Cipher in danger? Dead? Is Reid okay?

He dashes towards the TV at which Rossi is pointing. When he hears what the announcer is saying, his heart plummets.

“There’s still no word as to why an undercover FBI agent was sent in alone.”

—

“WHICH ONE OF YOU IS IT?” Cipher glances up at Cyrus as his voice echoes into the room. She cocks her head in confusion, eyes flicking to Spencer like he isn’t just as bewildered as she is. She doesn’t know what he’s talking about, not until he opens his mouth again. 

It’s only when he pulls out a revolver, and points it at Reid, does she understand.

“Which one of you is the FBI agent?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck. She wracks her brain, trying to figure out how he found out. That doesn’t matter, though, right now. She realizes it when she feels a wave of cool panic rush through her body. No. She can’t let him die, she won’t. In the haze, one thought becomes clear. Reid is smarter than her. He’s profiled for longer than she has. He knows how to appease these types of people without being angry. She’s already aggravated Cyrus outside, there’s no way he’ll be willing to trust her after that shitshow. 

She will not let Spencer die. She’d sooner let herself be shot and killed.

She will not let Spencer die.

But just as she’s about to speak, profess her guilt, give him a reason to kill her, Spencer speaks up.

“Why- why do you think that one of us is an FBI agent? We’re just—” Cyrus cocks the revolver. 

“God will forgive me for what I must do.”

“Wait!” Her voice comes out louder than she meant for it to be. His attention diverts to her, wholly, and she sees rage flash across his features before he schools them back to an indifferent mask. She knew it. She knew there was a monster under there; she just needs to figure out how to bring it out, buy the team time.

“I- I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spencer doesn’t look at her, but she can sense his panic. What are you doing? He says to her with his body alone. 

“One of you does,” Cyrus presses the gun into Spencer’s forehead. The skin around the barrel goes white with pressure. “I sure do hope she tells me before I blow your brains out.”

Fuck.

“Me. It’s me.”

His eyes flicker with satisfaction, as though he’s just won a game. He’s suspected something of her from the beginning, she knew that he would after she made the some people are monsters comment. He just didn’t think it would be this large of a betrayal. He didn’t suspect that she was playing chess on a board he thought was made for checkers.

None of that matters when he presses the gun into her back, shoving her forwards into a secluded room. She can hear Spencer’s faint protests, but he’s silenced quickly. Taken somewhere, probably. She just hopes he doesn’t give himself away. 

“Proverbs 20:30 tells us blows and wounds cleanse away evil.” He strikes her then, to the face. Her head snaps to the side, she can feel blood fill her mouth. Pain hits her cheek, and she blinks slowly, trying to clear her vision.

Cipher is just about to speak when she feels him hit her again, this time to the stomach. She doubles over, and he takes this as an advantage. She’s pulled back up by her hair, and lets out an involuntary yelp of pain when he yanks hard.

Motherfucker. 

He grins. She knew he was evil, she just knew it. 

“Exodus 20:13,” she rasps. “Do not murder.”

His fist connects with her nose this time, and it takes everything in her not to scream. She won’t. She refuses. He doesn’t deserve the satisfaction of knowing that he hurt her. 

“I’m not going to kill you,” he laughs. “I need an example to show the others what happens,” he kicks her leg, her injured leg, and her head hits the wall as she loses her balance. “-When you disobey the will of God.”

He pulls her up by the arm, and spins her around. 

Pain. Everywhere. It’s all she can feel, the only thing her body can interpret. But she knows something. Through the pounding of her head, she remembers. The BAU. They’re going to come in if they think she’s being murdered. If they think she’s hurt. 

She is hurt, but she won’t let others be killed because she can’t handle it.

“You kick like a bitch,” she hisses. “Come on. Try harder.” His rage flares up. Yes. That’s exactly what she wanted. He twists her arm, twists it until she feels something give way. But she does not scream. She’s learned how to silence herself.

He looks both horrified and furious.

It takes everything inside her not to cry, not to give up, but she stays strong. She holds her ground. She smiles at him, and he takes a step back. She has the upper hand, for a moment. But she can’t walk like this, her leg is now oozing blood. Shit. He opened the wound. She’ll have to get stitches again.

There’s a moment where she enjoys it. The rawness of her body, the pulsing underneath her skin. The adrenaline. It’s sickening, but it feels good. 

He smacks her across the face. She stumbles, bracing herself on her broken arm. It doesn’t work, there’s no support, so she collapses fully.

“I can take it,” she tries to differentiate the words from her previous attempts to antagonize him, making it clear that these ones are for someone else. Cipher doesn’t know if it works. She hopes it does. “-If you start actually hitting me. Come on, do I need to show you how to throw a— fuck!”

He pulls her up again, and god, she’s getting tired of the up and down and up and down and then up and down again for good measure.

“I can take it,” She hopes Hotchner will hear, recognize that she’s talking to him, not Cyrus. “You’re weak,” she spits. Blood drips from her mouth. “You’re fucking weak.”

He slams her into the wall. Her hands collide with the mirror, she feels pain screech inside of her as glass imbeds itself in her skin. She nearly slips to the ground again, but for once, he keeps her upright.

She does scream this time, when he drags a shard of glass down her back. It’s high pitched and annoying, weak as it echoes back in her head. She drags the sound out, spinning it into a bitter laugh at the end. 

That’s it. She’s done. She feels blood soak her shirt, she’ll bleed to death if he doesn’t bandage the wound.

Now, when he drops her, he doesn’t yank her back up. “Fix her,” he says to someone she cannot see. “Make sure she doesn’t die. Then you bring her upstairs. Tie her up. Understood?” 

She feels the room around her start to spin as she’s brought to her feet once more.

—

“WE NEED TO GO IN THERE.” Hotch says, his voice high and agitated. They’ve never heard him sound this frantic before, this panicked. Rossi steps forwards, just as Cipher’s voice echoes through the headphones. “I can take it,” she rasps. She’s been antagonizing him this whole time, it would be easy to write this off as just that. It would be easy to storm in, arrest Cyrus, get her and Reid out of there. Fix her up, ask her what she was thinking, then forget this ever happened.

But Aaron, Rossi, everyone listening to the audio knows that there are two sides to every coin. Option one, they run in now. Heads: they get Cipher and Reid out safely. Tails: people who shouldn’t have to die end up dead. Option two, they wait. Heads: more people get out alive. Tails: Cipher is injured, possibly killed. It should be a simple choice; do what saves the most people. 

Hotch had already said that they were too emotionally involved for this. He wishes they had listened.

Aaron winces when he hears Cipher yell. She’s always been this way; quick to anger, even quicker to start a fight. He had thought she had the common sense to understand when she’s been overpowered, but apparently, she doesn’t. He makes a point to remind himself to yell at her later— that is, if she’s still alive by dusk.

“Wait,” Rossi says. “Listen to what she’s saying.” 

“She’s antagonizing him!” Morgan shouts. “We need to—”

Rossi shakes his head. “She’s talking to us.” 

It takes Aaron a minute to process the words, but when he does, he feels a small, bitter smile pull at the ends of his lips. She’s communicating with them. It’s not much, but it means she’s okay. For now, at least. “She’s telling us not to come in,” he realizes.

Morgan tosses the headphones onto the table.

“I can’t listen to this.”

Nobody blames him.

—

“WHY DID YOU LIE TO CYRUS?” Cipher winces involuntarily at the volume of the words, looking up as best she can with her current position. She’s on her stomach, arms tied behind her back, legs bound together at the end of the bed. Her head is propped up on a pillow so she doesn’t accidentally suffocate to death.

It’s Jessica.

Cipher breathes a sigh of relief. She was worried when she heard the door open that it might have been Cyrus, coming back to finish the job. It wasn’t, thankfully, but now she’s face to face with a little girl who has been completely and entirely indoctrinated into thinking the things that have been done to her are okay. 

“I didn’t lie,” she rasps. “He never asked me if I was an FBI agent.”

Jessica crosses her arms. “If it were my decision, I would have killed you. You’re lucky Cyrus is nicer than I am. God told him to keep you alive, though I can’t imagine why.”

Cipher laughs. She can’t help herself, she tries to keep it in, but she can’t. It aggravates her arm and her back, but she doesn’t care. Jessica looks offended now; a scowl painted over her porcelain face. 

“It wasn’t any God,” she explains. “It was mortal law. He kills an FBI agent? Then he’s going to prison for the rest of his life. And prisoners don’t take kindly to those who harm children.”

Jessica’s nostrils flare. “He doesn’t hurt anyone,” she says defiantly. “I said yes. My mother said yes. It’s right.”

“It’s legal.” Cipher replies. “There’s a difference.” The young girl seems to question that. For a moment, Cipher thinks she might have gotten through to her. Everything that has happened today has definitely made her question things, just like it had done to Cipher nine years ago. Their situations are different, she knows this, but she can use her experiences to convince Jessica that what Cyrus is doing is wrong.

 When Jessica turns to walk away, though, almost all hope is lost. Cipher says the only thing she can think of. She’s not sure if Jessica will listen to her, if she still has enough of herself left inside her to think independently at all. But she tries anyway, she has to.

“That voice in the back of your head, telling you that this is wrong? That’s not the devil, that’s common sense.”

Jessica stops. 

She whirls around, pointing an accusing finger at Cipher. “He told us that you were satan, and he was right.” She hisses.

“I’m not the devil.” Cipher tries to make her voice smooth, but it still comes out pained.

“Then how did you know about the voices?” This poor, poor, child. Lead to believe that her opinions made her evil, her brain trying to make sense of her situation made her evil, the warning bells going off in her head made her evil.

“They’re not just voices, and they’re right.” 

“What do you know?” 

“A hell of a lot more than you do, that’s for sure.”

“I’m a mother. A wife.”

“You’re also a child.”

That seems to confuse her, if only for a second. In her world, those things can go together. They’re not mutually exclusive. Being a wife and a child makes sense, which in turn makes Cipher feel sick again. 

“...I said yes.” She says, but her voice is weaker now. Exhausted. Worn down. 

“Did you really say yes if saying no meant you were unsafe?” 

“I’m getting my mother. I will not let you insult me, claim that I cannot think for myself, and then turn around and stitch your wounds.” 

“You go do that,” Cipher says as Jessica walks away. “But deep down, you know I’m right.”

The door slams shut, silence filling the gaps of the room, thick and heavy. 

All she can do is pray that she awakened something in Jessie. 

—

“YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD CYRUS WHO YOU WERE,” Kathy says gently. Her voice, soft and forgiving, is a stark contrast to the rubbing alcohol-soaked cotton ball currently being dragged down her back. “He’s a prophet. He predicted Satan’s armies would come and lay siege to us.” Cipher laughs bitterly. She’s been doing a lot of that today; laughing when she should be crying. 

“There’s a word for that kind of prophecy,” she whispers. She can’t raise her voice, it aggravates her throat. “Self-fulfilling.” She feels the cotton ball press harder, wincing involuntarily at the sting. Kathy pulls back, her expression full of regret and sorrow. 

“You don’t know how dangerous it is to lie to him,” Kathy sounds urgent, not flat. Cipher realizes something, her words are no statement. She’s agitated, trying to convince both Cipher and herself that she had to do it. She had to give consent. 

She’s the one who made the call. Not Jessica— she’s too infatuated with both Cyrus and her life to do something that would put either of those things in jeopardy.

“You’d have to be brave to defy him. Considering he’s a ‘prophet’ and all that. Someone strong. Someone who would have motive.” 

“You’re all stitched up,” Kathy says urgently, her voice higher than before. She’s figured out what Cipher is implying. “I have to go.”

Kathy flits from the room like a ghost, leaving Cipher tied to the bed. Alone.

She’s got the two of them, even if it’s just a hook. She can save them both if she tries hard enough. 

She just has to try.

—

“DID YOU KNOW SHE WAS FBI?” Spencer doesn’t register the question at first; his brain is too busy replaying that scream over and over. It’s only when Cyrus grabs his wrist, does he respond. “No,” he whispers, trying to sound confused. In reality, he’s been shaking since she was taken away. His brain has been running wild with every possibility, every infection, every horrible thing that could stem from that scream. Ci could be dead. She could be bleeding out. She could be gone, and it would all be because he wasn’t quick enough to come up with a different way to fool Cyrus.

If she dies, it will be on him.

But he swallows his pride, pushes down the sickness that rises as he acts like Cipher betrayed him. “Nancy told me that she was a child abuse interview expert from Denver. In the four years I’ve worked with her, Nancy has never lied to me before.”

Cyrus seems to accept his response. Good. The disgust resurfaces as the man next to him relaxes. 

He scoffs. “As far as you know.” Spencer forces himself to nod along. Silence stretches between them. Spencer wallows in it, letting the guilt inside of him churn as he attempts to keep quiet, keep from sucker-punching this man in the stomach.

“Their law says that a fifteen year old girl is a child. Fifty years ago, the same law said that a fourteen year old was an adult.” Cyrus is trying to justify himself, and Spencer has no choice but to go along with it. Sick, sick, sick. He feels sick.

“Have children changed so much in fifty years?” Spencer wants to scream. Don’t answer that question, deflect it. He can’t tell Cyrus about what a sick man he is, he’ll have to settle for undetectable, silent judgement.

“I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve investigated abuse charges against small religious groups. Almost all of them turn out to be false.” Lie, lie, lie. Technically true, but a lie nonetheless. The only reason most allegations are declared “false” is because churches have many, many, many ways to make people feel guilty about reporting abuse. They’re not necessarily untrue, just rescinded statements or investigations that yielded inconclusive results. If Spencer had to guess, he’d say that only 4% of reported cases were actual false accusations. 

Cyrus relaxes, just a little. Good. 

“And what do you think of that?” The man asks. Spencer doesn’t answer right away, he takes six seconds to respond. He makes it look like he’s questioning himself, like he thinks Cyrus is a philosopher instead of a pedophile. Spencer’s waited too long, the metaphorical timer is going off. 

“Doesn’t really matter what I think.” He replies. Hopefully, there will be more space between their back and forth, more time for him to map out the flow of the conversation, and try to steer it his way.

“It does to me.” 

Spencer tilts his head to the side, looking like a lost puppy. Or at least, that’s what Cipher tells him he looks like whenever he tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because God wants to save you.” When Spencer looks at him quizzically, he continues. “I mean, that’s why He sent you here. That’s the reason.” He can use this to his advantage, though he’s not sure if Cyrus actually believes the words that are coming out of his mouth. It’s a gamble; guessing whether a cult leader actually believes in their cause. Sometimes, they do. Other times, they don’t. He wants Spencer to be convinced that he’s actually committed, so maybe, just maybe…

“You should test them.” Cyrus cocks his head. “On the next call. You should test the negotiator. Make sure he isn’t a liar.” He smiles. Spencer’s stomach churns again.

“And how do you suggest I do that?” Cyrus asks. Spencer already knows what message he wants to send; Cipher is still alive. Spencer is still alive. 

“Ask for the identity of the FBI agent,” he says quickly. Cyrus furrows his brow, shaking his head. “No,” he says. “We already know who she is.”

“But they don’t know that. If they refuse to tell you, or lie to you, then you know that you can’t trust them.” Cyrus chuckles. It’s condescending, like Spencer’s an idiot who has no idea as to what he’s doing. 

“Yeah. The FBI would never give us that kind of information.” Now, for phase two. Phase one was to send a message. Phase two is to get someone out.

“They keep asking you to release people, right? Tell them that you’ll release a kid, and you won’t harm the agent.” He braces himself to hear a laugh, or a scoff, or Cyrus telling him that he has more plans for Cipher. But all that greets him is silence. Sweet, painful silence. 

“You’re just trying to get us to release a child. Stop playing the hero. It doesn’t look good on you.” Cyrus responds. No. He was so close.

He can keep trying. “It’s one kid,” he pleads. “If they don’t hold up their end of the deal, you’ll know they can’t be trusted.” 

“You know, he has a point.” Another man says. He’s been standing next to Cyrus all this time. Listening, but never saying a word. Cyrus glares at him, almost as though to demand to know why he’s being questioned. So he’s got an inflated ego, that’s information that could be useful for later. Spencer files it away into the back of his mind. 

“What is it, Christopher?” Cyrus snaps. Christopher, the man in question, shrinks at the harsh tone. 

“Some have been talking about leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“...Yeah.”

A grim smile comes to rest on Cyrus’ face. “Alright,” he says. “Wake the baby. Let’s let them meet the orphan they’ve just made.”

—

“IT HAS COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT OUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS HAVE LOST THEIR FAITH IN GOD. THAT THEY NO LONGER LOVE US. THEY WANT TO ABANDON US. SO WHEN I CALL OUT YOUR NAME, PLEASE STAND.” Cipher knows why she’s here. Her arms are still bound tightly behind her back, the constant friction absolute hell against her broken arm. She’s here because she’s the example. The cautionary tale. This is what happens when you disobey Cyrus, her bruises say. Don’t be like me. She hates it, being used in this way. But she’ll stomach it, if it means seeing Reid. Making sure he’s alive. Formulating a plan. 

“Todd Sutters.” Spencer comes to stand next to her. He looks judgemental, and for a moment, she thinks he might be about to tell her off. She’ll kill him if he does. She’s not exactly sure how, but she will. 

 A wave of nausea hits her. She can barely stand; can already feel her legs beginning to give way. Spencer’s hand comes to rest on her (uninjured, thank god) forearm, forcing her upright again. 

“Melanie Sutters.” Cyrus calls out into the crowd. Melanie stands up. Instantly, all eyes are on her. 

“He looks pissed.” Spencer remarks. She doesn’t say anything. She looks like a disaster, and she knows it. Her eyes are glassy, her hair is messy, and the back of her shirt is soaked through with dried blood. The glass sliced through the material easily, but Kathy had been kind enough to sew it back up as best she could. Spencer notices this, his eyes flicker between her shirt and her face in confusion. She knows what he doesn’t want to say out loud; how did this happen. 

“You’re not calling me out for stating the obvious.” He looks concerned. “Are you alright?”

She lets her eyes flutter shut, completely ignoring the question. She doesn’t think she has it in her to respond, anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” he tries. Nope. She’s not having it; she doesn’t know what she’d even do with an apology right now. He’s being stupid. Stop being stupid, Spencer. 

“I’m fine,” she rasps. “Now, will you please take the hint and shut up?” He doesn’t recoil like she expects him to. Instead, his concern furthers, with him going as far as to look at her arm. 

“Evan Radley.” Cyrus booms. 

“You don’t look fine. You sound awful. Are you sure he didn’t—”

“Spencer,” she’d raise her finger to shut him up if she could move her arms. “You’re giving me a headache.” 

“That’s not me,” he says, completely ignoring the fact that she knows it’s not him who gave her a migraine. “Did you hit your head particularly hard? Too many concussions in a short span of time— is that glass? In your hands?”

Shit, he noticed. “Probably,” she groans. “Can you please go away? You’re blowing your cover.”

“But you’re injured. Severely.” He protests.

“I thought you didn’t care about me,” she gives him an exasperated sigh. 

“I don’t! But you could get an infection, or a—”

“Spencer!” She hisses. “Cyrus is getting suspicious. He’s looking at us. Would you like all this,” she nods as best she can, highlighting her injuries, “-to be for nothing?”

He thinks about that for a moment. Then he changes his expression. Anger. She doesn’t know why, but she figures he has some sort of plan. His face shifts again, though, when he notices whose names are being called. She comes to the realization at the same time as he does. 

“They’re releasing the people who failed the loyalty test,” he breathes. She nods, trying to hide the wince that comes with any and all form of movement. 

“We’ll get word from the team soon,” she says. “Wait for a sign from outside to indicate what time the raid will come.”

He nods, face returning to the cold and steely expression he’d worn when he first approached her. With that, he turns and walks towards Cyrus, leaving her to stew in her pain alone.

Cipher manages to catch some of their conversation, and what she does hear makes relief flood her body.

“I told her she shouldn’t have lied to you like that.” Spencer says solemnly. 

“To either of us.” Cyrus agrees. “Take her back.”

—

SPENCER FEELS AWFUL. DEEP DOWN, HE KNOWS HE’S NOT AT FAULT, BUT THE TIDE OF GUILT LAPS AT HIS FEET REGARDLESS. Cipher looked horrible. She was barely standing. Whatever happened to her had knocked her down, which wasn’t an easy feat. She took most of her injuries with pride; something Spencer had noticed in the two years they’ve worked together. 

“Those of you who are standing,” Cyrus’ voice echoes in the silent church. “Please gather your belongings and report to the front hallway immediately.” He’s still on the phone with Rossi, arranging the rest of their deal. Their second last call, if everything goes right. 

“We will surrender at noon,” Cyrus says into the phone. “I want the press there to ensure that we’re treated fairly.”

“Your agent is fine, Dave.” But there’s a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips, one that makes Spencer want to punch him. “Just a little beaten up, that’s all.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Could you send some food in? Fried chicken, all the fixin’s.” That makes sense, Spencer knows that Cyrus hadn’t exactly planned for all of this to happen. It’s the beginning of the month— the ninth of October, to be exact— so they probably aren’t exactly stocked up on supplies yet. This is a way to get a sign into the compound, Spencer realizes. The bugs. He can ask for a sign. He has to plan it meticulously, or else Cyrus will suspect something. 

Question him. That’ll prompt a conversation. He’s about to start talking when Christopher does that for him. “I don’t understand,” Christopher says. “Why did you let them go?”

Spencer jumps in before Cyrus can answer, fully intending to start a conflict. Inject doubt into this tight knit group. “They weren’t prepared to do what needs to be done.” 

“You aren’t one of us,” Christopher snarls. “You don’t know what it takes to be prepared!” His eyes dart between Spencer and Cyrus, waiting for him to tell Spencer that he’s wrong. But instead, Cyrus gives him a chance. 

“Listen to him.” He turns to Reid. “Tell him.”

Now. Now he’s going to give Rossi, Hotch, and the rest of the BAU the sign that’ll tell them time has run out. “They… they failed the test.” Cyrus tilts his head upwards unconsciously. Good. Spencer has just bought himself another sentence. “They already had their chance to prove their faith, but all they did was show that they weren’t worthy of being true followers of God.” Another nod. Keep going. “That’s why he wants the media to bear witness to the final act of sacrifice.”

Christopher’s eyes widen. “How do you know that?”

Time for the signal. 

“I’m always looking for signs of things to come.”

He just has to hope the team understands his message. 

—

“IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, I KNOW YOU’RE COMING.” It’s not foolproof. She doesn’t know what the mics will pick up, and what they won’t. But she’s already managed to maneuver herself, contort in a way that worked with her bindings. Her foot is pressed up against the window, parting the blinds and allowing a sliver of moonlight to beam through the glass. 

“I can try to get the women and children to the tunnel,” she coughs. It’s a horrible sound, one that sends prickles of pain down her body. He probably fractured one of her ribs. “But I need to know when you’re coming.”

She takes a deep inhale, ignoring the flash of anguish that runs up her spine. “If you can hear me, I know you’re coming. I can try to get the women and children down to the tunnel, but I need to know when you’re coming.”

Nothing. Shit. They probably can’t hear her at all.

That’s not going to stop her from trying, though.

“If you can hear me, I know you’re coming. I can try to get—”

A beam of red pierces the moonlight. A sign. She might cry in relief.

“Okay, I got you. When are you coming?” Three flashes of red. She laughs a little, though it’s half a wince by the end. Thank god. Thank god.

“3am?” She asks. The red beam flicks up and down. It’s nodding. Now she knows who’s manning the laser, one Derek Morgan. It makes her giggle, something she regrets immediately afterwards. 

“Reid is somewhere on the first floor with Cyrus,” she says. “Don’t leave without him.” It’s not something that needs to be said, they wouldn’t leave without him regardless. But it’s in her mind, and everything she thinks seems to be spilling out lately. “Don’t… just don’t.”

She doesn’t know what she’s saying anymore. But she hears footsteps, so she flips herself back onto her stomach. She nearly cries out, tears prick the corners of her eyes—

“I have to go,” she whispers, hoping they’ll hear her. “Someone’s coming.”

The door swings open.

—

“I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE THINKING,” CYRUS SAYS. “YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE A PART OF THIS.” Unbeknownst to him, Spencer physically cannot exit the premises. He doesn’t think his body would let him, not without Cipher. It’s stupid. He doesn’t like her, she’s standoffish and rude, but she’s… he doesn’t know what she is, he just knows she’s important. Whether he likes it or not, she’s become part of his life; he’s not about to abandon her here, of all places. 

“I think I’d prefer to stay,” Spencer replies thoughtfully. “Someone has to tell your story.”

Cyrus gives him a smile that makes bile rise up in his throat. “I’m glad it’ll be you.” He says the words like he and Spencer are buddy-buddy, like he’s— like he’s on his deathbed. Like the poisoning that occurred earlier wasn’t a test, but rather a trial run. It’s only when he hears the words that come out of his mouth next is he absolutely sure about what is about to happen.

“Now that the false believers have been cleared from our midst, we make our final preparations.”

He’s going to kill everyone in this compound.

And there’s nothing Spencer can do to stop it.

—

“CYRUS IS PLANNING MASS SUICIDE, KATHY. PLEASE.” Cipher has tried reasoning with the woman. Begged. Nearly cried, but it didn’t do anything. She refused. There’s nothing left to do, nothing else she can say. Cipher hoped that she wouldn’t have to resort to this, but all other options have run dry. The pain in her body is making her resolve weaker than it should be, making her more susceptible to desperation.

Kathy just shakes her head. “I have no life ahead of me,” she whispers. Her eyes are full of sadness. She’s walking in circles in front of Cipher’s bed, holding her head in her hands.

“And you won’t have a life at all if you don’t help me! I’m an FBI agent, for God’s sake, we can get you a new identity!”

Kathy whips her head around to look Cipher dead in the eyes. “Do you think I want that?”

“I don’t care about what you want! I care about getting out of here alive!” Kathy scoffs. She has the audacity to scoff. Cipher knows she’s exhausted, and emotionally expended, and scared, but for the love of Jesus motherfucking Christ, if she doesn’t get her out of these restraints, she’s going to end up strangling Kathy. 

She calms herself, somehow. “I know you made that 9-1-1 call.” 

“This is all my fault,” Kathy sobs. “If I— if I had just left it alone, none of this would have happened—” 

“You were trying to protect your daughter. You were trying to do the right thing—”

“There were other girls before Jessie,” Kathy sniffles. “He— he would marry them in secret. After a while, he’d take another, and we— we weren’t permitted to speak of it! So when he asked for my consent… I just wanted to take her and run. But I was afraid she wouldn’t leave him,” Kathy’s agitated. She’s trying to convince them both that she did the right thing— that Jessie wouldn’t have left, even if she tried. 

“You were hoping we’d take her,” Cipher realizes. “Get her out of here for good.”

“Yes!” Kathy sobs. “I wanted to save her from Cyrus, and now she’s going to die because I meddled around!”

Cipher glances at the clock. 2:34. It’s almost time.

“Kathy— Kathy. Look at me. You have another chance.”

“I do?” She says through tears. 

“Yes,” Cipher moves as far as she can, inching her way to the edge of the bed. “The FBI is coming here at 3am. I need you to get Jessica, the other women, and the children down to the tunnel. Get them into the basement just before 3am.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I trust you. I think all you’ve ever wanted to do is the right thing for your daughter. But that’s hard when everyone around you is telling you that wrong is actually right.”

“Thank you,” Kathy whispers. “I won’t let you down.”

—

CIPHER DOESN’T EXPECT TO SURVIVE THIS. There’s no time to come back and get her, and there’s no chance she’ll be able to get to the basement on her own. She tries to count her injuries, just for the hell of it. Something to pass the time. But her brain isn’t working the way it should, and now that the adrenaline has worn off… everything hurts. Every breath sends pain ricocheting through her chest. God forbid she tries to move her arm, because that’s broken too. Her leg is still bleeding; neither Jessica nor Kathy seemed to notice the injury in the sea of things there were about her to fix. That’s fine, the wound will make bleeding out a slower process. Completely fine. 

She lays there, eyes shut. It’s fine. She’s fine; there isn’t anything left for her anyway. There never was. 

She’s brought out of her misery when she hears the door creak open, slowly. Footsteps. She knows those, she heard them leave about fifteen minutes ago. 

“What is it?” She whispers, voice heavy with sleep. 

“You were right,” Kathy says back. Her voice is small. Horrified. No, terrified, for both her life and the life of her child. 

“They’re setting the place to blow up.” If Cipher could sit up right now, she’d jackhammer upright instantly. She’d run. She’d make sure everyone was out of the compound and then she’d fucking leave. 

Kathy’s eyes flash with guilt. “I told Jessie that Cyrus wanted her to gather the women and children.” She feels a drop of relief spill into her body. Quickly, that relief turns to panic as she realizes that Reid is not a woman, nor a child (though he does act like one), which means he is not safe.

“Where’s the man I came in with?” She nearly shouts as Kathy cuts the ropes off of her arms and legs. 

“He’s in the chapel with Cyrus,” Kathy explains, voice hurried. “It’s 2:45, though. We gotta hurry.” She’s in no position to walk on her own, no matter how badly she wants to. Needs to. She has to find Spencer, before it’s too late. Before everything is gone. 

But she can barely move. Can barely think, everything hurts so badly. Her brain isn’t working the way it should, as though someone’s disconnected it from her body. She’s tired. She’s so, so, so tired, she can’t. She can’t. She can’t. 

She doesn’t think much at all as she’s practically dragged down two flights of stairs.

—

“CI, ARE YOU ALRIGHT?” She doesn’t hear the words at first, if they even register in her brain as words at all. It takes Derek Morgan placing a hand on her injured shoulder for her to realize that he’s here. She can’t think, can’t break the barrier between mind and body. She can’t move. Her arms are not responding to the signals she’s sending them, everything is torn apart. The flashes of pain continue, but everything is muffled. Hell, she doesn’t even think she’s blinking.

“Cipher!”

“Huh?”

“Oh, thank God. Fuck, you scared the crap out of me. Out of all of us.” Morgan breathes a sigh of relief, one she ignores as her new objective becomes abundantly clear. Find Spencer. Make sure he doesn’t die. 

“Where— where’s Reid?” She asks, voice shaky and hoarse. But Morgan shakes his head, already pulling her towards the exit. “We’ve gotta get you out of here,” he says. 

“I’m not leaving until we have Reid!” She shouts it louder than she meant to, the sound making her wince. Why is she like this? Why can’t she articulate herself properly?”

“Cipher, I will get Reid. You need to get out of here.” His voice is firm. He’s stubborn, but she’s worse. She’s always been worse. She will always be worse. 

“I’m not leaving, I won’t let him die.” She says shakily. She’s trying to sound authoritative, but it’s not working. Not right now. 

“You can barely fucking stand, Ci. What use are you to him like this?” He’s right. She knows he’s right. That doesn’t stop her, though, from pulling herself out of his grasp. She makes it about two steps before she collapses. “No!” she splutters as he catches her. “I have to get—”

“You’re going to get yourself killed if you keep doing this, now come on!”

She can’t die, that would be bad. Right? It’d be bad. It would make some people unhappy. Not Spencer, though. He does say that he doesn’t want her to die all the time, so she should probably follow Morgan outside.

Somehow, that’s all it takes for her to stop fighting. 

—

THE AIR IS COLD. That’s the first thing Cipher thinks as she’s pulled outside, dragged, actually. It assaults the wounds on her body, seeping into the crevices of her skin and settling there, as though that is where it has always belonged. Morgan immediately runs back inside, and she’s about to follow, unsure of what to do with her unstable limbs, she’s shaking, she’s no good—

Suddenly, warmth is all she can feel. She lets go, allows her legs to give out when she feels arms wrapped around her. She smells familiar cologne, she knows who this is—

Agent Hotchner? No. It can’t be. Why does he— does he like her? 

Her brain is running a thousand possibilities per minute, all of them confuse her. He’s broken her brain, you see, the warmth is too much, her soul is too frigid, she doesn’t deserve this. It’s then that she realizes it; she’s starved herself of affection for too long.

She’s too tired to fight. She doesn’t know if she wants to fight, either. 

Cipher is aggressive. She’s unlikeable. She’s rash, and bitter, and pessimistic, and— 

She’s human. That’s what she is right now, stripped raw of her walls, and her defenses, and her sarcasm, and everything she’s adorned herself with to protect from the hurt that sits deep inside of her. The ache in the hollow space where her heart is supposed to be. The hurt that fills the cracks of the broken mask, the mask that is Cipher. 

She isn’t nice, she isn’t warm, she isn’t friendly— so why is he treating her like she’s been something other than a nuisance?

The painful silence is broken by Hotchner’s harsh, angry voice.  “What if he killed you?” So? What if he had, mourning would have been easy for them; they don’t know the girl beneath the porcelain at all. 

“He didn’t.” She nearly chokes on the words. He’s holding her tight, she can feel the pain in her arm and her ribs now. 

“What if he did?” Doesn’t Hotchner see how pointless this is? This repetition, this game, this pretend ‘I'll miss you when you’re gone.’ 

What if it’s not pretend?

No, it has to be.

“He didn’t, Hotchner.” She says. Her voice is firm, she tries to pull away, but she’s not strong enough. She’s not strong enough. She’s not strong at all. 

“Damn it— what if we’d lost you? I don’t care about how little you think of yourself— you are important to us. So if you ever, and I mean ever put yourself in that kind of danger again, I will have no choice but to take formal action.”

You care about me?

“What? Of c—”

She said that out loud? Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

The building explodes just as he opens his mouth again. His words are drowned out by the loud, loud, loud loud loud loud noise

It echoes

It’s so loud. Reid. Spencer was inside. But she’s paralyzed by the terror running through her veins, injected straight into her racing heart. No, no no no no no no no no no n o—

She sees a figure. Then two, then three. Morgan, Spencer, Rossi. Her knees almost give out again, Hotchner literally has to catch her— but she’ll think about that later. Right now, Reid is safe. She is safe. Everything in her body is aching, pain has soaked into her bones—

But he’s safe.

Safe.

—

HER ARM IS IN A SLING. SHE HAS A HEADACHE. SHE’S (SOMEHOW) SITTING UPRIGHT. SHE’S FUCKING EXHAUSTED. Of all the things that are wrong with her— at least her brain is working again. At least she’s no longer in a position where skin contact makes her vulnerable. She’s not sure what was wrong with her, but at least it’s fixed. She’s been avoiding Agent Hotchner— and Reid, for that matter. The latter of the two, however, is extremely persistent. 

She feels someone sit next to her. Her eyes are closed, but if she had to guess—

“You saved my life.” Hello, pipe cleaner. She tries to ignore him, but there’s nowhere she can go, not without worsening her condition. So, reluctantly, she turns to face him. 

“1/10 experience. Do not recommend.” She closes her eyes, noting the absolutely crestfallen expression on his face. Against her better judgement, she pries her eyelids open. 

“You saved my life under the stairs,” she offers. “Repaying the favour. Now you can’t hold it over my head.”

“I thought you had that one handled?” He says, a small smirk playing on his lips. Oh, fuck this guy. Fuck him. 

“Shut up.”

“I believe your exact words were—”

“If you don’t shut up, I’m telling Hotchner about the bullshit you pulled in Miami.” His face shifts to absolute panic. “Yeah, didn’t think you’d like that.” She replies, giving him a mocking smile. 

“Why do you always call him Hotchner?” He asks. 

“Reid.” She faces him. “You can either shut up, or leave. I’m allowing you to stay within a hundred feet of me if you’re quiet. Got it?”

He just nods. Hm. He’s good. The silence actually stretches for longer than six seconds, and when she opens her eyes to check on him… she finds that he’s fallen asleep. 

For once, though, when she begins to lose consciousness… there’s a warmth in her chest. She’s warm. 

She’s… she’s okay. 

She’s okay. 

That’s all that matters.

—

“MORGAN— IS HER HEAD ON HIS SHOULDER?” The words are said with such absolute shock, shock that does not quite fit the situation. Allow her to set the scene. In the two and a half years Emily Prentiss has known her, Cipher  has never expressed even the slightest bit of warmth towards Spencer Reid. The hatred was reciprocated entirely, the pair loathed one another in a way that made pettiness seem like a professional sport.

  “Damn, she must be exhausted.” Morgan chuckles. “I wonder how he convinced her to let him stay.”

“I have no clue,” JJ giggles. “Whatever he did, it clearly worked.” 

“Ooh,” Emily cuts in. “We have to tell Garcia.”

“Definitely,” the blonde replies. “She put twenty bucks on them taking another two months for physical contact.”

Emily snorts. But she looks at JJ, really looks at her. Everyone else has gone back to their normal activities, dropped out of the conversation. She says silent, too, biting back all the words she wants to say.

At least Ci and Reid are moderately happy. Though they loathe each other, they’ll be able to be open about it when their relationship shifts.

Emily is not so lucky.

THE PLANE WAS COLDER THAN SHE REMEMBERED. Then again, she hadn’t been on the jet in over a week. It felt strange, being back so soon. Agent Hotchner had informed everyone that she’d be back on the fourth, but she’d managed to convince him to let her back into the bureau three days early.  Emphasis on the bureau, not in the field. She’d tried, but Hotchner had insisted. ‘You’re already at a disadvantage because you don’t have a gun. I’m not putting you back into the field when you can barely walk up a flight of stairs.’ He’d said. She continued to protest. He told her that it was either desk work with the rest of the team, or desk work with Garcia. 

Virginia drove her insane, so instead, she chose to travel to Nowhere, Alaska. Now she was paying the price. 

Nowhere had exactly 37 inhabitants. 1,037 if it was fishing season. She’d learned that from a very eager Dr. Spencer Reid, approximately thirty minutes ago. He’d since moved on to pestering someone else, but that didn’t mean she was eager to spend twelve hours stuck inside a pressurized tin can with him. Nevertheless, she persisted, out of sheer fear of dying in her apartment (or in Quantico) of boredom. 

Spencer Reid’s voice felt like a cheese grater to the ears. Incessant noise, noise, noise, noise. When he was enraged (which happened disproportionately around her) she found his vocal range to be rather… impressive. Or shrill, depending on the day. 

Hearing him drone on for the better part of twelve and a half hours was not ideal, if you asked her. In fact, it was less than ideal. She was quite partial to the idea of using his voice as a torture method. The harshest of criminals would crack under it.

But that was when he was being annoying, so 95% of the time. The other 5% consisted of a tone so even, it could be confused for glass. Or a lake in the early morning, maybe. Clear blue, no disturbances— a calming reminder that there was a world outside of the gore, one which she would never properly become a part of. 

Cipher told herself that she hated absolutely everything about Spencer Reid. His clothes, his hair, the stupid smug look he got whenever he managed to prove her wrong (which, to her dismay, was more often than not)—

But she couldn’t bring herself to hate that voice. Not when it was so peaceful, the last remnants of a man touched by endless horrors.

Not when hearing it meant that Spencer was at ease.

She watched closely as Spencer talked to Emily, that voice something she couldn’t hear over the roar of the engine. Slowly, she plugged her earphones into her phone, and brought them to her ears. Quiet flooded her senses as she found her playlist for this moment. The Jet. It was one of three, specifically designed to help her cope with her hatred of airplanes. In fact, the first time Agent Hotchner had said wheels up in thirty, she’d presumed he meant car.

She was wrong.

He meant plane. Private plane. A plane, that she had known about before accepting the job, might have made her turn down the offer entirely. 

Planes made her nervous. She knew that it was probably because of something that happened to her, likely situated somewhere within the nine years of her life that she could not recall. She’d thought about asking her therapist about it, but elected to consult the most knowledgeable being of all, Google. (She’d sooner die before she told said therapist anything about her life.) Dissociative amnesia. She wasn’t surprised. Everything from nine onwards was a hellish nightmare, so why would her life before be any different? She must have left for a reason. 

Just as she began to relax, as her anxiety medication began to kick in, she felt her phone buzz next to her leg. She exhaled slowly, watching the screen flash with a number she didn’t recognize. 

Her heart rate spiked.

You have: one new message from: Unknown Caller. Would you like to see the transcript?

Press one for yes. Press two for no.

She almost pressed two. Her fingers hovered over the button, debating whether it was worth interrupting her music and possibly preventing her from getting any sleep, if the message was about the case. Curiosity got the better of her, though, and she clicked one for yes. The transcript flashed across her small screen, and as she read it— she began wishing she hadn’t.

You took everything from me

My pretty face

My pretty life

My pretty mind

It’s time you repay me

For your sins

For which I was prosecuted 

Don’t you think?

She felt goosebumps crawl over her skin. This was clearly someone fucking with her, clearly a mistake— something she’d laugh about with Emily, or Hotchner, about wrong numbers and stupid poetry—

The words replayed in her head, over and over.

My pretty face, my pretty life, my pretty mind.

People didn’t just speak like that, no, this meant something. Blurry faces danced across her vision. People blended into each other, she couldn’t tell anyone apart—

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

Face, life, mind. 

Kalon.

(adjective.)

Beauty that is more than skin deep; the Ancient Greek concept of combining physical, spiritual, and moral beauty. 

Suddenly, the wording made sense. It was inconspicuous, something that would be written off as a peculiar choice of vocabulary to most. Abundantly clear to the right people.

Unfortunately for her, Cipher fell into the second category. 

For which I was prosecuted 

Kalon’s trial had gone awry, had tilted further and further from her favour with every piece of evidence that came to light. Cipher had let her —------------------ 

She couldn’t remember what she’d done. 

It’s time you repay me

Revenge, obviously. But how?

How would she

play this 

game 

dance across

a 

stage

full of blood

and

and

and

and?

For your sins

nothing        but              a

traitor          she wears the         mask

of my               face       .

i            cannot          see the          end

of this       tortured             existence       

Her sins, her failures, ones she could remember, and the ones that had slipped from her grasp, splayed across the tile of a courtroom, under a name

name 

name

name 

name 

what is your her name?

Is it yours, or is it mine? All mine, taken, stolen, torn to bits and pieces

Names are only for those who are worthy, and she is not worthy.

What is her name?

—

She stayed like that for a while, unmoving. Unblinking. No one could see, they did not see, why couldn’t they see? Why didn’t he stop her stop her stop her from committing committing committing the end end end end end end end end end end     e     n      d    i   s     n  e   a    r      c o m i n g      f o r      m   e  i   can   not    r   u n    a n  y       lo ng      er

Hands, shriveled, rotting flesh, fingers that were more bone than skin clawed at her, showed her no mercy, dug in, unrelenting, as she writhed beneath them

“Are you okay?” 

Words swam in the rot, in the pile of bodies, names she could not recall, faces that slipped, smashed on the floor, she had broken them, and in turn, they had broken her— a  fair trade, a—

She felt fingers grasp her shoulders. Violently, her body twitched. Once, twice— then stilled, as though she had expelled it

Rot, rot, rot, get it out of her she wants it gone pleasepleasepleaseplease set her free

She can be good, she will swear by it, please, she promises that she will be good

But she is not good, she never has been.

“Hotch, I think something’s wrong with—”

That name. She remembered it. She closed it in her hands, she brought it to the light

—

All of a sudden, she returned to her body.

“I’m fine, Reid. Just a dream.” Quickly, she shook his hands off of her. Cipher was shaking. Little trembles that wrapped around her arms, her legs, her heart. Tremors that ran through her. She couldn’t stop it. 

She wanted to stop it, to prove that she was fine. But she was lying, as she always did. As she always would. The lies, they would pile up on her table, until they collapsed, rolled in all directions of the House, showing everyone the ugly truth that had always laid beneath them.

He gave her a look, one that told her that he could see the way her fists clenched around nothing. The way her whole body would revolt if he so much as shifted an inch too fast. The way her eyes had hollowed since they boarded, plagued with a darkness that normally had armour to protect it from the surface of her iris’.

“Your eyes were open.” Spencer had always been one to call her out when she lied. He’d do it publicly, privately— she was sure he’d volunteer to do it on live TV, if he was given the chance. He despised dishonesty more than anything in the world, she thought.

An unshed sob burned in her throat. Like bile, it threatened to rise up, make itself known— something she did not (and never would) allow. 

“Then I was just spacing out. Bad thoughts, Reid.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. “-We all have them. Including you, I’m sure.”

The quizzical look on his face slipped from curious to worried. For someone who disliked her as much as he did, he surely did worry about her quite often. Perhaps hatred and uncaring were not interchangeable, at least not in their case. They danced around the hate, sometimes, something else peeked through the curtains. Sunlight, maybe. Indifference, likely. Progression nonetheless. Hotchner would be thrilled. (She was sure he despised having to break up their arguments all the time.)

He wasn’t convinced, and she didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t believe herself either. Normally, she was a good liar, but today, right now… it was different.

She’d never had a bout of anxiety so vivid, so unrelenting, in quite some time. Years, actually. There had been a time where it had occurred daily, but she didn’t remember that either. Cipher decided that, this time, she wouldn’t go looking for things she didn’t want to find.

Spencer, being the little shit that he was, sat down beside her. That was how it continued for the remainder of the flight, and surprisingly, she didn’t slip any further.

In fact, she drifted off to sleep.

Deep, deep, sleep. Dreamless sleep.

Peaceful sleep.

—

“CIPHER, YOU’RE GOING TO THE MORGUE WITH SPENCER.” Agent Hotchner’s booming voice rang out into the small precinct. She tensed, just a little bit. She knew that he was displeased that she’d returned so early, but really, he wasn’t the type to be petty or punishing like this. It couldn’t be for convenience, because Cipher and Spencer, when paired together, were the embodiment of disorder. They fought. They yelled. (Only on occasion, and when he deserved it, she was not that unprofessional.) They hated each other, that much was obvious to anyone who had the displeasure of witnessing them interact. She’d been told that it could be compared to torture, listening to them go at each other. This wasn’t like him at all. Normally, he kept the two separated, which was for the greater good of both her sanity and Spencer’s mortality.

Still, she obliged. The pair walked to the car that had been given to them, a government SUV. Standard issue. It had a gun box, radio… everything that was necessary for both surveillance and driving in general. 

The car ride to the morgue was silent. No mention of what had occurred the last time they were alone together. No mention of the one moment in a sea of moments, where there had been quiet between them. That was fine, she much preferred it when Spencer kept his mouth shut.

It was a peculiar fifteen minute drive, but she savoured every second of it. 

When they arrived, the whole room smelled like dead bodies. It was to be expected, of course, as the main (and only) purpose of a morgue was to store and examine those who have expired… yet the stench of it still got to her every time. Perhaps rotting flesh would always have the capability to offset someone, even when they thought they’d become desensitized. 

The bodies were as gruesome as the case file had described. Four women, all mid 20s, blonde, stabbed to death. They’d been found deep within the woods, but had been so mangled that, at first, no one thought that their legs belonged to humans. 

It made her sick.

Each woman had an obscure marking on their backs. An ‘A’, written in cursive, likely carved with a hunting knife, the mortician told them. She looked about Cipher’s age, probably a year or two older. Her dark hair was twisted into a bun at the top of her head. Cipher glanced at her nametag. Alicia. The markings were presumed to be a brand. When Cipher had heard that for the first time, she thought she was about to throw up. Instinctively, she’d touched her own stomach, where the reason she never wore cropped shirts lay burned into her skin. A brand. But she’d survived the experience. These women, on the other hand, were not so lucky. 

“Do we know their names?” Spencer asked. Alicia paused for a moment, glancing at the body laying on the examination table. “That’s the thing,” she said. “We don’t know who these women are yet. They’re not from here at all. Nobody’s been able to identify them.”

Cipher tilted her head in surprise. That was unusual. Normally, victims were local. Non-local victims (especially in a place like Nowhere, Alaska, where any and all communication with the rest of the United States was either documented or available to the public,) meant planning. Resources. A highly intelligent unsub.

Things that she was sure no one in this town had. Which meant, of course, that the victims were either tourists, or that the unsub got them to travel there, somehow. There was another possibility; this case could end up taking them to Canada. Or somewhere else in the world. Really, the only thing they could do before progressing in the case, was—

“Were you able to get identification regardless?” Reid’s (annoying) voice cut through her thoughts like glass. She nearly turned to glare at him. He stole her question. Was he a mind reader? Perhaps. Oh, heinous are the crimes against her that he doesn’t even know he commits. (Exhibit A: wearing insanely attractive suits to court.) (Exhibit B: this moment.)

“Nope.” Alicia sighed. “We’ve already interviewed everyone. No one recognizes them.” Cipher did a double take at her words. We?

Spencer glanced at the crime scene photos spread across the table and grimaced. “I wouldn’t be able to recognize someone if they looked like that, either.” He said.

Alicia seemed to pick up on her confusion. “I’ve been somewhat involved in the investigation,” she admitted. “After all, there’s only thirty seven of us. Twelve cops. We’ve never really needed a mortician, so I occasionally dabble in policework.” She laughed it off, like that was no big deal. Cipher felt her eye begin to twitch; an incompetence-induced headache bubbling behind her eyes. 

“You’re telling me,” she said slowly, “-that you don’t have any qualifications to be a mortician?” Alicia clearly noticed her anger, shrinking back into herself. Good. Four women were killed, and no one thought to bring in a qualified professional? It would make sense if the women had clearly died of animal attacks— but they hadn’t. These were murders. Violent murders. 

She felt Spencer’s hand on her shoulder. “Slow down,” he whispered. “She hasn’t done anything wrong. It’s not her fault that her police chief isn’t… qualified.” He made a good point. (Not that she’d ever tell him that.)

Begrudgingly, she listened to him, though not without a pointed look in his general direction.

She sighed, dialing back a little on the obvious anger. The rest of it continued to simmer inside of her. “Knowing how the unsub treats his victims is extremely detrimental to the process of profiling,” she explained. “Without knowing exactly what he does, we can’t figure out why. And without a why, we can’t figure out a who, either.”

To both the dismay of her and her headache, Alicia scoffed. “No offence,” she began, "but I’m skeptical. Now,” she glanced at Cipher, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I am willing to admit that I have a bias. Y’know–” she waved her arms around. Cipher could see the endless woods outside the window. Of course. The mentality of “mental health is not real, Psychos do Psycho things simply because they are Psychos, there’s no way we can find the root cause of this issue” that tended to reside within the residents of small towns was all too familiar. “We don’t exactly have anybody out here to explain how that shit works.” She said it like it was an excuse. (It wasn’t.) Cipher knew what she was doing. Spencer knew what he was doing. Normally, she didn’t give two shits if someone believed in stressors, or childhood trauma, or the grey space between good and bad. This time? Right now? Lives were on the line. Real people. She didn’t have time to debate the validity of her profession. The women who were dying didn’t have time for her to hold someone’s hand through the basics of human behaviour. 

“Well,” she said coldly, watching Alicia recoil. “I don’t care whether you believe in profiling. The woman depending on us to save her right now, because your police force is too small to actually do their jobs correctly, doesn't care if you believe in profiling either.” She felt something sharp hit her in the back. It was Spencer, telling her to back off. 

She ignored him.

“You think you know better than us? That’s fine. It doesn’t mean that I’m not going to do my job. But people are dying, Alicia. Actually dying. Being brutally murdered, and you don’t ge—”

She felt Spencer’s hand on her thin white shirt right before it happened. For a few, blissful seconds, she thought that he was just going to poke her again. She was wrong.

Spencer, innocent, shy, Spencer, yanked her hair. Hard. 

Cipher spun around, face surely red, ready to tell him off—

“My colleague and I are going outside for a moment,” he said, his tone screaming at her to listen and go outside. She didn’t want to, really, but he was gripping her wrist so tight that his knuckles were white. He didn’t even give her time to utter a word before he began to (unceremoniously) drag her to the exit.

Once they got outside, he began his lecture.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, “-is going on with you? Don’t even try to lie to me, we both know that you’re not normally this much of a bitch.”

“Why did you pull my hair!” She yelled, probably louder than she should have. Lucky for her, there was no one there to hear her. Shocker.

“Oh, so you can pull my hair, but I can’t pull yours? Honestly, Ci, that’s very on brand for you. I’m impressed. I didn’t know people could be so predictable.”

The insult, if there was one, flew right over her head. Like wet watercolour, his words bled into one jumbled mess. Only one thing stood out. What he’d called her.

Ci. 

Cipher didn’t have a nickname. She didn’t even have a real name. She was not one for casual, comfortable utterances of her callsign. It was never shortened, manipulated, or otherwise butchered— (though she was of the opinion that every word that came out of Spencer’s mouth was automatically butchered.)

Until now. Until now, in this moment, where Spencer threw her professional preference right out the metaphorical window. She didn’t like it. It felt wrong, like an invasion, like he was—

Close. Like Spencer was close to her in a way that she swore that she would never let anyone be close ever again. Not now, not in a thousand years, and certainly not with him. 

“Hello? Earth to— oh.” A wicked smirk spread across his face. She’d been silent for too long, and he’d read her body language (fuck profilers), so now he knew exactly what was wrong. He knew how to get under skin. He now had a retort for every time she grinned and called him ‘spencie-baby’. She amended her earlier statement. She wasn’t scared, she was just slightly annoyed at the thought of Spencer being able to piss her off when she pissed him off.

That was all.

“As I was saying,” Spencer continued, but he elected not to drop the smug look. For a split second, she considered punching him in the clavicle. The only reason she didn’t was because she disliked the thought of the paperwork and incident report that would follow.

“-you’re acting like a massive bitch, Ci. Why?” She ignored his childish use of the nickname, and instead turned the anger that had been previously directed at Alicia towards him.

“That is no way to speak to your coworker.” She snarled. The pure, concentrated rage in her voice did little to deter him. 

“You aren’t going to be my coworker for very long if you keep doing that.” He sneered. “I know something’s wrong. So, either you tell me what’s going on, or I tell Hotch that I suspect you have a brain tumor.”

She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t exactly tell him about why she’d started avoiding her phone, getting strange text messages, and had been (very obviously, apparently) presenting signs of personality changes. The truth was something she could never say out loud, lest she send herself right back to where she’d been at sixteen. The truth was buried so deep inside her, in a lockbox to which she did not have the key. Nobody had it, not even Agent Hotchner. 

Not even Him.

Fiddling with her fingers, Cipher glanced back up at Spencer. She plastered indifference on her face, praying that he couldn’t see what was underneath. 

“I don’t like small towns.” She sighed. It wasn’t exactly a lie, it was part of the truth— but not really what had her on edge. “They’re too judgy, and always woefully ignorant. Did you see how she acted? Like this— like our job— is a game, and she can ask for a performance whenever she wants.” She thought about insulting him, maybe, just to get him angry enough to not question her.

He spoke before she could even try. “That doesn’t mean you get to treat people like shit. You normally direct that behaviour at me, not random morticians.”

“She’s not even an actual mortician,” Cipher protested. “That tells me one thing: whoever’s running this case doesn’t care enough to find out who actually did it.” Spencer rolled his eyes. He furrowed his brow, eyes lingering too long on her hands. 

Oh. She’d picked at a hangnail, and had pulled too hard. A tiny droplet of blood glistened on her finger. “Okay.” He said. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It’s nothing!” She shouted, louder than she meant to. Quickly, she brushed the blood off of her hand, smearing it across her fingertip. “Jesus, Reid. Do you know how to leave things alone, or is it your life’s mission to annoy me to death?” 

“When you decide to act like a reckless idiot, I end up having to fix it before we both lose our jobs.” Cipher flicked away another droplet. “Do you have a band-aid?” She asked, purposefully clearing her tone of any and all emotion. Blank. No longer engaging in his petty insults. 

“What makes you think that I have band-aids?”

“That’s a yes,” she said triumphantly. “I knew it.” She held out her (non-bloody) hand for him to deposit the band-aid. It remained empty, with nothing to grace her palm but the September breeze.

“What makes you think I’m going to waste a band-aid on you?” He said it like she was insane for thinking that he, O’ Great Doctor, would ‘waste’ his medical supplies on a lowly peasant such as her.

“Well then. I suppose I have no other option.” She brought her bleeding finger to her mouth, clearly intending to suck it clean. She watched Spencer’s eyes widen. Cipher pulled her finger from her mouth with a wet pop, grinning at the look of disbelief (and mild concern, bless whatever had made Spencer so wary of germs for that) on his face. She just shrugged. Spencer’s hands shook as he pulled out a band-aid, and hurled it at her.

It missed.  She watched it catch the wind in front of her, slowly spiraling down and softly hitting the pavement. She pressed her lips into a thin line, trying to keep the laughter from escaping her. Spencer just rubbed his temples.

The two stood there for a moment, before Spencer turned on his heels and rushed back outside. She barely heard what he told her as he was walking back in.

“Make sure you wash that band-aid before you use it.”

She cocked her head to the side, wondering how he expected her to do that, as band-aids’ susceptibility to water was a well-known trait. But, since it was Spencer she was talking about… they were definitely waterproof. Or, as he liked to say, water resistant. If there was one thing she’d learned after working with him for over a year, it was that nothing is truly waterproof. Phones, laptops, life jackets— you name it, not waterproof. In fact, companies tended to have a rather low standard for an object to be considered waterproof. Usually, the label meant water–resistant, or, in some cases, the product was merely water repellant. Something he liked to remind the team of whenever they dared to even mention the word.

God, she was starting to sound like Reid. 

Slowly, she knelt down and plucked her (waterproof— sorry, resistant) band-aid off the concrete. She gave it a quick swipe with her hands, and decided that was an adequate sanitation method. 

She grinned, thinking of the look on Spencer’s face if he found out what she’d done as she walked back inside.

—

THE REST OF THEIR VISIT TO THE MORGUE WAS UNEVENTFUL. Cipher dialed back on her snark (reluctantly) as to not raise Spencer’s suspicions, and Alicia didn’t test her further. She allowed herself to glare at him on occasion, as penance for the war his bony fingers had raged on the base of her scalp. She supposed it could have been worse, he could have twisted his fingers in and pulled harder, but Cipher didn’t care for lessening her retaliation, especially where Spencer Reid was considered. 

All she could think about was the brand. It was carved, extremely precise. Which meant that the UnSub had time, and pent up rage. The girl’s legs were destroyed, post-mortem (thank god), but they had suffered severe damage before being hacked apart with a knife. Their spines were compressed, from days of being stored somewhere. Likely in a cage, Spencer said.  She shuddered thinking about it. Stabbing was a substitute for sexual assault, which meant that he was impotent. Extremely impotent, judging from the sheer amount of damage the bodies had sustained. 

But the brand… it didn’t match the rage that had been projected onto the rest of the body. So, why the legs? What did they symbolize for the Unsub? Was it running away? Perhaps he felt abandoned after being rejected? 

What really didn’t make sense was the lack of a suspect. The townspeople didn’t have so much as an inkling about who could have done this, she’d been told. In a place so small, with so few people, that was highly unusual. Socially inept, pent up rage, angry at the world, constantly rejected— the people who committed murder like this were always known by name. 

An idea sparked in her head. Maybe, just maybe, the Unsub had moved on from the Nowhere. Had left with his rejection and rage, but just now was deciding to take “revenge” on substitutes for people who had long since grown old and forgotten he had ever existed. 

Maybe they weren’t looking for someone currently causing terror, but someone who had incited it years ago. Someone who had slipped from everyone’s memories.

—

WHEN SHE PRESENTED HER IDEA TO THE TEAM, THEY AGREED WITH HER. It made sense. The lack of recognition of the victims, the cluelessness of the townspeople, it all pointed to someone who had left long ago. But who, and how was he getting them to Nowhere? Another visit to the mortician was in order, and this time, Cipher had been told to stay back to work on the profile. That was likely for the better of both her sanity and Alicia’s dignity. 

Agent Hotchner and Rossi came back with good news. They’d gone off her hunch, made a few calls, and had been able to both identify the girls, and get a qualified mortician to fly in from New York.

She knew their names now. They had friends, lives, families— all torn away from them because some guy decided that his trauma was their problem. They’d all lived in New York, too, which begged the question: how was the Unsub transporting them?

They had enough, now. There was no more speculation that could be done, now they had to see if her idea matched someone who had left town. Which meant that it was time for her least favourite part of being an FBI agent— interviews. 

Cipher wasn’t exactly one who enjoyed talking to suspects or witnesses. It was often grueling, like pulling teeth. The Unsubs in particular always had nasty things to say to her. Once, Agent Hotchner had to pull her out, because she’d towed the line of bad cop and lawsuit. (Twice, actually, but she didn’t count the first time.)

Interviewing witnesses was just something she could only handle on a good day. Every time she watched a mother cry, or a father break down, or someone hurt because someone else had decided to brutally murder a person that they cared about, chipped a tiny piece off of her soul. So, she let Reid do most of the questioning. They’d (after exchanging not-so-pleasantries) decided to begin by interviewing women who looked the most like the victims. The Unsub was likely the same age as his victims (so about mid thirties, early forties), so they began with that age group.

Cipher and Spencer approached a large, mahogany door. The walkway was littered with round grey stones, little tuffs of sun-scorched grass peeking out between the cracks. The stairs up to the door were old, and a worn welcome mat sat perched in the doorway. A rusty watering can lay discarded by a large rocking chair to the left of the entrance.

Spencer knocked, once, twice. After a few seconds, a woman pulled the door open with a long creak. Brunette waves cascaded over her shoulders, stopping just below her midriff. She had thin lines by her lips, which were rosy and pink, her eyes a muddled brown that sparkled in the sunlight. “We’re with the FBI,” Spencer said, pulling out his badge to show her, and motioning for Cipher to do the same. She obliged, flipping open the worn out leather of her wallet to present her credentials. “We were hoping to ask you a few questions.” Spencer continued. 

“About the murders?” The woman asked, her eyes widening in shock. ‘No,’ Cipher thought, rolling her eyes internally. ‘We want to talk to you about the weather.’ 

He nodded.

She led the pair inside, and to her living room, which was a cozy place. A white fireplace sat in the front of the room, where a large TV sat on top. A potted plant cascaded down the side of the white stones, dangerously close to where a fire would roar during the wintertime. A tasseled rug lay in the middle of the room, clearly worn thin from years of use. “Sit,” the woman said, motioning to the long, white couch, the back of it pressed against her living room window.

 “I’m Agent Cipher, and this is my partner, Doctor Reid.” She cocked her head in Spencer’s direction. The woman nodded, glancing between them, a confused look still on her face. “I’m Diane Sullivan.” Diane said. 

“We’re here to ask you a few questions about the murders that’ve happened,” Cipher continued. “We think the man who did this might have been around during your childhood, but moved away.” Diane shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone who would do something like that,” she said solemnly. “And lots of people leave this town once they grow up. Jobs are very limited here. It’s mostly either fishing, or opening a stand at the market,” she chuckled, the worried expression still plastered on her face.

“Are you sure?” Spencer asked. “Think about it. He would’ve been young, uh. Maybe moved away right after high school,” he began listing traits. “Very antisocial, unable to take rejection, very persistent, bullied, had no friends…” he trailed off when he saw Diane shake her head again. “We don’t treat people like that here.” She said, “We don’t bully them, or ostracize them. We’re a very loving community.” Something about the tone of her voice made Cipher want to scream. She was so sure of it, so convinced that they treated everyone fairly, when in reality, the moment anyone showed any signs of being different, they were cast out and ridiculed. She knew how places like this functioned.

“Are you positive?” Cipher asked, her voice harsher than she’d intended. “I know that’s how you remember it, but we’re talking about the 1980s. Not exactly as friendly as you make it out to be. Especially if you don’t fit in.”

“Everyone in this town fits in,” Diane scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Ah. An avid denier. Towns like these were cesspools for what she liked to call selective memory. People remembered the good parts, glorified them— and forgot all about the people who didn’t act right. Didn’t behave right.

Spencer took over, sensing both Cipher and Diane’s growing agitation. “We just want to confirm, that’s all.” He said, handing her one of the FBI business cards. “Please let us know if you remember anything.” Diane nodded, plucking the card from Spencer’s extended hand.

“I will,” she said.

—

“WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?” Spencer hissed at her, as soon as Diane was out of earshot. Cipher looked at him with feigned ignorance. “What was what?” She asked. 

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” he snapped. “Your acceptance tirade. We need the people here on our side, and we can’t do that if you keep criticising them. First the morgue, and now this,” Spencer pointed an accusing finger at her. “Are you feeling alright?” He asked, tone softening in a way that made her tense. He didn’t comfort her, that wasn’t how this worked.

“I’m just fine,” she snapped back. Liar, liar, liar. “Just tired of people pretending that their homes are perfect. That no one,” Cipher slammed the car door closed after her, sliding into the hot leather seat. Her hand burned from grasping the metal seatbelt buckle, but she was too angry to care. “-steps out of line. We both know that these murders wouldn’t be happening if there really was no one who fit the profile.” She exhaled, fingers twisting around the hair tie on her wrist. “So why lie to us about it?”

“Well, there are numerous factors that partake in—” He started, but she cut him off. “That was a rhetorical question, Reid.” Cipher gathered her hair behind her head, pulling it into a ponytail. She felt instant relief on the back of her neck as the cool air from the open window hit her face.

“I’m serious,” he protested. “What if she’s just blocked out how bad it was?” She thought, just for a moment. About Diane. About the absence of picture frames in her house, absence of family. Other people. How empty it had felt, drained of colour and presence. She thought of her, much younger, being accosted by a neighbour. About the school doing nothing about it, about him threatening Diane when she said no. About how badly she’d want to forget if he’d gotten violent. Violent.

Diane had a scar on her wrist. It had taken Cipher until now, until thinking about it— to realize what it was. 

An A. In cursive. 

Just like the victims.

“We have to go back,” Cipher announced. “There’s something Diane didn’t tell us.”

—

“DIANE,” SPENCER SAID SOFTLY. “I KNOW THIS IS HARD, BUT YOU NEED TO TELL US. WHAT DOES THE ‘A’ STAND FOR?” Cipher watched with poorly masked anger on her face as Diane sobbed. She’d been right, unfortunately. A boy, one who Diane had told them (through tears) was named Colby Sullivan, had accosted her in her sophomore year in high school. She’d said no, multiple times, but he didn’t take no for an answer. Then, one day, he showed up at her house. Her parents weren’t home. When she opened the door, she felt something hard hit her head. Then darkness. When she woke up, there it was. The scar. She hadn’t been sexually assaulted, though, something Cipher found odd, but didn’t have the heart to question further. Colby was impotent, that much was obvious, so maybe he just didn’t have enough time to stab her? All of it made her sick. None of it made sense. Why hadn’t he killed Diane? She said that Colby had been furious, so the mark shouldn’t have been clean, but it was.

“A-Anderson,” Diane choked. “I-It’s his family name.” 

Why had Diane addressed him as Colby Sullivan, then?

“You said his name was Sullivan, though,” Cipher said gently, ushering Spencer to stand further away from Diane. “Why?” She asked.

“B-Because it’s his mother’s name,” Diane said, taking a deep breath to steady herself. “Take your time,” Cipher assured her, brow creased with sorrow. “You’re doing very well.” 

“He wanted to use his father’s name, Anderson,” she explained. “But he left when Colby was six. So—” Diane choked on a sob, and Cipher felt her heart crack open for the poor woman. Forced to carry this with her all of her life. “His mom made him use her name for everything official,” Diane looked up at Cipher, eyes wet with tears. “But I remember him saying,” she cried, “t-that he couldn’t mark me with a woman’s name.” Shame spread across Diane’s features.

“Fuck,” Cipher muttered. “Okay, Diane. I have to leave, but Spencer’s going to stay here and look after you, okay?” Diane nodded.

When Diane’s breathing calmed, Cipher raced back to the car.

—

FIVE MINUTES LATER, SHE ARRIVED AT THE PRECINCT. “We’ve got him!” She yelled, catching the attention of the rest of the BAU. “Colby Sullivan,” she breathed. “He fits the profile. He already has one previous victim, a woman named Diane. She has- has the marking, and everything.” 

Sure enough, Colby Sullivan, or Anderson, had a record. Assault with a deadly weapon, attempted murder, substance abuse, animal abuse… all the signs were there. Colby Anderson moved to New York two months after he graduated high school. He’d come back to Nowhere half a year ago, and gotten a job at the fishing port. He’d been fired from his job right before the murders began, so there was his stressor. Hotchner, Morgan, Rossi, and the rest of the team had gone to his house to bring him in for questioning. But there was still something off about him. If he’d lost his job, how did he get from New York, to abduct the women, back to Nowhere, to dispose of the bodies? It had been confirmed, Colby didn’t own a boat. So how had he managed it? 

Cipher stared at the whiteboard, a million ideas running through her head. It didn’t add up. They were too different. The markings weren’t angry. They were calm, precise— but the stabbing, that had been full of rage. 

Their spines were compacted. Almost like they’d been stored in a cage. But maybe it wasn’t a cage— but rather a shipping crate. It would make sense, how Colby had gotten the women from point A to point B. Drug them, ship them, kill them, mutilate them. The marking was the only thing that had been done premortem, the only thing that didn’t match Colby Anderson’s profile at all. 

Cipher glanced at the white board again. At the top, in Reid’s perfect handwriting, were two words, underlined.

‘Two Unsubs?’ 

That was it— she never thought she’d be saying this, but thank God for Spencer Reid. All she had to do was figure out who the second Unsub was. She pulled out her phone, ignoring the two missed calls from Spencer, and quickly sent him a message.

deCIpher

second unsub. would fit profile. call me.

Spencer didn’t respond.

Someone in New York? A brother, maybe? A twin? Someone affiliated with Colby, could be a friend—

Or, someone who owned a shipping company. Someone who could let Colby borrow his boat to transport women?

Time to call Garcia.

“Hey, Garcia?” She said into the phone. “Do you think you can get me a list of people who own large boats, used for transport?”

“I’m on it, sweetness. I just need to— here. There are two. Anderson Shipping, and Green Transportation. Either of those work for you?” Anderson. Anderson shipping. Reid was right, there was a second Unsub.

“Yes— Garcia, who owns Anderson Shipping?” She asked.

“Uh, one Anne Anderson.” That had to be a fake name. There was no one living in Nowhere named Anne Anderson, she’d gone through the whole list of the town’s inhabitants. There wasn’t even an Anne. “That’s gotta be a fake name, Garcia.” She sighed. “Can you see if you can find out who actually owns the company?”

“I can try, but it’s not guaranteed. I’ll call you back if I find anything, my darling!” The phone beeped in her ear, signaling the end of the call. She groaned, rubbing her temples. She could already feel yesterday’s headache forming again. To keep herself busy, she decided to look through Diane’s medical records. Find out if there was anything about the attack that Diane hadn’t been able to tell her.

Slowly, she walked out of the small room they’d been given to work with, and into the main bullpen. There was only one officer left, the rest had either gone home or were at Colby’s home. 

“Hey,” she announced. “Do you have any records I can look through for Diane Sullivan?” If she had access to Diane’s medical records, she could find out what other injuries she’d sustained that night. Maybe a specific doctor who had seen her and could tell her more, or—

“Diane Sullivan?” The officer asked, taken aback in surprise. “There’s no one here called Diane Sullivan. We do have a Diane Anderson, if that’s what you meant.”

“What?” She asked. “Are you sure?” Cipher’s heart felt like it was about to burst from her chest. That couldn’t be right, that would mean—

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Anderson wasn’t for Colby Anderson.

It was for Diane. Diane was the second Unsub. 

And she’d left Reid alone with her.

Shit. Shit. Shit. 

“I have to go,” she blurted, turning on her heels and sprinting out of the building.

—

IN HINDSIGHT, IT WASN’T THE BEST IDEA TO LEAVE WITHOUT TELLING ANYONE WHERE SHE WAS GOING.  She didn’t consider that, though, not until she was sitting in her car, outside of Diane’s house. Diane Anderson. Diane had lied to her, she’d been working with Colby from the start. Cipher was willing to bet that they had matching ‘A’ scars, too. It was a brand. She felt sick.

The curtains were drawn shut. All the lights were out inside, and it was getting dark. Reid was smart, maybe he’d figured it out, and— oh god. Was Diane going to hurt him? Kill him? That wasn’t part of the profile, though, Diane had only provided Colby with a boat and done the branding. Fuck. Fuck. Diane owned the shipping company, and Anne was her alias. How had she not seen this? How had no one seen this? 

Her cell phone was out of battery, Reid was possibly in danger, and she had no way of getting inside. Unless—

Diane had mentioned not being able to get her back door to lock earlier. If that wasn’t a lie (like everything else) Cipher could get inside through there. That was assuming that Diane hadn’t moved Spencer somewhere more convenient. 

She drove past the house, into the forest, and parked the SUV a considerable distance away from the house. Out of the sight of anyone inside, from any angle. Now, problem number two arose. She didn’t have a gun. She had no way of getting Diane to surrender. But that didn’t matter, she had to get inside. Likely, there’d be something she could use to subdue somewhere in the house. If she had the layout right, the backdoor led into the kitchen, which led into the living room. She could get a butcher's knife, and pray Diane didn’t have a gun.

This was stupid. She should have waited for backup. But no one knew where she was, and everyone else was apprehending Colby. She was making a mistake, she knew that— but Reid was in danger. As much as she disliked him, as much as she wished death upon him— she wasn’t going to let him get killed. Especially not after she was the one who left him alone. 

It would make everyone sad if he died.

Slowly, Cipher crept towards the broken screen door of the house. The grass beneath her feet was dead. Everything around the house was dead. She couldn’t hear Reid inside, or Diane.

The door opened soundlessly. Slowly, Cipher exhaled in relief. She could hear talking, now, two voices. Distinctly female and male. Diane and Spencer. Her voice was high pitched and shaky, but devoid of all emotion. A complete 180 from the woman she’d been when Cipher had left her house.

She scanned the room for anything, anything she could possibly use as a weapon. Apparently, luck was on her side, because she found both a butcher's knife, and a titanium cutting board. She grasped both objects in her hand. The cool metal was welcome against her hot skin. At the pace of a snail, with her back pressed against the wall, she made her way to the living room, where Diane was still talking to Spencer. She had her back to Cipher, she was only a few feet away. She just needed to distract her.

What was better to hit someone with, a block of metal, or a knife? 

Metal.

She didn’t know if it would work. There was a chance that, if this failed, she’d kill both herself and Spencer. But there weren’t any other options, and she was desperate. 

Cipher threw the knife across the room. It slammed into the floor with a loud thud. Diane’s head snapped towards the noise. “Who’s there!” Diane shouted. “I have a gun, don’t come any closer!”

“It’s me, Agent Cipher!” She shouted back. “I knocked on your door, but you didn’t answer, so I came in through the back! I just wanted to tell you that we have Colby in custody!”

She watched Diane curse under her breath, as the woman made her way to where she thought Cipher was. As she got closer, and closer, Cipher got ready to hit her. When Diane appeared in the doorway, gun discarded, she struck. Cipher swung the metal cutting board towards her head, the two colliding with a thunderous,  horrible crack. She watched the horror spread across Diane’s face before she crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

Police sirens sounded in the distance. She didn’t know how they knew to come to Diane’s house, but thank god that they did.

It didn’t take more than two minutes for the cops and the BAU to swarm the house, kick the door in, and escort Spencer to an ambulance.

She looked at Diane one last time before walking out to join the others.

—

Kalon appears in her dreams, sometimes. In her nightmares too. As the anchor in the never ending storm that she chooses to call her life. She corrupts it. She betrays it. Apathy helps. Apathy always helps. She buries that, too, under the waves. Deep beneath the sparkling blue hues of the ocean, beyond the grainy sand, down, down, deeper until no one could possibly find it.

It is a sunny day. Flashes of light dance across her vision. The morning grass, still wet with dew, sparkles back up into the sky. She used to think that it was magical. She thought that it was leftover pixie dust from the faeries that visited at night. Somehow, even that was torn apart. That ideal. The thought that, maybe, there was magic somewhere inside of this tortured existence.

She was wrong.

She does not know how to get home. Nor does she want to, if she’s being frank. She lies beneath the trees at the park, turning her head towards the distant treeline whenever she sees a police car, lest one of them recognize her face. She doubts it. Though she is young, she knows how the things she calls mother and father behave. It would be a surprise if they’d even noticed that she’d back her things and left, much more so had they actually called someone instead of sighing in relief and returning to their daily coffee. 

Even now, their faces are blurry. Even now, she cannot recall their names, or their voices. Only the ways in which they hurt her, always hurt her. They are the shards of glass strewn across the rooms in her mind. They are the reason she is gone. They are the reason she has nothing but her name.

She is supposed to be approached by a young woman soon. One whom she will befriend. One, who, when names become nothing, is to be called Kalon.

—

KALON IS THE ANCIENT GREEK CONCEPT OF ‘A PERFECT BEAUTY’. It is said to combine morality, grace, mortal attractiveness, and nobility. It is a word that, due to her childishness, she misuses. She gives it to someone who could have deserved it, in another life.

Not in this one.

Never in this one. 

Still, when Kalon comes to fetch her, she obliges. She rises off the vibrant green grass, extends her hand, and offers Kalon her name. They exchange pleasantries (as many pleasantries as children can give) and rush off to play. Names are very important things. They are uttered wordlessly in the night, screamed through stale air, cried out like prayers— (they say it like a prayer, but is it a blessing, or a curse?)

Names, whether they be common or woefully unique, are the one thing in life that remains ours. As a result of this, when a person is stripped of their name, it is a detriment to their humanity.

However, to give up a name willingly is to surrender. 

To receive a new one— one forged from steel and fire— is to be reborn. 

—

CHILDREN ARE OFTEN FOOLISH, AND KALON CANNOT STAY FOREVER. After much adventure, running, laughing, playing— she must go home. Innocently, Kalon asks her if she has to go home, too.

“No.” She replies. Kalon looks at her quizzically. Deciding that she must make something up, lest she lose her new friend, she lies. “I live over there,” she says cheerily, pointing towards somewhere far away from the play structure. Somewhere in the forest, past the fences of the park— maybe even beyond the horizon, if she pretends hard enough. 

“Oh.” Kalon says. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

She thinks for a moment. It is here, where the foolishness becomes apparent, upon looking back.

“Yes.” She says. 

—

When the dark cascades down, she cannot see. It cloaks her forest in an evergreen glow, little flecks of moonlight dance across the gaps in the treeline. If it were brighter, perhaps she would feel less afraid. Perhaps the shadows would not grow claws, each sound of the woods snarling at her like a monster. Perhaps, when there is a fluorescent hue around you, you do not feel afraid. Streetlights can contrast the shadows, and can brighten her small world like stars. 

The further she goes, the less she can see.

The further she goes, the less she can see.

The further she goes, the less she can see. 

The further she goes, the less she can see. 

—

SHE WOKE WITH A START. Darkness, her greatest enemy, coated the room like grease. Fear hung in the stale air.

Blood. She can taste blood in her mouth. She has a tendency to bite her lips, so there’s no surprise there, yet it will always be shocking for that to be the first thing she can taste at—

She checked the clock.

4:38 am.

It’s far too early to be awake, she knew that. The sun had yet to rise and she is sure that nobody else is conscious, let alone even thinking of waking up. She glanced at the side table, filled to the brim with cards and flowers from her coworkers. Among all the sweet smelling chaos, is one yellow sticky note. She narrowed her eyes on it, but it’s too dark for her to read. However, judging by the fact that it was— well, a sticky note, she immediately knew who it was from. Dr. Spencer Reid, the man who had hated her since she joined the BAU. All because she’d corrected him for a citation. Le Comte de Monte Cristo. “Tu n'as pas déchiré la lettre, tu l’as seulement jeté.” He had said. She couldn’t even remember what had prompted the conversation, just that it was her first day and she’d walked in about five minutes earlier. “Actually,” She said, “It’s “Tu ne l’as pas déchiré,’ dit Caderousse; ‘tu l’as seulement jeté dans un coin, voilà…’” She trailed off when she noticed his glare, and the small snicker of his coworkers. Well, her coworkers too, but that was neither here nor there. What? He had been wrong. Perhaps it hadn’t really been necessary, or something she should have said (to spare him of the embarrassment that tended to come with misquoting 19th century literature), but she wasn’t exactly in the BAU to make friends. She was there to repay her (endless) debt. 

Cipher liked to think that she’d earned his hatred since then. Every snide comment, every childish remark, every stupid mind game… she wore it with pride. After all, she’d worked hard to curate a neverending feud between them, and she’d be damned if she didn’t get the credit she deserved for what she’d managed to do.

Spencer Reid. Often described as a sweet, likeable, adorable nerdy genius. Not to her, never to her. She had yet to see anything about him that could be likeable— well, except for his looks. She supposed that he’d been blessed with effortless blonde curls and honey brown eyes to make up for his atrocious personality. 

A prime target for her rather harmless games. He was entirely too sensitive, and took everything she said personally. She would feel bad for messing with him, if he hadn’t made it perfectly clear that he was entirely capable of reciprocating. And, since she’d won their last argument (about whether you could touch a cloud) (she was being purposefully obtuse solely for the purpose of annoying him), she was sure that the wimpy sticky note was his retaliation. She wouldn’t be surprised if it ended up being a note telling her that he hoped she got sepsis. (Paired with alarming statistics to induce paranoia— she really knew his style all too well. Too well for her own good.)

Careful as to not injure herself any further, Cipher slowly reached over and plucked the note off the bedside table. Scrawled in his messy handwriting was what she assumed was his version of a get well soon card.

‘It would really be a shame if you were to get NSTI. If you show signs of the flu, do not let your doctor know. It definitely isn’t one of the symptoms.’

‘-You know who this is.’

How positively joyful. Absolutely wonderful. She loved that her coworker was praying for her leg to get demolished by flesh eating bacteria. She scoffed. The majority of people who recorded suffering from the treacherous disease tended to have pre-existing health issues. One of them being intravenous drug use. She wondered, for a moment, if pointing that out would be going too far. 

There was another card on the table, one that hadn’t been there when she’d gone to bed the night before. When Hotchner had come into her room, just to stage cards from her parents. ‘To avoid suspicion,’ he had said. ‘What kind of parents don’t send their daughter something when she ends up in the hospital?’ ‘The kind of parents I have, Hotchner.’ She replied. ‘They already know I don’t speak with my family, why would they think that I’d get sent something by people I haven’t spoken to in— hmm. Let’s see. Sixteen years?’ He glared at her. ‘I think they would hope that your parents still care about their child.’ There was nothing she could have said that would not imply that her parents had never given a shit about her, so she stayed quiet. Let him think that she was too tired to keep arguing. 

The new card stood out from the rest. It was plain white with no design on the front, like something you’d buy at a craft store, not a hospital. 

Unfortunately for her, it was just out of her grasp. If she stretched a little bit, maybe she’d be able to reach it, but that could risk hurting her leg. Or ripping her stitches. Or a myriad of other things that would result in having to change the sheets again. (The nurses didn’t take very kindly to her insisting that bloody sheets were fine for her to sleep in.)

Who brings a blank card to a hospital?

If she shifted a little bit to the left, maybe she could grab it. Really, she’d do anything but ask the nurses for help. Her therapist would probably tell her that it had something to do with being too independent when she was too young, and now she didn’t trust anyone to do things that she thought she could do herself. 

Cipher sighed. Option one. Potentially injure herself and set back her recovery. Option two. Press the call button. Surely, there would be someone able to help her.

To the surprise of no one, she chose option one. Slowly, she shimmied towards the edge of her bed, ignoring the white hot pain that shot up her leg the moment she moved it. Upon extending her arm, she was able to catch the corner of the card, and pull it into the safety of her hospital bed. She turned it over in her hands. It felt like it was made of cardstock. There wasn’t a hint of colour, or wording anywhere on the outside.

Strange. 

Cipher opened the card. Inside, there was one word. A word she hadn’t thought of in years— one she’d worked very hard to hide beneath layers and layers of indifference. 

Kalon.

She stared at the wall, heart racing. That was all she could do. Kalon was in prison, so how would she— how did she— why—

This wasn’t possible. Hotchner was playing a prank on her, or someone happened to know what Kalon meant and had decided that it would do in place of a get well card, or—

Or someone knew, and they were going to use it against her.

Someone knew.

Someone could someone could they would ruin it could everything and she would be nothing nothingnothingnothingnothing 

For dust you are, and to dust you shall return.

- Genesis 3:19

—

THE HOSPITAL ROOM QUICKLY FILLED WITH NURSES. Apparently, upon reading the card, Cipher’s heart rate had spiked, which instantly alerted them of a possible medical emergency, and after being unable to calm her down, they’d given her both heart rate medication and pain meds. After thorough questioning, ‘Where does it hurt’, ‘is there any blood’, ‘on a scale of one to ten,’ blah blah blah. She’d managed to stammer through a ‘leg, no, and ten.’ Somehow, though her voice was hoarse from disuse and far too high pitched for her liking. Once the pain meds hit her system, she was gone.

She despised feeling so… loopy. Incompetent. Unable to work, unable to focus. Unable to stop her eyes from shutting, her brain from drifting— her body from dipping under the waves, and returning to sleep. 

‘Goodnight, dear.’ The sound rang out somewhere, either in her head or in her room. She didn’t know.

‘Kalon is waiting for you.’

—

WHEN THE DARKNESS ENCOMPASSES HER, SHE CANNOT SEE. She has wandered too far into the depths of the woods, past every path, beyond the twinkling of the stars, and under a canopy of leaves so thick that it blocks out every speck of light imaginable. 

Treasure hunter, you are dead, the light of the world is fading.

She does not stop there, for she has yet to comprehend the idea of lost, of missing, of gone, of nothing. She cannot be lost, or missing, or gone, or nothing if she does not have a home, and no one remembers she exists.

Everything is black, invisible, so she does not notice the large tree stump. 

Down. 

Down.

Down.

Unceremoniously, she hits the ground. Hard. The dirt tears at her hands, her clothes, her shoes— she feels it on her face, in her nose, her mouth— her eyes.

If a child shrieks in the forest, but no one is there to bear witness, does she make a sound?

She can feel the blood pooling beneath her face. Crimson, fresh, slowly spreading out further and further. She does not rise.

You cannot see the other end, your body’s lost all feeling. 

A snarl rings out into the otherwise silent forest. 

Those creatures of your woken mind, don’t fear them or their hunger.

Footsteps, coming closer towards her. Human or animal, she does not know. Either way, she is going to die. She opens her mouth into the dirt, but no sound comes out—

A firm hand grasps hers, dragging her to her feet. 

Forgive the sea, follow the tide, with the monsters on your shoulder.

—

“YOU WERE SCREAMING, SO I WOKE YOU UP.” Cipher let the question sit between them for a moment. One, silent moment. 

“I was screaming in joy.” She said flatly. “Was on a rollercoaster. Thanks for ruining that for me, Reid.” He scoffed. It was a lie, they both knew it. Neither of them said anything about her obvious deception.

Pearl diver, dive, dive deeper.

He looked at her, really looked at her. Like he actually wanted to see what was underneath. Like he actually thought he could, if he tried hard enough. It almost made her roll her eyes, but she refrained. Hotchner would be very proud of her if he was there to see it. The lies were stacking up faster than she could keep track of them, plastered on top of each other, blending into one giant disaster.

“Whatever. I made you soup.” He handed her a container of what she assumed was chicken noodle, still warm. 

Pearl diver, dive, dive down.

Now it was her turn to scoff. 

“You sure you didn’t poison this?” She asked. He had the audacity to look offended. 

“Do you really think I would be that stupid?” He took the container from her hands, placing it on the only empty space beside her. He scrunched his nose at the flowers like they personally wronged him. “If I poisoned you, I wouldn’t deliver the poison myself. I’d probably lace your car door handle, seeing as you never wash your hands.” 

This time, she actually rolled her eyes. “I just don’t wash my hands seventeen times in an hour. Because I’m not a paranoid germaphobe like you. Because I actually have enough common sense to realize that washing so frequently can damage your skin.”

“I’d rather have cracked skin than pink eye.” 

“Nobody’s actually gotten pink eye from touching a door handle, Spencer.” As soon as the words left her lips, she wished she could suck them back in. She saw the way his eyes lit up in the way that they always did when he was about to prove someone wrong. 

“Actually, 4.8% of cases originate from touching a contaminated communal surface, which, unfortunately for you, includes doorknobs.”

“Only 4.8%?” She scoffed again.

“Last year, there were 41,514 reported cases of pink eye.” He said, a smug look coming to rest on his face. She wished she had something she could throw at him.

“-which means that 1992.672 people who contracted pink eye got it from touching contaminated communal surfaces.” 

She scanned the room for things she could toss at him. Just to test his reflexes. (And to hopefully break his nose.)

“What are the chances that I will throw something at you and smash your face in?” She asked. He sighed dramatically.

“Absolutely zero, because I’m not doing the math for stupid questions. Plus, there’s no way you could throw something at me and hit me hard enough to break my face in your… current condition.” He glanced down at her injured leg, a flicker of worry crossing his face. 

She pretended she didn’t see it. 

Pearl diver, dive, dive deeper.

“It’s not a stupid question. It’s a real probability. Your ugly face is making my heart rate go up. It’s… disturbing. You should probably get that fixed. You know, one of my friends is a plastic surgeon.” She put on an exaggerated concerned face. “I could get you a discount, if you’re too broke to pay for it yourself.

He glared at her. Good. Much better. 

“I don’t believe that for a second.” 

“What, that you’re ugly and broke? Rest assured, it’s definitely true. I have eyes, you know. I have to deal with it every day.” She gave him a wide, satisfied smile.

“No, that you have friends.”

Back to frowning. 

“You really know how to make a girl feel good about herself.” She said, sitting up as much as she could without wincing. “If this is how you treated all the girls in high school, then I get why you’re still a virgin.”

Jackpot.

“You are infuriating.” 

“And you’re using your brain to overcompensate—” she glanced down into his lap, furrowing her eyebrows. “-for something.”

“Oh, fuck you!”

“You wish I would fuck you. Then you’d have something to brag about besides your brain.” It was then that Spencer decided he’d had enough ridicule for one day.

Before he left, she noticed that he gave her leg one final look. 

Pearl diver, dive, dive down.

As though he submitted a query into a search engine, his brain expands the search to find more results. He sifts through reputable sources and trashy magazines, scouring every… strange interaction they’ve had over the years that would imply she even had a chance of besting him.

To his surprise, the majority of the articles do not favour him. They favour her. 

Exhibit A: The Stitches incident.

Exhibit B: Miami.

Exhibit C: 12PM, October 26th, 2008. 

Fuck.

It’s infuriating. How has she managed to do this, worm her way under his skin and make a home there. A home built out of sticks and dry leaves, one he’d be capable of knocking down if he so pleased. 

Spencer could just tell her to go fuck herself, chase her away until he fully repairs his shield. Until any and all ideas of kissing someone he does not like wither and die. Until he is back to 100%--- and she stands no chance.

But this game, this dance, the pull, the pressure—

It excites him.

The chance of winning a complex game like this, the thought of beating her in any competition at all? It’s too good of an opportunity to deny.

And so, he begins to formulate a plan. 

Eventually, she will be forced to admit defeat, because Spencer Reid does not lose. Especially not when she’s involved.

—

SO FAR, ALL OF SPENCER’S IDEAS HAVE BEEN SHIT. Comically so, and while Spencer has never considered himself one to underestimate an opponent— unfortunately, even he is capable of making mistakes. He has underestimated her up until now— until his mental search revealed things he regrets not having found sooner.

So far, she has the upper hand. He's made a tally chart of their scores.

CIPHER

I- Miami.

II- Her win in regards to the Stitches incident.

III- Her act of salvation at Liberty Ranch.

IIII- Her first act of salvation in Diana Anderson’s living room.

IIIII- Their fight in her hospital room back in August.

IIIII I- This morning.

SPENCER

I- When he pulled her hair in Alaska.

II- When she put her head on his shoulder after Alaska/when he managed to get her to go to sleep without ending up dead due to carbon dioxide poisoning.

III- His act of salvation under the stairs in Wyoming.

IIII- The bucket of water on top of the door yesterday.

There are a couple instances between them that he considers to be entirely neutral, including everything that happened while she was sick because she was most certainly not in her right mind.

She is ahead, yes, but only by two points. Three, really, because Miami should probably earn her some extra credit. Which would make the official score 7-4, with her in the lead, and him trailing behind hopelessly.

Not if he decides to do something about it.

All Spencer would have to do is rile her up— which is not an impossible task. It’s quite simple, really, he’s managed to do just that hundreds of times before. To the dismay of the bau, their rivalry is going to return full-force, and he is going to win it. 

There’s something alluring about the thought, something that makes him want to dive deeper— he’s aware that there may be some warmth beneath the curtain of their room in his mind, though the stream that curls in the air can be attributed to the hot coals everyone on the team has tried to extinguish before.

But in Miami… she won. She made it entirely clear that she was capable of outsmarting him.

He cannot let that happen again. 

Yet, the chance that he might lose is enough to suck him back into her web of intracies, enough to make him rent a room in her house of cards just so he can be the one to topple it.

Spencer Reid does not like Cipher, Cipher does not like Spencer Reid. Their hatred is so pure, so visceral, that it might as well be Newton’s fourth law. And the excitement he feels upon imagining winning a game that she thinks he doesn’t know about is almost enough to make him want to abandon the case. 

Brutal reality slams into his chest, the embers of his high extinguished immediately upon the realization— they have a killer to catch.

And this is why the odds are in her favour. 

She does not allow him to occupy her mind like this.

He does.

A formidable opponent, indeed.

—

THE DAY DOES NOT REVEAL ANYTHING ABOUT THEIR UNSUB. He manages to pry his mind away from thoughts of Cipher, of retribution— even ignores it when one of the female detectives attempts to flirt with her. Either she doesn’t notice, or she doesn’t care, because her face remains neutral the entire time, despite the fact that Detective Laurant is being extremely touchy. He wants to walk over, tell this poor woman not to get entangled with someone like Cipher. Someone who can only make her life worse. That’s the only reason he’d want to get them to stop conversing. 

…Is he jealous?

No sooner than the thought enters his mind does he dismiss it. You cannot be jealous when the person you’d be jealous of in the equation is attempting to flirt with the object of your boundless hatred. He watches the interaction unfold with a schooled expression, or at least that is what he believes his expression to be until a hand on his shoulder yanks his eyes away from the two women.

“Damn kid, who pissed in your cornflakes?” Morgan is standing next to him now, leaning against the countertop behind him with an easy, yet charming smile. Spencer does not let the sight of those pearly white teeth fool him, he knows of the malice and teasing that lies beneath that effortless smile.

“It’s nothing, Morgan.”

“Nothing? Really? Oh, are you jealous of pretty girl?” He watches Morgan’s eyes drift to Cipher, noticing the obvious flirting that Cipher still seems oblivious to. Spencer curses himself for being on a team of profilers. 

“I pity that detective. She doesn’t know what she’s getting into.” Spencer ensures that his tone is flat and even, betraying none of the sizzling enticement that lays dormant beneath his icy voice.

“Interesting.”

Spencer turns to face him. “What is there about what I just said that you deem interesting?” He asks boredly, tilting his head towards Morgan with a not-so-impressed look on his face. Morgan just grins wider, his new smile reflecting his true intentions. 

“I said you were jealous. You defaulted to talking about Laurant instead of our girl.” His heart slows to a stop. Not a true stop, the feeling is caused by an adrenaline rush inducing a premature heartbeat, followed by a more forceful beat, which can cause the illusion of one’s heart stopping and restarting— “...Which would make me think that you’re not jealous of Ci, you’re jealous of Laurant.”

—But if a doctor were to tell him that he’d flatlined for a split second? He’d believe it.

His heart anomaly is followed by soul-crushing dread, and a cooling sensation draping over his body. A warm rush shoots up to his face and neck while the rest of his body remains cool to the touch.

“There’s a rule against trying to profile your coworkers.” He snaps, his voice harsher than he meant for it to be. 

Morgan just chuckles. In that moment, he can see what the man beside him is talking about. Someone had mentioned it about a year ago, he still remembers what they’d said.

“No one goes after me because you look like someone tried to shoot your dog when they do.”

It was what she’d said in Miami. About him.

She was wrong then, and Morgan is wrong now. The sentiment behind the words have not changed, though what is being said itself has fundamentally shifted.

Morgan’s (incorrect) observation is not an accusation. Hers was. That was why he’d gotten so defensive and—

He’s not thinking about Miami right now.

“I’m not jealous,” he sighs. “I just think it’s gross.”

Morgan’s eyebrows nearly shoot to his hairline— or where his hairline would be, if he still had hair. “...Woah.” 

Instantly, Spencer realizes what his words imply— that he is uncomfortable because Laurant and Cipher are both women, not because he believes that every lover Cipher takes is a victim, not a romantic partner. 

“I didn’t mean it like that!” He exclaims defensively, gesturing towards the pair. Laurant is still trying, but given Ci’s body language, he can tell that she’s not having it. She’s tense and dismissive. Whatever Laurant is attempting to do isn’t working. 

How can he explain what he did intend without sounding like a jealous ex-boyfriend? How is he supposed to make their sick, twisted game make sense to Morgan, who would likely ask Hotch to give Spencer a psychological evaluation if he even began to try? It doesn’t even make sense to Spencer yet, and that’s saying something. 

“She’s very clearly uncomfortable with Laurant’s advances.” Spencer decides to play it safe, explain his discomfort with a simple behavioural observation instead of… whatever is making him uncomfortable. “Her posture is rigid, she does not appear to be very relaxed, and her responses seem to be curt. She’s fiddling with the vanilla lip balm she keeps in her right pocket. The one she uses when she’s not having a good day.”

Morgan gives him an incredulous look. “Yeah, I picked up on all that.” Spencer mentally kicks himself. He does this often; getting so used to explaining things that he ends up making people who do know what they’re talking about feel insulted. “-Except for the lipstick.” 

“Lip balm.” Spencer corrects.

“Potato potato." 

Spencer rolls his eyes, relief rushing through him. He’s managed to avoid Morgan’s questioning for now— there’s no guarantee that he won’t try again later. “The differences between lip balm and lipstick are actually quite vast. For example, lipstick can feel waxy when you have dried lips, whereas lip balm would soothe that dryness. That’s actually probably why she prefers it.” Her lips tend to be at their driest from November, something he’s noticed over the two-almost-three years they’ve worked together.

“So you just happen to know everything about Cipher, then?” 

Spencer is about to answer that he probably knows more than most people, given the fact that he is the only one in the BAU to have stepped foot in her home. It’s merely a technical observation, but he stops himself before responding. This is a trap. Morgan is trying to manipulate him into admitting that he “likes” Cipher, or whatever absurd assumption he’s made about their rivalry. He doesn’t want to take her out on dates, buy her flowers, bring her to fancy restaurants— no, he wants to ruin her. He wants to get back at her. He wants to pull all the shit she’s pulled on him, tenfold. Whatever’s going on between them is the furthest thing from a whirlwind romance.

“I am a profiler.” Spencer shrugs.

“Oh, so then you’d know that I like to read case files online instead of on paper because the small font gives me a headache. Right?”

He hadn’t noticed anything of the sort, nor had he made any significant observation in regards to Derek Morgan’s reading preferences.

“As a matter of fact, I have.” Spencer is lying through his teeth. He just has to make it through this conversation without—

“Well, that’s interesting, because I’ve never loaded a case file to a computer in my life.” —Morgan using lies of his own in an attempt to trick him. 

Shit.

Play it safe. Spencer tells himself. Don’t give him any other reason to think you’re lying. “Are you having a dry spell?” The fact that he notices things about her but not anyone else isn’t out of the ordinary; the same thing happened with Elle before she left. It was because she sat in the desk across from him, not because he liked her.

Morgan tilts his head to the side, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“You haven’t… er…” he’s regretting his decision to bring sex up now that he actually has to talk about it. “-Gotten laid in a while, so now you’re obsessed with my sex life.”

Morgan lets out a soft chuckle, placing his hand back on Spencer’s shoulder. “Sure thing, pretty boy. You keep telling yourself that.” 

“There’s nothing more to it.” Spencer tries to convince him, but he can tell that Morgan isn’t going to change his mind. All he can hope for is that he won’t recount this interaction to anyone else.

“If you say so.”

“You’re being purposefully obtuse. You know what you’re implying. I know what you’re implying. And I am telling you that you’re wrong.” Spencer argues, but it’s fruitless. Morgan isn’t going to believe him, no matter what he says. 

“And if I tell you that it’s raining cupcakes, does that make it true?” Typical Morgan, using exaggerated idioms in order to prove a point. 

“The expression is raining cats and dogs.” Spencer corrects him again, the second time he’s had to do so in one conversation.

“Tomato tomato.” Spencer doesn’t even have to look at Morgan’s face to know that he’s wearing a shit-eating grin. He’d almost forgotten how infuriating Derek Morgan could be. Spencer sighs, pressing the back of his hand to his forehead. He doesn’t dare look at Laurant, or Cipher, and that’s just because he intends to keep his sanity intact.

It’s not because he’s jealous, he really isn’t. Morgan suggesting that he might like her? That is entirely absurd.

And something he intends to prove by winning a game. 

—

THE FIRST THING CIPHER NOTICES ABOUT DETECTIVE LAURANT IS THAT SHE’S PRETTY. The second thing she notices is that this woman either adores conversation, or she finds Cipher attractive. It becomes clear that the sentiment behind the words that seem to flow endlessly from Laurant’s mouth is, indeed, the latter of the two when she engages in a simple five-word exchange with one of her coworkers. 

Detective Vivian Laurant is, objectively, an attractive woman. Her hair, soft and brown, curls into loose waves that stop at the tip of her chin. She’s rather tall too, if Cipher had to guess, she’d say 5’10 with heels. 5’8 without. Her eyes are the kind of colour that makes you do a double take, because you could’ve sworn that they were brown a second ago.

Green. She asked. Detective Laurant said green with a laugh that could’ve made a faerie jealous— which, upon further consideration is probably not a good thing. 

It doesn’t matter. She’s gorgeous, Cipher is intrigued— but her face is familiar in a way Cipher cannot place until late at night, when they’re having one of her extra long conversations. She’s inquiring about how Cipher came to be called Cipher, and Cipher is trying to think of a reason that won’t violate about 100 rules in the FBI code of conduct when it hits her.

She looks just like Spencer.

If Spencer were a woman. Which, decidedly, he is not, but their resemblance is quite uncanny. Now that she’s really looking for similarities— she can see his face in the sculpt of her cheekbones, in the messiness of her hair, the shape of her shoulders— even the shade of her lips. She can’t help but get lost in their closeness, and undoubtedly, that is what makes Detective Laurant think Cipher is interested.

Guilt hits her like a freight train, so powerful it almost makes her double over. In that moment, all she can see is Kally— her face, her smile, her laugh, her, her, her, her everything. The details swirl in her head, but she’s unable to catch them as they spiral past her face and hit the ground softly, like scraps of paper.

It takes a few seconds for her to figure out how to breathe again, but once she does she’s taking in too much air, choking on oxygen. She stands up straight, and Laurant seems confused at the sudden shift. She reaches out to touch her arm— Cipher is not having it, she can’t. She just can’t.

It’s not fair to this woman. What does she want out of this? A date? A night spent together? A relationship? A house? A wedding? Kids? A future?

Wants shift whereas needs remain the same. Food, water, clothing, shelter— those are all needs. They never cease, never buckle and bend and warp as their meanings change over time like wants do. Cipher, if she had to be placed in a category, dropped into one of those two boxes in someone else’s life, she’d be a want. Not a necessity. 

Wants change, like perceptions. And where she is concerned, when someone’s perception of her changes, so does their want for her presence in their lives. A fact that she has learned over time. 

People find out the truth, and they no longer want her. It’s happened time and time again. She scared off Carson’s friends because they were afraid of her. The nurses at the facility started giving her the cold shoulder when they found out. 

This detective will be no different. She’ll find out, and she will recoil, and her wants will change. 

Cipher is an idiot for even thinking about it.

The conversation continues, but she’s no longer paying any attention to the words that flow out of Detective Laurant’s mouth. All she can think about is the guilt. Her hand drifts to her right pocket, fingers tracing over the letters of the vanilla lip balm that resides there, trying to bring herself some comfort, something to latch onto, lest she delve headfirst into her guilt. It’s less of a journey and more of a cliff in the night. She cannot see the depth, only that she is standing at the edge, risking her sanity by watching as the rock crumbles beneath her feet. Should she jump off, there’s no way to tell if she’d live to tell the tale. 

So she stays. Teetering on the tightrope of feeling and not feeling, if she tilts either way she’ll never be able to go back.

“There’s this coffee shop I’ve always wanted to go to—”

Now she has to stop it. As nice as indulgence has been, human relationships are a ticking time bomb, a singular leaf dropped into a hole in the ground in an attempt to cover up something that is a hundred times larger than itself.

“I should go.” Cipher watches detective Laurant’s face change from anticipated to confused, then to hurt. That’s not fair. She never meant to sound interested, she just…

She’s running away, like she always does. 

“It’s getting late,” she continues, and Detective Laurant doesn’t respond. Laurant glances at the ground, not at Cipher, and she hates doing this, but she has to.

Lying will only make the guilt increase tenfold. Gritting her teeth and telling little fibs in order to keep her name out of the mud.

Cipher really does feel bad for leading her on.

“Right.” At least she isn’t pushing it. 

She gives Laurant an apologetic smile. Laurant does not return her pleasantries, which is fair enough. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Morgan and Reid talking to each other.

They exchange awkward goodbyes, and Cipher returns to her motel room.

—

THE EVENING PASSES AS ANY OTHER; LONG, YET SIMULTANEOUSLY DRAGGING, as though it wants to present her exhausted body to the stars like a prize. It must keep her alive, of course, she is no use to anyone if she is dead.

Despite her rather lengthy rest, exhaustion has made a home in her body, claiming every crevice as its own. It cannot be expelled, no matter how many times she tries. Cipher has learned to live alongside it, giving it just the corners of herself so it can fester. As long as it stays behind the barrier she’s created, as long as it does not infect her eyes and force them shut forever, it can stay.

It’s now half past ten, and she has yet to fall asleep. She is not going to. She can’t, physically, not right now. It’s not the right time. (It’s never the right time, is it, though?)

She has to hold the memories back. They play anyways, infinitely on loop in the darkest corners of her head, repeating over and over again until the words warp and the record player slips off the table. 

The ache is back again. She has a journal to contain it, but she has not opened it. (For fear that the pages will fill up far too quickly, spill off the paper as their ink coats her skin like grease.)

(For fear that she is nothing but a word, and once the page where she is printed has been read, she will cease to exist.)

(A common word, unimportant. Unnoticeable.)

She does not remember walking (running) back as the pages of her journal curled as though they were on fire.

They might as well have been on fire.

She poured the gasoline, she lit the match, because?

Expression is useless, no one cares. There are six people who know of her existence and want her to live. Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

None.

That is what will happen when they find out.

That is why she cannot stay. 

(But if she leaves, they will kill her. Shoot on sight. Flight or fight, but if she dares to fly she will be deemed a threat and she will be shot. Killed, her body will decay and she will be nothing. Nothing does not hurt as much as something, she thinks.)

By twelve, she feels nothing, nothing at all.

Not in her dreams, or in her nightmares.

Not as she’s awake, and not as she’s asleep.

Nothing.

Nothing at all.

A nice change.

—

THE DAYS HAVE YET TO BLUR TOGETHER IN CIPHER’S MIND. They feel monotonous, like endless repetition. By the time morning comes, nothing has grown cold. She reaches out with ice-tipped, frozen fingers, grasping at something to replace it. Any emotion will do, for nothing is not just the absence of something, it is a void. Rien, complètement abandonné. Il n’y a rien qu’elle peut sentir dans ce vide, dans cette obscurité. Les émotions sentent les graines du sable, elle est incapable de le saisir comme elle veux. Le vent frôle sa main au lieu de ses rêves. Et ses cauchemars, ils percent sa peau comme éclats de verre, même s'ils n'étaient pas un éclat physique. 

She does not get out of bed when she wakes up.

—

ACTING LIKE NOTHING IS WRONG IS EASIER SAID THAN DONE. Especially with Agent Hotchner’s newfound yet incessant hovering, which is undoubtedly being caused by an order from someone higher on the food chain than both of them. The only thing about this arrangement that she dislikes specifically is his reluctance to tell her the truth. Cipher knows that something has changed; Hotchner knows that something has changed— hell, she works with a team of profilers, there’s no way they haven’t yet noticed the oddness of his behaviour, with or without the ‘don’t profile your coworkers’ rule that nobody seems to be capable of following. In short, everyone knows that something has changed.

For fucks sake, he isn’t even trying to hide it.

In fact, no one is trying to hide it. The air has shifted since Emily’s discovery yesterday, one that she has undoubtedly told the others. Cipher expected as much, she’s prepared a list of answers should they decide to question her. 

Cipher tries to distract herself with the case like she has many times, but she simply cannot ignore the feeling of two sets of eyes burning holes in the back of her skull. Two. As if one overly attentive human hyperfixated on her behaviour wasn’t enough.

If this is still going on by lunchtime, she’ll be throwing Spencer Reid off of the tallest building she can find in fucking Iowa.

She’s just starting to read the case file when a thought slams into her at 200mph. 

You were attracted to Detective Laurant.

Yes. That’s true. But she’s not thinking about that right now, for god’s sake, she is thinking about the psyche of a man who took it upon himself to use liquid nitrogen as a means to shatter women’s heads.

Because she looked like Spencer.

What an absurd implication. Her brain is deliberately torturing her, doing anything and everything to keep her from her objective, which is solving. The. Damn. Case. 

She’s not having it. Like a hostage negotiator, she’ll have to make a deal. Cipher will address her thoughts later, not now. For now, the case is her primary focus. She’d sign a contract if the person who kidnapped her capacity to think straight wasn’t her own mind.

So. In order for someone to have access to that much liquid nitrogen, they’d have to work for a lab. Her eyes scan one of the photos, grimacing at the chunks of half-thawed flesh scattered across blood stained white tile. The contrast of the colours makes the scene even more sickening, the whites and the reds and the skin tones plus the pinkish tint of the actual flesh all blend together to create a rather disturbing effect.

The FBI should pay her extra for having to look at something this gruesome. 

The Unsub would have to be strong to submerge someone’s head in any sort of substance for over forty five minutes. She’s already come to this conclusion, so why is she still dwelling on details that have already been confirmed?

The feeling of being watched is still lingering over her, but she tries to ignore the intense sensation. 

Combine force with the knowledge of how to properly turn liquid nitrogen into a murder weapon, then add opportunity—

A lab assistant, maybe? There is a lab in the entire town; one that is both underfunded and understaffed. Hotchner spoke with the person who owns the building, and he said that the majority of people who go there are scrawny, high school kids.

So the killer would stand out. A point in favour of the BAU, since there are no leads other than this… suspicion. Hunch. 

Opportunity. The M.E put the time of death for all six women at somewhere around ten to midnight. Plus, there were no signs of forced entry, which would indicate that the person doing all this has a key.

Cipher makes a mental note to ask Morgan to call Garcia and have her compile a list of everyone who has keys to the lab. 

—

“WE’RE LOOKING AT SOMEONE WHO IS WHITE, IN HIS LATE TEENS. MALE. He doesn’t strike you as the type of person who would commit murder. He helps out around the town but nobody really notices him. A little too pushy when he talks to women.”  This Unsub is nothing new, the only thing unique about him is the way he kills. The profile remains the same; a misogynistic, white asshole who thinks he has a right to kill innocent women because mommy didn’t hug him enough and daddy told him not to cry.

It’s bullshit, in her humble (correct) opinion. From what she can remember, her parents were horrible, and she didn’t—

Well, technically…

And there’s that question again, the one that everyone asked her in the hospital, and in the police station, and in pristine offices—

“Did you have a choice?”

She thinks she can hear Morgan giving the rest of the profile as her own paper joins Kally’s shred on the cold, hard tile. 

Did she have a choice? It’s a question she’s had on her mind for years, ever since March of 2000. Ever since everything fell apart. If you’d asked her ten years ago, she’d say yes. Absolutely. Everything she did was autonomous, she chose to hurt people of her own accord. She picked out her future with the same two hands that she uses to save people now— quite ironic. 

So many things have happened since then. 

It’s still true, what she told Aaron Hotchner back in ‘00. “I could’ve said no.”

“And you didn’t?”

She had laughed. “Of course not.” 

There had only been two choices, and she hadn’t entirely understood what she was signing up for that day in the parking lot.

But lack of knowledge only covers one of her choices, the rest she made knowing what she was doing. So. Did she have a choice? Yes.

And she chose the option that resulted in human lives lost each time. And for what? Why did she choose to do all of this— she still doesn’t completely understand the rationelle behind her decisions. She supposes that trying to decipher why a nine year old girl would choose to entrust herself to a stranger is worthless; she won’t be able to find an explanation that justifies her behaviour.

Cipher could have said no.

But she didn’t. 

That gives her full— or at least near-complete responsibility for her crimes. It’s a rational conclusion, it makes sense, but then—

“There’s been another murder.”

—

“HER NAME IS JANE.” The room smells heavily of rot. The scent clings to everything in the room, seeping between the tiles and the cracks in the walls that are spattered with blood. As usual, chunks of flesh are scattered across the floor almost lazily, yet deliberately, like the person who put them there admired their original formation too much to change it. It’s coated in a thick layer of precision. 

It’s sick.

Jane, according to one of the officers, was a twenty five year old woman, about to leave the town to pursue a degree in medicine. A deviation from the Unsub’s normal; all the other victims have been prostitutes. Add the fact that the time between kills is supposed to be four days, not two— and it’s confirmed when she glances knowingly at Emily, who nods. 

The Unsub is escalating.

—

“DO YOU THINK THERE ARE MULTIPLE UNSUBS?” Morgan’s voice cuts through the heavy silence draped between members of the BAU. Seven women are dead, and they have no leads as to who could have done it. Garcia’s search for people who had keys to the lab revealed nothing; none of the employees in the lab matched the physical profile.

Cipher thinks about it for a moment. That could make sense, yes, but the manner of the crime scenes have suggested so far that there is one culprit, and he’s been profiled as controlling. The odds of him being willing to “share” his kills with someone who he has deemed “beneath him” are very, very low, but it could be—

She’s snapped out of her train of thought when she feels a harsh smack to her knee. 

“Would you stop that?” Reid hisses. She ignores him, continuing to bounce her knee under the table, chewing on her lip. He taps her again, an action to which she pays no mind. Then, he smacks her.

She’s going to kill him as soon as her knee stops stinging, she’s actually going to fucking—

“I know who the killer is!” He shouts.

—

SCOTT JONES IS A GOOD KID. Straight A’s, plays basketball, goes to church every Sunday. He’s a good kid— or at least, his shell is. Whatever is actually inside of his body could be more accurately described as a monster.

And Cipher is currently staring down the barrel of his gun. It’s a revolver, and there are bullets scattered across the tile beneath his feet. His hands are shaking. His eyes are feral and darting across the room rapidly, like a caged animal willing to do anything to escape a bear trap, even if it means clawing its own leg off. Or someone else's.

The only reason they are here is because Reid remembered a kid hanging around the lab. After a couple of questions to one of his friends (who happened to have a key to the lab), the kid cracked and admitted that he had a copy made for Scott.

After that, everything began to fall apart. His room was searched. Trophies were discovered. Bloody clothes. Now she’s in the very same lab where he’s been killing people; risking her own life to stop him.

Her eyes flick back to the bullets resting on the ground. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.

Six.

A revolver can only hold six bullets. Which means that the gun in Scott’s hand is empty. She could be wrong. He could just have more bullets in his gun. But it’s too strange to be a coincidence, his scared demeanor and the bullets on the floor point to one thing— he is armed with a facade.

Cipher doesn’t think as she steps towards him, signaling to Morgan, who’s pointing a gun at Scott to lower his weapon.

“I’ll— I’ll shoot you!” Scott’s hand is resting on the trigger as she steps closer, but she knows that nothing will happen if he fires. There are no bullets in his gun. 

“You’ll shoot me?” She parrots. He narrows his eyes. She can see the anger behind his eyes, piercing through his “good kid” mask and splintering it into pieces.

And then, in a fit of confidence, she grabs for the gun.

—

“STRAUSS WANTS YOU OFF THE FIELD.” The words echo in the silent hallway, though thankfully, there is no one here other than her and Hotchner to hear them. Cipher thinks she misheard him, she has to have misheard him, there’s no way Strauss is this fucking incompetent.

“...What?”

“She thinks you are a danger to yourself and others.”

“A danger to my— that’s bullshit! Since when does she care about my life?!” Since it would bore Cipher out of her mind, increase her chances of doing something stupid. After all, all she’s wanted since Cipher joined the BAU was to get rid of her. 

“I don’t make the decisions.” He’s calm, cold— how can he be this… expressionless? He sounds bored, almost, meanwhile her entire life is about to collapse. It’s been teetering on the edge of a fucking sinkhole for weeks, yes, but she didn’t expect Erin Strauss of all people to be the rain that eroded the soil beneath her feet and pushed her in.

“She’s decided that not having a firearm makes you an unnecessary liability on the field. Combined with your rash decision making, she believes that you’re not fit to travel with the rest of us.” But it had all worked out just fine, she was right, the gun had been empty and Scott Jones ended up in handcuffs within five minutes. “As of now, your position on this team is not in question, but whether you will or will not be joining us on our next case is.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it!” Why is he acting like this— like he doesn’t care at all? Why did she expect anything more when he knows who she is.

That was the real liability. Believing he cared. 

“There’s nothing I can do about it now,” Oh, for the love of god. He’s the unit chief, he has to have some say in which of his agents go with him on cases. Strauss is not the only problem, he’s complicit.

Hotchner straightens, his posture reflecting the image of someone calm and collected. Poised to deliver propositions for unnecessary protections phrased as necessity. “While I do not agree entirely with her position,” he says carefully, eyes flicking across her body because he’s assessing her. He’s sanitizing the news because he doesn’t think she can take it. The prosecutor in him is shining through his polished BAU personality.

She’s going to scream. “-I do believe that you put yourself in unnecessary danger too frequently for it to be coincidence. The… incident that occurred at Liberty Ranch is not something I find a proper example of that behaviour. But it is concerning. You could have died today.”

Cipher can’t do this right now. He’s obviously worried or something, but he’s wrong, the only times she’s ever willingly put herself in danger has been to save other people. It’s a clause in her contract, for fucks sake. She is not allowed to use deadly force to protect herself, only other people. They’ve made it abundantly clear; her life does not matter to them. Why, then, does Hotchner seem to care so much?

“What are you saying.” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. She knows exactly what he’s implying, that she’s one of those agents he’s seen cycle through the bureau time and time again. That she’s just waiting for a stray bullet to kill her. That she would not care if she died, which is an assumption nothing short of absurd. 

More bullshit. He’s a profiler, really, he should know better.

“That you have not seen a counsellor or therapist in years.” He notes the expression she has on her face before he continues, “This isn’t because of your past. The job we do affects people in horrible ways, and you are no exception.” He’s lying, she’s never once seen him tell anyone to go see a therapist because he thinks they want to die before. Not once has he ever spoken to her colleagues like this; she is the exception to almost every rule Aaron Hotchner has. He thinks that, because he has a profile on her, he doesn’t need to be professional. It’s bullshit, everything is bullshit, she’s going to burst a blood vessel—

“I think you should seek professional help.” He says plainly.

“So you think I’m crazy.” She spits.

“I never said that.”

“It was implied!”

“More often than not, when someone talks about an implication, their assumption reflects the thoughts—” She doesn’t even let him finish, he’s not going to profile her, she won’t let him. He’s only treating her like this because he thinks her past gives him some sort of special connection with her. He can save her. He’s wrong. She’s beyond saving.

“God, you sound like Reid.” She gives him a bitter laugh, but his face does not change. Cipher is going to die. Just keel over. Goodbye, fuck life, why does she even try.

“Let’s talk about Reid, then.” No. He’s trying to piss her off, he has to be. 

“I don’t want to talk about Reid!” The words come out too loud, she shrinks away from their impact. He notices this too, she can see the gears in his head turning as he files away every bit of her body language into his profile.

Cipher has known that Agent Hotchner profiled her since the beginning of their first interrogation. He told her so. He read parts of it to her, parts that made her laugh in his face. His response to that? He figured she’d do something of that nature, that she’d deflect. “An art,” he’d said, “you’ve perfected over the years.” It isn’t fair. He knows things about her that she doesn’t even want to know. 

Why does he get to crawl into her brain? Make a home there, claim a space for himself, for science, for a profile, like she’s an interesting creature he brought back to a lab. Like he has any right to do this now, pick her apart as though she’s nothing more than a criminal.

It makes her want to claw her skin off. Get all the black gunk out from beneath her flesh, go into surgery and have them remove it. Then, she’ll be stitched back up, and will be sent home with nothing left to worry about. Healed. Fine. Happy, maybe.

Never going to happen.

“Then what do you want to talk about? You don’t seem very keen on discussing your health. So, let’s discuss your feud with Reid. Is that on the table, or are you going to lie to me about that too?”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” Her anger, no, her desperation gets the better of her, spilling out onto the concrete between them in the form of a snarl.

“Like what? Like you’re lying to me when all I’m trying to do is get you out of the disaster you created?”

“Like I’m an unsub you need to profile.”

“Don’t act like one and I won’t have to.”

“That’s not fair.” She sounds like a petulant child, and she knows it.

“You walked towards an unsub who was pointing a gun at you. A gun that, at the time, we all thought was loaded. How am I supposed to interpret that?”

“I saw the bullets on the floor.” Her protests are useless; she can see the hardness of his features. He’s already made up his mind about her intentions in that basement. He’s curated an entire narrative around it— and he’s decided she is guilty of each count of reckless endangerment he’d be prosecuting her for if he were still a lawyer. 

Except the only person she’s ever put in danger was herself. No disregard for the life of others, only her own. The charges would be dropped. There would be no conviction. 

“There were five bullets on the ground. Not six.”

What? She’d counted six, seen six, she knows there were six, that’s why she— 

This can’t be happening. She did not miscount, that’s not possible. She made sure that there were six bullets on the ground, if there hadn’t been, she would not have risked her teammate’s lives.

“You’re lucky that gun wasn’t loaded.” No, she isn’t. If the gone had gone off, she would be dead. It’s a simple calculation, a bullet plus the life she lives equals tranquility, not luck.

But she doesn’t want to die, Agent Hotchner has it all wrong. Abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within—

She is not religious, she never has been, it isn’t feasible for her to be—

Abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition, please free me from the sinner that lies deep within, abolition—

The voice is so alluring. Are you sure you don’t want to obey?

Hotchner is just staring at her, moving his lips in an awkward fashion. It’s awkward because there are no words coming out. Why is he moving his lips if he doesn’t intend to make a sound? Why? Why is she—

Pain flares beneath her skin, and immediately, she knows why. He is speaking. 

She just can’t hear it. 

It takes everything within her not to yell, even as the pain begins to overtake her, it’s too much, she can’t—

Answer and it’ll go away. Obey and you will not be prosecuted. Obey and they will not nail you to a cross, the blood that seeps from your wounds will not drip into their chalice, they will not call it wine when your body grows cold and rigid.

You are no god. You are not even good.

Anguish cleaves her wrist open, delving into the branching veins of her palm, flickering under her skin, wrapping around that vein and squeezing until it feels like every blood vessel in her arm is bursting.

Obey.

Obey and you will be senseless. The divine will intervene and that pain will leave you, perhaps it will leave behind a hollow shell, too, but your vivacity is not for you to judge.

Obéir, ma belle, et tout le monde ne serait rien dans tes mains, c’est pour vous à détruit ou saveur. 

You are no god. You are not even good.

Ces délires seraient tout ce que tu es, il n'y a rien dans ton corps si la lumière te frappe vraiment.

Obey.

“What?” The posture of her response makes no sense; it’s built on shaky ground, just like her. 

“Do you want to die?” He repeats, his word-posture just right, stable, stable stable stable stable

He is stable.

You are weak.

Your mind is a frayed rope, one tug and it will disintegrate, turn to dust between well-meaning fingers. Intent does not matter if the end result is destruction.

Please, someone get her out.

“Do you want to die?” It plays on repeat repeat repeat repeat until the words finally register, slide themselves into a crisp, neat file folder titled A. Hotchner.

Do you want to die?

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No.

Yes.

No?

Yes?

“No.” Unstable, unready, unmade, nothing and everything all at once, a supernova and a void. Light and dark. It all pales in comparison to silence, to repetition, to everything she will be and everything she already has been. 

Life or death, russian roulette, hopscotch— everything is a game and nothing is a game because games are tricks of the mind and we are all falsehoods on shaky ground; a house built of lies and built to collapse.

To death, life does not matter.

To life, death is everything.

The gilded lilies of life are tarnished by death, with the intent to improve, of course, because people only ever want more more more more. Intent does not matter if the end result is destruction.

Mildew fills the cracks of her open would, sealing it shut with rot. It’s fixed, but it’s still broken.

Blood spits like a fountain out of the holes in her corpse; the mildew is effective but it cannot fix so much destruction.

Mold is left to fester until health is a wispy memory, a soft exhale on a cold day, destined to reappear with each heaving gasp as she chokes on herself, as a reminder of what could have been. A glimmer of hope on the horizon of the moor of despair. 

“Stop.”

Everything is quiet. The haze lifts as quickly as it descended upon her, dripping off her frigid corpse body. Slowly, Cipher remembers how to move her arms, then her legs, then the blood that had poured out of her is thrumming through her veins again, as though it had never left. 

“You should get some rest.” Hotchner’s voice breaches the barrier of silence and sound, reaches the parts of her that are still half submerged in the dirt of the graveyard. 

“Okay.”

As quickly as she became something, she returns to nothing.

—

CIPHER HAS AN ITCH BENEATH HER SKIN. She’ll try to scratch it, but it resides deep in her flesh, so she can’t, not without tearing her skin off.

She’s unsettled. Agent Hotchner threw her off guard— her mind spinning and she can’t stop it.

But she can try. She can try. Anger helps to pacify the burn of her nails fruitlessly scraping against her reddened skin, not her anger— someone else’s.

Someone like Spencer.

Spencer is the perfect target.

All she has to do is figure out how to make him feel everything she’s feeling.

—

SPENCER’S NOT SURE WHY HE’S IN THE BASEMENT. He wants to go home. He should go home. He shouldn’t be listening to her like this— she does not hold any real power over him, so why is he—

All she had to do was ask, and he couldn’t help but oblige. 

In another life, Cipher would be comparable to an angel. A divine creature, innately inhuman in the best of ways, flawed yet iridescent. But here— on this earth, it’s like she’s here against her will. A fallen angel. Something that once held otherworldly power in her palms, now forced and contorted into a human-like shape.

Divine. Absolutely divine. In every life, she is divinity incarnate— there is no questioning that. She is divine and he is human— destined to fall for her lies every time.

She has her hands on his tie. It was too easy to convince him and he knows that. He places the burden of his acceptance to her whims on his dreary nature, perhaps exhaustion is what has made him so naive and pliable. 

Infuriatingly divine is all he can see when her eyes catch the fluorescent light, their pigment sparkling like kaleidoscope glass, melting every single colour under the sun into one, perfectly imperfect, inhumanly human shade.

How does she do this?

Divine. Spencer Reid has always refuted the idea of an all-powerful creator, something who controlled everything— an inexplicable explanation for every wrong and right of the universe rolled into one impossible ideal.

And yet, looking at her… perhaps divinity was beside him all this time.

His back is pressed against the wall. He can see her up close, now, and god, she’s looking at him like she’s going to devour him. Like she’s going to show him her true form and he will be nothing but ashes on the floor, swept up into her presence and trailing behind her forever, despite being completely and utterly worthless.

Divine.

Is she going to kiss him?

He is supposed to say no. He is supposed to be logical. He is supposed to push her away and tell her that she’s an idiot for thinking he wanted anything to do with her.

And yet, he isn’t doing anything. He’s paralyzed. Lost. Gone. Completely destroyed. He can’t even remember pi, for fucks sake— there’s nothing keeping his thoughts anchored to his body, the screws are stripped raw and he can’t—

Her lips are about to touch his when it hits him. Quite literally. 

Water.

Of course. Retribution. Spencer should’ve expected as much, but clearly his confusion is displayed on his face for her to see because she laughs and it’s the most aggravating, beautiful thing he’s ever heard—

“I don’t know what’s more pathetic,” she drawls, and the sound is borderline intoxicating, momentarily sweeping away all of his anger just so he can pay attention to every inflection and bump in her tone, memorize it—

“The fact that you thought I wanted to kiss you, or—” her nail is scraping across his chin now, and he can’t—

Divine. There is no other explanation.

“The fact that you were going to let me.” And then, as quickly as it was there her touch is gone. And she turns away from him. She walks away, and—

He lets her. He doesn’t even try to stop it. He lets her walk away, he doesn’t try to kiss her, he does nothing as anger and a sickening sense of enticement fester deep within him. 

One thing has been made clear. He does not hate Cipher.

He despises her. He wants her.

And he will do everything in his power to ruin her the same way she has ruined him.

“IF YOU’RE GOING TO BE AN ASSHOLE ABOUT THIS, I’LL JUST SLEEP IN THE HALL.” Cipher’s voice echoes in the hallway of her apartment complex, far louder than it should, considering the time. 4am. The plane had landed an hour and a half ago, Emily drove her home because, as she had put it, “You’re in no condition to drive, Cipher.” She was right, of course, but that didn’t stop her from trying to argue with the woman for another five minutes. Upon entering her home, trudging up five flights of stairs (carefully, she only had one arm in use and one leg working properly), finally reaching her door (at the end of her hall), did she realize something that made her want to tear all of her hair out.

She was no longer in possession of the keys to her apartment. 

And so, having nothing to do, no one she was willing to bother with her troubles, she sat down and contemplated crying. It took her ten minutes to come to a conclusion, ten minutes spent slumped against too-thin drywall painted an ugly mustard yellow. She decides, now, to blame her incompetence on the head injury she’s surely sustained. She did break a mirror with her skull, so there’s that. 

She decided to call Spencer Reid, one of the only people she knew would both pick up, and not elicit a feeling of guilt within her for calling at such an ungodly hour. Now, five minutes later, here she is. Justifying herself, like she’s in a courtroom. 

“I’m not being an asshole, I’m merely questioning you. You claim to have lost your keys. Where did you last see them?” She sighs. 

“I don’t remember, before we left for Colorado?” It’s not a question, it’s a statement. She doesn’t know, can’t recall when she’d gripped the worn leather on her metal keychain. Did she lock them inside? She’ll have to ask for another set if she can’t find these; something she really hopes won’t have to happen. 

“How irresponsible. Though I suppose I shouldn’t have expected anything more from you.” Mentally, she curses him. She feels her uninjured arm twitch; nearly causing her to drop the phone. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Just what she needed; another reminder. Another reminder of how imperfectly perfect she is, shaped and improper, half-baked but fully bitter, never sweet. It’s a gift she was given, the unpredictable pain. Left over from Him and the experiments, things she didn’t even realize were happening to her body, she was just happy to please. She used to be happy to please; she’s worked hard since then to shake that nature off of the wretched thing living inside her. 

“You’re so good. One more time, okay? I know it hurts. I know.” Another prick with a needle, then an order, rinse and repeat. It doesn’t end. It never ends.

Focus. Focus. 

“Just—” she grits her teeth, trying not to yell in frustration as the phone slides from her ear and into her lap. She has one of her hands braced against the wall, the other in a sling. Normally, when this happens (it hasn’t in over a month) she’s able to ignore it and continue on with her day. Today, however, one of her arms is useless. Which means that the other one is actually needed. With trembling fingers, she’s able to retrieve the phone, cramming it between her ear and shoulder. “-Can you help me, or not?”

“Oh, I’m already in the car.” He laughs. “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” Motherfu—

Fuck you, Spencer Reid. Fuck you.

—

SURPRISINGLY, SPENCER REID HAS GOOD TASTE IN HOME DECOR. His apartment is decorated in shades of sage green, crawling across the open space like ivy. He has decorative pillows— hell, his home looks nicer than hers. 

She feels out of place, like a speck of dust in a pristine display case. Like an outlier, like she’s singlehandedly contaminating his life just by being in it. His gaze catches on her left arm, fist clenched, wound up like the rest of her body. She’s stiff as a board, very clearly uncomfortable. She watches as he furrows his brow, allowing himself a moment of contemplation before enough is enough, stop looking at me. Do not perceive me, I wish to remain unseen.

But the confusion remains etched across his features, sculpting his face into curiosity like a statue. She tries not to let it bother her, his need to understand every single thing that crosses his vision. She doesn’t want to be understood, she prefers sheathing herself in curtains of mystery, allowing her contradictions to come to light only when she thinks it will benefit her. Manipulation, yes. Her emotions exist to confuse, she was never made for anything more.

Cipher braces herself, expecting to hear questions pour out of his mouth before he can stop him. Let me lie to you, she thinks. I always will. You can count on that.

He manages to keep his curiosities shut inside of him, something that surprises her greatly. Wordlessly, he gives her his hand, though she cannot take it, not without allowing herself to continue twitching. She won’t do that, won’t let him see this part of her, the part that never fully healed— will never fully heal.  

Spencer leads her to the couch, no physical contact, she’s refused that already. It didn’t hurt him like she’d expected it would, hoped it would. We are not cordial, she wants to scream. Say something. Anger me. Hurt me, please.

Perhaps he’s just too tired, she doesn’t blame him for that. She’s exhausted too, but she’d never do this to him, at least not on purpose. Pretend to be nice, lure him into a false sense of security. It’s downright cruel. Kindness is cruelty, it always has been when directed at her.

“You can sleep here.” He points at the couch, at the decorative pillows, and she scans the room, taking it apart in her mind. The ceiling light isn’t on, and judging by the lack of wear on the strings that connect to the bulb, he doesn’t use it frequently, if at all. Interesting. Most of the light comes from lamps, antique ones, if she had to guess.

“Thanks.” That’s it, leave him nothing to work with. Do not show anything. 

He nods. Pointing towards a door, Spencer continues to speak. “That’s my room. If you need anything…” His snark has disappeared, abandoned at the doorstep. She permits herself to copy his action, nodding back at him. “I have some blankets in the closet.” He offers. She doesn’t respond. 

She wonders why he hasn’t taken advantage of this yet, used her vulnerability as an excuse to pick her to pieces, analyze her, and put her back together haphazardly. He wouldn’t be the first profiler to do so, no, Agent Hotchner fills that role. 

Kindness makes her restless. 

Do something. Provoke him. She’ll work with what she has, anything to get rid of the panic that cuts through her. Cipher picks something that she knows will upset him, play on the exposed skin underneath all of his armour. The sliver of flesh that he allows people to see, that he trusts will not be taken advantage of. She wants to laugh at him, really, she does. His first mistake was trusting her with anything. He’s seen her tear apart witnesses, prod and poke at them until their skin gives way beneath her nails. Until their confessions write themselves, spilling out like blood across white tiles. Sterile tiles. 

Why would he ever trust her? It’s stupid, she has to stop him from being an idiot. That’s why she’s doing this, to pry apart the pieces of the puzzle he’s assembled. He knows too much, she’s given him too much.

She feels exposed.

So go on, Cipher. Force it. Make him break, you know how. Unless… you don’t want to? You want him to know you? You don’t, but if you did, poor thing. Too bad he hates you. He’ll always hate you, just as he should. He’s right to suspect you, after all. Don’t pretend you enjoy, nor deserve, his kindness. The voice mocks her, she doesn’t stop it. 

Bring up something that will make him uncomfortable, It suggests. She thinks for a moment, deciding between Miami and stitches. Stitches is more recent, raw, in fact, if she tries hard enough, she can still feel the needle pulling her back together. The needle which belonged to a pair of hands which belonged to a person— a person standing right in front of her. 

“So,” She asks when she sees him appear in the doorway, an empty smirk pulled across her face. “You still have surgical sutures?” She emphasizes the last two words, ensuring he knows exactly what she’s talking about as his eyes go wide. “We agreed not to speak of that,” he whispers, face red, but she can see that she’s gotten under his skin. He’d let go that day, unleashed something he didn’t know was there. She always brought out the worst parts of him, he could count on that. 

“We did.” She tilts her head to the side.

“You’re trying to start a fight.”

She freezes for a split second. Shit, he can see right through her. She hadn’t expected him to notice so soon, she supposes her exhaustion is what has done her in.

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “And what makes you say that?” He’s right, she knows he is. He knows that she knows he is. But she has nothing, no defense, there’s little she can do to divert his attention from the obvious. 

“I’m not going to start with you,” he says quietly. Reprieve. He’s giving her a chance to collect herself. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not going to let you provoke me this late at night.”

“Perhaps,” she suggests, a sickly sweet smile plastered over her lips. “You know you’re too tired to win?” She doesn’t know when to stop, she just doesn’t. She always pushes too far, always. 

He narrows his eyes. “Nope,” he pops the p. “I’m not falling for your bullshit. Not right now.”

“It’s not bullshit.”

“Right, and the sky is bright green.”

“Actually, sources have reported—”

“That was a rhetorical question.” 

“I know.” 

She gives him a shit-eating grin when he doesn’t reply, but instead rubs his temples, as though she’s given him a migraine. It’s fake, of course, she’s truly feeling nothing, no satisfaction when he retaliates. It’s like she’s nothing but a shell, devoid of all purpose and meaning. That would make sense. She had potential, and she’s thrown it away for this. Quite idiotic of her, really.

“I’m going to bed, lest you give me an aneurysm.” Now he’s backing off, he can’t let himself get too close to the truth, she thinks. That’s fine, the real girl that lays beneath the mask would make him recoil in horror.

She gives him a dark chuckle. “God, I love it when you pretend that you—”

“Good, you love something other than yourself. So you’re not a narcissist, interesting.” She rolls her eyes, ignoring the pointed comment.

“We both know that there’s more to narcissism than that.” He sighs. For a moment, she thinks he’s about to cave. She’s right, of course she is. Cipher has memorized his behaviour for the sole purpose of annoying him. She enjoys pissing him off, the thrill of it. The unbridled rage she’s able to elicit.

“Look, Ci.” That name again. It’s become a staple in her life since Alaska, bleeding out into other parts of her life, other people she knows. She hated it at first, but has (begrudgingly) come to… tolerate it. “I’m going to bed.” He tosses the blanket at her head, giving a little chuckle when it hits her square in the face. She doesn’t react, refuses to give him the satisfaction of emotion. “You should get some sleep.” For a moment, the look on his face is genuine. Concern, maybe, amplified when he sees the way her arm is still stiff at her side. 

She leans over the couch, careful as to not hurt herself, and flicks the light off.

—

IT DOESN’T TAKE LONG FOR HER TO FALL ASLEEP. Less time than it usually does, when she’s home alone, in her loft, too tired to chase away the thoughts that plague her daily. Maybe it’s the new environment putting her at ease, maybe that’s why she sleeps better in a motel than in her own home. Maybe change, unpredictability, something to distract her is what keeps everything she’s holding back at bay. That would make sense, really, it would. 

Cipher hates going to sleep. She loses control, whatever’s left of Lanie takes over and steers her towards a life that she misses, that, if she’s being honest, Cipher misses too. She misses it in the depths of her heart, the reminder of what she had constantly pressing into her ribcage, threatening to break through when she feels too much sorrow. It’s always too much.

It’s then that she thinks it, a damning thought that she knows will send her spiralling, it always does.

She misses Kally.

She genuinely, actually, misses her. With all of her heart and soul, every piece of herself she can gather into something coherent. Kally is the missing piece, the thing that could help her glue her life back together. It would be messy, a disaster, but she’d have someone who genuinely cared. Kally is the only one left who still cares, at least she hopes she does, her voicemails say otherwise, but she can’t take those seriously, not unless she wants to perish from genuine heartache. 

The voicemails. They make her want to curl up into a ball and die. Let herself rot, let the outside finally match the inside of her body. There was a time where she was good, at least she hopes there was. Kally made her good, made her into someone who could have deserved love if she tried harder. But now that illusion has been shattered, in fact, it’s long gone. But the voicemails reflect a woman who no longer loves her, perhaps regrets loving her at all. The thought makes her sick.

She longs for a warm embrace she does not deserve. Damn Hotchner, for making her think like this. For reminding her of how affection truly feels, genuine or not. She would have expected such tricks from Spencer, but not Agent Hotchner. He, for the most part, has been truthful with her, something she admires about him. 

There she lies, on the couch. On the couch that is not hers, in the home of a man she hates, closer to voluntarily crying than she’s been in the last decade.

She’s not only lying on the couch, but to herself, also. 

—

THE NIGHT PASSES RATHER UNREMARKABLY. Cipher dreams of things, she always does, but upon waking up, she does not remember them. She does not want to remember them, and the fact that she can’t makes her unfathomably grateful to her own mind. For once, it’s doing its job correctly. 

She doesn’t jolt awake in the morning, in fact, she doesn’t even stir until 10am. Until Spencer rushes out of his bedroom, clearly having forgotten that she was there, muttering to himself about being late for work. She blinks slowly when she sees him dart across the kitchen, fixing himself food. She could wait until he notices her, then tease him relentlessly about it later. Maybe even vaguely do it in front of the team, just to make him red in the face.

The thought appeals to her. It’s easier this way, less of a headache for her later when she inevitably tries to untie the strings of their interactions, dissect them like she always does. She’s tried before, to see why Spencer has yet to freeze her out, stop talking to her entirely, or simply refuse to let her bother him. He’s given her the silent treatment for stretches of time before, of course, when she steps too close to whatever weight he carries inside of him. Not once has she managed to come up with a sufficient and satisfactory conclusion. 

“Hello, pretty boy.”

“Jesus fucking Ch— oh, it’s just you.” She watches, glee spread across her face, pure childish joy taking hold of her as she giggles at him. He jumps upright when he hears her voice, then braces himself against his refrigerator, like she’s taken away all of his balance. She tries to control herself, but her body refuses, forcing more unsolicited laughter out and into the air. It takes seconds for Spencer’s demeanour to convert from surprised to pissed off.

“I let you stay in my house, and this is how you repay me?” He presses a hand to his forehead. “Jumping out of the dark like a— I don’t know, vampire? Blood sucking creature who wants to murder me?” He trails off, muttering a mix of curses and insults at her. Her blood surges at his reaction, she’s still grinning ear to ear. This was exactly what she needed.

“If I wanted to murder you,” she replies, still giggling, “I’d have done it a long time ago.”

“Oh, so I was right! Your death threats are empty! Ha!” He says it like he’s won, which, in turn, makes her burst out laughing again. God, she hasn’t felt this… whatever she is in a very, very, very long time.

“Nope! Still willing to do the job, I’d probably do it if someone dared me to.” 

“How incredibly mature and perfectly sane of you.” He retorts.

“I never said I was sane,” she gives him a look. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“You’re right,” he sighs. “I’ve always known you were crazy.”

“Good job, finally putting two and two together. Do you want a cookie?” She mocks. He rolls his eyes, looking her over once, then twice. Instantly, concern flickers across his features.

“Did you sleep in that?” He asks. She looks down at her (previously) white blouse, still stained with blood. 

“I can’t get to my clothes, Spencer. What do you think?” She looks at him like he’s stupid, which, to be honest, is a good assumption, considering the raw idiocy of his question.

“I’ll get you a new shirt.” He decides.

“No, you will not.”

“I am going to, or else I will tell everyone what you did.” She pales. In the heat of the moment, she seems to have forgotten that she was equally implicit in the stitches incident as he was.

“...Fine, but don’t make it obvious. If you give me one of your nerd shirts, I will end you.”

Now, it’s his turn to smirk. “You can try,” he says. Then, he gestures to her arm, which is still in a sling. “But I doubt you’ll be very successful.” 

—

“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?” Spencer looks confused, but most of all, absolutely horrified. Cipher doesn’t understand what she’s done to offend him, but knowing Spencer, she’s probably just breathed wrong. They’re driving to work, finally. Almost three hours late, but she doesn’t think Hotchner will mind much. 

“That.” He whispers it like a curse, one of his fingers shakily pointing at the thing she’s holding in her hands. It’s not much, just a snack for the road. She keeps them in her go bag, a pack of three cadbury creme eggs. Nothing fancy; it’s sugar to prevent her from snapping at people when she’s hungry. She still ends up yelling, but it’s the thought that counts. 

“The egg?”

“No, the spoon.” She looks down. The creme egg is propped up against the side of the box. Normally, she’d hold it in her hands, but she doesn’t exactly have many at the moment. Spencer slows to a stop at a red light. 

“I don’t get it.” She sighs. “You’re being ridiculous, Spencer.”

“You’re scooping the cream out with the back of a spoon like a heathen,” he mutters. This is new, she didn’t realize he had preferences for how she chose to eat food that she bought. 

“I didn’t know I was religious at all.” Cipher hums. “You learn something new every day.”

“Oh, you know what I meant.” He scoffs. Cipher stares him down as she dips the back of the spoon into the egg, pulling out a glob of creme and sucking it into her mouth. He just shakes his head, returning his focus back to the road.

“That is downright blasphemous.” He notes when she takes another scoop. 

“You really are a fan of religious terminology,” she mutters, involuntarily shrinking away from his judgement. It’s not like she can’t handle it— but fuck, she can’t seem to do anything right. Everything still hurts, though she doubts that will change any time soon; she’ll have to get used to it. Her back burns where it's pressed against the leather seat, but she’s too worn out to even attempt sitting up straight (or at all) without any support. 

He rolls his eyes. “I think it’s fitting, given your unholy personality.”

She can feel the headache beginning to brew behind her eyes. Cipher dips back into the box for another scoop— but comes up empty, a sign that she’s finished all the cream. Carefully, she pulls the hollow shell out of the box with two fingers, popping it into her mouth— whole.

He shakes his head, his eyes wide with faux (or real) disappointment and disgust.

Whatever, she doesn’t care about what he thinks.

—

THE BULLPEN IS UNCHARACTERISTICALLY SILENT. For a moment, Cipher actually thinks Hotchner gave the team the day off, neither she nor Spencer have checked their emails yet, so it’s entirely possible. It would be nice of him, given the circumstances, but he has not, which is made abundantly clear when she sees the man himself walking towards her at a rushed pace. Concern is written across his face, he steps towards her quickly and grabs her uninjured arm. She curses herself as she’s pulled away, curses the FBI, curses anything and everything she possibly can when she catches Spencer pulling his phone out of his pocket, his expression mirroring Hotchner's as he follows them. There’s only one explanation for this, they’ve caught a new case. A bad one, judging by the looks the pair of men are sporting. 

She groans. 

“I’ve already briefed the team,” Hotchner mutters. “We’ll catch you two up to speed on the jet.” He pushes open the door to the conference room. Cipher steps forwards, expecting to be greeted with the usual sight. Case files, frowning team members, a bubbly but melancholy Garcia— except that’s not what she sees.

“SURPRISE!” The entire team says it in unison, loud and cheery.

She gasps. The room is decorated entirely in oranges and purples. There are balloons everywhere, the BAU has foregone their usual charcoal coated miserable decor for the time being. She feels a light, girlish excitement when she realizes exactly who this ordeal is for. 

Her.

It’s almost comical, the pure glee rushing through her body. She didn’t realize she could still enjoy things like this, things she thought she’d left in the past. Things like parties, things that are supposed to be for children. Cipher is sure her emotions are spread across her face, something she should care about, but doesn’t. Not right now. She can deal with the fallout of that later.

“I thought— don’t we have a case?” She stammers. Derek Morgan walks forwards, a bright grin on his face, shaking his head slowly.

“Nope,” he says, popping the p.

“But Hotchner—”

“Distraction.” Morgan explains. She feels her phone buzz in her pocket, the vibration against her leg a far away sound in the sea that is her emotions. Whoever’s texting her can wait.

“How’d you know?” Her voice doesn’t sound like it usually does, her tone has changed, inflicted with something that sounds dangerously close to genuine. 

“A little birdie,” he looks at Garcia, who raises her hand sheepishly. “Told us that it was your birthday. And you—” he pokes her, an action she normally would smite him for, but today gives her a small bit of warmth in her chest. “Kept it a secret.”

“Oh no.” She mutters. She hadn’t intended for this to happen, really, she hadn’t—

“Oh yes, pretty girl.”

—but she’s glad it did. Selfish as that may be, she’s… happy.

“We’re a few weeks late,” Emily offers, her tone apologetic. Cipher doesn’t know why, it’s not her fault, she’d made sure not to tell the team about her birthday on purpose. 

Cipher looks at Hotchner, suspicion written into her furrowed brow. He’s smiling. Motherfucker. She curses him with fondness, though. 

Both he and Garcia were the orchestrators behind this, she can tell by the mischievous looks on their faces. She doesn’t mind the party, though, not as much as she thought she would.

Not at all, if she’s being honest.

—

“THAT’S A REALLY NICE SHIRT,” Emily scoffs. It’s been great. What they’ve done for her has been extremely nice, made her feel all warm and fuzzy inside, like someone draped a sweater over her ribcage. Protected, maybe? No, that’s not the right word. The day is finished, everything is wrapped up, in fact, she’s leaving with half a cake. A cake. That’s breakfast for the rest of the week, at least. Cipher doesn’t notice the words at first,  so she doesn’t respond at all. It takes Emily tapping her on the shoulder for her to finally turn around.

“Your shirt,” Emily repeats, snickering. “I think it’s really nice.” Cipher almost rolls her eyes at the statement. God forbid she doesn’t wear fancy clothing every day. She wasn’t even going to come in at all, her arm is still in a sling, but she’s grateful that she did.

“What?” She asks, glancing down at her worn t-shirt and pants. “I have a life outside of work, you know.”

“Oh, I know.” Emily shoots Cipher a small, smug smile.For a moment, Cipher is confused as to why she’s emphasizing that word. Then, her heart all but stops. Shit.

This isn’t her shirt, it’s Spencer’s.

“It’s fine, you two are good together. Sharing clothes already, isn’t that romantic?” Emily begins to walk towards her car, but not before giving Cipher a nod. She’s about to protest, her mouth drops open, but no words come out.

She’s going to say something, fight her on her assumptions, but her phone buzzes again. It’s been doing that all day. Emily is nearly in her car, and Cipher really, really doesn’t have the energy to make a good argument. 

She pulls her phone out of her pocket, frowning when a text message from an unknown number flashes across her screen.

Happy birthday, Lanie.

Fuck.