#native reader

After that they talked to you, some with clumsy, halting movements due to unfamiliarity, others with a practiced grace that brought the smallest of twitches to your lips. Spencer happened to be one of those people, he would sit with you and his hands would fly around in what could look like a crazed bout, but you understood every gesture. He also found you to be one of the greatest listeners on the team, you would nod along with his facts, glancing up in a silent question for more. He gave it willingly, he always did. 

By the time you had been there a year he hadn’t heard your voice once, and yet he fell in love with you anyway. Or at least he developed some level of infatuation that had gradually grown more complex, the intensity of it deepening with every passing month that crept by. It wasn’t listed anywhere on your files that you’re mute, no psychological report of it, then again, there aren’t that many cases on you. There’s a county that you hail from, but it’s like your identity doesn’t exist prior to eighteen and in college. 

Not even a birth certificate to figure out your birthday, which you’ve remained tight-lipped on despite the many months of knowing these people. Getting information from you that’s about you is like pulling teeth out. You refuse to speak about your family, or anything too deeply personal like your childhood. You’ll give them favorite books, your go-to tea order, the detergent you like to use, but nothing other than that. Spencer accepted your terms and conditions long ago. 

The team has gotten used to you though, learned to recognize insults or curses spoken by hand. They laugh when you smirk after having left a particular good comment in the conversation. Your texts can be hysterical if you allow yourself to indulge in humor. Rossi invites you over to drink wine with him more than any member of the team, the girls use you as a scary dog for girls night because when you glare it seems to fend off the worst kinds of evil. Even Hotch has shrunk a little under the weight of your displeased look. 

Morgan will drag you over to his apartment for long gaming sessions since you’re the best at video games aside from him. You can anticipate his moves and back him up without a single thing spoken, but that sort of trust translates into the field too. It’s no secret you and Morgan are a phenomenal team when it comes to guns and action. There’s that other thing about you too: All your words are intentional, you know where to hit and you know what hurts too. So even though you don’t use your vocals your voice still has that sharpened edge to it. 

When working the case your voice is heard, perhaps more than any of theirs. So when you sign a hard no to them after JJ finishes giving the presentation, they’re confused. Hotch raises his brow at you, “What do you mean no? This is a federal case now, agent, you aren’t in the exact position to refuse.”

Your brows dip lower as your mouth presses into a slightly downturned line. Eyes hardening in a way they all have flinched under once or twice, Hotch shifts a miniscule bit in his seat as the seconds tick by before you raise your hands, “You all can go, I will stay behind for paperwork.”

“We need you in this case, what about it is making you not want to be there?”

“Location. People.”

“You’ve dealt with plenty of unpleasant people and locations, you’re going to have to give us something more if you don’t want to go there.”

That makes you huff, your frustration evident in the way your palms unfurl and curl back up again, a noise made in your throat that has them all flinching a bit. There’s no mistaking that noise as a piece of your voice, marking this the first time they’ve heard your voice in any capacity before you begin to sign again, “Bad relations down there, I will hold the team down if I go.”

Emily pauses, just for a second, “Wait, are you from this town? Is that why you don’t want to go?”

“Yes.”

Hotch sighs, “Then in that case you’ll be vital to this case. If you’re from this town then you know the people, the culture, the surrounding area. It’s quite isolated from everything else, although it’s expanded in recent years, not by much. How long did you live there?”

You’re most definitely sulking now, and very, very unhappy with Hotch, “Long enough.”

Then you pointedly fold your hands in your lap and he knows that there’s not a word more coming from you. If he’s going to make you go then you’re going to put up a fight the entire way, that’s for sure. Morgan looks at Emily, who looks back at him, then they look at JJ, who simply raises her brows. Up until now you’ve been a fantastic agent, always ready to go, never putting up that much of a fight unless it comes to discussing who the unsub may or may not be. You’ve never outright sulked. 

It’s almost enough to make them laugh, if not for the way you seem genuinely upset to be forced to go back to the town that they’ve never heard of. Less than two-thousand people in population, the county boasts a grand five-thousand something in total. There’s no doubt that you’re a familiar face, or that you’ll recognize a few. But to have your knowledge on the area, on the people, it’s unparalleled. There’s multiple girls missing, none found so far, but it’s enough to cause concern. 

“Do you know any of the victims?”

True to your pointed gestures, you refuse to so much as look at him. He has to resist the urge to drag his fingers down his face. Already you don’t use your voice, but if you refuse to use your hands too then you’re cutting communication off with him. He’s forcing you to go to some place you clearly detest, and you aren’t going to make it easy for him. He wants you there because you know the people and the land, but you won’t let it go for the fact that you hate it all. 

The ride over is uncomfortable, mostly because you refuse to look at the files and instead your gaze focuses on the clouds passing by. Nobody approaches you, mostly because your body language screams at them to keep their distance or you’ll flip your shit. Emily looks at Hotch, wearing one of those faces that conveys just how skeptical she is of the situation, her voice drops down to a low murmur. 

“Are you certain that bringing her along is a good idea? She obviously doesn’t want to be here, she requested paperwork of all things. You know how much she hates paperwork.”

Hotch sighs, he’s trying not to make a big deal out of it but you seem to be convinced that if you throw a fit then maybe you’ll get sent back home. You’ve never acted out of line like this, never requested to not be on a case, especially for young missing girls yet here you are. Determined to not step foot back in that land. 

“I don’t know what her deal is with this town, but we need her familiarity with the people and area if we want to get this done. Southern rural Appalachia is no easy place to navigate, the people even less so. Community is tight-knit, religion that ties people together. There’s a natural distrust of the government due to a history of neglect, the people often rely on each other and don’t take kindly to outsiders coming onto their territory. Hence why we need her, she isn’t an outsider, not if she came from this town.”

“She hates this place though, and she’s afraid of it. Look at her, she’s trying not to peel herself out of her skin.”

Hotch pauses to look at you for a second, the way you’re worrying your lip between your teeth, arms crossed and tense, everything in your body saying you’re ready to enact fight or flight. Not freeze though, because freezing isn’t an option for you, it never has been. Even though you’re projecting danger to them it’s clear that you’re the one who feels like you’re in danger here. He mistook that for you digging your heels in the ground as a way to make things difficult for him. 

“I’ll talk to her when we get there, she won’t talk to me right now.”

Emily hums, head nodding at him a tad, “You did upset her pretty badly by denying her apparent love for paperwork back there.”

“She hates paperwork with a passion like I haven’t seen in many other agents in the bullpen.”

“Yet she wanted it over this.”

They’ll find out what you’re so afraid of in this town later, but for now they keep an eye on you, the way you’re trying not to jump out the plane instead of landing. Or why you look like you’re being forced to walk the plank since there’s no other option to get off the boat. Something’s wrong here, but you aren’t giving it up. 

_____________

The plane lands a solid two hours from the community which is located in borderline nowhere. You’re in the passenger seat for once to tell them where to go because despite it all you still have all the directions memorized. Hotch sits at the wheel, his slight familiarity with driving in the mountains giving him a better advantage than most when it comes to the tight roads and sharp curves. Driving in these Appalachian’s (ah-puh-latch-en) is different though. 

These mountains are the oldest in all of the United States, formed before the Atlantic and before the continents split into their modern formation. These mountains are quite literally older than bone. The town is old too, originally it was Native land, then came the settlers and the Trail of Tears too. There’s a reservation settlement that co-exists with the town, it makes Hotch question if you’re Native, he wouldn’t be surprised if you are. 

After the highway comes an hour of backroads that has him questioning his driving skills every now and then because of how difficult they are to drive. It’s October which means that it’s leaf season, and if you weren’t shaking like one Hotch might’ve appreciated the beauty of the place. Because it truly is a pretty place, the mountains are drenched in shades of red, yellow, and orange, looking aflame despite the lack of fire. The air smells fresher here, even in the car, and it’s a pretty enough day that they can roll the windows down too. You’re the only one who doesn’t. 

Thirty minutes before rolling into town you twist your body to face them, snapping your fingers to get their attention. Nobody misses the way your hands shake when you start to speak, “There are rules here, you have to abide by them.”

Spencer reads your words aloud so everyone can hear them, they straighten up, no longer entranced by the pretty leaves and emerald foliage that wooshes by them. You raise your hands again, eyes shut, “Do not whistle in the woods or at night. Do not speak of the creatures in the woods. If you hear a baby crying and you’re alone do not follow the noise. If you hear your name being shouted and you can’t pinpoint the location, turn around and go back to where you were before. Do not try to investigate it. Do not leave your shoes outside at night, do not stay outside at night for too long unless necessary.”

You pause, letting that information sink in for them before continuing, “The people here are opinionated, they will be racist, they will be homophobic, they will not see you in a positive light. Do not pick a fight with the locals, if there needs to be arguing then I will do it. Most importantly do not underestimate or insult the culture here, or the people. You’re in their hunting ground, not the other way around. If we go to the woods we do not split up, and you do not go without me. Non-negotiable.”

Emily’s brows furrow, “Is there something dangerous there?”

“Of course, the entire town is dangerous.”

You turn around then, your silence taut and nervous, your fingers picking at your sleeves as you try not to think about the fact that in less than twenty-five minutes you’ll be back in the town you ran so far away from. You start to pray ten minutes before arrival, head bowed with your hands clasped in your lap. It is a startling sight to see your hands still and your lips moving despite the way no sound comes out. Hotch, maybe, should have let you do paperwork instead. 

There’s no turning back though now, not when the town comes into view. Old buildings from various centuries, the newest at least a hundred years old, they’re scarce and put together in one neat row. You direct them to the sheriff's department, which is ten minutes from the main town and also made of wood. It looks more like a cabin than a station, but nonetheless this is it. The sheriff emerges, short cropped blonde hair and blue eyes, he has a full beard and large leathery hands. Hands that know the weight of a gun and have felt the pull of a bowstring. 

He knows you judging from how his eyes widen when you appear, but he doesn’t give anything away immediately. Instead he reaches his hand to JJ, who steps in front of everyone with an easy smile, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Jaraeu, we spoke on the phone.”

“Yes, I’m Deputy Sheriff Luke Cochran, we ‘preciate y’all comin’ out over here.”

His accent is thick, distinctly southern but not like Georgia or Alabama, there’s something else there that the others don’t have. No drawl like they do in New Orleans, this is something more archaic due to the isolation of the region. Absent-mindedly, they wonder if you have an accent too, or if you even developed one, since this is evidently the place you’ve been born and raised to. 

“Y’all come on in, we got a little space to set up shop. Now we do have some evidence but not a whole lot to go on by. I got my men to gather what they could but truth be told in a place like this, there ain’t ever gon’ be enough information.”

The inside is warm, cozy, it was definitely a cabin at one point due to the layout of it, as if the fireplace wasn’t a dead giveaway to that fact. Luke leads you all to a backroom which is what must’ve been a bedroom, it’s large enough for billboards and a table, a little water dispenser in the corner, a couch to lounge on, and of course, a stunning view of the mountains. The forefront ones are still the picture of autumnal perfection, but as the ones in the back grow more distant they take on a blue hue to them. Coming in various layers that get darker the farther back they go. It’s a beautiful sight, one you turn your back to. 

There’s a box of evidence and pictures ready to be pinned up, right up there with a large map of the county territory. You take a moment to let it sink in that you’re back in the town you swore you’d never step foot in again. You’re standing with a familiar face, in a room you never thought you’d go into, your homeland staring at you from outside the window. You hate it for so many reasons, the comfort of it being one of them. Luke takes a moment to explain things to the team, you’re half-listening, half-drowned in the static rolling through your ears. He approaches you once the introduction is over, hand finding your arm easily as if there hasn’t been years between your last appearance. 

He smiles, strained as it is when his hand tightens almost imperceptibly against your skin, it doesn’t go unnoticed though, not to your team, “Miss.Awiakta, how long has it been again?”

Awiakta. Eye-of-the-deer, a name used by Cherokee people. A surname for you, potentially, which could be why they couldn’t find anything on you like a birth certificate. It never occurred to them that you might’ve changed your name somewhere along the way. You stiffen under his words, but with your arm temporarily restrained it’ll make signing harder, yet you do it anyway, “Better. You?”

His smile twitches, just for a second, “I see you’re still using your hands to talk for you.”

He looks to the team then, hand dropping from your arm as if it was a show of encouragement, “Has she spoken to any of you? With her voice I mean.”

Hotch looks at you, the way you shrink in on yourself a little bit from the proximity of this man in front of you. The way he had held your arm like if you couldn’t use it you’d have to use your actual voice to speak, “She talks plenty. Regardless of whether she needs her voice or not.”

Deputy Luke chuckles, just as he would if it were a well placed joke, except Hotch isn’t joking about anything, “A damn shame, she used to sing so prettily.”

You step closer to the team, uncomfortable with the attention to you now and the you who used to exist. There’s still a guitar in your home, it hasn’t collected dust, but it reminds you of what people used to hear. It takes you back to high school, to the talent show in Sophomore year, the last year you spoke really. You can still feel the stage lights on your skin, can hear your breath in speakers and the weight of the community staring back even though the lights blind you. 

JJ clears her throat, “If you could show us the evidence you have so far?”

“Of course, of course, right this way.”

The police station used to be a small ridge-side inn that people who wanted to escape the world frequented. It had bed and breakfast, two porches, stellar views and the promise of nobody bothering them too bad. It had been converted into a station after the owners died, a gift from their kids who didn’t want anything to do with the mountains anymore. You wonder if they regret it or if they’re thankful they have nothing tying them down here. 

They have you all set up in what used to be a suite, there’s a little kitchenette, a good bathroom, a small divider for the bedroom and the rest of the room. Not to mention the wrap around view of the mountains. It’s a gorgeous picture to see with one's own eyes, the misty fog rolling in and the array of colors on display, the way the clouds roll in to promise a light misting or rain overnight. It smells like rain, you can sense it in your bones that it’ll come. 

Inside are two boxes, the boards are blank save for a map of the area although it remains blank, but it details the county and the trails used, or where homesteads are. You know exactly where the house you lived in is on that map, marked by a small blue dot with nothing nearby for at least three to five miles depending on the direction someone points at. It makes you wonder how long you have until your family turns up, demanding that they see you or that you come home. Except coming home feels like a death sentence to you, and so does the idea of coming face to face with the people you vowed to never speak to again. 

Part of you itches to lock every door, shut every window closed, then to lock yourself in the bathroom with a shotgun locked and loaded. The other part wants to flee, to steal the car and drive all the way back up to Quantico because you’re safer there than you are here. If you did that though then you’d lose your job, get put on a watchlist, and then probably imprisoned or put on intense house arrest. You aren’t sure which one you’d prefer at this point in time either. It all sounds better than staying here in these mountains, being amongst these people. 

As soon as he leaves Emily turns to you, her face carefully neutral despite the way she’s practically frothing for answers, “I didn’t know you sang.”

You shrug, “Not important, let’s get to evidence.”

“Eager to change the subject are we?”

“Yes.”

Morgan, on the other hand, is already trying to see if Penelope can dig anything up on you for singing since there’s your actual surname to go off of now. It doesn’t stop their curiosity about you, and everything you’re attached to, in this town. What happened to you? They don’t know, it’s clear you aren’t willing to tell them either. 

The pictures on the board get pinned up, evidence passed around to be examined. Last known sightings, family details, boyfriends, living locations. All of it, and during the process you fall silent, not in the kind that is easily broken either. By all means things are going as they normally are, the team lulled into the pull of theorizing based on what the evidence presents, the art of picking patterns and connecting the dots. The difference here is the way the officer gripped your arm too tight, the familiarity, your discomfort. 

It is Hotch who decides to ripple the pond, clearing his throat to garner their attention while his eyes remain fixed on you, hands raised to talk in a way you find the most peace. For you the team had learned ASL, had learned the alphabet, then hello, and then by the second month they were practically fluent in your language of motions. Beyond learning it for you it’s made communication in the field easier too, knowing that there can be a conversation held with a back turned and lips sealed. 

“Do you know these victims?”

You hesitate, an indication of yes but you aren’t sure about that even, tentatively your hands raise, movements slow as you try to collect your thoughts, “I did, but it’s been too long to say I know them anymore.”

“Did you grow up with them?”

“Yes.”

“So you know their childhoods and adolescent behavior, we can start with Angela Hackshaw, what was she like?”

This time your hands don’t hesitate, “A bitch who slept her way to graduation, she’d drive three hours to get her hair bleached and told anybody who wasn’t deaf that she was going to be Miss Universe someday. She couldn’t point out Mexico on a map if she tried or cared.”

Morgan stifles his laughter like many of them do, Hotch is the only one who resigns himself to the fact that bringing you here might be a worse idea than he thought, “Can you give us any clear defining traits using the language of profiling? Not petty teenage adolescence?”

You shrug, “I asked for paperwork, need I remind you?”

“Fine, petty teenage adolescence but profile words, yes?”

“Deal. Classic narcissist with a low intelligence, believer of the grandeur and easily disillusioned, slightly sadistic. She believes the people around her are only there to serve her or lift her up. She only associated herself with people in positions of power and preyed on them too in order to elevate her own standing. Her greatest delusion was that she could get away with anything if she said the right words and batted her eyelashes just right. If you ask Officer Marks over there he can tell you exactly how she got out of a speeding ticket when she was seventeen.”

“What about Crystal Hayes?”

Your face softens at her name, none of the contempt you had for Angela Hackshaw present, “She was sweet, rode her horse every morning and every evening. Winter was her favorite season but she preferred Fall foods and sweets. She was good at math and entertained the idea of being a math teacher. A cheerleader, Angela was too by the way, and also on the track team. She didn’t have any signs of narcissism, psychopathy, or sociopathy, no history of mental illness on either side of the family. Her family, as far as I know, are good people, they own a farm.”

“Were you friends with her?”

This is where your face begins to pinch again, “My older brother at the time dated her, they were together for three years before they broke it off. She introduced me to ASL.”

“You didn’t know about ASL until her?”

“I didn’t know a lot of things Hotch, after I stopped speaking I didn’t communicate period. She was the one who taught me the alphabet, she had learned it over the summer when she was working with elementary schoolers, one was deaf.”

“I see, last victim. Kyle Paint.”

This time there’s something a little too close to grief over your face before you begin to speak again, “Annoying, but he wasn’t malicious. The football team, popular, he was friendly with everyone in the school, even the kids who didn’t fit in. Never made fun of anybody because of their socio-economic status, never failed to stop helping even when it wasn’t any of his business. He believed in hard work, being nice to people, and holding your ground.”

“You were friends with him.”

“I was.”

“Were you close?”

“Yes.”

That makes you shift, uncomfortable as all hell with the scrutinization of your past and the relationships you harbored from what feels like a lifetime ago. Kyle had been someone close to you, one of the few you left letters to when you decided to pack your bags for good. You didn’t get a response because there was no address for him to send one to. You regret it, not giving him one, but you didn’t know the address either so therefore you couldn’t. Maybe he’ll forgive you later. 

Emily nudges your side, drawing your attention again, “What was your friend group like in high school?”

You shut your eyes for a second, thinking about it, “Popular. I think we were nice, we never targeted anybody, kept to ourselves, focused on our futures, played sports and stayed involved with the community. We kept up with trends even when adults disapproved of them, we were out more often than not. There was this spot, it’s a locals-only known spot, the prettiest view of the night sky in all the mountains up there. And usually a base for hunting trips.”

Morgan's brows raise at you, “Hunting trips? You hunt?”

This time your eyes stay shut as you recall the many, many hunts you had gone on, “Everyone hunts over here. I learned how to shoot when I turned two, most people know how to hold a rifle by the time they’re five.”

Spencer was reciting statistics when he was five. You were hunting animals in the forest. Except it wasn’t an anomaly for the people of your town, not at all. In fact it was seen as normal, encouraged by many, only very, very few disagreed. It also means the unsub, who is local, knows how to hunt too. Of course, the whole town is dangerous. You weren’t kidding when you said that either. A town raised on guns, isolated with nothing to do but run in the woods and bring home a pretty prize, that boredom gets turned to skill real fast. 

You keep talking though, your hands faltering occasionally but never quite stopping, “Doesn’t matter what or who you are. If there’s one thing that unites the people it’s God, guns, and glory. You learn how to shoot when you’re young, and then you learn to skin something, then you learn how to gut it. Finally, you learn how to carve it up just right, how to polish the bones and how to turn them into something useful. When we get older we learn to preserve the skins, making pellets, make clothes out of fur, thread out of leather. Once we’re close to being teenagers we learn how to make the weapons themselves. It starts with knives, then it turns to spears, arrows, and finally, a bow.”

JJ runs her hand through her hair, mind whirling in how she’s going to deal with the people here, if they’ll even listen to the words of an outsider like her. They don’t take kindly to outsiders, that’s what you had told them earlier. Distrust of the government, neglect from the government, they have no reason to like any of you here. Except for you, because you belong. They do not. 

Spencer, on your other side, taps your arm to get you to look at him, “We need to talk to your old friend group. They might be able to tell us if there was someone hanging around them suspiciously or if they had made an enemy in the past few years since you’ve been gone. Can you give us a list of names?”

You blink up at the ceiling like it might give you strength before you reach for paper while Spencer finds a pen, then you scribble down five names, and you don’t say a word more. 

_____________

The next morning five young adults are sitting in a line at the police station on the couch in front of the grand fireplace. Because again, the station was formerly an inn, and nobody wanted to get rid of the fireplace. Besides, it makes for an excellent waiting area if the community has anything to say for themselves. You dread it though, god you dread it. Nobody comments but everyone notices that you’re a little worse for wear and none of them can blame you either. 

This is personal whether you want it to be or not. They themselves look anxious, hands wringing and glances traded from across the couch. You cling to your thermos of tea like it’s the one thing keeping you from throwing yourself down the damn mountain. As soon as you and the team enter, the energy changes, like the temperature has dropped ten extra degrees despite the chilly start to the morning. The police force present straightens, their eyes narrowed and yet they tuck themselves away, as if they might camouflage themselves if they do so. 

You recognize the five faces before you, five far too familiar faces that you had desperately tried to forget but couldn’t. There had been six letters sent the day you disappeared completely, no return address, no nothing, just a period at the end of the page as a final farewell. Part of you hopes it hurts for the sheer fact that someone cared about you enough for it to affect them. The other part hopes it didn’t so much as pinch, because selfishly that would make it easier for you. 

Hotch steps forward, hand extended, “I’m Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, thank you all for coming out, if you’ll follow us we’d like to ask you all a few questions.”

You observe them, watching as Kennedy is the one to take his hand and shake it for the group, her face painfully understanding, “Kennedy Combs, we’re happy to do so if it means getting our friend back.”

Spencer conceals you from the group before you all, so does Emily. Sure it’s a cowardly thing to do but you’ve also been dragged to your wits end within twenty-four hours and you deserve to hide a little longer. Even if it is just for thirty extra steps. Spencer, hands behind his back, lets his fingers move, catching your attention instantly, “We’ve got you, no matter what.”

Then you all start moving, for you it’s absolutely death-march. You’re family you can rage at, your friends who you abandoned you can’t even look at. Shame and guilt curl unpleasantly against your soul when you watch the backs of their walking forms. You left them, no warning, barely an explanation, you can’t imagine what they might think of you now that you’re here on the case looking for Kyle. 

They sit at the table and you inch closer to the door, ready to flee at a moments’ notice. They let you stand there, taking the attention by coming to the front. If it were an option you wouldn’t even be in the room, but as the one closest to them you can read their language and bodies better than anyone else can. You have to listen to their words to try and filter if what they said is true or not. Then on top of that, you have to be finding connections that nobody in the room can possibly make. Either they don’t have the skill or they don’t have the background. You have both, it’s on you this time to lead the investigation at a distance. 

In order sits Mason, Bates, Kennedy, Alex, and finally Nancy. They look older but so do you, there’s dark circles that weren’t there before, a tightness to them that looks foreign on their shoulders and faces. Luke is missing, they’ve been frantic, because if they’ve lost him too, then they’re down two people held close to their souls. They don’t notice you back there, they don’t know you’re part of the team either. You prefer it that way, out of sight, out of mind. They’ll give honest answers if you aren’t there. 

Hotch begins the questionnaire, and at first it feels like static when they start to speak. You hadn’t heard their voices in years, too hesitant to call, fear preventing you from dialing their numbers. The job forces the static to soothe itself, makes your mind sharpen to their words, pulling your emotion out of the picture when you do. Spencer’s watching you the moment you switch, when you swallow your history down in favor of throwing up the current version of you, the version he’s familiar with. He knows as soon as the interrogation is over you’ll revert, but the switch is something he hasn’t witnessed before. Not on you. How many times have you done that behind their backs or when they weren’t looking? They get to the part about you. This is where you fight to stay on the job, when Hotch states your name, asks what happened to you. 

Kennedy is, once again, the first to speak, “She disappeared off the face of the Earth, not that I blame her. Just, wish she stuck around to at least say goodbye, she left us letters the day she left. Took near thirty minutes to figure out what she was sayin’. I ain’t ever seen her writin’ look so chicken scrawl before. Wrote like she was runnin’ from the devil. I figure the devil bein’ her Pa.”

Mason nods, as if this is the most absolute thing in the world, “He was a mean thing to her sometimes, but any other time he was a proud father of a baby girl like her. He called her Little Doe, the whole family did, it was understandable too, she was a true doe up until Junior year. We all thought she’d marry James Cochran, they were in love, he was the kind of man who’d carry her grocery bags and season her iron skillets because she loved to cook, she did. She was damn good at it too, she’d invite us for parties, and ain’t none of us ever wanted to say no to her. But then we hit sixteen, and it was like she was shedding knuckle velvet.”

He turns to Bates, nudging the man who breathes in deeply, “We all knew something bad happened to her, but she wouldn’t say, only her Pa got worse too. Her siblings were just as confused as us, not Tiffany, she’s the oldest sister, she seemed to hate her overnight. Not in that rival sister kind of hate, but the kind where one was hoping the other got lost in the woods or heard their name in the dark. Which didn’t sit right with none of us, Tiff had always been close, then she was vindictive. Mean as all hell, thought she’d flown off the damn handle.”

Nancy clears her throat, shifting to straighten her back under the attention she has, “She was the best at hunting out of all of us.”

There’s a murmur of approval, nods and quiet snaps of their fingers. Your stomach turns viciously, they don’t hate you, they don’t hate you at all. They’re remembering you like you’re dead instead, like you’re a ghost who’s been beside them this whole time. As if you haven’t been in Quantico, living your life out in Washington D.C. Not a whole spiritual layer of existence away. There’s no room for your discomfort though, Nancy presses on, she always does. 

“If she wanted to disappear, then by god she was going to disappear. Just like a doe. She could run through that forest and not a thing would snap under her foot, she’d do it too, just run. She spent more time in that forest than anybody ever did, and when she hunted, you prayed for that animal instead. Once she had a target, once she took off running, that bow on her back, you’d know that dinner was about to be fantastic. I ain’t ever seen her lose an animal unless it’s on purpose, some ah, some people would use her as a threat. Loosely of course, they’d say shit like ‘I’ll sick Little Doe on you’, at first it was a joke.”

This is where you want to bury yourself in that fucking forest, light yourself on fire along the way to take it all with you. Part of you is that forest, it forever has a piece of you claimed into its hills and steep cliffs, the rounded peaks and the hidden caves behind waterfalls. It was you at some point, just as part of you is always it. That piece never left the mountains, that piece is somewhere running through the tall trees and clear streams, never stopping, forever content. 

“After she went silent people started sayin’ things, odd things, of course they just thought she was sad, and nobody blamed her for that. Again, her Ma and Pa were a piece of work, they thought she was just tired out from them. What changed was the hunting. We didn’t notice at first, we brushed it off. But, she was getting more precise, more deadly, the way she skinned things. She developed a signature. The arrows she made, she made ‘em a special way, if you were in the woods and you found her arrow notch in the trees you had better make a choice, and a good one too. You could keep going, encroach on her territory, risk a night of hell, or turn around, go right back to where you came from.”

Hotch holds his hand up, “Wait, she shot at people?”

Alex snorts, “Oh yeah, she never got close enough to hurt, she made sure of that. She’d make sure she was close though, that you had offered yourself up as bait for her to practice her skills. By the time you’d come to realize what you had willingly walked into, it was too late, it’d be dark, and she’d be ready. You wouldn't, you’d run, she’d let you, but she’d still chase you. Following you in the pitch dark, out in the woods, the mountains, sometimes you’d stumble into one of the arrows she had left from earlier. It’d get worse from there, but by midnight she was gone, and it was up to you to get out of there.”

“How often did this occur?”

“Depends on who you were, and what you were there for. If you wanted to just be left alone, to just be there with the trees, she’d leave you alone, she might even leave a piece of game for you to take home. Or berries, something good, and once you got your gift it was time for you to turn around and go home. Now, if you were there to have sex, to vandalize, to do anything that disturbed the forest, it was fair game for her. It was all about intention.”

“Was there anybody particularly scorned by her throughout high school?”

“Oh plenty of people, but at the end of the day, she had put her warnings, she had given you a chance. You took it anyway, you knew what you were getting yourself into. We can give you a list of people who were particularly butthurt about this ordeal.”

“Butthurt? They were hunted.”

Kennedy shrugs, “Things work differently here, agent, no offense. But this? She had issued the threat of it after stupid Matthew Hale kept stealing her kills as a way to flirt with her. It’s a big, big issue to keep stealing someone’s kills, she hunted him down as fair game, he never stole another kill again. In high school, occasionally, people would get together, force someone into her neck of the woods, and that’d usually get them straightened out. She was angry, and people found use for it. Are we scared of her ability to hunt so precisely? Absolutely. But we are more proud of her ability to judge someone’s character and act accordingly than that.”

Mason cuts in, eyes steeled right at Hotch, “Whatever happened to her made her a legend when it came to hunting. It gave her the outlet for killing whoever did whatever to her, the town let her have that. She never harmed nobody unless it was deserved, she only helped and provided, still a doe despite shedding her velvet.”

Hotch doesn’t look at you, nobody does, “And then she left.”

“Yesser, it was June 25th, 2004. Nothing out of the ordinary, one day she was here, the next she was gone. Mostofer’ things left behind, car abandoned by the side of the road, no white cloth in the window. None of her things, no gas, just the car, and that’s where the trail ends. No reports of her hitch hiking, no reports of seeing her in the town over, it just goes cold. Uhm, Kennedy has the car still, sometimes we sit in it, most of the time it stays locked. We found our letters that night, she had left them in our houses with her keys in the envelope.”

“She had keys to your homes?”

“Of course, she hated staying with her parents, she was with us more than them, and for us it was anything to keep her out of the woods for a night or prevent her from being beat. God if you’d seen the bruises her folks left on her, we all knew they were there, think her Pa strangled her bad sometimes too, was why she didn’t speak, always wore a collar too. Never showed her neck again. Refused to swim too, and lord she loved the sun. It was June, we had plans to go to the beach soon.”

You can’t bear to hear anything else, instead you turn and open the door, ever so silently letting it shut before you take off for outside. Your heart is going too fast, your mind spinning in obscurity as your past is thrown up against the wall for all to see. The hunting, the barely restrained violence. When you meant you’d end up on their table, you meant it as you being the unsub. If one thing went wrong, you’d be behind bars instead of putting people behind them. 

Everything is wrong. Wrong. Your friends who you abandoned, thinking you’re dead, or alive and treating you as if you died. Like you’re someone to be commemorated. The hunt still thrums in your veins, the urge to run in any direction rampant in your system. You could, you know you’d find a way to manage, that you could return and the thrilling terror would return. Somehow you stay rooted to your spot outside the building where nobody can see you. If you shut your eyes it’s just you and the forest, nothing else. 

Time stills for you. Sixteen falls, away, the dagger and the warmth of blood on your cheek. It’s you, the forest, and everything else is gone. In the moment of stillness, you allow your senses to stretch as far as they can. Your friends joked that you weren’t fully human sometime ago, just because of how well you could sense things. You can smell people and trees, you can smell there’s squirrels, birds, the rain is coming closer, maybe thirty minutes away, a bear came through too. You can hear gravel turning over, footsteps from inside, people talking at the coffee machine and a pair laughing with each other. You make sure you can’t hear the voices in the room. The senses of a doe. A gift, just as it is a curse. 

The five of them are getting up, leaving, you make sure you’re not somewhere they can see you, and if they try to find you then it’s true you’ll vanish, they won’t be able to. You know like you know your hand that you haven’t lost your skill for it.

As soon as you know the coast is clear you make your way back, senses going in and out before you enter the room. It feels like you’re fighting your way through sludge, as if someone is suffocating you badly. Your friends were here, they told the team of what you did, and there’s no way you can lie to them and say you’d never want it again. Some days you want it more than anything. That’s who you are. What you are. Little Doe. 

They look at each other once they see you. That blank look in your eye concerning, your skin pallid, it’s so evidently clear that you aren’t fine. Yet you raise your hands anyway, “Sorry.”

Despite all of it, they still don’t have your timeline, they don’t know what happened when you were sixteen that made you snap so badly. You never harmed, you just chased, but you were clearly respected in the community, even feared from the sound of it. A hunter too good at the skill, a small isolated town where grudges ran deep and spanned generations, and the combination of a rage towards a group of local unknowns. It was a deadly combination, and who’s to say besides you that you never actually killed somebody? You could’ve, and it’s clear you could get away with it too. 

As if sensing their thoughts your trembling hands raise again, “I never killed, I never touched any of them. I let them know I was near, that just when they started to feel safe, I needed to remind them they weren’t. Some people wanted me to go through with it, but I never did. I treated everyone who I felt deserved it the exact same. I’m sorry.”

Hotch is the one to force you to drink water, waiting until you’ve had a few gulps before he speaks again, “I know you don’t want to talk about it but we need that story. This unsub could very well be initiating you or even challenging you. Each victim has some sort of significance to you, the first victim was an invitation, the last two were used to draw you out. You are the target.”

You know they do and still you can’t find the words. A target. You? The feeling is foreign after so long, and while you normally wouldn't mind the feeling, this is personal. You need to see the sights where things happened, the points of connection. This could be beyond the team's territory to interfere in. 

“The locals' only spot they talked about is Rattler’s Point. It’s off the grid, and also serves as a central point for many things, including the old church. That church was abandoned a while ago, but it still had its piano and organ; we would play music up there sometimes. Everyone knew about it, and it was frequented often enough that nobody batted an eye about going up for a night or a date. Or a hunt.”

Remote, no service, no signal, a complete dead zone isolated from just about everything. The perfect spot to do anything between star gazing and murdering. Your heart stutters as your hands seal the deal for you, “I can take you there, to the spots you’ll need to look at. I remember the paths, and I can explain better if we’re over there.”

Two birds, one stone, you think you might’ve just damned yourself. It certainly feels like you have, but it was going to happen anyway, and in truth you probably will recall the scene better by being there. Difficult, yes, but accurate too. They sit with that for a moment, sinking themselves into knowing that this will probably be the most difficult thing you’ve ever had to endure before in your life. Reliving the scene of what made you mute. You can barely keep yourself from falling apart at the table. 

Hotch says okay anyway, and you all head out. You take over the driving for this bit, the roads familiar under your wheel, grounding you to yourself more than you could in the station. They’re glad it’s you who drives to get to Rattler’s Point, the roads too twisted and gnarly for their comfort. It takes closer to an hour to reach your first destination, by then the sun gets closer to the middle of the sky, although the thin layer of clouds blocks a good bit. 

You step out easily, but after a step you sway, just a little as you stumble forward, like you’ve been pulled by some invisible force. This is a clearing, one path for the car to keep moving forward, and another smaller trail towards the trees. It’s higher up here, colder too, much colder. There’s a few trees lining the road, essentially framing the clearing, and a firepit dug out, well used, closer to the middle of the land. It smells of the forest, of trees and rain, skunk and cardinal, gunpowder and fire. Someone was out here shooting yesterday. 

This prompts you to turn to them, “Someone came here for shooting yesterday, I can smell the gunpowder.”

Rossi raises his brows at you, “You can smell yesterday's gunpowder after last night’s rain?”

“Yes.”

“You're a weird kid.”

Spencer, who’s trudged close to the usual shooting section, calls out to them with mild concern, “She’s right, there’s multiple shell cases here, still clean like fresh from firing.”

They glance at you, but you’re staring towards the forest, towards the road. This isn’t the spot, but it’s the start of it. You turn towards the campfire, which they look at too. You point to the road before you begin, “We came down from there, stopped here for the fire, we cooked dinner here, me and James Cochran. I don’t know how many dates we’d been on, I knew anniversaries, I thought I’d get them tattooed one day. We came here often, at least three times a month. My family comes up here monthly, it’s where I learned to shoot.”

Little baby you with a shotgun longer than your body slung over your shoulder. It’s no wonder you had come with a warning that you never miss, and that out of everyone in the entire damn FBI you beat them all when it came to a gun. Like a sniper who could do their job with a blindfold, that’s what they told them when you were being transferred over. The CID had gotten you first, and then the BAU had taken you when they decided you were a little too dangerous even for their tastes. 

This is where it had begun and festered, sharpening into a tool that could be wielded with terrifying grace. Despite the two years in the field with you they hadn’t seen the truest display of your skills. They hadn’t even gone into the shooting range before because it seemed like you were never there. Yet it was that knowledge thrumming under the surface of your daily profile, knowing that you could take down a room full of people with ease if given the tool. Knowing that there was really no need to call a hitman, or a sniper, because you were there. Yet they did it anyway, because they weren’t supposed to be the ones pulling that trigger. 

Perhaps you have resented that. They don’t know. They don’t know anything at all, somewhere along the lines that sharpness in you had dulled in their heads. None of them saw you pull a trigger, not once, and so the rumours of your marksmanship dispelled, and then they were forgotten. Yet every quarter when their results came in you dominated the charts more than anybody came close to. Hotch never forgot that, the rest of them did, Strauss wanted answers on why you were that way, why you never used your skill on the field anymore. 

Maybe he’d finally have an answer for her. The only cost being your expense. It’s all he can think of when you start to drive again, moving further down the road by at least three miles before pulling into a small dirt turnaround. When they step out it feels wrong, like the land is warning them away, that something bad has happened to this place. You lead them to the trail anyway, it’s bordering overgrown, but it doesn’t bother you in the slightest. The trail, to you, is clear as day. 

You take them down the trail, it’s no more than a six minute walk, and the reveal is something that takes their breath away. The church is in no clearing, it’s just there in the woods, the spire reaching amongst the boughs, merging with the trees. Vines creep over the edges, the doors opened wide for welcoming visitors. The stairs bow in the middle, one wrong step away from completely caving in. You take them anyway, the rest simply haul themselves up to the porch. 

The air feels fragile here, like it’s holding its breath, waiting for something to force it out. Inside are eight rows of pews, rough wood from years of use and a lack of refinement to begin with. There’s a simple stage, the piano to the corner, the podium in the center. The back features a large cross, to the side the small organ and area for the choir. There’s no flags featuring bible verses here, no art, not even a stained glass window. Instead there are thin slates of wood for walls, painted white but now tinged in yellow. Thick rafters and beams that support the high ceiling, there’s even books still stowed to the back of the pews. A book of hymns, a book of Christ, despite the location and age it hasn’t been abandoned. 

You walk down the aisle easily, finger tracing over a pew before you come to the front, to the stage. Your fingers ghost over the keys of the piano, your back turned towards the organ, if you applied just a little bit of pressure the first note would ring out and shatter this particular stillness. The opening note presses down on your mind, the urge to play possessing your hands, just for a split second. You catch yourself before you can start the song. Before it overwhelms you with the need to make music, you step away and back towards the group. 

“You played piano, correct?”

“I did, this one in particular.”

Hotch peers at the old thing, you’re sure the keys are out of tune but none of that matters because it’s a piano where you know what sound each key makes regardless of its accuracy, “What song did you play when you and James came here?”

Your face pinches for a second, just one, “My song. I made it in here, didn’t realize I had made one until I played it often enough that people started to associate the song with my existence. I played it every time I came here. Those that learned the melody would play it if they knew I was nearby, usually to get me to come over or to come home. That night was no exception, we got here and he just waved his hand at me. Smiled and told me to play my song, cut me loose, that’s what he said.”

“Do you still remember how to play it?”

Morgan already has the camera ready, he knew what would happen as soon as Hotch asked if you played the piano. You nod once before brushing the seat off and readying your fingers, not before turning back to him, “This was the last time I got to play my song.”

Then it starts, beginning slow, deliberate, then swelling, and it feels like feeling sunshine underground. Sorrowful despite the light notes that ring out, Spencer stares at you, truly stares, because this might be the first time anybody has well and truly seen you for who you are. The song isn’t long by any means, just enough for that sense of longing to really sink its claws into them. Your fingers slow, the notes petering out until silence overtakes them again. It sounded like a soul being damned. 

You don’t get up, but you do turn to them, “James used it as a signal. His friends were waiting in the woods, I didn’t know, I thought we were on a date. He was being sweet too, when we were here he was telling me about how one day I’d be walking down the aisle and he’d be waiting for me at the other end. How as soon as we were up and done with high school he’d go to my Daddy and ask for my hand. We were going to be the best couple the town had ever seen, he’d take his father’s position in the station one day. I’d be helping run his family’s business, if it had gone the way I thought it would back then I’d be married and made a mother by now.”

Not only had your voice been robbed, but the life you thought you were going to live had been too. A child that will never be born, a white dress you’ll never put on. They had called you Little Doe, sweet and beautiful, you had been perfect to their eyes. The story you’re telling, pieces at a time, the evidence lingering in the way you hold yourself and traces of time. James used it as a signal. His friends were waiting in the woods. JJ’s stomach turns in a way that’s so disgustingly familiar to her when she reads the pleas for help that come across her desk. Young girls preyed upon by even their own peers, innocence leading them like a lamb to their slaughter. You had been one of those lambs, just as the doe instead. 

You stand, walking backwards so you can keep talking to them, “I didn’t know they were there until we got out, they didn’t say a thing, they were just waiting. I thought it was a prank, and I didn’t mind it too much since I was used to them crashing our dates or coming over to hang out. I was friends with them too, I knew their girlfriends and we hung out often, it wasn’t uncommon for us all to be out and about. This time it was just the guys though, and that’s how I knew something was wrong. They were just standing there, dressed in all black, shotguns on their backs.”

They come to the porch and you stop right at the steps, raising your finger to point out around you, dipping it seven times to indicate where seven people once stood, “Hunter Anderson, Elijah Paint, Kyle Ridges, Conner Robinson, Brendon Mills, Casey Wilkins, and Silas Brooks. In that order. When we get back to the station I’ll give you all the details I have on them down, and then we can get the rest too. They were part of this though, they all were. I came out here, James at my back, the boys in front of us, and then James asked if I was up for a game. It wasn’t a question.”

You move down, breathing in deeply as you retrace your steps, “We got into James’ truck, he took us farther down, out to the firetower.”

They move again, leaving the church behind in favor of the fire tower, which is an extra twenty minutes away, and looks as if it’s a stone's throw away from falling down. For a moment you all stand there, staring at the old thing with varying degrees of concern or remorse. From down here they can’t see what it looks like inside, they can’t picture what might’ve gone down. You’re frowning at it, arms folded over your chest as you draw upon the memories from before. They look at you after a moment, prompting you to speak up again. 

“This is a common spot to hang out at. Whether it’s used for parties or sex or both, nobody really bats an eye at it. We came up here first, I could tell something was wrong, but they were acting like everything was normal. They’d brought beers, their guns, I saw the camo jackets and I thought, just for a handful of minutes, that maybe we were going on a night hunt. That maybe I was over thinking things, that they were just here for a good time. Nothing more, nothing less. I was wrong.”

You begin to walk again, finding yourself at the base of the stairs, you reach for the railing, feeling the rusted metal beneath your palm, and ever so cautiously you step up onto the first stair. It creaks, but it doesn’t budge. For a moment you feel yourself running, the chill of the mountain air in the dark, the blindness of the night, that frantic fear thrumming in your body, heart pounding against your chest and the terror of being caught. When you shut your eyes you can hear their footsteps behind you, the stairs shrieking and building shuddering for a terrifying second. Their laughter, the hollers of a hunt coming on. 

“James tried to fuck me in front of them, I wasn’t having it, and they started closing in. They wanted to touch, they tried goading me, attempting to lure me in because they wanted a piece of me too. I kept denying, James shot at my feet, I bolted, and they followed. They tried shooting me from the stairs too, but I was too fast for them to catch. I ran into the woods.”

Then you begin to move, your pace fast, urgent as the trail becomes clear to you all over again. They take off with you, following you in a single file line as you head straight into the woods. To them they cannot see the trail, they don’t know your route but they see what you ran through, even if you didn’t at the time. Thorns and branches, large rocks, you keep them moving though. Eventually coming to a creek, it isn’t very wide, but there’s no way to leap across the water either. 

“It was too dark for me to see, I didn’t have anything but the clothes on my back, and so I fell into the river, busted my knee up pretty bad on the rock over there. But they had heard me flailing in the water, and I couldn’t afford to stay in one place for too long. I kept running despite it all.”

You walk across the rocks this time, your steps sure and your body graceful as you step across like it’s a game of hop-scotch. Spencer slips once, yelping before you snatch his arm and righten him up. He stares at you for a second too long, but you do too so it doesn’t really matter in the end. You all keep moving, up hills and through corners, over a thick tree that fell over another section of the stream, and finally, nearly an hour and a half later, into a small area that’s flatter than the rest of the terrain. 

Slipping down a hill to what seems to be a base of something. There though, there’s a large rock with a flat top to it, and on that rock is a large brown stain. The years have weathered it, but there’s no mistaking it for what it is; A blood stain. More specifically, your bloodstain. This is where your composure starts to weaken, your hands regaining that light tremble that they have not missed when you stop at a certain point in the area. 

“This is where they caught me. James shot my in my thigh and I went down hard. It wasn’t long before they were on me. I couldn’t do anything, I had been shot, hunted down, exhausted beyond my limits. I wasn’t wearing the right things either, by that point I’d lost my shoes, my feet had been torn to hell. They took pictures of it, of everything. They recorded and used their flashlights as a light source for when they each took a turn, but they weren’t satisfied yet. They needed me for something more than just a hole to use.”

Rossi and Hotch look at each other, a silent pact that no matter what they’re going to get that evidence, and those boys will be going behind bars. Your story is nothing short of horrific, to know all that has been done to you and still it isn’t over, it isn’t enough. Not for whoever has taken those three people, who has drawn you back out to the mountains, to these woods. They still want more from you. It’s selfish and greedy of a magnitude they struggle to comprehend sometimes. 

Emily looks at you, the way you fit these mountains in a way that they never will, knowing that if you hadn’t gone through what you did then you’d still be here. You would still live and breathe the mountain air, wear camo in a daily outfit and you’d be speaking, you’d sing with your song and play piano for the people. It’s a life you deserved to live, but that choice was violently ripped away from you, “Do you have any idea what the motivation behind this might’ve been?”

You sigh, although it’s more a huff than a sigh, “I wanted to wait until marriage to have sex. That was the kind of girl I had been, and I wanted to go to college, get a degree. James wanted me here, said I didn’t need a degree when I had him, that the life we had in-store for us didn’t require my absence. I disagreed, I wanted to be a woman and I wanted to know what it was like outside of these impossibly tall borders. I was leaving, James couldn’t stand that.”

“So he took you to the forest, where he and his friends hunted you down before forcefully assaulting you in a place nobody would come.”

“It went beyond that, James felt like he was losing control over me, which he was. I can admit that I was starting to get the sense he wasn’t all that he seemed to be the closer we got to the finishing line. It had me questioning if we were going to last throughout my college career, I didn’t tell him that though. It’s also important to know that this is the year James was made football captain, and they wanted to ensure a victory. Casey suggested a sacrifice for God, something pure.”

You point at the rock as understanding starts to dawn on them, “James agreed because he would rather have let me die under his control than let me live in my freedom. James dragged me up to the rock when it was over while the rest started to pray. They had made up this absurd chant, nothing from a book or even a website, just the power of a man doing what he can to get what he wants. James slit my throat when I started screaming.”

“How did you survive?”

“I didn’t. I died that night, right there on that rock. James and the rest went back down to the town, they’d torn themselves up a bit, pretended like a bear had come for them, said that I was missing, the bear had separated all of us. The town searched and looked and James led them to me, he pretended like he was concerned, he wept over my body when they airlifted me out. They stuck me in the hospital, realized that my pulse was still there, somehow, and they brought me back to life. If you ask the town they’ll tell you they shouldn’t have brought me back because I came back wrong.”

So you had been forced to pretend like your murderer was your savior, because nobody would believe you otherwise. No wonder you had gone off the rails like you did. Hunting people down so they’d stay away from you, specific people, helping those that got lost or forced into your neck of the woods. 

“How did they explain the gunshot wound to your thigh though?”

“James admitted to that, he said he heard the grunting, the sounds of a bear, he shot blindly and when he heard the shriek he thought it was a deer he had shot. They believed him, because why would a guy like him have shot his own girlfriend? He tried to keep us together after it, but I refused, he was the first I hunted back.”

“If you get the chance to hunt him again, would you?”

“Yes.”

They know if given the opportunity, you would kill him. You don’t say it, but they feel it coming off of you, the lines within your words, how your hands didn’t shake when you gave confirmation. James Cochran, the Deputies son, you’d shoot him in the throat if you were allowed to do so. That rage never stopped boiling, you had only managed to keep it from spilling over. Such tight control over yourself that you stopped speaking, because if you spoke, it would all come bubbling back. 

It hits Spencer right then and there that you don’t speak because you’re afraid, or anxious, but because you’re enraged. One wrong move, and you’ll snap. A twig breaks twenty feet away, and that snatches your attention, all of their attention. There stands a doe, white tailed and beautiful amongst the colors, she’s looking directly at you. Time stalls again, it’s you, the doe, them, and the forest. The spell only breaks when the deer turns around and leaps off to the forest, not a trace of her to be seen after only a few seconds. 

“We need to go back now.”

It’s faster this time going back, mostly because there’s no pit-stops, but by the time you’re all back in town it’s dark out and everyone’s starving. An order gets placed at a restaurant, one of the few in town, and Rossi is the one to go pick it up, mostly because he’s the only one with pocketfulls of cash. There’s no hotel, only houses to rent when you’re here in the mountains. It’s that small of a town, you can’t imagine why anybody would want to stay overnight in a place like this. Despite it all you still think it’s beautiful. Maybe you shouldn’t. You do anyway. 

____________

Your father is at the station the next morning. He sits there with his twin braids and a cup of coffee in his hand looking like for all the world he belongs there. It takes just about everything in you not to turn around and head back to the house you’re renting. Your father is a big man, even when he’s in that oversized leather jacket of his, the red button up he wears and the rings on his fingers. His features are sharp, you’ve inherited his nose. 

Officers glance at him before looking at their paperwork, but the glances are frequent, even if they never linger. Half of it is fear, the other half is respect. Your father’s name holds weight in a conversation, his words taken as law if it is needed. If he says something, then it will happen. That is the way things work in this town, and that rule was held absolute over your head as a teenager. You hated that when you started to come into your own, but you had obeyed. Then sixteen happened, and you listened to nobody but your gut. 

Hotch stops when he sees the man because there is always something about men in seats of power when they face another in a similar position. You know what it looks like when two absolute powers collide, and this is one of those moments. Hotch, the outsider, versus your father, who is in his territory. You of all people know the importance of keeping people out of one's own land. You want to reach out to Hotch, to tell him to just keep moving forward, but that also means drawing attention to yourself, which means your father’s eyes will be on you. 

“Can we help you?”

Your father, sometimes called Big Bear, sometimes called Taylor, depending on who was speaking to him. Stands, he’s drawn himself up to his full height and the years away haven’t done anything to weaken the muscle in his body. His hands are powerful things, they have taught you how to carve your first arrowhead, and they have also given you your first bruise. His face remains impassive, much like Hotch with sternness etched into his resting features. Taylor is silent for a moment, a long one, as he eyes Hotch up and down. 

A fight, that’s what you all deduce in the span of a few moments. Hotch, of course, shifts to ensure he won’t be knocked off his ass if Taylor does decide to swing. This catches the attention of others who begin to murmur to each other, fingers pointing and heads turning at the potential showdown in the room. Luke, from his spot at the top of the loft, sees it too. He clears his throat loudly as he starts to walk down the stairs, voice very pointedly light, “Big Bear! What brings you down to the station?”

Taylor turns and you choose to yank Hotch back while Taylor is distracted, although you duck into your team just as quickly. He looks at you, brows furrowed while you hide from behind Spencer, your fingers, lighting fast, spell father at him. He looks back at the man. Hotch nods once before turning to Rossi, “Take the team up, I’ll stay here and see if I can offer our aid.”

“Of course.”

You walk carefully, keeping distance to ensure that Taylor won’t see you sneaking away. How you managed to slam doors in his face when you were a teenager is beyond you, although if given the right tools you’re sure you can find it in you to do that again. Spencer nudges your side as the door closes, “Who was that?”

You sigh, shaking your head as you sign, “My father. He’s here because either he has information, or he wants me to come home. If it’s the latter that means word has broken out that I’m back in the mountains.”

“What does it mean if people know you’re here?”

“People might try to come by in an attempt to talk to me. It also means that the unsub will escalate.”

“So we’re running out of time.”

“Yes.”

“Based on his body language, what do you think it is?”

“I don’t know, he’s…I could always tell if he was in the mood to hit someone, or if he was in the mood to give gifts, but nothing else. I could never read him any other way.”

“Hotch will tell us when they finish up talking. Whatever it is, we'll deal with it, but you’ll never have to be in a room alone with him again.”

You don’t smile, but you press yourself close to him for a moment, “Thanks.”

“Of course, and if he tries anything I’ll have my gun on him before you can even blink.”

The last bit is for you and you alone, the quiet threat something not to be heard by a room full of agents who Spencer knows would let him get away with it, but he still shouldn’t be saying it. Yet he says it anyway just to see your shoulders loosen and your head to be held a little tighter. They look over the footage that they had gotten yesterday, your blood stained rock and the piano. Penelope had made Morgan sit with her on Skype while she listened to it, she then made him swear not to tell anybody that she ugly cried while converting it to a file so they could keep listening to it. 

Morgan had listened to it over and over again last night, that one specific clip isolated and repeated until your melody ingrained itself into his mind. Today they’d be bringing in the boys you had named individually, they planned on using that song to gauge their reactions. Emily, for one, is looking forward to interrogating the boys on what they did to you, to force a confession out of them if it’s her last breath. What they had done to you is inexcusable, no matter how good of a boy they might be. She wonders what the community will say, what they might do. 

It takes Hotch ten minutes to come back in, face carefully unreadable when he looks directly at you, “He said that he felt you nearby, he’s left you a gift.”

“A gift?”

Luke steps back inside, this time with a bow and a quiver full of arrows. The wood is made of black walnut with white wrappings around it. You’ve carved symbols and patterns into the wood, decorated it with a raven feather and a small string of beads. Your quiver is made of horseskin and lined with boar fur, the underlayer of it though, the tusks are attached to the ends of the bow. In your haste to leave you had left behind the two precious items, and now they have been returned to you. A gift, according to your family. 

He knows. The thought nearly sends you to your knees, but once it manifests you know it’s true. Your father knows what happened, he knows what you’ve become, it makes you wonder when he figured it out. Was it before you left? Or was it after, when the nights stretched long and he sat out on the porch looking for something that would never come. Did he regret it? The day you left. 

You still haven’t told them what happened. It feels like it doesn’t matter anymore though, not when your fingers curl around the familiarly sleek wood that you had carved and crafted to perfection. By instinct your fingers find the string, your body contorts, and you pull. The wood bends deliciously underneath your hands, the string straining just right as your eyes narrow in on a target, but you do not let the string fly, instead you ease it down again. 

The taste is still there, the arrows waiting for the right chance to be used again. You can hear the whistle of an arrow, your arrow, in the wind before meeting the satisfying thunk of a target you didn’t miss. An arrow gets pressed to your palm, Morgan is the one who put it there, his eyes betraying how curious he is, “Take a shot, somewhere, anywhere. If you shoot an animal we’ll eat it.”

You don’t want to kill anything tonight, not today, but there’s row upon row of animal heads mounted to the wall in the station because they display their biggest kills in there. Like it’s a memorial or something like that to the things they hunt down. You step outside onto the porch, you already have something in mind for it too when you notch the arrow and draw it back, your team behind you, waiting patiently as you find your angle, and then you let it fly. 

The arrow is audible, the shriek of it like a ghost whispering in an ear, the sound makes the station go quiet. Just in time for there the sound of the arrow hitting home to sound. You’ve picked a doe, shot her directly between the eyes, angled so it shoves down towards her neck. They know whose arrow that is with the quail feather used as the fletching. Luke stares at you, because you’re staring at him, you didn’t even look at the target to see where you were shooting. He shudders under your gaze, he had seen it before, long ago. 

Back when you were sixteen, when you were seventeen, then eighteen and nineteen. He knows that there is something wrong with you, that James had had a hand in making it happen but he’s never gotten the full truth of it, of what made you the county hunter. He also knows that if he or his men ever stepped foot into your territory without asking then they’d be the doe you just shot, no questions asked. You’re reminding them at that moment that while you’ve been gone you never let your skills dissolve. You’re still the huntress, you can still kill them without blinking an eye about it. 

“Glad to see you didn’t get rusty.”

You sling the bow over your back, a practiced movement, easy, “I never quit shooting at things.”

“Will you go back to Doe Run?”

Doe Run. That’s what they called your territory. A combination of your nickname and the fact that anybody who stepped foot into the place needed to start running, and run fast while they were at it. You look at the arrow, satisfaction blooming in your chest when you see your shot landed perfectly, then you look back at him, “Have people been invading recently?”

He pales, just a smidgen, “Of course not, Doe Run is yours, everyone knows that.”

“I’ll hold you to your word.”

Then you turn to head back inside the room, your team following you closely behind, but the arrow remains lodged in that doe’s head. 

______________

They have the men you named in the station by afternoon, they sit and shuffle, looking for all the world like a strapping group of men ready to spend the rest of their lives in the woods. Camo printed everything, they have guns across their backs and knives in their pockets. Luke called them in, said it was important since they had plans to go hunting. You’re hidden away on the other side of the interrogation room, because somehow they managed to get that in this station. 

The first round is to see group dynamics, who will look at who, who will remain isolated, that kind of thing. It’s a crowded room, but they manage to fit all eight of them into the space. Morgan is in there with your arrow that you shot earlier laid on the table. He isn’t even bothering to try and make nice with them. 

“This was found between the eyes of a doe that Deputy Sheriff Luke Cochran shot in November of 2000, reportedly it belonged to a young huntress who we hear was quite territorial over her ground. When we went to a spot she used to frequent, namely Rattlers Point, we were also guided to a church. When we got there we heard someone playing music from inside, we’d like you to listen to this piece and tell us if you recognize it.”

He slides the recorder out to them before pressing play, and upon the first few notes there’s such a violent shift in the group that they have to pause it ten seconds in. James, namely, shakes as he points at the thing, “Where did you get that? Where?”

“Like I said, the church, by the time we got into it nobody was there. Now sit down, you haven’t even heard the full thing.”

“No I know who played that song, that has to be her, it has to be.”

“Who?”

“My ex-girlfriend, god I loved her, she was everything. Then that fucking bear happened and our future was ruined, took her voice, took her loveliness too. She wanted nothing to do with me, or anybody, she just wanted her woods, her arrows, and the thrill of blood on her face.”

“You think the bear caused that much damage to her?”

“It took her damn voice. You know how much that woman loved to sing? Music was everything to her, the piano, the guitar, the fiddle, she played like her life depended on it. In those quiet moments, the ones between everything, she was always humming something, or just singing to make a noise. Prettiest thing you ever did hear too, any man would’ve been grateful to come home to something like that. Something like her.”

“You still love her?”

“I never moved on, I couldn’t, not from her.”

Morgan eyes him for a moment, he doesn’t let anything show, he doesn’t flinch, not even when the image of your rock pops up in his brain. He just presses play, and the music keeps going. The buildup, the crescendo, and that shattering come-down that had made Penelope burst into tears. You couldn’t see your face when you played, but you looked like you were about to cry when you did. They had yet to see you cry too, you’d come close, sure, but not like this, or like that. 

It had been a special sort of hell to recount your story to her. To tell Penelope of how you looked so small next to that rock, your eyes glazed over in what he knew was the memory of your murder. Because you had been murdered, you had, he doesn’t know what allowed you to survive, but he knows it took some of your humanity with it. He had to tell her of the way your fingers trembled when you told them you were raped, violently, by a group of men you trusted. Your torn up feet, the date night sent from hell, how you knew you weren’t walking away alive. 

Finally the song finishes, and they sit in silence for a long moment until Conner turns to James, “I think that’s proof enough that she’s returned, anybody talk to Big Bear about the arrow?”

Morgan clears his throat, “He came by this morning, both bow and her quiver of arrows are gone. The arrow came through this morning.”

Silas tilts his head, teeth having gnawed on his lip, “No wonder your old man called to tell us to come in, if she’s out in the forest Doe Run is completely off limits.”

Brendan scoffs, “Oh please, that whole damn forest is off limits now. You know she doesn’t do the whole forgive and move-on thing.”

Morgan raises his hand, letting them fall silent, “Actually, we have a favor we need from you eight.”

“You want us to go to that forest?”

“Yes, and we want you to go to Doe Run. Act like nothing is wrong, let her have the element of surprise, we want to study her movements, how she works. If she is the one behind the kidnappings then we have to understand her as best as we possibly can. But, to ease your worries, we’ll be in there too and we’ll have people set up and ready on standby. We also need a working map of where her territory lies, and what to expect when we confront her directly.”

They go silent, all seeming to have silent conversations with each other before their final gaze lands on James, who’s silent for a moment, his mind steady as he thinks it over. Then he groans, rolls his shoulders, and leans forward, “I’m game, but in order for this to work you’ll have to stay at least half a mile away.”

“Why so far?”

“Because that’s how far she can hear things. If we’re downwind she can hear even farther.”

“That’s not possible for a human.”

“She’s no human, I tell you that. She died by the bear, she had to have, but something brought her back. I don’t know what did, but it wasn’t God, that’s for sure.”

“You think the devil brought her back? Satan?”

“I don’t know, she wasn’t Christian, she believed in her ancestors and their rituals, their gods, their magic. I don’t know what she is anymore, but I swear she could smell lies and hear the truth. It’s why she got so good at hunting people, especially at night, she’s not a human no more.”

“Well whatever it is she’s human bound, and we need to stop her as soon as we can. We’ll do the half-mile distance, but you’re going to need trackers. They’ll serve as an emergency beacon.”

“When do we do this?”

“What time do people normally hunt?”

“Morning, early morning, it can go on for hours too. But we can’t do the night, she’ll kill us if we’re out past sunset.”

“You sound sure that she wants to kill you, any reason why?”

“Her last spoken words were to me, it was graduation, I tried to talk to her and she pulled a knife on me. Then she told me if I ever, and I mean ever, came near her after the sun had set then she’d kill me and tell people the bear came for my dick this time since it was apparently going after our most important attributes.”

“Why would she say something like that?”

“I shot her, during the whole fiasco, I thought it was the bear, she never forgave me for the truth.”

“Mm, we’ll head out tomorrow, don’t alert anybody that she’s back in town, it might cause panic, it might force her hand and by tomorrow we’ll have more bodies than there are missing. Stay home today and say you all got a bad feeling about going out today, or have someone feign sickness. Just something believable, then say you’re trying again tomorrow morning.”

They get pulled for individuals next, some show remorse, some are held tightly, one shows anger; Brendan. They watch him a little closer. 

____________

You know in order to sell it you’re going to have to hunt down your team members too, but they have explicit consent for you to do this, because one of the unsubs was here yesterday. They just need to figure out which one it is, and for the sake of figuring it out, you have to draw blood. You went ahead of them, geared up in ways they hadn’t seen before, and a promise not to permanently maim them. The rest of the joining crew members? Not so much. For you it’s fair game, they don’t argue with you over it. 

They outfit you with a camera woven into your shirt collar, your usual earpiece, and nothing else. The trackers they give the eight potential unsubs have recorders in them too, ready to pick up any conversation that might result in confession. You leave an hour before they do, setting yourself up as you wait for them to reach your designated area. By the time they do get there you’ve killed a deer and you’re in the process of skinning it. When the first step reaches your ear, nearly done with your kill, you pause. Then you listen. 

Five people within a half-mile radius, the hunt is beginning. Then in an act that can only be described as slightly barbaric, you drape the freshly departed hyde of the deer over your body, all so you can allow that inhuman piece of you to emerge. It isn’t physical, not yet, but the blood still runs over your body and the smell sharpens your nose to everything else, your ears twitch as you listen to everything. 

You find Hotch first, poor man, but you do what needs to be done, and you shoot directly between his feet. His head shoots up, but you’re nowhere to be found, he knows he needs to move, and so he runs, you let him, retrieving your arrow first before you take off after him. You nearly shoot him once more ten minutes later, the arrow grazing his shoulder, cutting the shirt open and making him bleed a little bit as a gash, not deep enough for stitches but not shallow enough to truly brush off, appears too. It’s his dominant arm too, which means he’s incapacitated out here. 

Different prey has you more interested though. Silas. You take off while Hotch keeps running, and after fifteen minutes, when you haven’t struck again, he reaches for his earpiece, clicking it on as he sucks his breath in, “I got on her radar, she shot two arrows at me, one between my feet, the other grazed my right bicep, I’m bleeding but it’s not the worst wound, just a nasty cut.”

Penelope’s voice comes through after a moment, “Copy, you’re close to Casey by the way, and oh, Silas is on the run.”

“Garcia stay on the line, I want you to tell us where her movements are, and how fast she’s moving. Who she spends time with and who she moves on quick enough from. When she starts chasing someone for a long period of time then we have our unsub.”

“Of course sir. She’s basically on top of him, but they’re still moving, she’s letting him run. Then, oh, they’ve both stopped, she’s just shot at him, he looks terrified, and sir, she’s wearing a deer skin.”

JJ cuts in, her voice slightly strained, “Where did she get the deer skin?”

Penelope pauses, then on her end there’s a horrible squick noise, a sharp gasp, then a click before she swallows, “It appears she didn’t wait around doing nothing this morning. She shot a deer and skinned it, that’s how she got the new addition to her wardrobe. The deer is gutted, and she was in the process of cutting it up.”

“Leaving evidence of her return, the skin is an intimidation factor. She’s waiting for one of them to find the carcass and to get scared enough to confess to nobody. They think they’re alone enough to say whatever they want.”

“Exactly, JJ, she’s getting close to you but she’s still on Silas.”

They keep moving because it’s the only thing they can do. The woods are your playground, the hunt your favorite activity. By noon you’ve grazed Hotch, chased Emily into a river, shot Silas, Elijah, and Hunter in the thighs, right where James shot you, and pinned Morgan to a tree through his pants. Spencer is the one to see you. Correction, he’s the only one you’ve allowed to see. Penelope’s voice crackles in his ear, her voice trembling slightly, “Spencer, she’s directly in front of you.”

He looks up, and there you are. It is one of the most terrifying things he has ever seen in his life. You’re up in the tree, he can barely make your face out underneath the head of the doe, half her jaw is missing, your head tucked into where her brain should be. There’s blood on your face, your hands, running off the arrow you have pointed directly at him. Deer aren’t meant to be in trees, you’ve brought one up anyway. This is not you, not the woman he knows from the bullpen. This is a predator in the element, and he is the easiest prey imaginable. 

  “Oh god.”

The arrow flies, another follows closely behind, one between his legs, the other directly above his head. He whimpers, eyes shutting close on instinct as he curls in on himself in an attempt to make him a smaller target. It’s only when he feels your hand on his cheek, gentle despite it all, that his eyes open. You might be covered in blood and a fresh deer skin, but you’re still you, still the girl he fell in love with over a year ago now. Your control is precise, you’d never harm him, he knows that. The arrows are proof enough. 

Maybe it’s the strangeness of the moment or the trust that has cracked him open, or maybe it’s because of how you are doing everything you can to still be gentle despite the violence. Your knuckles on his cheek, delicate despite their shedding velvet. He leans into the touch, one hand coming to hold yours against his face for longer than necessary before releasing you. In the next instant, you’re gone, and Penelope’s voice comes in his ear for him and him alone. 

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“That-That look of tenderness, Spencer Reid when did you two start dating?”

“We aren’t dating!”

“Then what was that?!”

“That was-that was-fine, I’m in love with her, I’ve been in love with her and I’m confident she loves me too. We slept together once, we never talked about it again.”

“Spencer, she can’t speak.”

“She has hands.”

“You need to start moving by the way, Hunter’s coming close.”

He didn’t even notice you had taken your arrows with you, it’s only when he looks down to see how to get out that he notices he’s free, he taps his com twice, letting him come to the main channel, “I just had a run in with her.”

Morgan whistles lowly, “How’d it go?”

“Survived, she shot at me twice in one go, she was ah, directly in front of me.”

Penelope joins him, “She was, I barely realized it too until I looked at their bodycams and saw they were facing each other. That was honestly terrifying, she was just up in that tree, her weapon already drawn, blood all over her.”

“For a second I forgot it was her, I just thought that it was it, that I’d be done for now.”

Emily is next to come through, her breath coming in short bursts and the sound of twigs snapping behind her, “She’s-ugh- she’s on me right now. Except she’s making it obvious that she’s following me. Who am I near right now beside her? She’s already ran me into the river.”

“Kyle Ridges, try turning direction to see if she’s following you or going after him.”

“On it.”

“She’s turning, she turned, and our doe is still on her warpath. Emily wasn’t being chased, she was just running with her.”

“Good to know, so she can differentiate targets.”

“Yeah and I don’t know how because there’s no sign of him and he’s still at least four-hundred feet away.”

JJ cuts in, “They said she wasn’t human, not fully, and not after she turned sixteen. They said that she was returned by something from her spiritual side of the river, and she’s Cherokee, right?”

“Correct.”

Spencer nearly chokes when he spits out, “Deer woman! She’s a deer woman!”

“Care to explain, pretty boy?”

“A spirit of a woman born out of betrayal, murder, or rape, she is sent to serve justice against those with ill intent. She is a powerful shape-shifting spirit with the abilities of a deer and may often be seen as a form of vengeance. She’s been telling us this the whole time, the hunting, the senses, the deer skin, her death. She is a real, living, myth.”

They’re silent for a moment, a long one too, before Morgan breaks the silence, the strange moment when they realize that the supernatural exists, simply because you exist, “Is her technically not being a human going to be an issue?”

Hotch, on his end, thinks of all the paperwork that might entail, and the dangers that could put you in, his decision comes fast, “Absolutely not, because this is going to be a government secret that the government does not know about. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.” “Of course.” “Absolutely.”

The hunt continues, even when Penelope opens your line, her voice shaky, “I know what you are, we all do, we know you died on that rock. We know you came back as a real deer, and that’s okay too, just, just let go. We’ll be here for you when you’re ready to come back. Keep your body cam on, okay?”

Her line goes dead and you go still for a second to process her words. They figured out your secret, finally. Finally. You could nearly weep with the knowledge that they’re okay with it, that they still accept you into their fold even when you aren’t how you’re supposed to be. You are still their girl. 

Just let go. And you do. With the change your mouth opens, vocals contract to let out this noise that can only be described as animalistic. It sounds like an elk, long and shrieking as it echoes through the forest. It is the first change, the one that alerts the woods you are here, that a deer woman is on the hunt. Earth responds to your touch, animals to your call, the spirits of the land you have claimed for yourself. You are something more than human. 

But it is important to remember that once that’s what you were. Night will fall quicker, but with the remaining daylight you let yourself become what you have hidden for far too long. Those men sacrificed something pure, but they defiled you before they did it. You were no longer pure when they sacrificed you, you were tainted by their touches, your tears which might’ve been holy water at some point burned instead. You were made wrong, and you came back the demon they feared. 

Your skin splits, your skull cracking open as the antlers emerge, your ears morphing and for a few terrifying seconds, vanish completely, which renders you deaf too. Your hair changes, so do your eyes and skin. White spots emerge on your face and arms, lining your face like contour while white grows from your roots down to the ends of your hair. Your body begins to stretch, your shape still visible but your fingers are too pointed, your legs a little odd, your arms too long. The deer skin is still draped over you, the head still over yours but further down now, her eyes covering yours. Yet your features are still yours, you’re just a little different now, a little more monstrous. It is only the reflection of their actions. 

When the sun sets, when the terror starts to spike, you begin to move. They are still because they do not see you, they do not sense you. It is well into the dark when Penelope whispers in their ears, “She’s moving again. She-I don’t know what was going on, she made that noise earlier, and then things started squelching and cracking and now her cam footage shows she’s at least a foot if not two taller than before. I don’t know what you’ll be looking at when she arrives.”

Rossi drags his hands down his face, so very done with the whole ordeal, but he isn’t about to tell the mythological being to hurry it up. Not when it’s well deserved either, but really, he’s getting too old for this. It still doesn’t overtake the inane but human terror that has gripped his stomach since you began to hunt them down, knowing that you were purposefully exhausting them before forcing them into the real shitshow; Night in your domain. 

“She’s moving at at minimum forty miles an hour. All of you need to regroup and hunker down, you’re going to get in her way all spread out. I’ll direct you all where to go, but I’m so, so serious when I say you all need to draw as little attention to yourselves as possible right now. Do you understand? You are in the woods with a predator whose purpose is to enact vengeance and justice with the ones who created her through violent means. She will harm you right now.”

They agree, and Penelope begins to direct them to the car again while you start to chase. It is tedious work to work around everything. Your territory is vast, and it is difficult to navigate, especially in the dark. There are other things beside you here too, and no doubt your call has attracted various creatures. Hotch runs into a bear once, they stare at each other for five long minutes, the bear a mere five feet away, and then it turns, vanishing into the woods. He picks his pace up after that. 

It takes three hours to get out of your land, and it is some of the most treacherous three hours of their life. They hear the screaming occasionally, or the groan of a branch with something too heavy on it. There’s still the thwack of your arrow on something, sometimes it’s soft, sometimes it’s hard. Penelope forces them to be still when you’re within two-hundred meters of them, allowed to move to where they can get as small as possible and somewhere with coverage. 

Sometimes they run into the path of destruction, seeing where you had rampaged your way through and decimated some shit. They don’t miss the bloodstains, or the arrows. What is happening in the forest is beyond government jurisdiction, or their call for that matter. What is happening here is you and your revenge, quite literally spiritual on a level that they have just barely begun to understand. 

They make it to the car, collapsing with harsh breath, cuts, bruises, clothes ruined beyond repair, and they wait, because that is the only thing that they can do. They try to block out the screaming from outside, they don’t speak of what went down in there either. Spencer thinks of your hands on his cheeks, the confession silent but there, he had held you there a moment longer, and now he wonders if you’ll be coming back for more, or if that was it. If that’s all he’s allowed for the rest of his existence. Nothing but the fleeting softness of your blood soaked skin on his. 

It’s close to three in the morning when the trees shake, when the screaming gets too loud to ignore. The doors lock, instantly, all cells off as Penelope whispers to them, her voice laced with terror, “She’s here. She and James are here.”

James, right on cue, stumbles to the road, he’s clutching his gun, face bloodied and hair messed up, he’s got a gash on his side and his eyes are wide, terrified beyond belief. They get a second where it’s nothing but them and him, the snot running over his lips, and then the dip of weight in the car. Everything goes absolutely still, and then a hoof presses against the hood of the car, followed by another, and then you’re there. But you also aren’t. The deer skin is still there with you, dangled and clinging, your clothes are torn, but you’re unharmed. 

You’re just. You’re just wrong. You move like an animal, slow, deliberate, they see the proud crown of antlers upon your head. They’re elk antlers, not deer, but you’re still a deer woman. James whimpers, stumbling back as you creep nearer to him, and then in the next instant, you’re gone. Like you vanished out of thin air, nobody dares breathe. Then you’re back, but you’re behind him, hands curling over his middle and yanking back into the darkness, they see you, the front of you. Blood stained with too sharp teeth, the spots and the white hair. For a moment you look directly at them, your eyes fully black, and there’s blood coming from your mouth. 

You disappear again, although you mustn't have gone far, because when James screams it sounds like you’re right above them, and honestly, you might be. His arm thuds in front of the car, and then his screams subside too soon, too clean. Penelope’s voice breaks the silence, trembling and cautious, “Time to go home, she’s a mile away now.”

Hotch doesn’t argue, he just starts the ignition. 

____________

Big Bear is sitting on the porch, waiting, because he knows there will be a visitor tonight. The family sits inside, waiting too, but they do not know what or who is visiting so late at night. It’s closer to sunrise when you emerge from the tree line, and that is when he stands. The family shifts uneasily, but they do not move, you do. You are smaller now, your normal size again, but the eyes, the antlers, the spot, the ears, they have not faded, nor have the hooves. You have your bow and arrows over your back, you do not draw them. The blood is unmistakable. You will not need weapons to finish them off if you wish to. 

“Would you like to come inside?”

He moves towards the door, and you move towards him, you do not attack, he opens the door. Your hooves clack on the stairs and the porch, and then the floor. Your father follows you in, and you look at your family for the first time in five years. Brothers, sisters, none of the small children are here, some of the ones that were small when you left are now big and sitting with the rest tonight. You stare at Tiffany, she’s put on some weight since you left, baby weight, but she’s more or less the same as you left her with. 

There is no mistaking you for what you are. The antlers, the spots, Tiffany can only swallow under your weighted stare, “Little Doe.”

You tilt your head at her, even if it is just to see her squirm, “Where have you been?”

You don’t dignify any of them with an answer, instead you head upstairs, to your old bedroom, and they don’t hear a single thing from you. Only the shower is starting to run, and that is when Taylor looks at his eldest daughter, “You knew something about her being deer woman, didn’t you?”

She haunches in on herself a little bit, “She told me a tale, it made no sense.”

“You knew she had become something else. You knew she had died.”

“She blamed eight boys, one of them was her boyfriend. You think James Cochran turned her into a deer woman? Him, the guy who made homemade corn nuggets and frybread for her. The guy who searched for her for three days, no sleep, barely anything to eat or drink, was the one to do the deed. Why the hell would he do that to her?”

“Because she was leaving! She was leaving and we gave her hell for that too, of course James was going to do something drastic to keep her by her side. No wonder she fucking left us here.”

He pinches his nose, shutting his eyes as he thinks of you in that forest, alone and bleeding and hurt and you weren’t coming home. He knew that you had gone into that forest one night and who walked out wasn’t his daughter. You weren’t his anymore, and he didn’t know how to handle that. So you made it official. He remembers the day you had left, when he had gotten that first glimpse of something wrong in you. He had argued with you, pressed to hear your voice instead of the angered flick of your hands. He didn’t even know how it devolved to you shedding your name like velvet, and your already scarce words turning into a man-made drought over the course of five years. 

It had though, and now you’re back, the stink of revenge just as pungent as the blood on your body. Whatever has gone down in the woods tonight is the work of you, work of the spirits. Because that’s what you are now, a spirit. His daughter died in the forest that night, he knows that now. It doesn’t hurt any less, maybe it hurts more, knowing that Little Doe has been dead for a long time. Part of him feels like he’s just gotten the news that his daughter’s missing body had been confirmed and found, that she’s coming home. The shower upstairs shuts off. 

He turns away from the stairs, he can do nothing but breathe. His daughter died in that forest, Little Doe no more, but there is a woman upstairs with your face and your scars. Older and wiser, black hair and eyes, spots too. Your antlers are almost porcelain white, different even in the realm of the spirits. Again, there is no mistaking what you are, and they know how a deer woman is born. Nobody speaks when you step down the stairs, the jingle of your skirts breaking the silence. He sees the beads first, and then he sees your outfit. 

It’s an older, more matured version of your regalia from when you were nineteen, altered to fit you as you are now. You look like something from a legend, something old and something that they cannot touch. Exactly how you are meant to be. For a moment he sees you in this dress when you were sixteen, dark hair and smiling lips, two weeks before you went silent. If you had been given a funeral the pictures of you used would’ve been his memories come to tangible evidence. Then he sees the child version of you in your regalia, the gummy smile and awkward posing, it’s hard to think that she is you. 

He has the urge to reach out to you, beg you to come sit down and just be with them tonight, but your business is not finished for the night. No, you still have one remaining task, and that is to find three souls taken to your forest. Your regalia looks as if there is a sunset upon your body, the two layers of jingles clinking together despite how still you stand. Then in a blink the door is swaying, and you are gone. 

It is unmistakable that you were staring directly at Tiffany, your truth spoken in your pointed silence. Because even though you didn’t speak, had used your hands rather than the voice you were given, you had told them something was wrong. You had shown it in so many ways, and they had punished you for it instead. Little Doe died in the forest eight years ago. Angry Buck died in the forest as soon as you shed your human velvet, and now what remains they do not know what to name, what to call. 

_____________

You find Angela, Crystal, and Kyle stored in an abandoned mine close to the edge of your territory, but just outside of it. Smart, not to put people who meant something to you within your boundaries. They look up when they hear your hooves against the ground, and then when you appear they go dry. You know you must look like a sight, the regalia and the antlers, the everything. Kyle whispers your name, voice hoarse and cracked, you only incline your head towards him. 

There is something special about being a deer woman. The laws of modernity do not apply to you. Constitutions and handcuffs do not mean a thing in your book. There is only you, a spirit of justice, a paragon of revenge, and what you deem fitting for the people. Crystal and Kyle had never done you wrong. Angela, on the other hand, has wronged you, and there is no shared blood between either of you. You reach for Crystal and Kyle, fingers curling around their wrists as you pull on your power, drawing it and directing it to where you need to go. 

There’s an uncomfortable lurch, and then the smell of something sterile. You blink, looking around the room to find yourself in a medical storage unit. Kyle and Crystal lay on the floor, weakened and quiet, you can tell they’ve been starved, dehydrated, beaten too. There’s also no way you’re walking out there on your own, you need someone to come in. That you can do, a little tug of power, a little pull, you let the hook dangle. 

Two minutes later, there’s a bite. The door opens as a resident steps inside, he’s young and nervous, and then he freezes when he sees you standing with two bodies beside you. The door shuts behind him, and when he blinks, you’re gone. He makes a noise, weak and strained as he looks around for any sign of you, but you’re gone, just like you were never there in the first place. 

You return to Angela, to the way she looks ready to plead. Part of you feels bad that this has happened to her, that she got caught in the cross-fire of it all. The other part, the greater part, remembers what she had done to you in your teenage years. You were popular, yes, but so was she, and you were coming for her spot on the hierarchy. Even in your silence you had been revered by the student body. Angela had whispered in people’s ear that you were a whore, a slut, that you were taken to the woods to shut you up. So many men had tried to fuck you without asking after her rumour had spread. 

They had taken her word as gospel, they had taken it as the truth and ran with it. You can still feel their hands on your waist, on your ass, a memorable time where one had gone up your skirt from the front. Of course you had fought it, had done everything in you to make sure nobody touched you again. That didn’t mean you were always successful though, sometimes they managed to get what they wanted, and each time your silence was only solidified. 

She had done that, all because you were getting more popular than her. You stare at her, the messed up hair and the way she’s bound, you don’t wish rape upon her, you wish it upon nobody. That doesn’t mean that you don’t want to see her dead. In these woods, these mountains, you are justice. The woods do not belong to man, nor do they have boundaries to divide provisions and jurisdiction. They belong to nobody but themselves, and the laws here are different. 

Angela never quite understood that either. You’d make sure she did after tonight. It’s easy to unclasp her from her chains, she gasps when she’s released, body crumpling to the dirty stone floor. She says thank you over and over again, but you aren’t here to rescue her. They say there are no more wolves in the mountains, you know better than that though. She does not, because she is not deserving enough of the forest. She does not know them well enough to find her way out even in the daylight, and unfortunately for her, the sun will not come to save her. 

You do not say anything to her, even when she drags her body to you, her cries of thanks turning into pleas for help and you do not lift a finger. Not even when she is there at your hooves, tears she cannot afford to shed running down her face, her grimy fingernails reaching to tug at your hands as she pleads. For a second, you let her believe that she is being heard, then you take a step back, harsh enough to where her body falls forward in an effort to keep hold of you. You don’t let her come close enough to touch you again. 

“Why aren’t you helping me? Why? I-I can barely move and you’re just standing there!”

She does not deserve a response, she does not deserve your mercy. You stare at her, that blank faced look and you used to be so sweet, she remembers that. You used to be kind to the animals, no matter which ones came across your path, she remembers your code when hunting, how all parts must be used for something. You used to have the loveliest voice of the forest, and it has been eight years since anybody has heard of it. She remembers using that against you. 

“If-If this is about high school then I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I was stupid and young and I should’ve apologized earlier. I should never have done that, nobody deserved it, especially not you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please help me.”

You tilt your head at her, slow, calculated, she knows she is being judged by you. She had never thought that her life would depend on your forgiveness, and yet here she is. It’s dark, well past midnight, and the forest is so intimidating to her. She can see the outlines but she cannot see detail, she knows that her survival is tied with your kindness. Except you haven’t been kind in a long time. 

She heaves herself up, fighting the way her legs threaten to fall underneath her, body swaying dangerously before she leans against the wall, breathing hard when she does. Like a newborn fawn. You move to the end of the mine shaft, she makes it there, a little stronger than earlier, but nowhere near fit enough to make it out of the woods. For a moment you and her stare at each other, you, the product of actions with consequences, and her, the one with the actions. 

“What are you doing? Can’t you-Can’t you just whisk us away like you did to Crystal and Kyle? Please just get us out of here, please. Do you have any idea what it’s been like in there? What they’ve done to us?”

There are a thousand questions you can ask her back, but she is not worthy of your voice. She is not worthy. That sound from earlier, the sound of an elk rather than a deer, spills out of you. This time there is power curling in the noise, stretching and touching everything the noise touches. She clutches at her ears, wailing as the noise makes her drums bleed, but you don’t care. You don’t. You move, faster than she can think, and then you wait for her to realize that you are gone, that you might’ve freed her but you aren’t saving her either. 

She stills for a moment, eyes wide and breath heavy as she thinks of what to do. Fear makes her sluggish, too sluggish, she barely has time before she hears the first howl, the scratch of claw on stone, branches bending for what is coming. Her eyes go wide, body going absolutely still, and then she bolts. She’s not very fast, stumbling blind and panicked in the dark as she tries to navigate her way. The wolves get closer, you can smell them in the air, their hunger loud in the way that they start to enclose on her. 

You are up in the trees the moment it happens, when she stumbles into the clearing you were killed at, when she climbs your rock as if it will save her from her fate. This is when you make your last appearance, your face close to hers as your fingers spell out words in her palm, “I died here, you will too.”

Then the wolves burst through the clearing, yipping with their jaws snapping, she whimpers, curling in on herself in an effort to not be found, but it’s useless. They take her by the ankles, teeth gnashing into flesh and digging into bone. She screams, but they are overtaken by the sound of her flesh tearing, a wet sound that would make men puke, but you are no man. You watch as the layers of skin are pulled apart, the pinkness exposed and run with red, which sprays and pools. The wolves tear her apart until she is nothing but a memory that the forest will hold. Her blood on the ground is a reminder that silence can be kinder than words. In the case of you and her, that’s what it was. 

There is a certain sort of satisfaction in you when it is over, when the wolves leave the scene with bloodied paw prints on the crunchy foliage below. Angela is no more, you know she won’t be coming back either. Not like you did. Not like you. You do not return to the station, or to the airbnb, or the home that you were born in. Instead you sit on the rock and you stay on that rock. 

You think of the BAU, the profiling work that you’ve done and the cases you’ve attended to. Hotch, Rossi, your team, Spencer. He is kind, soft in the ways you need him to be and hardening where it is vital. His intellect is not to insult you, but rather a soother when you find yourself out of your depth. There is resilience in his statistics and his mind, strength in it that you find comforting. He is sweet to you too, you can hear the way his heart speeds up when you are near, you can smell his attraction to you from half-a-mile away. Yet you do not mind it, you bask in it, because you cannot smell ill-intent on him. 

If you ever leave this forest, you don’t know what it’ll look like for you. The team knows what you are now, what you are capable of. Will they report it to the government? Will you be put under experimentation or review? Would it be safer to be as you were made to be? A spirit of the forest to enact justice and get revenge. Your revenge has been satisfied though, that thirst finally quenched. You are content in the forest, but you are also content when you are away from it. 

The forest is where you were born, where you grew, and where you died. It does not mean you must spend an eternity with it too. Your forest is understanding, especially of the inhabitants. You will always be welcomed, you will always have that link to your identity and what you are. If you leave again it will not harm you, but merely say see you later. You lay on that rock in the same position that you died in, the memories no longer burying you like they used to do. Instead you think of them, and you do not flinch away. The tightness in your throat subsides. 

For hours you lay there, even when the sun has risen and the animals come and go. You are perfectly still when a fox sleeps on your stomach or birds comb through your hair. You listen to the wind and the trees, they whisper memories to you that predate your town, they tell you of your ancestors that roamed these lands. They tell you of the deer women in your lineage, how they were saddened to see you join them like you did. They tell you of these women and the hell that they brought upon the ones that made them like that. They tell you they understand. 

You are there for two days, just you and the rock. You listen and you think and it is in the dead stillness of sunrise on the third day that you do not raise your hands when you open your mouth. The noise that comes out is one you do not recognize, older, more mature, you suppose you have to thank your status as a spirit because it does not hurt to talk and it does not sound weak. Instead it sounds like you, just grown up. 

“I am going home.”

Just because you haven’t used your voice in a long time and it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s easy to speak. Four words nearly have you puking, but you don’t. Instead you rise from your headstone, because that’s what it is. A headstone. Little Doe died here, and this is where she rests for eternity. The memory of her shown in a fading bloodstain upon rock made billions of years ago. There has been blood spilled on this rock in the past, long before you were even an idea to think of, and there will be blood spilt on it in the future, long after humanity forgets you existed. 

For now though there is you, warm and alive to rest on the boulder. You don’t know what’s happened in the last few days since you’ve been gone. Maybe you’re classified as missing in action, maybe you’re being hunted down. Either way you aren’t there, and you wonder if they’re searching for you. You’d like to think that if they are Spencer is the one leading them in. He is, after all, the one with eidetic memory. Therefore, he’s the one who knows the path best. So you sit, and you wait, and maybe you’d wait a lifetime on that rock for somebody who didn’t want to look for you, but that is not this life. 

This time, on the morning of the third day, you hear your team in the forest cursing as Spencer drags them through the foliage. You choose to tune them out, but you’re aware of their presence, and so you leave the rock. But you purposefully leave a trace of you on the rock. A ring, one of yours that you rarely ever take off, still warm from your touch. You leave it there when they get close, right when they’re about to crest over the hill and see you. The ring, when the sun hits it just so, is hard to miss despite the size of the thing. 

All of them stand there in a uniform line, panting and clearly exhausted, but they’re there. They see the ring, Spencer is the one to take it though, “Still warm, she knows we’re here and nearby.”

They scan the forest, searching for you whom they cannot see. They’re not wearing vests, nor do they have any weapons drawn, not that they could kill you, you wouldn’t let them. They do not put their hands up in surrender, they merely wait and glance at each other before Hotch clears his throat, “The government doesn’t know about what you are, we have no intentions of disclosing that information either.”

He pauses, and then he continues, “We’d like it if you were on the plane with us going back home.”

You had told the forest you were going home. Where is home though? Is it here, in the forest with the sprawling greens and forever scent of rain. Or is it the city with the bright lights, the people and the bustling hub of action. If you stay here you’ll never be one of the people in the town, you’ll forever be the huntress of the forest, something sweet turned sinister. If you go back to Washington, to the FBI, you have purpose with the underlying fear of discovery, of them deciding that you aren’t worth the effort of secrecy. 

Emily tries next, “We know what they did to you, we know you operate on a system that the government, that we, have no right to question or control. We have no intention of doing such a thing, we don’t judge you for it either. I would’ve done the same to them if they did to me what they did to you.”

Her word is truth, so is Hotch’s. Ever so quietly you emerge from your space behind the tree, the jingle of your skirt alerting them of your presence. They find you immediately, a stark contrast to everything in the forest that surrounds you. Spencer is the first to approach you, he takes his steps slowly, gingerly, as if you are just a deer and he’s doing his damndest not to startle you. Delicate, because with you he is always delicate. 

Not in the way that he bubblewraps you or cradles your emotions like they are custard that hasn’t been set properly. But in the sense that you are something precious to him, something he wants to treasure properly. You’ve had years to get used to it, and still it surprises you whenever you find it so brazenly on display. You let him come near, because you’ve never been able to hold him further than arms’ length away. He looks at you, not like you’re something to mourn but something to revere instead, “Are you satisfied?”

Are you? You can still feel the anger lining your bones, the hatred you have for their faces and souls lingers in the crevices of your identity, leaking through your actions and judgements. You had been too angry to speak, their deaths had loosened the rope around your neck. 

“I am.”

Spencer chokes, just a little, and it takes everything in the team to not follow suit. Your voice, the one you had been forced to tramp down on, is finally heard. They had slit your throat to silence you, but they remain in pieces on the forest floor and you are here in your regalia with antlers sticking out of your head. You aren’t sure who got the better deal, but at the moment it feels like you’ve won a long war you hadn’t known you were fighting. 

“You’re speaking.”

That makes your brow quirk up, lips tilting up too, even if it is the barest bits of a smile, “Really?”

“Oh my god.”

His eyes are growing wet, teary, and you could joke, could ask him for me? But you don’t, instead you just sigh, a fond sound really, your thumb reaching up to swipe the first tear that spills over away, “Spencer.”

He drags you into a hug, fierce and tight and it startles you at first, but you give into it within a matter of seconds. You have to think of your antlers, but none of it matters when he’s clinging to you like a lifeline, and you are too even if you wouldn’t admit it. You can feel his heart stuttering with how fast it’s going, you can smell the relief coming off of him. He loves you, that you’re sure of. 

Eventually he does pull back, he doesn’t kiss you right then, now isn’t the time. Instead he just stares, memorizing your face in the daylight especially now that isn’t covered in blood, “Come home?”

You sigh, eyes fluttering shut for a moment as you weigh the choice, but it’s an easy one despite it all, “I’m coming home.”

____________

While you can hide the antlers, the whited out eyes, the hooves, you can’t hide most of the spots, or the white hair. You aren’t sure why you got the white out version of a deer woman, but you also aren’t complaining. You just have to get used to having a blanket of snow atop your head instead of a coat of raven feathers. The white spots are seen closer to your hairline, peeking out under your cheekbone but never going too far. What also won’t go away is the claws you have at the ends of your fingernails, it’s like pointed pieces of deer hooves have stuck themselves on. 

What goes down officially is that James Cochran orchestrated the entire ordeal, when he was found out he took his friends to the woods under the guise of a hunting trip and shot them all, including Angela, then himself. He also allegedly kidnapped you, but you survived the encounter. Is the bureau pleased? No, but there’s only so much they can be mad about when it comes to a lack of cell-service and a group of hunters versus their back yard. When it comes down to it though the team found out who it was a day after James had taken them up to the woods. 

On the final day your family appears on the porch of the station, your father at the lead. Hotch tells you, ever so gently, that they are waiting for you there, but you are not obligated to see them. You go anyway because you aren’t sure when you’ll come back to this town, to these particular woods. Or if you’ll even come back at all. At nineteen you swore you wouldn’t, at twenty-four you broke that vow. Spencer comes with you as backup, just in case things start to go wrong, you let him tag along too. It feels better with him by your side. 

Luke Cochran watches as you two descend, you aren’t wearing your regalia, you had to change before being taken in by the medical people, when questioned how you weren’t suffering any you told them that the woods would protect you. They provided food, water, shelter, if one couldn’t survive the woods they had no business being in the woods. Nobody questioned you after that, even if they maybe should’ve done so. 

Your father, when he sees you without the antlers and the hooves, or the ears, you had forgotten about the ears, he looks ready to bend over with his grief. As if seeing you with the white hair had confirmed his nightmare of that night to be true. For a moment nobody says anything, Spencer stands beside you, too close to be professional, or even just friendly, but distant enough to where he’s not smothering you. You tilt your chin up a little, a small indicator for him to speak. 

“Little Doe, we hear you’re leaving today.”

Ever the wise man, ever the torchbearer of torturous truth whenever it comes to you. You don’t know how to feel about him most of the time. How good he is when he’s good, how mean he is when he’s bad. You’ve felt the strength of his hands in forms of bruises mottled black and blue against your skin and you’ve felt his love in the way he’s braided your hair as you grew up. He loves you, that you know, but his love wasn’t enough to deter his anger either. 

“I am.”

There’s a ripple of whispers in your family, you even see your mother start to weep. Your voice which had been shut away for so long finally came back to life, it is no coincidence that with the nine recent deaths your voice has returned to you. Again, you do not know what you are anymore, what your title shall be. Little Doe is dead with a bloodstained boulder as a gravemarker. Angry Buck is dead because all the velvet of her has been shed. Now there is you, and whatever you are. 

This your father seems to understand too judging by the little gleam in his eyes. You aren’t sure why the nicknames are so important to your family, no other Native family uses names like it anymore, except for perhaps the elders. Yet your father has always insisted on using Cherokee names for him and his family. They are more ceremonial, but everyone uses them as if they are your names. You have gone through two names, and now you wait for your third, and final, name. 

“Go where you need to be White-Antlered Elk, it is not here.”

White-Antlered Elk, straight-forward, yes, and a little on the nose, but you do not shy away from the title either. The white elk are rare, far and few between, you know it is something special for you to bear a crown of them. You think maybe something went even more wrong in their victory ritual that night, it brought you back as something even worse than the average deer woman. You don’t know, frankly, you don’t care either. You’re alive, you have your blood soaked revenge, and you’re going back home. 

You’d felt a tug on one of your long braids and turned your head quickly. There was a boy with similarly long hair, though it flowed a little wild and unbraided. He’d grinned at you with the crooked teeth of youth and asked wanna play tag, Two Braids?

This was a fair nickname, you thought to yourself. The Quileute girls also wore two braids traditionally, but you’d noticed that all of the modern girls wore one braid, a ponytail, or their hair cut short. You were, indeed, the only two braids there. 

And so you’d grinned, put your finger to your nose and yelled not it! before taking off. You hadn’t known at the time, but he’d been you at one point. The kid with the dead mom. He knew how to handle you, because it was how he wished he’d been handled. 

And the rest was, as they say, history. 

Except - and there’s always an except, isn’t there?

Jacob’s been avoiding you. And you know this, because it’s hard to not run into someone in a place as small as La Push. Like, twenty people live here. (You’re exaggerating, of course, but it really feels that way sometimes). 

Point is - your best friend is actively playing keep away with himself. He’s not answering your texts, your calls, he even has his dad in on it! Billy at first told you Jake was sick, contagious, but it’s morphed into he’s out, I’ll let him know when he’s back. 

You know he doesn’t let Jacob know. 

You can’t help but wonder if it’s something you’ve done. Ever since your mom died, you’ve felt like there’s something ugly, something burdensome, something sick inside of you. You feel it, sometimes. Like a hungry mouth devouring every part of you that could be considered good. 

You wonder if he’s finally seen it, too. 

There was something weird going on, though, too. Jacob had been the one to truly point it out to you, before he’d gotten sucked into whatever it was. 

It had started with Jared and Paul. You only really knew them the way you knew people in small towns but weren’t friends with; by association, through other people. Your friend Kim had a massive crush on Jared, and Paul was and always had been the rowdy kid in school. Until suddenly, he wasn’t. Neither of them were in school. 

Instead of being in school like the rest of you, they spent their days hanging out with Sam Uley. Someone that, you thought, was too old to be hanging out with high schoolers. They’d cut their hair and gotten matching tattoos and dropped out of school and started hanging out with the older boy and…nothing. It seemed like nobody cared. 

Of course there were whispers, moms who knew this was how Paul would end up, but wondering how a fairly studious boy like Jared did. It wasn’t like they’d run in the same crowd, before. But the council members couldn’t rave enough about the three boys. That was…suspicious. 

Then Embry had started acting strange. He’d always been easy going, a smile on his face, a soft laugh to offer to a joke. But he’d started being snappy, rolling his eyes and scoffing and stalking away at a joke he’d normally giggle at. And then he’d started hanging out with Jared and Paul and Sam, with the same buzzed hair, with the same tattoo, dropping out of school just the same-

Jacob had been a little more heartbroken than you. Embry’s been his friend since they were in diapers, practically, and suddenly he was worlds away. Metaphorically of course, because again, La Push has like, three houses. 

Jacob had confided in you, had told you that he’s uncomfortable, that he’s nervous, because Sam keeps looking at him, the same way he had looked at Embry, the same way he had allegedly looked at Jared and Paul, and his dad was acting weird, the council members were acting weird-

And now. 

Now your best friend was sitting outside the small grocery store with the same buzzed hair, the same tattoo, laughing like he’d been a part of the group for years, like he hadn’t just been afraid of them a month ago. 

He turns and catches your eye by accident, and you’re quick to turn away, to start stalking away, to try and ignore the burn in your eyes. There’s a moment where you think you’ve gotten away, and then you hear your name being called. 

There’s no footsteps behind you to indicate his approach, but there’s a hand on your wrist suddenly. It’s large, larger than it was before, and hot. You jerk away like you’ve been burned. 

“Go away,” you hear yourself say, your face burning hot with a multitude of emotions. Embarrassment, anger, betrayal. “You haven’t had any issue staying away, anyway.”

Jacob looks different, larger. He’s shirtless even though it’s easily forty degrees outside, his once long beautiful hair buzzed short. The look on his face is familiar though; soft, mournful. 

“Can’t we just talk?” he asks, and his voice is a little deeper, too, huskier. You lean into the anger, the betrayal, trying to ignore the sadness that’s clawed into the contours of your heart. 

“You haven’t wanted to talk to me for a month,” you say hotly. “Keep it that way.”

You jerk your wrist out of his hand and he lets you. You know he lets you, because you know there’s no way you could actually fight him off if he didn’t want to let you.

“Please,” he pleads. He’s evidently following you, though you can’t hear his footsteps. Strange; as big as he is, he should be clumsy, noisy. “It’s not what you think.”

“How could you know what I think?” you retort. “I don’t even know what I think. All I know is you started avoiding me, I just wanted to talk, just wanted to see you, you even got your dad in on it-”

“You have to know it’s not what I wanted,” he says, sounding a little desperate now. “Please just - just hear me out.”

You can see your house a few yards away now and you speed up. He’s still pleading as you unlock your front door and step inside, holding it open just enough to speak. 

“Stay away from me.”

You slam the door in his face, tears sliding hotly down your face. You were trying to hold them in until you were alone, but you know he’s seen them by the way his face falls. 

You end up successfully avoiding your dad and are tucked into bed that night. You’re having a hard time falling asleep, despite crying so much. There’s a tap at your window that you resolve to ignore; it was probably rain. It’s always rain.

However, it happens again. A little louder, not rhythmic enough to be the rain. You sit up and look, eyes feeling heavy and puffy. 

It’s Jacob. 

He looks as pitiful as a begging dog, a pleading, heartbroken look on his face. He’s still in nothing but cut off shorts. As you approach the window to either shut the blinds or let him in, his face falls even more and you know you look as pitiful as you feel. 

And - damn him. You’ve always had a soft spot for that stupid look on his stupid face, the one that says he’s sorry and he cares. You let out a soft, deep breath before pushing the window pane open. 

“What do you want?” you ask, all the fire from earlier burnt out and leaving soft, tired tones. 

His brows furrow. “I want to explain,” he answers, voice just as soft. “But first, I want to give you a hug.”

You look away, pointedly wrapping your arms around yourself before stepping away from the window enough for him to climb in. You’re in your sleepwear, a pair of sweats and a tanktop, hair hanging long and loose. He huffs softly, tugging lightly at the ends of your hair. 

“Can’t call you Two Braids right now,” he says softly, trying out a joke. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you out of them.”

You don’t laugh. You don’t even smile. You just hug yourself tighter. What little levity was in his face fades away, and he looks mournful and apologetic again. 

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is so, so soft. He’s only spoken to you like that when you were crying over something like a fight with your dad, or your mom’s death. He ducks his head to try and meet your eye. “I’m so, so sorry, honey.”

Somehow, though you’re exhausted and should have little to no moisture left in your body, you tear up. Your bottom lip trembles and a small, sad noise escapes you. 

“Oh, honey,” Jacob hushes, reaching out and wrapping you in a tight, warm hug. It feels like it warms your bones, like it might heal the cracks in your heart. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You’re stupid,” you say, voice watery and hurt even as you let yourself be held. “You’re - you’re stupid and mean and I don’t even wanna be your friend anymore-”

He makes a hurt noise in the back of his throat, hugging you harder. “I know,” he says quietly into your hair. “I know I am. I know you don’t.”

You cry quietly for a while before you’re well and truly burnt out. But still, he doesn’t let go of you.

“Can I explain myself?” he asks. “And then you can call me whatever name and tell me to get out of your life if you want.”

You know you won’t do that. But you can hear in his voice that he thinks you will. You nod against his chest, too tired to move away or anything. 

He senses that. His large, strong hands grasp your arms as he pulls away, brows furrowed in concern as he guides you to sit on your bed. He kneels on the floor in front of you, looking up at you. 

“Can I get you anything?” he whispers. You shake your head, a little shiver going through you since the window is still open and it’s letting in a breeze. Almost quicker than you can process, he’s on his feet and closing it, then back and grabbing your blanket to put around your shoulders. 

You look at him with that look he sometimes hates. The one that sees through him, that makes him feel like you know everything about him. He swallows. 

“Okay,” he says quietly, mostly to himself. He looks up at you again. “What do you remember from the Quileute stories?”

You furrow your brows, shaking your head slightly in light annoyance. There’s so many. There always is, when it comes to tribal stories. He had to be more specific. 

He huffs, realizing this. “About shapeshifters,” he clarifies. Your expression clears of annoyance, but the questioning look is still in your eyes. 

“The ancestors used to shapeshift into wolves,” you recount easily enough. “To protect the tribe against the cold ones.”

He’s looking at you like you’re supposed to get it. You wait for the epiphany to hit, but you just give him an annoyed look. He huffs, a little irritated now himself. 

“You’re not dumb,” he says bluntly. You scowl. 

“And you’re not one for beating around the bush, so just say it,” you snap. He makes an expression that says fair point and comes out with it. 

“I’m one. Of them. A shapeshifter. A wolf shifter.” 

You look at him through narrowed eyes, considering this. “...okay,” you finally say, and he huffs a laugh. 

“Okay? That’s it?” he presses. You wrinkle your nose. 

You believe it in the way most natives believe in their stories. It was probably real, in the past, and you wouldn’t be too surprised if it was real now, but you’re also probably not going to fully believe it until you see it. 

“I don’t know what else to say,” you say honestly. “You’re…probably telling the truth?”

He lets out a slow breath; he understands. Of course he does. He places his hands on either side of your legs on the bed and leans forward. 

“Let me tell you about it,” he says quietly. “I was…I was fine, for a long time, right? You were the reason for that. Kept me…I don’t know, happy. Stable. The first time you shift doesn’t really happen until you’re unstable.” He lets out another sigh. “I’d been feeling kind of off that whole weekend. Not sick, not wrong, just…off. And then my dad got after me for not doing the dishes and I just…I just snapped.”

He looks up at you with haunted eyes. “I almost killed my father. Do you know how lucky I was that I was on my way out the door? Can you imagine a ten foot long wolf in my small trailer?” He shudders, and you swallow. 

“Anyway…when I first…shifted, I freaked out. Took me a few hours to shift back. Had to be talked through it.” He huffs another laugh, but there’s no humor in this one. “Remember I told you how Sam had been watching me? This is why. He knew it was gonna happen to me too.”

He pauses, giving you time to consider this. Because after all, he wasn’t just revealing his truth; it was Embry’s, Jared’s, Paul’s, Sam’s. You take a breath. 

“And after that?” you ask quietly. “Why did you…why didn’t you tell me?”

Why did you avoid me, why did you abandon me, why why why.

He lets out a slow breath. “I wasn’t…allowed, to tell you,” he says slowly. “Or really be around you. Wolf shifters, especially new ones, are…volatile. Unpredictable. I could have hurt you.”

You take this in. It makes sense. Especially since he said the only thing that had set him off originally was his dad trying to make him do the dishes. You were frustrating by design. And of course Jacob didn’t want to hurt you. 

But, you tilt your head. “So why are you allowed to tell me now?” you ask. He looks a bit like a deer caught in headlights and swallows. 

“I just…we all decided that you deserved to know,” he says. You narrow your eyes at him. You can tell he’s not telling you something. 

“What aren’t you saying?” you press. You poke the skin between his eyebrows. “I can tell when you’re hiding something.”

He huffs, and you can tell it’s both irritation and amusement. “You always know,” he says, lips turning up in a smile. But then he starts to look nervous again. “Look. There’s these…stories that don’t often get told. Really only to the elders, so they’ll remember if something like this ever happens.”

You wait patiently for him to continue. He takes a deep breath. 

“There’s this…thing that wolves do,” he starts off slowly. “It’s called…imprinting. It happens when - when the wolf shifter finds the person who is essentially their soulmate,” he finally gets out. “It’s like…the world stops, and gravity isn’t the thing holding you down anymore, it’s her. You’d do anything and be anything for her.”

Your heart starts to pound a little faster. You wonder in the back of your mind if he can hear it. “Are you saying…you…?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “On you. Who could it be, but you?”

“And that’s why you’re allowed to tell me,” you finish, trying not to focus on the impossibleness of forever and soulmates. He nods, eyes on yours to take in your reaction. You’re not having much of one, to his surprise and impatience. “So…what? What now?”

He sighs, reaching out and taking one of your hands in one of his large ones. “I’ll…I’ll do anything you want,” he says earnestly. “Be anything you want. You just gotta tell me.”

You let out a soft breath, and you can see the way he hangs onto the sound. You look down at your enjoined hands. 

“I…I think I need some time,” you say quietly. “I…I understand why you stayed away. If everything you’re saying is true, I understand. But…I’m still hurt. Would you have ever even talked to me again if you hadn’t imprinted? Would you have ever told me?”

“Yes,” he says immediately, honestly, and it soothes something in you, fills in one of those cracks he’d left by avoiding you. “I don’t give a shit what Sam says. You’re my best friend, I would have told you. I was getting ready to crack already, to be honest, before I saw you at the store today.”

That puts a small smile on your face. You run your thumb absentmindedly over his knuckles and see the way it affects him; he relaxes, eyes looking up hopefully at you. 

“Would you ever…show me?” you ask. “You shifting?”

You can tell it’s only his respect for you and the fragility of the moment that makes him not immediately snap the word no. He swallows it down before thinking. 

“You’d have to be…pretty far away from me,” he says slowly. “I could really hurt you.”

You look into his eyes. “Are you…different, when you’re shifted?” you ask. “Would you hurt me even after shifting?”

He purses his lips. “I’m different in the sense that my senses are heightened, I’m maybe a little bit more connected to the primitive part of me,” he answers. “But no, I wouldn’t hurt you after shifting.”

You nod. After a moment, you fall forward, coming to slump against his chest, cheek on his shoulder and soft breath on his neck. He steadies you and wraps an arm around you immediately.  “I changed my mind, I don’t need time,” you mumble. “I just need you around.”

You don’t think you’re imagining the way his heart stutters. He begins to rub his hand against your waist. 

“I’m here,” he says, voice low and intimate. “You have me.”

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been stopped up in your diaphragm since he first started avoiding you. You relax so suddenly, eyes fluttering shut, that he makes a small noise of alarm. 

“Hey, you okay?” he asks quietly, holding you up with ease. He’s so warm and solid against you, and you trust him with your entirety. 

“Mm,” you mumble. “Tired.”

Of course you’re tired. You’ve been going through it emotionally for a month, you’ve spent the better part of the day and night crying your eyes out, and you’ve just been told that wolf shifters are real, and that your best friend is one. You’re a bit overdue for at least a nap. 

He makes another small noise, of understanding but with a tinge of hurt, like he knows he’s the cause for it. “Alright, honey,” he says. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He moves you effortlessly, tucking you into your bed and under your blanket. He uses his hand to brush your hair back from your face, and you’re already mostly asleep. You’re already mostly asleep, and you can’t tell if the kiss on your forehead is real or a dream. You know you’re not imagining it when you hear him say, “I’ll be by to pick you up tomorrow, Two Braids.”

That night, your dreams are filled with the howl of wolves and heavy paws hitting muddy ground. They’re chasing something, something you can’t see, and you wonder what a wolf could be bothered to chase and you realize-

You shoot straight up in your bed with a gasp, feeling vaguely sick. You’d completely glossed over this part of the night, so focused on the fact that your best friend was a wolf shifter, that you forgot why wolf shifters exist. 

Cold ones. 

Vampires. 

You can feel that you’re freaking out, but you’re also kind of not? You’re not sure, everything is just kind of blurry and hazy and your chest kind of hurts and your face is feeling a little numb…

Large, warm hands grab your shoulders, and you hear your name as if from underwater. 

“Breathe!” the voice demands, low and panicked. “Two Braids, come on. I need you to breathe for me.”

The next breath you take in kind of hurts, big and rattling through you. But it makes things a little clearer, you gain a little feeling back in your face as you continue taking big breaths. 

“There you go,” Jacob mutters, hands still holding onto your bare shoulders. “I knew you took the news too easily last night.”

“I don’t…care that you’re a giant dog,” you gasp, chest hurting just a little less as the breaths get easier. “V-V-Vampires.”

His expression twists into something confusing. Disgust mixed with resentment mixed with empathy. He leans in until his lips are on your forehead, pressing a firm kiss before he speaks against your skin. “I’d never let one near you,” he promises in a low voice. You grasp at his shoulders, covered with a shirt as opposed to being bare last night. 

“You can’t - you can’t promise that-”

“I absolutely can,” he interrupts, sounding irritated. “You think I’d ever let something hurt you?”

The confidence, the surety in his voice admittedly soothes you a little. You take in one more shaky breath and swallow. Your head clears a little more. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask, seemingly registering for the first time since you woke up that this is odd. He runs his fingers through your loose hair. 

“Came to pick you up like I promised. It’s later than you usually wake up, so I thought you’d be ready. I could hear you freaking out from the front door.”

You hum and close your eyes. “Where’s my dad?”

“Hanging out with mine,” he says. He finally pulls back to look at you, his eyes big and brown. “You feeling better? Not gonna pass out on me?”

An anxiety shudder rolls through you, but you nod. “Yeah, I’m okay,” you say. “Not gonna pass out. But…I need to get dressed. So…get out.”

He huffs a laugh. You’ve always been that way, blunt, to the point. To some people it came across as rude, but he’s been around you long enough to know that that’s just how you are. 

“Alright,” he says. His hands leave trails of warmth down your bare arms until he’s holding your hands. “Dress warm, okay? Season’s getting ready to change.”

If your blood hadn’t drained during your terrifying realization, you might have blushed. You were still wrapping your head around the fact that he had imprinted on you, still wrapping your head around the fact that you two were essentially soulmates. And Jacob had never been particularly shy, so he was being extra open with his affection, what with the forehead kisses and sweet, protective words. 

And look - you weren’t blind. Jacob has always been handsome, with rich brown skin, big dark eyes, a pretty smile. But now he was all tall and buff and warm and had a freakin’ tattoo…

Yeah. You could’ve had it worse, you guess. 

As you get dressed, in a long sleeve and jeans since he’d said to dress warm, you find yourself faltering. Sure, you could’ve had it worse, but what about him?

You were nothing special, you thought as you put your hair into its signature two braids. You looked like any other rez girl. He could find a hundred of you on any reservation. You tug on the end of your braid uncomfortably. 

Was it dumb to wear your hair like this? Jacob always called you Two Braids, did he mean it more as a teasing insult than as something affectionate, like you’d always thought? You look at your face; plain. Should you start wearing makeup?

You didn’t really have time for this. You grab a jacket and then make your way out to the living room where Jacob’s waiting. He looks up from the couch and at you, face spreading into an easy smile. He stands, tweaking the end of one of your braids. 

“There you are, pretty girl.”

His voice is warm, honest, and it washes away every doubt you had. You try to hide the fact that you’d been feeling self-conscious with an eye roll, but you can tell he knows by the way his eyes are soft despite his teasing smile. 

You two step outside and you shiver; it really was getting cold. Jacob tsks before you hear fabric rustling. You look over just in time to see him shrugging out of his pullover. You immediately begin to protest.  “Relax,” he says, tugging it over your head. He’s grinning as he situates you, smoothing your hair and tucking it behind your ears. “I run at a toasty 108 now that I’m a wolf. I can’t even feel the cold, let alone get sick.”

You were starting to believe him a little more because, wow, the inside of his pullover felt like it just came out of the dryer. It was hot. You shiver again, this time in pleasure. 

“Where are we going?” you ask as he starts to walk slowly. He hums, reaching out and grabbing one of your hands. You want to blush like a schoolgirl as he intertwines your fingers. 

“Emily’s,” he says. “Emily is…Sam’s imprint. And fiancee. Emily’s place is kind of our base, I guess. I…thought you might want to meet everybody.” He scrunches his face. “Okay, well, you know everybody, but I guess I mean, meet them again under a different context. Embry’s excited to see you. And Em, she could use more girls around.”

You chew on your bottom lip a little, nervous. “They know I know?” you ask. “And…that you…that we…”

Jacob’s face flushes a little bit, which amuses you just a little. “They’re well aware,” he says, voice a little choked. “We can kind of…hear each other’s thoughts? When we’re phased. And I’ve been kind of - thinking about you a lot? Paul calls it Two Braids TV.” Jacob scoffs. “I keep telling him not to call you that. That’s my name.”

You’re both amused and embarrassed by this revelation. “And they’re…okay, with this?” you press. Jacob squeezes your hand. 

“I wouldn’t give a shit if they weren’t, but yeah, they’re more than okay with this,” he assures you. You start coming upon a house and Jacob lowers his voice, tugging you to a stop. “Hey, I know you won’t, but just…don’t stare at Emily, okay? It bugs Sam.”

You scowl at him, because you won’t stare, no matter what it is. You were raised better than that. He huffs, both amused and exasperated. 

“Right,” he mutters, then tugs you the rest of the way to Emily’s. 

You realize right away why Jacob had warned you against staring at Emily. She was beautiful, deep brown skin and shiny black hair, but her face…there was no way to describe it other than it looked like she’d gotten mauled by a bear. She smiled at you, but only the unmarred half of her face moved. 

“You must be the girl Jacob’s been driving Sam crazy over,” she says kindly, reaching out to pull you into a hug. “I’m Emily. Sam’s fiancee.”

You introduce yourself, letting yourself be hugged and only slightly awkwardly hugging back. You weren’t big on physical contact, and in your culture, women kind of…act dainty(?) when meeting someone new. That’s not quite right. You just didn’t use all your strength to hug someone or shake their hand; it was seen as a sign of aggression if you did. It was respectful to show deference. 

“It’s Two Braids!” someone crows. You look towards who said it and recognize the individual as Paul. Faster than you could blink, a can opener flies at his head. Impossibly, he catches it just as quickly. 

“I told you not to call her that!” Jacob snaps, but Paul just grins, looking you over. 

“I could always call her babe instead,” he says, sending you a wink. “How ‘bout it, babe?”

There’s a growl that permeates the room and you instinctively look down for an angry dog, but you’re startled to realize that the sound is coming from Jacob. The whole ‘men of this tribe used to phase into wolves to protect the people against vampires and now these teenage boys you’ve grown up with do too’ thing was starting to get a little real. But you scowl at Paul. 

“Don’t call me that,” you say firmly. Paul laughs. 

“Then what do I call you?”

“I have a name,” you say hotly. “Use it.”

And you are truly in the presence of teenage boys, because a resounding oooooo goes through the room. But Paul just shrugs, grabbing a muffin from the table. 

“Hey, glad you finally know our deepest darkest secrets,” a voice says. You turn and let yourself be pulled into another hug, this time by Embry. You grin, hugging him back. 

You spend the day getting acquainted with everybody, laughing and helping Emily in the kitchen. You get to see them shift; not all of them, not Jacob, but Jared and Paul, who have patrol. Jacob hovers behind you while it happens, thinking you’re going to freak out and faint or something, but you just watch in wonder. 

Jacob’s walking you back home, letting you ponder in silence even though the silence is clearly killing him. You tilt your head to the side to look up at him. 

“What color are you?” you ask curiously. He blinks. 

“Is that what you’ve been thinking so hard about?” he asks, then laughs. “I don’t know. Brown.”

You frown. 

“Not descriptive enough. Try again.”

Jacob huffs. “Reddish brown.”

You roll your eyes. “Come on, Jake, tell me about your fursona.”

He sputters. “My - My fursona? You dick, I turn into an actual wolf, it’s not a fursona-”

He rounds on you as he rants and you laugh, trying to push him away as he pokes at your sides and gently roughhouses you. All the playfighting leads to him in your space, something he seems to realize at the same time. He quiets down, large hands no longer tickling but coming to a rest on your waist. You wonder if he can hear your heartbeat skip as you look up at him. 

(Little do you know, he hardly hears it over his own as his eyes glance down at your lips). 

You suck in a quiet breath. Your mind races. All these years of being best friends, and now the unlikely has happened, and he’s imprinted on you, and you two were soulmates-

“Do you think we would have ended up here, regardless of you shifting and imprinting?” 

You have to know before you let him kiss you. If this was all stupid wolf magic, then he could shove it. But-

“I’ve been in love with you since we were thirteen,” he says quietly. His eyes move to meet your own as he says it. “I would have done my damnedest to end up here with you.”

The devotion in his words makes you shiver, and he pulls you closer instinctively, protectively. You believe him, of course you believe him. You let your gaze fall down to his lips in permission. 

You hear his intake of breath. He nudges your noses together, both of your eyes’ half closed. 

“Last chance to tell me to shove off,” he murmurs, and you feel his warm breath on your lips. 

“I gotta do everything around here,” you answer, reaching up to grab his cheeks and pull his mouth to yours. 

You’d only ever kissed a couple of boys on a dare during bonfires, so you had no idea it could feel like this. Warm and comfortable, yet new and exhilarating. His lips press firmly yet lovingly to yours, his hands sliding into your hair to hold you reverently. You pull away, flushed and with a smile. 

“The braids getting in the way?” you murmur. You feel him smile against your mouth.