#missingus

I couldn’t believe my eyes.

The boy who once wiggled his fingers, flashing that mischievous little smirk, now stood before me, rigid and silent, his body carved into tension. The sparkle was gone—replaced by a heaviness in his gaze, a constant undertone of sadness, hypervigilance, and a seriousness that made him almost unrecognisable.

“Spencer,” I breathed, the anger in my chest battling the ache. “Do you know how long I waited? How many times I called? How much effort I had to put in just to get the truth from anyone?” My voice cracked. “Even Garcia wouldn’t tell me. No one would. I had to beg, Spencer.”

“Spencer.” My voice cracked. “Do you know how long I waited? How many nights I sat there staring at my phone? How much effort it took just to get the truth from anyone? Even Garcia wouldn’t tell me.” My breath trembled. “No one told me you were in prison. No one told me anything.”

He froze, and that tiny, familiar swallow—the one he does when he's trying not to fall apart—rippled through him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered immediately, the words barely making it out. “You’re right. You’re right, and I should’ve called you. I should’ve—” His breath stuttered, eyes going glassy. “I didn’t want you to see me like that. I didn’t want you to… worry. Or get pulled into something dangerous because of me.”

“You shut me out,” I said, softer now but broken. “Completely.”

He nodded quickly, too quickly, like he agreed with every terrible thing I could think of. “I know. And I—I hate myself for it. I kept thinking about you. Every day. But I couldn’t—” He exhaled shakily. “I couldn’t bring myself to let you see what was happening to me. I thought if you knew, it would just hurt you. And I couldn’t handle hurting you.”

I stepped closer, and he blinked like he wasn’t sure he deserved the space.

“Spencer… are we even still together?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “After everything?”

His reaction was immediate—eyes snapping up, breath catching, voice cracking.

“Yes.” He shook his head fiercely. “Yes. Of course we are. I never—” His voice broke, the words falling out uneven. “I never stopped loving you. Not once. Not in there, not after, not now.”

He took a small step toward me, slow and cautious, like he was afraid I’d pull away.

“I just didn’t know how to come back after all of it,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t know if I still deserved you.”

His fingers hovered near mine, trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, raw and honest in the way only Spencer could be. “I just… I can’t lose you, too.” His fingers hovered near mine, but he didn’t quite touch.

“They’re trying to solve it,” he said softly, as if pulling himself back into the present. “The team. They’ve been… they’ve been doing everything they can to clear my name. Hotch would’ve done the same. Emily’s been the leading point. Luke’s been helping with the surveillance footage, and Garcia—” He let out a small, shaky exhale. “She’s tearing apart every digital trail she can find. They’re all trying, but it’s complicated. Everything about this case is complicated.”

I felt something twist painfully in my chest.

“So they get to help you,” I said, unable to control the bitterness creeping into my voice. “Everyone gets to be there for you except me.”

He blinked, startled, like he genuinely didn’t expect that.

“That’s not—” He took a step forward. “That’s not what I meant. I didn’t want you in danger. I didn’t want you anywhere near—”

“Near what?” I snapped, rising from the couch. “Near your life? Near the truth? Near whatever hell you were going through?” My hands shook as I pushed a strand of hair behind my ear. “I could’ve helped, Spencer. I wanted to help. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”

He looked stricken, breath catching, his voice quiet and earnest.

“I know. And I’m sorry. I didn’t think it was fair to drag you into something that could hurt you. I just—” He swallowed. “I thought I was protecting you.”

I let out a hollow, trembling laugh. “Well, it didn’t feel like protection. It felt like abandonment.”

His face collapsed, guilt hitting him like a physical blow.

“I never meant for you to feel that way,” he whispered, barely audible.

But I couldn’t stay there—not with my chest tight, not with my pulse pounding and my eyes burning.

“I need air,” I muttered, stepping back.

“Wait—” His voice cracked. “Please don’t go. Please, can we—can we talk about this?”

I shook my head, grabbing my coat with unsteady hands.

“I can’t. Not right now.”

He took a small, helpless step toward me, hands lifting before falling back to his sides.

“Please,” he said again, but it was quiet, defeated. “I don’t want to lose you.”

I froze in the doorway, but the pain was too fresh, too sharp.

“You should’ve thought about that before you shut me out.”

And with that, I walked out—leaving him standing there, rigid and hollow-eyed, like the door closing had taken the last bit of warmth out of the room.

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The elevator doors slid open, and I walked straight into the BAU conference room before anyone could stop me. Emily, JJ, Rossi, Luke, and Garcia were huddled around the screens, Spencer’s name and case files spread across the table like a wound.

Their voices died the second they saw me.

Emily’s expression shifted first—surprise, then concern. “(Y/N)… you shouldn’t be here.”

“I need to be,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady. “I know what’s going on. I know Spencer’s in trouble. And I want to help.”

Rossi set his pen down. “This case is dangerous. You getting involved could make things worse—not just for you, but for him.”

“I don’t care,” I shot back, louder than I meant to. “I don’t care about the danger.”

Garcia stood, twisting her fingers nervously. “Sweetheart… I know you mean well, but this is—this is a whole other level of awful.”

“I know,” I said, voice shaking. “And I still want to help.”

Luke crossed his arms. “This isn’t something you can just jump into. We’re trained for this.”

“And I’m not?” I snapped. “I may not be FBI, but I’m not helpless.”

Emily stepped closer, her tone soft but firm. “No one thinks you’re helpless. We’re trying to protect you.”

I swallowed hard, breath trembling. “Everyone keeps saying that. Protecting me. Keeping me safe. But nobody seems to understand that I don’t want safety if it means being shut out of his life.”

JJ’s head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing with empathy. “You care about him a lot.”

Something in me cracked open, the truth slipping out before I could catch it.

“He’s the love of my life.”

The room went still.

Garcia’s mouth dropped open. Luke blinked. Rossi lifted his brows in quiet surprise. Even Emily froze for half a second before regaining her composure.

I felt heat rush to my face, stunned by my own confession. “I’ve… never said that out loud before.”

JJ stepped forward, her voice gentle. “I don’t think he knows that.”

“I didn’t even know that,” I whispered back. “But I do. I really do.”

Emily exhaled slowly, folding her arms. “Okay. Then listen carefully.”

She met my eyes with that cool, steady look she used when she was making decisions that weren’t up for debate.

“You can be part of this,” she said. “But only from the inside of this room. No fieldwork. No undercover work. No contact with suspects. Nothing that puts you in danger.”

Rossi nodded. “If you want to help analyze, strategize, or give insight into Spencer’s behavior or routine—you can. That would actually be valuable.”

Garcia stepped forward, her voice softening. “But you’re not going near the physical side of this. Not a foot outside the line. Deal?”

I looked around the room—at their worried faces, their protectiveness, their willingness to bend the rules just enough for me.

I nodded slowly. “Deal.”

Emily gave a small, approving nod. “Good. Then pull up a chair.”

For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker—tiny but real—of hope. If the BAU was letting me in, even a little… then maybe I wasn’t as powerless as I thought.

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Rossi and Emily confronted the real perpetrator. Garcia found the digital trail that cleared Spencer. Luke and JJ tracked down the missing witness. And you sat there every day, eyes burning, voice raw, helping them reconstruct every detail of Spencer’s routines, fears, patterns—anything that could help them understand how he was set up.

When the judge read the words “All charges dropped,” Spencer’s knees nearly buckled.

He was free.

The team brought him home; the bullpen erupted in relieved smiles and shaky laughter. Emily hugged him harder than she meant to. Garcia cried. Even Luke looked misty-eyed.

But as Spencer walked into the common area, eyes scanning every corner—

You weren’t there.

He paused, the air around him changing. The excitement on his face softened into something small and wounded.

“She’s not here?” he asked quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the disappointment in his voice.

JJ stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “She wanted to be. She worked herself to exhaustion, Spencer. We had to send her home a couple hours ago.”

Spencer frowned. “Home? I… I should call her.”

Garcia shook her head. “She hasn’t been sleeping. Like, at all. She’ll probably be out cold for hours.”

Something in his chest tightened.

He murmured a soft thank you and practically ran out of the building.

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At your apartment

He knocked. Then knocked again.

No answer.

He tried calling—straight to voicemail.

Worry settled into him, heavy and sharp. He pressed his forehead to your door for a moment, breath catching.

“Please be okay,” he whispered to no one.

He was about to give up when something familiar tugged at him—a tiny memory of your voice once teasing him:

“I feel safer sleeping at your place anyway.”

His heart stilled.

Of course.

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Spencer fumbled with his keys, breath uneven from running—he pushed the door open and froze.

There you were.

Curled up on his couch, one of his old cardigans draped around you, hair messy from days without sleep. A stack of case notes sat on the coffee table, covered in your handwriting—all the work you’d done trying to clear him.

You had waited. You had stayed. Just… here.

His throat tightened, eyes burning as he stepped closer.

You looked so small, so exhausted, but so heartbreakingly familiar. His home looked like it had been lived in again—like it remembered him, because you had been there.

Spencer sank down onto the edge of the couch, watching your chest rise and fall, slow and peaceful for the first time in days.

He brushed a strand of hair away from your face with trembling fingers.

“You were here the whole time,” he whispered, voice cracking. “You waited for me. You… stayed.”

He swallowed hard, overwhelmed.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss to your temple. “But I love you so much.”

You stirred slightly, leaning unconsciously into his touch.

Spencer let out a shaky, emotional laugh as tears filled his eyes—relief, love, grief, everything at once.

“I’m home,” he whispered. “And you’re here.”

Is it easier to live far away not knowing whether I live or die?