Archive of Our Own ^beta

When Spencer has his first meeting with a high school guidance counselor at the ripe old age of eleven, all he knows is that he wants to get as far from Las Vegas, from Nevada, as possible. 

He loves his mom. She means everything to him. But.

But he knows that she’ll never forgive him, or herself, which is somehow worse, if he doesn’t push himself as far as possible. If he doesn’t go to one of the Ivy leagues. Brown. Columbia. Dartmouth. Princeton. Yale. UPenn. Cornell. 

Harvard. 

Harvard, where his mom went to college. Where she earned her first doctorate, in her early twenties, before her illness took hold and made her who she is today. 

He’s always dreamed of Harvard. She’s always dreamed of Harvard for him. 

So it’s Harvard he aims for. 

The guidance counselor, Miss Winter, isn’t quite sure how to handle any student from a Las Vegas public high school aiming for Harvard, let alone an eleven-year-old who barely clears five feet (his mom promises, on her good days, that he’ll be tall one day, just like her. He hopes he doesn’t take after his father for many reasons, his stature the mildest of his sins.)

He leaves the office a little discouraged, but then goes to the library near his house and looks up everything he can about admission criteria and entry requirements. He’s in all AP classes. He’s part of the Chess Club and the AV Club. When he can, he goes and reads to the seniors at the old folks’ home, and they pinch his cheeks and sneak him candy and fruit. 

If he applies, he should have a shot. 

***

In the end, it’s more than easy for him to be accepted. When he goes for the interview, his Physics teacher agrees to go with him, and doesn’t ask questions about why Spencer has picked him and not his mom. 

He’s probably guessed why, by now. He suspects all of his teachers know.

The flight is easy, and when he lands, the crisp Boston air feels almost welcoming. 

It’s only put to shame by the Mathematics Department. The building itself isn’t particularly exciting, what with its Modernist, almost Brutalist architectural style, but the people inside are. The equipment inside has Spencer trying his hardest not to jump on the spot with his hands clutched against his chest.  

The day he receives his acceptance letter is one of the best of his life. 

***

He’s fourteen when he moves across the country. He is two thousand, seven hundred, and ten point seven miles away from his mom, who his Physics teacher has promised to keep an eye on for him. 

He’s got a scholarship, and he’s not forced to room with anyone, so it’s…alright. 

He cries himself to sleep that first night, but pretty soon he’s too busy, learning too much, to think. 

***

He starts taking Math 25 in his first semester, but pretty soon the professor pulls him aside and suggests he tries Math 55. He doesn’t miss the excited gleam in the man’s eyes.

So he does. 

It’s a challenge, sure - not because of the content’s complexity, but because of the sheer amount of work involved. Calculus, algebra…his brain can manage that. 

He struggles with remembering to eat when he’s engrossed in one of the more difficult equations. 

He struggles with remembering to sleep, and ends up slightly over-reliant on a steady diet of coffee and sugary foods. 

He’s one of seventy when he joins the class, half a semester behind. 

He’s one of twenty who sit the final. 

He gets an A, and keeps a 4.0 GPA.

***

The first time the NSA comes calling is the day after he graduates from his Maths degree. And his Engineering degree. 

He may or may not have double majored. 

They really push, but he tells them that he’s going to do a doctorate in Mathematics, and they acquiesce, saying they would like to speak to him in three years’ time. 

***

In those three years, he earns his second doctorate, as well as two more Bachelor of Sciences, and is well on his way into the third PhD. He should be done in another six months, he thinks.  

The day he gets the letter, he’s planned to go with a classmate, Ethan, to watch a criminology lecture by someone called Jason Gideon, who Reid finds out is one of the founders of the Behavioral Analysis Unit for the FBI at Quantico. 

The letter tells him that it’s a waste of time, and that he’s being recruited for the NSA without much choice in the matter. 

When Ethan comes back, full of plans to become a profiler, he smiles, the letter weighing heavily in his pocket. 

***

Six months later, Ethan heads to Virginia. He joins the FBI Academy, and drops out within two days.

Spencer knows, because he sent him a letter. 

Meanwhile, he’s in Maryland. Baltimore, to be precise. 

The clinical psychologist gently suggests a PDD diagnosis, but when he mentions it to a higher-up, it’s quickly swept under the rug. He passes the psychological evaluation, and the polygraph, with no issues.

His background check flags nothing, which he finds interesting, but he did get questions about risk factors related to schizophrenia during the evaluation, so he knows they know. 

Because of course they do. They’re the NSA. 

***

He’s assigned to Cryptanalysis, which he likes. It’s a constant puzzle. 

He breaks codes. 

He saves lives, or he thinks he does. He never actually gets it confirmed.

He checks in on his mom, and has her moved to a psychiatric hospital close by.

She refuses to see him for six months after, but then he sees her every week, sometimes even twice. 

He’s…happy. 

Enough. 

***

He keeps tabs on the BAU, of course. He finds himself wondering “what if” every time the existential ennui hits, and looks into profiling. 

He reads every one of David Rossi and Max Ryan’s books. He reads them multiple times, even though he doesn’t actually need to. 

He finds himself unintentionally profiling everyone around him, and eventually they try him out in Intelligence Collection, which he likes even more than cracking codes. 

He knows where they keep all the information on the BAU that they collect through one Miss Penelope Garcia, who Spencer knows enough about that he thinks if they ever met, they’d get on famously, as much of a pipe dream as it may be.

He hears about Jason Gideon leaving after the Frank Breitkopf case. 

He hears about David Rossi coming back out of retirement. 

He wonders if they ever have dealings with the NSA. 

***

The first time Spencer meets a member of the BAU is entirely by accident, when he runs into a very brightly dressed woman outside a coffee shop round the corner from his office. She has bleach blonde hair in a very early two-thousands hairdo, and she’s carrying around a laptop like it’s a baby. 

He almost spills his coffee over her. 

“Oh shoot, I’m so sorry-”

“Crap, sorry, I really need to-”

They look at each other, and smile. 

“Buy you another one?”

“I would, but my bosses are on my ass right now.” She cringes, then grabs a card out of her laptop bag. “Call me if you get a chance! Something tells me we were meant to meet today.”

He looks down, and sees the name Penelope Garcia, and the job title of Technical Analyst. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Penelope.”

“And you too, er-”

“Spencer.”

“You too, Spencer.”

***

When he gets into the office, his clothes thankfully only slightly coffee-stained (but that’s not exactly an uncommon occurrence for him), the Head of the Intelligence Division pulls him in. 

“The BAU are in town from Quantico.”

He knows this already, purely by chance, but doesn’t know what this means for him. He just nods, since he knows that’s a safe response. 

“They’re looking into the deaths of a couple of our agents nearby.” He nods again - he remembers their names, their faces. He just never really spoke to them. 

He doesn’t really speak to anyone here. 

Just his mom. 

And Nikola, the black cat he adopted last month, whose original name had been Sergio. They both liked Nikola better, he thinks. 

“Do you need me to share information with them?”

“Not exactly, Agent Reid.” He only narrowly avoids responding with it’s Doctor, actually, but thinks better of it. “We need you to keep an eye on them.”

“Why me, sir?”

“Because you’re the one with the most in-depth knowledge of the team they’ve got out here. Agents Rossi, Hotchner, and Morgan are the leads, with Agents Prentiss, Jareau, and a Ms Penelope Garcia. You’ve been keeping an eye on the files, correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you’re the best person in the office for the job. Make sure they don’t get too close to anything we’re looking into, alright?”

“Yes, sir.” Very vague, but he knows exactly which cases to guide them away from. 

“Nice one, kid. That will be all.” He bats down the flare of his temper at the word. Twenty-six years old, seven years of work at the NSA, and he’s still being called kid. 

He grabs his bag and his cell, and calls Penelope.

“Hello, is that Ms Garcia? It’s Doctor Spencer Reid, from the café earlier? You might have been right.”

***

An hour and a half and a meeting with his supervisor later, he’s convened with the people he’s been reading files on for years. 

Aaron Hotchner, very recently divorced, somewhat absent father of one. 

David Rossi, thrice divorced, one living child, a daughter, who he doesn’t actually know exists.

Derek Morgan, former cop living the bachelor lifestyle, owner of a German Shepherd called Clooney. 

Emily Prentiss, daughter of Ambassador Elizabeth Prentiss, former wild-child turned linguist who refused to be a pawn for Erin Strauss.

Jennifer Jareau, JJ to her friends, Media Liaison and currently in a secret relationship with a New Orleans detective. 

And last, but certainly not least, Penelope Garcia, forcibly recruited into the FBI due to criminal hacking and all round ray of sunshine (the last isn’t in her file, he just knows she is). 

“Well if it isn’t the young man who covered me in coffee this morning!” Penelope walks over to him and basically immediately takes hold of his hand, not giving him a chance to decline politely (and awkwardly).

“Oh, oh no - you’re not a shaker, are you? Oh I’m so sorry. Everyone, this is Spencer, from the coffee shop.” He waves, and smiles in the weird way he always does, but everyone is nice and says hello. 

Even though Hotchner is scowling, he doesn’t think it’s personal. 

“Agent Reid, it’s good to meet you. How can we be of assistance?”

“Actually I’m here to be of assistance to you. My boss, Agent O’Brien, believes that I am the best person to help, seeing as I already have good knowledge of the people involved and some of the issues they were dealing with.”

“The two agents, they were looking into a potential coup in Germany, am I correct?”

“Yes, we picked up on potential rumblings of some US citizens being involved in a far-right attempt to storm the Bundestag on the third of October last year, but we and the German authorities managed to suppress it.”  This was all on the news, so he’s not sharing anything clandestine. In his debrief he was told to be as helpful as possible, but keep away from any current missions. 

Like Sierra Leone. Myanmar. Bolivia. France. 

“Anything else they’d worked together on?”

He doesn’t have to lie for this one. “Nothing since then.” They’d been deliberately assigned to separate cases after some tension, apparently regarding actions whilst in Berlin. Spencer has never bothered with office gossip, so he doesn’t know any more. 

“Good to know. Thanks, Agent Reid.”

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I prefer Doctor to Agent. Or you can just call me Spencer. Most people do.”

“Doctor? How old are you, twenty-eight?”

“Twenty-six, actually. And I’m, uh, I’m a doctor three times over.”

“What, did you start college in diapers, kid?” Huh, kid from Agent Morgan doesn’t feel like an insult, not like when it comes from his boss. It feels almost…affectionate.

“Thirteen, actually.”

Morgan whistles. “Damn, kid. One hell of a brain you’ve got there.” He looks like he’s re-appraising him. 

It’s not the first time someone’s done that, and it certainly won’t be the last. 

Agent Hotchner coughs. “Well, thank you, Doctor Reid. Spencer. I’m Aaron, though most people call me Hotch.” He smiles, ever so slightly.

“Nice to meet you…Hotch.” He doesn’t tell him that he knows everything there is to know about him, almost down to the color of his socks. 

He’s introduced to the rest of the team - they almost all go by surnames, except for Jareau, who insists on him calling her JJ for some reason. Hotch, Rossi, Morgan, JJ, Prentiss, and Garcia. 

He thinks he’ll still call her Penelope, though. 

It means ‘weaver’. 

Like how she’s weaved him into their team with minimal effort. 

***

As he watches them, he takes a note of the dynamics. 

Hotch, as everyone but Rossi calls him, is so clearly the head of their pack, so to speak, that Spencer would have immediately known who the Unit Chief was without his perfect memory of their files. Everyone turns to him, subconsciously. 

Rossi is always nearby to Hotch, usually in the position you’d find a king's Hand. The two men’s history isn’t hard to figure out, there. 

The only person he notices Hotch defer to, truly, is Morgan. As though he’s the only other true equal, another Unit Chief in the making. 

Morgan wears his affection for Garcia on his sleeve, and he doesn’t miss the light easy touches the two share, or the definitely inappropriate nicknames that are thrown around, which, for some reason, everyone else either ignores or makes a fondly exasperated noise at. 

He can see the slight tension between Prentiss and Hotch, a slight shift in shoulders, crossed arms, but they both act entirely cordially. It’s obvious who the newest team member is. 

But even within all that…there’s something warm, something that Spencer has never experienced at the NSA, something he’s always been on the periphery of. 

Camaraderie. 

Friendship. 

Maybe even family. 

***

It’s around five when Spencer’s supervisor requests an update, and he steps into one of the empty storage closets to make the call. He’s gone for ten minutes, and when he arrives back in the temporary home the BAU have made for themselves, he finds all but Penelope have left, and even she’s got her coat on. 

“Where-”

“They are going to check out the morgue and a couple of the crime scenes, and we, Boy Wonder, are going to go and grab that coffee that we owe each other. And no, I will not be taking no for an answer.”

He smiles, and opens his arm out. 

“Lead the way, Penelope.”

***

Through some kind of internet wizardry that Spencer has decided he wants nothing to do with, they end up in a coffee shop that’s open until eleven at night, a short drive from the precinct. It’s quiet, and cozy, and exactly the kind of place he needs to make sure he visits. 

Penelope grabs a hot chocolate, and he grabs a chamomile tea, and they sit on one of the sofas at the very back, phones on the table just in case a call comes in. 

“So tell me, Doctor Reid, how did you end up in the NSA?”

“What do you know about Math 55?”

“Only that anyone who gets an A ends up working for the government in some way or another.”

“Well, I had a ninety-eight percent average. So I was…recruited, let’s say.”

“By which you mean you essentially got told you were going there, am I right?”

“That you are. How about you? How did you end up at the BAU?” He knows, of course, but wonders how many of the details she’ll share. 

“I’m not at liberty to say entirely, but let’s say that it wasn’t much different to how you joined. Which I’m sure you already know, Spencer Walter Reid, Libra, Las Vegan who knows the BAU files like the back of his hand.”

His mouth drops open, and he knows he looks ridiculous, so he forces it closed again. “How-?”

“Because I’m one of the best technical analysts the government has to offer, and if you really think I didn’t do a little digging after you called me, you don’t deserve to have an IQ of 187. As for the files, I’m the one who uploads the data. I know exactly who looks at them. So just why are you so interested in us, Spencer?” If she weren’t smirking, it would sound a lot more threatening. Which he thinks was the point.

If she wanted to threaten him, she wouldn’t have to do much. 

“I debated joining the Academy, before…” he trails off, waves the rest of the sentence away. “My friend and I, we planned to go to see Jason Gideon speak at Harvard one day, but then I got the letter, and…decided not to.”

“Oh, Gideon would’ve loved you.”

That makes him startle. “Why do you think that?”

“Smart? Check. Chess nerd? Check. I’d even bet you’d be willing to let him ramble at you about birds for hours on end, too. You’d have been the ideal mentee for Gideon, I can tell you that much. Like Batman and Jason Todd.”

He doesn’t get the reference, but he nods contemplatively. 

“It’s a shame he doesn’t lecture anymore.”

“Well, that case, and I know you know the one…he wasn’t the same after that. The man drove me wild, but he also bought me an MP3 player, so.”

“I didn’t think you’d be that easily bought, Ms Garcia.”

“Well, Doctor Reid, I’ll have you know I can be very easily persuaded with the right moves. Now, tell me. Why should I trust you, when I know your boss is making you tell him about everything we’re doing?”

“Because I’m going to try and tell him just enough to not be lying, whilst also just little enough that if there’s something else weird going on, you can look into it.” He drops his voice, covers his mouth like he’s coughing. Just in case.

“Right answer, Boy Wonder.” Boy Wonder. He likes that. “Welcome to the land of Penelope Garcia’s good books.”

“Well, I shall hope it’s a long stay. So, tell me more about CalTech.”

“Only if you tell me about Harvard. I think we’re going to be very good friends, you and me.”

***

His phone call with his boss the next morning lasts fifteen minutes. 

Then Agent O’Brien calls, and that’s another twenty minutes. 

He thinks that the amount of check-ins possibly defeats the point of having him there with the BAU. 

He walks into the precinct, and Penelope practically runs over to him with a coffee. When he takes a sip, it’s perfect. 

“Thank you, Penelope.”

“Of course, my newest and dearest friend.”

“What am I, chopped liver?” comes from halfway across the room. 

“You’re my beloved Chocolate Thunder.”

“Damn straight. Hey, kid.” Morgan walks over, smiling, hand in his jeans pocket. He drops his voice, so that no one nearby can hear. “Our girl here tells us that you’re trying to cut us some slack. Much appreciated.” He smiles, claps Spencer on the shoulder, and walks back to where JJ and Prentiss are staring at a cork board covered in pictures and sticky notes. 

He takes his coffee, smiles at Garcia again as she sits down at her station with more monitors than Spencer has ever seen anyone use, and walks over to the board. 

“So what can you tell me?”

“Hey, Spencer. What can you tell us about the two agents, so that Garcia can focus on their banking?”

“Agent Franklin came from Virginia, mom was a homemaker and dad was a cop. Was married to his wife for fifteen years, but they divorced last February. No kids. He was co-lead on the Berlin mission, but was moved to a different division after some friction with Agent Andrews. Andrews was still married at the time of his death, though separated. Three kids, two sons and a daughter. Same parental background. Neither did much outside of work except for going to the bar and playing golf.”

“So low-risk targets, then. What are the neighborhoods they were killed in like?”

“Low crime rate, safe neighborhoods. The schools in the area are among the best in the state.”

“Schools? You got a little one at home?”

“Unless you mean a cat, then no. No kids. Just me.” He tries not to make it sound self deprecating, or like he’s trying to advertise the fact he’s single. 

“Oh, I love cats. What’s his name?”

“Nikola.” He resists the urge to grab his phone out and show the extremely grainy photo he has as his background. 

“After Tesla, I’m guessing?”

“Agent Prentiss, I didn’t take you for a woman of science.”

“What can I say, I’m a nerd.”

They laugh, then stare at the board some more. 

“Huh. I wonder…”

“What?”

“Looking at the fact the golf course is right in the middle of both their houses.”

“Do you think-?”

“Do I think you should check out what the people there know? Yes, I do.”

“You? Nah, pretty boy, this is a ‘we’ situation.”

Pretty boy?

Another nickname that he finds he doesn’t mind.

***

The car ride to the golf course is possibly one of Spencer's favorites. He's in the backseat because Emily called shotgun, and then he blurts out the whole history of why it's called riding shotgun, before he forces himself to shut up. 

This is why nobody likes him at the NSA. This is why his only friend is his mom and he can't get a date-

“Hey, that's...that's actually pretty interesting, kid. What else you got?”

They. They want him to keep talking? 

For the first time in a very, very long time, he lets himself talk. He tells them about golf courses, and the bodies of water on them. He tells them about the equation he worked out on how to get under par for almost every hole. 

(When he'd told one of the dead agents this, the guy had looked at him, sneered, and told him that math didn't have any place in golf and to stay in his lane). 

By the time they arrive, he's gone off on a complete tangent and is talking about the various applications of trigonometry in the everyday world, even in some of the most unlikely places. 

“Remind me to consult you when I next decide to build a new wall.”

“I'm sorry, Agent Morgan, did you just say…build a wall?”

“I told you, no need for the “agent”, kid. Just Morgan, or Derek.” 

“Sorry A-…Derek.”

“Atta boy. Anyway, yeah. I do renovations in my free time. Well, what little of it that I have.” He chuckles to himself. “What do you get up to in your free time?”

“I read, mostly. Or I go to a chess club downtown.”

“I shoulda known. Nice, kid. Anyway, ready to deal with this lot?”

“This isn't my first interrogation, you know.”

“Oh I know, but it's the first in a long time, I'm guessing.”

“...You guess correctly.”

Morgan laughs again, but it never feels mean, or like it's been directed at him. It's like he's encouraged to laugh along. 

“Well, you can watch the master at work.”

“Oh, is Emily going to lead?”

Morgan actually chokes a little, this time. “Damn kid, you got jokes. I think we're all gonna like having you around.”

Well, that's new. 

***

The people at the golf club aren’t exactly useful, but he notices three things. One, the way they try to avoid catching their eyes. Two, the way that several people spot them and immediately walk in the opposite direction. Three, the way several of the women are looking at Morgan. And at him. 

Which, well. Derek, he gets. Him, not so much. 

Prentiss fits in here, seems to know exactly how to talk to them without any kind of issues, and has more success than either he or Morgan do with getting people to talk, even as she walks around alone. 

He really wants to ask about what it was like, living in so many countries when she was younger, but he suspects it might touch a nerve, judging from the way she shrugs the persona she’s been wearing off as she comes back to see them, nose scrunching like she can smell something disgusting. 

“So, it seems our two victims have actually been seen together a fair few times here, like…every week.”

“And let me guess, they’ve been pretty friendly the whole time.”

“Exactly - completely opposite to what pretty boy’s friends have told us.”

Spencer snorts, and Derek turns to him and smiles. “I take it you weren’t exactly sitting around and shooting the shit together, then.”

“You could say that.”

“Good to know.”

***

When they get back to the precinct, he realizes that he was out of cell service for the whole time, and now has three increasingly angry voicemails from his bosses. 

Oops. 

When he gets a chance to call back, he has to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment. 

“Agent Reid, the expectation is that you answer calls when they come through.”

“Yes, of course, sorry sir, I was out of service.”

“Would you care to tell me why you were just seen with Agents Morgan and Prentiss at the McMillan golf course?”

“We thought we had a lead.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir. We now know Franklin and Andrews were spending time together there every week.”

“That doesn’t sound relevant to solving their murders.”

“It might not be, but-”

“But nothing, Agent. Focus on the case. I want the BAU out of this city as fast as possible, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

“Profiling’s a bunch of bullshit anyway, just a bunch of fancy words wrapped up in pseudopsychology.”

“...O-of course, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“You better, kid.”

His boss hangs up.

Spencer presses his forehead against the cool brick to soothe the threatening tension headache.

***

When he goes back out,  the team has gathered around the table, and are looking at the autopsy reports, which they’ve only just got thanks to the amount of red tape his department puts around almost everything. 

“Says here that both victims were shot point-blank range between the eyes. They were also shot in the chest four times, each leg, out through the mouth, and in the front of the neck. Both of them. And it looks to be a .45 caliber bullet. Lab techs are still working out the gun.”

“Each victim was shot nine times? The first shot would’ve been enough to kill.”

“It’s definitely overkill, so we know this is personal. Reid, you mentioned they had been on a mission in Berlin together?”

“Yes, that was their last mission together.”

“Garcia, I want you to look into travel logs from local airports in the last ten days. Make a note of any US citizens who have returned to the US after a long absence, particularly if they’ve flown in from any airports near Berlin, including airports in countries just over the border. Reid, call your supervisors. We’re going to deliver the profile.”

Reid immediately calls up his supervisor, who conferences the head of the ID in. 

JJ starts them off. “We believe our UnSub is a white male between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five.”

Emily continues. “He likely holds neo-fascist beliefs, and was involved in an attempted coup in Germany in October last year.”

Rossi. “His chosen MO suggests that he holds those involved in preventing it responsible, and is out for revenge. His future targets are likely to be other members of the NSA, or perhaps CIA agents too.”

Morgan. “He is highly organized, and will have entered into the US days or even hours before the first shooting took place. He likely comes across as charming, but something about him will feel fake.” 

Hotch. “Our technical analyst is running a list of suspects now, which we will pass out to you very shortly. Thank you.”

Reid had always wondered how profiles were delivered, and seeing it in action is certainly not disappointing. His bosses hang up not long after the call, saying they need to talk in private, so he decides he needs a coffee, and heads out towards the kitchenette, pouring some of it into his paper mug from the trip back from the golf course and adding generous amounts of milk and sugar to hide the bitter taste. 

He finds Hotch on the phone when he heads back toward the conference room, pressing one of his ears closed as he talks quietly into the microphone. 

“Hey buddy, I know, I’m really sad I’m not there too. I promise when we get back that I’ll take you to a game, and we’ll watch it together, just the two of us. How does that sound?” He pauses, and his shoulders slump very slightly. “I don’t think Mommy is gonna want to come, bud, I’m sorry.” Another pause. “Yeah, I miss you too, little man. The second we get back I’ll pick you up and you can come and stay at mine, your mom already said it’s okay. Great.” Another pause, but a smile. “I love you too. I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hangs up, and closes his eyes, before rubbing his fingers against his temples. Spencer opens his mouth before he can think. 

“He’ll be alright, you know.”

The man startles and looks at him, frowning. “I know.”

Well, he’s already stuck his foot in it. It’s not like he’ll see these people again, and he thinks Hotch needs to hear this. “I know you know that logically, but emotionally is a different story. He’ll be fine. Better than, actually. It’s surprisingly easy to give children a secure attachment style, they only need to have fifteen percent of their needs met. It’s, uh, kinda depressing how many people can’t manage that.” Oh great, he’s rambling. “Uh, what I was trying to say was this: my parents split up when I was slightly older than I think your son is, and I’m fine. And my dad clearly didn’t care about me half as much as you care about him.” No! No pity parties. Now it sounds like he’s trauma dumping. “You’re a good dad, Agent Hotchner. He’s lucky to have you. The fact that you care enough to do this just proves that.”

For a moment, he thinks he’s about to get punched from the intensity of the frown on the man’s face, but he sighs, and flashes him a very small smile. 

“Thank you, Reid.” He doesn’t say anything else, but pats his shoulder gently, almost gingerly, as he walks back into the conference room. Spencer goes to follow, but his phone rings, so he finds a closet. It’s his supervisor, again, to his complete lack of surprise.

“Agent Reid. We have the profile now, and we have a list of suspects.”

“That’s excellent, sir. I’ll just go get Agent-”

“That you will not do, Spencer. Please tell them their assistance is no longer required.”

“But, sir-”

“Spencer, are you questioning a superior?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. Now go tell them.”

“...Yes, sir.”

When he hangs up, he almost bashes his forehead against the wall, but decides he needs to enjoy his coffee and some of the fresh spring air before he sends the team off. He needs to clear his head, walk off the frustration. Thankfully, it’s quite nice weather, and the streets near here are quiet, with most people either already at work or school, or out somewhere to enjoy the day. 

Unfortunately, it means that no one is around to see it  when he’s dragged into an alley and a needle sinks into his jugular.

***

When Spencer comes to, his head is intensely painful. 

“Looks like somebody finally decided to join the party. Hello, Agent.” Again with the Agent. Seriously?

He forces his eyes open, only to notice that the room - is it a room? He’s not sure - is almost pitch black. It’s almost night.

He walked out of the precinct at twelve minutes past three, with sunset not due for another four hours, at least. 

How long has he been out? 

He knows he was drugged, and he suspects ketamine, judging by the dry mouth, dizziness, and mild nausea. He also doesn’t quite feel real. It’s incredibly unsettling, and he suspects he’s got a little too close to how his mom feels even on her good days. 

He tries to focus his eyes, fails, and turns his head in the direction of the voice. 

He can faintly make out the shape of a humanoid figure, who he knows is the UnSub, but he can’t see anything useful. The man is clearly American, and he suspects he’s from Connecticut, or at least spent a lot of time there as a kid.

Not that any of this helps him much.

“Well, you’re a lot prettier than I thought an NSA agent would be.” 

It’s not the first time he’s been called pretty, not even in the last few hours - a twinge in his stomach, he hopes they’ve noticed he’s gone - but this time it definitely feels like an insult. 

“Y’know, I saw you and those two FBI assholes at the golf course. You all looked very official, wandering around there like you owned the place. You’ve been sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong, pretty boy.” Right, he’s been followed then. Lovely. “I think I might need to teach you some manners." 

He catches a glimpse of metal, and then it disappears again. 

Switchblade, is all that Spencer thinks, and he tries to move, but he finds it’s like trying to wade through syrup, and that he’s currently restrained around a pole, the metal cool through his shirt and waistcoat. He thinks it's zip ties around his ankles and wrists, judging from the way he can feel the plastic cutting into his skin.

Drugged and restrained. 

He really hopes someone has noticed he’s missing. 

He hears the scrape of a chair, and suddenly there’s a person far closer to him that he would really like them to be. The man - the UnSub - is close enough that Spencer can hear the sound of his breathing, and can almost taste the cologne he’s wearing. It’s vile, something overly masculine and overused. He smells how Spencer imagines a combined flower and liquor shop would. 

But now he can see the man’s face, which he isn’t sure is better or worse. He looks incredibly average. Brown hair, brown eyes. Paleish skin. About two days’ worth of stubble. He’s also probably average height. 

Just an average looking man. 

Except for the knife he’s currently pressing against Spencer’s throat, hard enough that he thinks swallowing too hard might cause him to get cut. 

“Maybe this will teach you.”

The man drops the hand holding the knife, but smacks him across the face with the other, hard enough that his head turns to the side with the force. He can feel his cheek burning, but then the UnSub back hands him on the other side. 

He’s wearing a ring. 

Spencer can feel the way there’s blood trickling down his face from just below his eye. 

Then the knife is back, and it’s pressed back against his throat. This time, he does bleed, and feels the two rivulets join as they trail down toward his collar, staining it crimson. 

He’s been trained on torture. He knows how to handle it. 

In theory. 

Then the man grabs a fist full of his hair and slams his head back against the Lally column. 

His headache gets worse, and he passes out again, to his own relief. 

***

When he comes to, he’s not attached to the pole anymore, which he thinks is good, until he finds that the reason he can’t feel his arms is because they’re hanging above his head. The UnSub has him stood up, propped against the chair, but the second Spencer moves his head, it’s gone, and he’s forced to take his own weight again on his increasingly shaky and fatigued legs. 

The room is lighter than it was before. 

Dawn. 

When he looks up, he notices his kidnapper holding a cattle prod, and when he looks down, he can see his shirt has been cut, leaving parts of his stomach bare. The tip of the prod is pressed against him, and then all he knows is pain, as every one of his muscles spasms uncontrollably at once. The pain goes on for long enough that Spencer loses track of time, and when it finally stops, his heartbeat feels wrong. 

He doesn’t want to die here. He can’t. Who'll look after his mom?

He almost drops to the floor, but he can feel his arms again, and he feels the muscles and tendons scream until he forces himself upright, breathing as deeply as he can, body desperate for the oxygen. 

“You’re starting to look a little worse for wear, Agent. Unfortunately, I’m not quite satisfied yet.”

Another press of the prod, and more excruciating spasms. 

It continues for what feels like hours, until the UnSub laughs, and steps closer to him, dropping the prod.

Spencer feels drenched in sweat, his throat raw from screaming, his muscles burning. 

“When they find you, they’ll only know who you are from your dental records.”

He thinks he’s hallucinating when he hears Morgan.

“Not today, Charles Burton. You’re under arrest for the murders of two NSA agents and the attempted murder of a third.”

Morgan steps into Spencer’s line of sight, a beautiful sight in the weak rays of light.

The UnSub - Burton - tries to run, but then he hears the click of another gun being armed, and he hears Rossi. “I dare you, Charlie, just try and run. See where it gets you.”

Instead, he raises his hands, and Rossi seems to take great pleasure in wrenching them behind his back into handcuffs while Morgan gets him down. He practically collapses into the man’s arms, but Morgan has him, stops him from falling to the floor. “S’alright Reid, I’ve got you. Ambulance is on its way. You’ve got a hospital trip in your very near future.” 

He just about croaks out, “I hate hospitals,” before he passes out again. 

It’s very inconvenient. 

***

He next wakes up to the sound of beeping machinery, and hushed conversations. 

“You do realize you hardly know the man, right?”

“Yes, and?”

“How do you know he’s going to be alright with you stealing his Jell-O?”

“Because he’s the nicest kid on the damn planet, Prentiss.”

He forces himself to open his eyes, and sees Morgan with his feet up on his bed. “There’s Jell-O?”

“Well hey there, kid. How are you feeling?”

“Like I got slapped and electrocuted with a cattle prod a bunch of time.” He moves himself so he’s sat up a little more, and feels the IV in his hand tug. “How long till they let me out of here?”

“You’ve been here like three hours - the ER took one look at you and brought you straight through.”

Oh, it must have been bad. 

“So, what’s the prognosis?”

“We don’t know, they wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“Why- oh, yeah. HIPAA. Could you get them to come in?”

“Course, kid. Emily, could you-?”

“On it, Derek. You stay here and make sure he doesn’t try to escape.”

Morgan smirks, and passes Reid the other pot of Jell-O. 

It’s lime, his favorite. 

A couple of minutes later, Emily comes back in with a nice looking woman whose name-badge says she’s called Doctor Tran. 

“Well, Mister Reid-”

Morgan steps in. “Doctor Reid.”

Doctor Tran raises her eyebrow, but corrects herself. “Doctor Reid, my apologies. How are you feeling?”

“Erm, a little sore, but alright, I guess.”

“That would be because we’ve got you on Dilaudid.”

He’s this sore and on Dilaudid. Crap. They’re not letting him out today, are they? He nods, and she continues. 

“You don’t seem to have any internal injuries, though the burns from the…cattle prod…seem to be quite bad. We’ve cleaned and bandaged them, and you’re on a broad spectrum antibiotic just in case. Don’t worry, it’s doxycycline.”

Okay, no penicillin or its derivatives. That’s good, he’s not going to die of anaphylaxis, which would frankly be embarrassing after surviving what he did today.  

“We’d like to keep you overnight for observation, but I would be happy to discharge you tomorrow, provided there are no complications.”

“Have you run an EKG?”

“Yes, Doctor Reid. You have a mild sinus arrhythmia, but your heart is completely fine.”

He nods. He knew about that. It’s very common. A variation on the norm. Like him, really. 

“Thank you, Doctor Tran.”

She smiles, nods, at both of the FBI agents crowding his room, and leaves.

Emily looks at him and smiles. “How are you feeling about visitors?”

Who’d want to visit him in the hospital?

He opens his mouth, but doesn’t get a word out before a blur of color and blonde runs into the room and wraps him in a hug so tight he’s worried he might need to add broken ribs to his list of injuries. 

“Oh thank God you’re okay, I was so worried- wait, crap, you’re not a hugger. And you’re in a hospital bed. I was so worried, I forgot, oh no, I’m so sorry-”

He cuts off her monologue. “Penelope. I’m okay. And no, I’m not usually a hugger, but this is actually quite nice, so you don’t need to stop. Just…a little looser, please?”

She automatically loosens her arms, and drops a kiss onto his forehead. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

“How did you all find me, anyway?”

“You can thank Hotch for that. He saw you take a step outside, and was actually going to get you to come back in after your phone call because you seemed pretty annoyed. What was that about, anyway?”

“My bosses wanted me to get rid of you. Were demanding it, actually.”

“Ah. Makes sense. The NSA doesn’t like anyone handling their business. Anyway, he went looking for you, and found your coffee on the floor, and we already knew enough about you to know that that wouldn’t have been dumped on purpose.”

He nods. His caffeine habit is usually the first thing people get to know about him. 

“He came back in and said you’d vanished, so our beauty of a Technical Analyst immediately started tracking your phone. It was about five blocks from where we found you and Burton that the signal stopped.”

“How did you work out it was Burton? And where he’d taken me?”

Penelope steps in. “The flight logs, and a deep dive into some really icky websites. When I looked into Burton, I found a bunch of forum posts, because for a killer he really wasn’t very smart about his internet history, and then I searched holdings in his name and found the house you were in.”

“I was in a house?”

“Yeah, the basement.” 

“Well, that explains the Lally column I was tied to.” He sits, and thinks for a moment. " Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, but you don’t need to thank us for saving your ass. It’s kind of part of the job.”

“I know, but anyway. Thanks. Penelope, are you the only visitor?”

“Oh, you wish. The only reason Hotch isn’t here is because he’s tearing your bosses a new one for withholding information from the investigation, and for not helping us find you.”

“I didn’t expect them to.”

“Well, they should’ve. You’re an asset to them, Spencer. They should recognize what they have.”

He’s actually speechless, and then a blonde head pops around the corner. “Spence!”

No one’s ever called him Spence before. 

It’s nice. 

“You know, you guys should go and grab a coffee. I’ve got some things to go over with this Reid that need a bit of privacy.”

“Alright, alright. Is there a coffee shop that’s any good nearby, kid?”

“A ten minute walk away. Sally’s. Ask for the pistachio latte, and say I sent you. She likes me.”

“The idea that anyone could not like you is surprising and horrible, Boy Wonder.” Penelope blows him a kiss, and the three other agents make their way out, leaving him alone with JJ. 

“So, JJ, what have you got to go over with me?”

“Oh, nothing. I just figure you’d need a bit of quiet for a moment. They’re all big personalities.”

“I thought you weren’t a profiler?”

“Profiling still goes into my job. Just don’t tell them that.” She winks, and he laughs. 

“Thank you.”

“I did wanna ask you one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Why your boss is your emergency contact. You don’t seem to particularly like him, and yet he’s also your medical proxy. No family?” She looks like she genuinely cares about it, about him. It’s rare, and it makes him feel warm all over. 

So he decides to try and actually open up to someone. 

“My mom, uh, she’s in a psychiatric hospital. She’s got paranoid schizophrenia.”

JJ nods, but doesn’t say anything, just places her hand on the bed next to his. Not touching, but close enough that he can feel the warmth from it. 

“She was sick when I was a kid, and when I moved to Harvard, I had a teacher look after her. I was thirteen, and moved to the other side of the country by myself. Then, when I joined the NSA, I moved her closer to me, so I could see her.”

“How did she take that?”

“She refused to talk to me for six months. But I see her pretty often. At least once a week.”

“It doesn’t sound like you had the easiest time growing up. Your dad…?”

“Haven’t spoken to him in sixteen years.”

“Got it.”

“Thanks for telling me, Spence. I know this can’t have been easy. It was ages before I told anyone about…about Ros.”

He knows that name. Roslyn Jareau, died aged eighteen by…oh. He tries to keep his face neutral, and fails.

JJ looks at him, and smiles a little sadly. “I figured you’d know. Penelope mentioned you’d read all of our files.”

“I am so sorry. I was just curious, and I didn’t think I’d ever actually meet any of you-”

“Spence, don’t apologize. We all knew there were files. I just feel like I’m at a disadvantage. You know all this about us, and we know basically nothing about you.”

“I’m not very interesting.”

“I’m sure that’s a lie. How do you feel about a game of Two Truths and a Lie?”

“Why not? I’m stuck in bed anyway.”

“Okay, I’ll go first…”

***

When the rest of them come back, JJ is crying with laughter.

“Look, I was drunk!”

“You set all of the mice in the Harvard science labs free, twice?”

***

He almost has a panic attack when the sun goes down and he remembers that he’s not entirely on his own at home. 

“Nikola!”

Emily turns, and smiles. “He’s fine.”

He squints. “How do you know?”

“I may or may not have had Garcia tell me your address and I went round and fed him.”

He’d feel weird about someone he hardly knows going into his house, but to be honest, he’s just relieved. “And he’s okay?”

“If you mean he yowled for five minutes straight and then purred up a storm when I sat on the floor while he ate, then yes.”

“Traitor.” Seriously, does he mean that little to his cat?

“Nah, he misses you. He was curled up on the cardigan on your couch when I left. Maybe I should get a cat.”

“You should.”

“I dunno what I’d name it, though.”

“Nikola’s shelter name was Sergio.”

“Huh. I like that. Sergio the cat.”

***

The worst part of the hospital stay is when the BAU all say goodbye. Their case is done, and they’ve got people to get back to. 

He just also knows he’s not going to get any more visitors. 

Penelope almost outright refuses to get the plane, until Hotch talks to her. 

“Garcia, you know we need you back at Quantico.”

“But Spencer-”

“Is a grown man who is probably getting quite tired and needs some sleep.” Hotch isn’t wrong, and as if on cue, he yawns. “See?”

She grumbles, but begrudgingly admits, “you’re right, sir.”

He squeezes her on the shoulder, and smiles gently. “You’re tired too, remember. Don’t think I didn’t notice the fact you haven’t slept yet.”

“Yes, sir. But don’t think I didn’t notice you haven’t, either.”

“Come on, Morgan’s waiting to drive us. I’ll be out in a minute, alright?”

She leaves, and Hotch turns to him. 

“I’m sorry you got hurt, Reid.”

“Why? It’s not your fault.”

His shoulders drop, and all he says is “Elle Greenaway.”

Spencer remembers the name, and decides he’ll look at the file when he’s allowed back to work. 

“You know, I’m sure your son is waiting to hear from his dad. Go home. Get some rest. The drive isn’t very long, I know, but it’s exceedingly dull.”

“You’re right. Take care of yourself, Reid.” He passes him his card, with his number. “If you need anything, call me, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks. Bye, Hotch.”

“Goodbye, Spencer.” The man looks to hold himself back for a moment, then squeezes his shoulder, before turning and walking out.

His hospital room feels weird once they all leave.

For the first time in his life, somewhere feels too quiet.

***

No one comes to visit him from the NSA, not even when he’s got two weeks off to recover. His boss calls him once, just to check he’s on track to be back the following Monday. Other than that, it’s just him, and Nikola. 

And Penelope, who calls him every day to check in. 

Anyone else he’d feel smothered, but it’s actually really nice. 

They talk about anything, and everything. Star Trek. Star Wars. Physical vs digital books. 

It’s the first time since Ethan he thinks he can truly call someone a friend. 

He finds himself dreading going back. 

***

When he walks back into the office, no one makes any kind of comment. He sits down at his desk, and looks through the forms he needs to fill out after his leave. The Head of ID calls him in for a quick debrief, but other than that, no one talks to him. 

Business as usual. 

He’s still a bit sore, the burn marks tender new skin that rubs a bit against his shirt, but he just takes some Tylenol and ignores it. The Dilaudid prescription ran out last week, but he never finished the bottle of pills. He’d returned them to the pharmacy on his last day of leave. 

When his lunch break comes, he looks up Elle Greenaway in the FBI files. He’s not got anything new to look at, right now, so he might as well. 

He almost wishes he hadn’t. 

He can’t imagine what she must have gone through in that cabin in Georgia. 

No wonder she quit afterwards - the constant retraumatization of the job would have been too much for almost anyone to bear. 

He checks where she is now, and finds that she’s left the FBI entirely. In fact, she’s working as a self-defence teacher in Brooklyn.

He hopes she’s happy.

It’s the most sympathy he’s felt for a stranger, perhaps for almost anyone, in his life.   

***

It’s three weeks after being back at work that he realizes that he’s not happy there, not anymore. He wonders if he ever actually was, or if he was just lying to himself to make his lack of choice in the matter easier. 

He wonders what would have happened if he’d taken a different path. If he’d stayed closer to home, gone to a different college. What might have happened if he’d gone to Jason Gideon’s lecture with Ethan.  

He finds himself dreading getting up and coming into work, just to be ignored all day except for when someone needs something from him. 

He finds himself looking forward to Penelope’s thrice-weekly calls, and when he gets to hear about how the BAU are. 

She tells him that JJ’s finally admitted to seeing that Louisiana cop. He’s thrilled for her, and actually sends her a very rare text to congratulate her, and that he hopes she’s happy with Will. When she texts back, thanking him, he finds himself smiling like an idiot.

Eventually, she starts calling too.

He thinks he has another friend. 

***

It’s another two months before he decides that enough is enough, and he calls Penelope up. 

“Boy Wonder! Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Tell me, do you think I could join the FBI? Are the BAU looking for another profiler?” The last part is only half-joking.

Her excited shriek makes him hold the phone away from his ear, but he’s smiling as he does it.

“I am getting Rossi, right now. Don’t you dare go anywhere!”

***

Rossi talks him through it. 

“You’ll probably still have to do the full twenty week program, I’m afraid. Tell me, do you have to pass a field fitness test there?”

“Yes, but it’s not hard.” Well. It’s hard for him. It’s not supposed to be hard, though.

“You’re going to want to do some work with Morgan if you wanna pass our one, kid.”

His heart sinks. Exercise. 

“However, I have some connections I can pull on. You’ve got a degree in Psychology, right?”

“Yes, I’ve got a Master’s in it, now.” He’d been really bored outside of work the last year, and he’d worked on it in the evenings.

“You just keep adding more letters after your name, don’t you, kid?” Rossi laughs, and Spencer smiles. The man has no idea about the Bachelor’s in Linguistics, and he’s going to keep it that way until he has a good reason to use that trump card. 

“Okay, so you’ve got practical experience with the NSA, academic experience, and we know you get on with the team. I’m sure I can convince Strauss that we need another profiler. She owes me one, anyway. Give me a week, Reid, and we’ll see what we can do.”

When he and Penelope finally hang up, Spencer feels hopeful for the first time in a very long time. 

***

It’s less than a week later that he hears back from Rossi, and he immediately puts in his application. 

***

The day after Spencer gets the acceptance letter from the Academy, he hands in his resignation. His boss seems annoyed, but since he’s going to apply to another government agency, there’s not really anything anyone can do or say to stop him. He spends his last two weeks wrapping up his open files, and leaves the office with a sigh of relief on the last day, before going home to cuddle with Nikola and eat Chinese take-out. 

There are a few logistical issues he’s still trying to navigate. For one, he has to live on campus for the twenty weeks of the program, so someone else needs to look after Nikola. Secondly, he still hasn’t told his mom he’s quit the NSA, or that he’s trying to join the FBI and hopefully the BAU, which will naturally mean moving her again, because there is no way on Earth that he’s going to commute from Maryland to Virginia each day. However, he thinks that one can wait until he’s sure, because he’d rather not upset her without any reason at all. Thirdly, he’s probably going to need to sublet his apartment. 

For a moment, he thinks about how he’s going to struggle through it by himself, like usual. But then he remembers that he doesn’t have to.

So he does what he thinks most people do when they’re worried about something. 

He phones a friend. 

Three hours later, Morgan, Penelope and Emily are in his living room. Nikola is curled up on Emily’s lap like it isn’t only the second time he’s ever met her, and Spencer would feel betrayed if it wasn’t so cute. 

“You know, I’m going to extremely selflessly offer to look after Nikola while you’re away.” 

“Emily Prentiss, I don’t think you know the meaning of the word.”

“Shut up, Morgan. I am selflessly offering to care for this gorgeous creature while his dad is training to become an FBI Special Agent. Isn’t that right, Nikola?” She kisses him on the forehead, and Morgan laughs. 

“Yeah, totally selfless. Nothing to do with you being a crazy cat lady in training.”

Penelope elbows him in the ribs. “You’re here to help, remember?”

“Sorry, baby girl.”

“You should be. Anyway. I think Derek can help with the moving thing.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Well, for one, you're gonna wanna sublet this place. For another, I know a few places that I think you'd like in D.C - there's a very nice brownstone that I just happen to know is going to be available in about five months’ time.”

“...is that because you own it? Because I'm pretty sure there's a very old idiom about mixing business and friends.”

“No, Reid, I don't own it. Come on, kid, no way would I complicate a friendship like that. It just happens to be next door to me. Fancy being neighbors? I'll put a good word in for you.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah. That would be…nice, thanks.” 

“And I know a few people looking to move near Fort Meade, so I can put some feelers out for you for a subletter.”

He doesn't know what to say, is a little overwhelmed by the fact he has friends and they're helping him, so he just does a thumbs up, and Morgan laughs while he wraps his arms around his shoulders. 

“There you go pretty boy, all your problems are solved. Next stop - the Academy.”

***

The problem not solved that night is, well, the Academy itself. 

The academic side of things? Easy. He actually asks to sit the tests early, and passes with “flying colors”, which he’s always assumed means very, very, good, but no one’s ever actually explained what that means to him, so he’s not entirely sure. 

The fitness stuff, though? Far less successful. He’s on the younger end of the average age range, yes, but that doesn’t change the fact that he barely passed the NSA fitness test each time he was required to do it. 

No amount of practice with Morgan could have prepared him. 

It’s rough. 

He needs twelve points to pass the PFT.

The first time, he scores minus four. 

The second, a solid zero. 

The third, he somehow manages to get himself up to a six, but he’s not sure how. 

He has no idea if he’s actually going to be able to pass it. 

***

The other issue is…well, people. He’s out of his comfort zone, in a dingy little room that smells all wrong with scratchy sheets. This time the diagnosis the psychiatrist evaluating him suggests he looks into is Autistic Spectrum Disorder, the updated name for PDD, and as he does some research into it, he realizes a few new things about himself. Also, the food is barely edible, but it’s the people who are the biggest problem. 

Every time he tries to talk to someone, he ends up nervously spouting facts, even though he’s trying really hard not to do that, and then they look at him strangely and he ends up awkwardly not talking to anyone. 

He also misses Nikola, a lot, even though Emily’s offered to send him picture messages, but that would require him updating from his Nokia 3310 and he’s not prepared for that right now.

He misses seeing the BAU members, too, who he knows are extremely busy solving cases all over the country as per usual, like he’s worrying he might never get to do, if he can’t pass the damn PFT. 

That’s why it makes his day when he gets a text during lunch and walks outside to find Derek and Penelope, holding coffee cups and a carrier bag. 

He’s so pleased to see them, he could almost cry. 

“How’s it going, kid?”

He feels his shoulders sag, and his head drops into his hand. 

“That good, huh?”

“Right then, Boy Wonder, we are going to eat snacks and drink coffee.” Penelope grabs his hand and drags him with them, until they find somewhere that’s mostly out of the way, and sit down on a picnic blanket that she’s magicked out of…somewhere. He was teaching her a few magic tricks - at her request, nay, demand - before he left, and it seems her sleight of hand has continued to improve.

“Alright, you, what’s up? Cos I know it’s not the academics.”

He laughs, a little bitingly. “It’s the people. And the PFT.”

“The people?”

“I can’t seem to talk to people without making them think I’m weird.”

“Kid, you are weird - ow! Damn woman, you’ve got one hell of an arm there.”

“What our dear, dear friend means to say is that you should be trying to embrace who you are, which is a quirky little cinnamon bun, honey.”

“That’s what I was trying to say. And besides, it’s only, what, another six weeks?”

“Seven weeks, two days, and three hours.” Not that he’s counting down, of course.

“Damn, okay. Either way, you’re basically being streamlined to us, kid. No way in Hell are we letting another department have you.”

“What he said.”

“Thank you, mama.”

“I still need to pass the fitness test.”

“How many points did you get last time?”

“Six.”

“Ouch. Which attempt was that?”

“The third. The first I got minus four.”

Derek whistles. “Okay, I guess we’ve got some improvement. How about you do some more training with me?”

“That feels like cheating - it’s not like everyone else has an agent actively helping them get in.”

“You think you’re the only one here with outside support?”

“Am I not?”

“Half the people here have been cherry-picked by departments. Trust me, plenty of other people are being helped out, just probably on academics rather than the PFT.”

“Okay, if you’re sure.”

“Yeah, kid, I’m sure.”

Unfortunately, that’s when both of their phones ding, and they groan. “Looks like duty calls, kid. I’m sorry. When we’re back, I’m taking you out on the course. And then we’re getting pizza. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Penelope hugs him, and Derek squeezes his shoulder, and then they head back to saving lives. 

And Spencer heads to the assault course. 

***

Five weeks later, and a fourth attempt at the PFT, he’s sitting at a solid eleven. He just needs one more point, one. 

Morgan’s training really has worked wonders, but he thinks he might actually have a heart attack if he’s not careful. 

He takes the rest of the day off after, goes on a walk around the campus, and finds a quiet place to read a book. He’s not expecting Rossi to come round the corner an hour and a half later, whistling a tune as his cigar burns down. 

“Well, well, well, look who it is. You’re an awful long way from the Academy.”

“Uh, hi. Rossi. Yeah, just needed some space. And some fresh air.”

“Looks like. Huh, well, look what you’re reading.”

Spencer blushes. “Yeah, uh, I’ve always kind of been a fan of yours.”

“Why does that not surprise me?” The man whose book he’s currently reading - and who will hopefully be his co-worker soon - sits down next to him. “What do you think?”

“Uh-”

“You have a dreadful poker face, kid.”

“That’s because I’m not currently trying. I’m actually banned from most of the casinos in the Southwest.”

“...I didn’t expect that.”

“Card counting.”

“...Now it makes sense. Anyway. Book review. Five words or less.”

“...I have a few questions.”

“Not a review, but I’ll bite. I’m all ears, kid. Maybe I’ll even sign it for you.”

***

An enlightening hour later, Rossi’s cigar long since finished and the book well and truly discussed, the man turns to Spencer and smirks. “You know, I remembered something the other day. I saw your name come up a long, long time ago.”

“Really? Where?”

“It would’ve been the late nineties - maybe ninety-seven? I was close to retiring,” he laughs to himself for a second, because it clearly hadn’t stuck, “but Gideon had come in with a list of possible picks for the FBI that he’d been asked to go over. Your name was on there. I only remember because of the two PhDs at nineteen.”

“What-”

“Yeah. But when he returned the list, saying the suggestions he had, he was told several of them had already been earmarked for the NSA. You were one.”

“...Huh.”

“Yep. ‘Huh’.”

A companionable silence falls while Spencer thinks, but when he’s about to speak again Rossi’s phone goes off. 

“Well, looks like we’re off to New York. Morgan, JJ, and Garcia say hello, by the way.”

“Will you say hi back for me?”

“Of course, kid. How could I deny those occhi cucciolo?” He doesn’t know Italian, but he suspects he’s just been slightly insulted. He decides to let it pass. And maybe pick up a workbook when he next has a chance, to complement the Korean. And the Russian.

Of course, that is when things go to absolute hell.

***

When he first hears about it, it’s in the canteen at dinner. 

“Yeah, an SUV just blew up. One agent’s died, apparently.”

“What?”

“Yeah, they’re saying it’s some kind of terrorist cell.”

“In New York? Really?”

New York? Explosion?

He feels like he’s been hit with a bucket of ice water. 

He finishes eating as fast as he can and goes back to his room, before pulling his phone out and calling Penelope, because she always answers. 

Except this time, she doesn’t. 

He tries Derek. Emily. JJ. Hotch. Even Rossi.

No answer from any of them. 

He leaves a message on each cell, and then spends several hours pacing.

He’s never been this worried about anyone apart from his mom before. 

***

It’s not until the next day that he finally gets a call back. His trainer had taken one look at him that morning and told him to go back to his room, and to not come out again until he’d heard from someone on the team. It seems his friendship with the BAU hasn’t gone unnoticed, which doesn’t surprise him at all. 

The call comes from an unknown number, but he picks it up immediately. 

“Doctor Spencer Reid.”

“Reid.”

“Rossi? What’s going on? Whose phone are you calling me on? I’ve left messages for everyone-”

“Do you want the long story or the short story?”

“Short, then I can ask questions.”

“Hotch was in the explosion.”

His knees almost give out. “Wait, he’s…”

“Oh, dio mio, no. He’s not dead. I didn’t mean to scare you like that - my head’s not screwed on right at the moment. The head of the New York Field Office, though, Kate Joyner…”

“She is?”

“Yeah.”

His breath rushes out of him all at once, and he finds himself sitting on the floor of his quarters, back and head pressed against the door, knees against his chest. “How’s Hotch?”

“He’s got some hearing damage from being so close to the explosion, but he’ll recover.”

He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. 

“Okay. And everyone else? I tried calling, but no one picked up.”

“It was absolutely crazy here, and the signal was awful. We actually had to jam it at one point. But we’re okay, relatively speaking. Morgan is going to have an interesting story to tell you when we’re back.” He suspects ‘interesting’ might not be the correct word for it. Knowing Morgan, it’s probably actually either ‘reckless’ or ‘idiotic’.

“How much longer are you going to be there for?”

“A couple of days, probably. And JJ has some news for you, too.”

He wonders what that could be. “Thank you for letting me know you’re alright.”

“No problem - we always keep our own in the loop as best we can. I’ve gotta go, but look after yourself, and pass that PFT already, you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.”

“Bye, Spencer.”

“Bye…Dave.”

***

It’s a couple of hours later that he finally processes that he’s considered as part of that “our own”. It feels like an honor he doesn’t quite deserve yet. 

He hopes he’ll be worthy of it.

***

Two days later, and largely running on adrenaline and an insane amount of caffeine, he scores thirteen points on the final PFT. 

The first person he calls is Morgan. 

That evening, everyone apart from Hotch is in a bar with him, celebrating. 

JJ tells him she’s pregnant, and he hugs her on impulse, and then she makes a joke about needing to find a godfather. He tells her that he knows she’ll pick the perfect person, and she smiles back. She’ll be an amazing mother, he knows it. 

Then the rest of them drag him away and convince him to sing karaoke, and he’s not entirely sure how it happened, but he doesn’t regret it in the slightest. 

***

The first thing he does after graduating the Academy is visit his mom. 

He’s got the house next door to Derek. Emily’s still got Nikola, and has made it clear that she will be a frequent visitor once he takes him back. He’s found a care facility that accepts his insurance, and he thinks it’s even nicer than where she is now. He hopes she likes it there.

Sometimes he wonders if he should have let her stay at Bennington, back in Vegas, but then he’d never see her as much as he does with her on the East Coast with him. 

When he walks in, she’s wearing his favorite cardigan of hers, brown cable-knit and soft as anything. He’s borrowed it, a few times, like she’s borrowed his. Something familiar-smelling to help soothe frayed nerves. 

“Hi, Mom.”

She looks over, and smiles almost immediately. “Spencer. How are you?”

“I’m…I’m good. How are you?”

“Same old, same old.” She frowns, slightly, and squints at him. “You look different.”

“What do you mean?” Is she having an episode? A relapse? Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all-

“You look…happy. Not relaxed, but…content. And also you look like you’ve put on some weight, which is good, because you’ve always been too skinny for my liking.” She smiles, and he chuckles lightly, relieved. 

“Well, I have some news.” He takes a deep breath. “I’ve…changed career paths.”

“You know I never liked you working for those fascists.”

“I know, Mom. I’m still working for the government, but now…have you heard of the BAU?”

“No, I haven’t - are you sure you still want to work for the government?”

“I am, Mom. And well, they help to catch really bad guys.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Does this mean we have to move again?” She sighs, but something in her eye keeps sparkling.

“...Yes. I’m sorry. But you don’t have to fly this time.” He prepares for shouting. But it doesn’t occur - she just sighs and looks down at her nails.

“Well, small victories.” She stares at him again, through him. “Why are you pulling that face? You're looking at me like I’ve grown a second head.”

“I just…didn’t expect you to be so easy about it.”

“Spencer. I am your mother. This is the first time since you left for college that you’ve seemed excited about something.”

“I mean I liked my job at the-”

“No, you didn’t. I never heard you mention anyone from work, or people you saw - that memory of yours came from somewhere, Spencer, don’t look at me like that - until a few months back, when you started mentioning people. Derek, Penelope, JJ, Emily. It’s been nice to hear about something other than that cat of yours for a change!” She laughs, and he pouts, and then she reaches over to grab his hand, tightly, with both of hers. “This is the happiest I’ve seen you in a long, long time, Spencer. And I had suspicions when you told me that you couldn't come visit for a while that you were up to something - being paranoid pays off, sometimes.” She winks, and clicks her tongue. “I’ve had a bit of time to adjust.”

“I love you, Mom,” is all he manages to get out around the lump in his throat.

“I love you, too. Now come on - tell me all about the last few months. Have you read anything by Katherine of Sutton, lately? I always told you to when you were younger. I read an interesting article on Visitatio Sepulchri recently…”

***

He gets a phone call from Hotch the next morning, while he’s packing up the last of his things. 

“Hello?”

“Spencer.”

“Agent Hotchner. Hi, uh, how are you?”

He can hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “I told you, it’s Hotch, Reid. And I’m doing alright. How are you?”

“Yeah, uh, yeah, I’m- I’m good. How is Jack?” Should this man really be using the phone right now? 

“Jack’s great.”

“And your, ah, injury?” Morgan had mentioned a tear in his eardrum.

“Healing as expected. Thanks for asking.”

“Good. So why are you calling, exactly?” Surely it can’t be good for him, being on the phone.

“Just confirming plans for your first day.”

“My first…I’m joining the BAU? Already?”

“Well, Dave and I agreed that you’ve got enough field experience working with the NSA, so anything FBI-specific will be handled directly by us - Section Chief Strauss agreed. It seems she thinks you’ll be a major asset. How does that sound?”

“That sounds…great, actually. Thank you.”

“Good. When’s your move date? Morgan mentioned you’re going to be neighbors.”

“Uh, tomorrow, actually.”

“Do you think you could come in for orientation on Monday?”

It’s Thursday. So that would give him the weekend to unpack, settle in a bit, get Nikola settling in…

“Yeah. Yeah, I think that’s doable. I’ll be there, 8am sharp on Monday.”

“Excellent. We’ll see you then, Reid. Bye.”

“Bye, Hotch.”

He gets off the phone and bounces on the spot a little bit, until Nikola decides to jump into one of the boxes of packing peanuts and he has to retrieve him, peanuts sticking to them both. 

***

Orientation goes great, and he gets another week in his new home to settle in. His mom’s going to move in a couple of weeks, once there’s a room free, and then they’ll be set up in DC. 

He thinks this move might be permanent. 

He certainly hopes it is. 

Morgan comes over every evening and helps him reassemble all the furniture, and then they eat takeout while Spencer introduces him to Firefly. 

Nikola spends most of the first three days hiding under the bed, but when Emily visits, he appears out of nowhere and climbs into her lap, purring happily, and when she leaves, he doesn’t go hide again. Instead, he snuggles up to Spencer on the couch. 

Garcia appears with many kinds of baked goods, and then they talk about knitting for hours, and Spencer learns a new stitch for his Fourth Doctor scarf. 

The only people who don’t come round are Rossi, JJ, and Hotch, but they’ve got plenty else to be getting on with in their lives, so he doesn’t let himself get wound up about it. 

***

The first case he actually gets to work on comes at the end of the first week. He feels bad about leaving Nikola on his own, but Morgan has a very reliable pet-sitter he swears by, and he trusts his judgement, so. 

He still feels like a bit of a crappy cat dad, moving his pet across state lines and then running off to a murder somewhere else in the country.

Maybe he’ll get a second cat so that Nikola has a friend. 

He stores the idea away as JJ starts talking through the case. 

“This is Delilah Grennan. She was bludgeoned and raped during the night at her home in lower Canaan, Ohio.”

“Lower where?”

“Small town, forty miles outside of Cincinnati.”

“Staging the body face-up with the arms across the chest like that.” He frowns at the pictures. It looks like a- 

“Ritual. Nice hair, by the way.” Morgan walks over and ruffles his hair, making it fall over his face. He’d been meaning to get a haircut for months, when Garcia had shown up at his house determined to make him “look less like a dorky Jesus” while brandishing a set of barber’s tools.

He pulls a face, the strands tickling his cheek, before pushing them back behind his ear. “Thanks.”

“Uh, there's more.” JJ pauses. “Small puncture wounds on her stomach. Note the lack of blood.”

“They were inflicted post-mortem. Were there any other victims?”

“Kind of. Victimology and signature match a serial killer from the same town ten years ago– six victims spanning over ten months. He called himself–”

“The Angel Maker. I remember the case.”

“They caught that guy.” He remembers reading about it, in the news and in the police report. 

 “And executed him.”

“That's right. He was put to death by lethal injection a year ago yesterday.”

“Yesterday.” 

“So we're looking for a copycat.”

“Honoring the anniversary of his hero's death.”

“It says here they found semen at the crime scene. Perhaps locals will get a DNA match when they run it through ViCAP?”

“Well, that's where it gets weird. They ran it already, and they got a match, too.”

“Well, if they already have a name, why'd they call us?”

“They've got to be kidding.” Rossi looks like he’s desperate for a glass of scotch. The match they got back on the DNA is to a Cortland Bryce Ryan, otherwise known as...The Angel Maker.”

Looks like they’re going to Ohio. 

***

His first time on the jet has him nervous, because although he’s okay with flying, it’s his first actual case and he doesn’t want to screw up, so he finds himself talking and saying almost everything that comes to mind. 

“The Angel Maker's victims were beaten with the assailant's bare hands. Delilah Grennan was bludgeoned with a heavy instrument, maybe a hammer.”

“Okay, so this UnSub's a weaker guy, or at least someone who perceives himself that way.”

“So he brought along the hammer to make certain his victim wouldn't fight back?”

“They have parachutes on-board, right?”

“They should. It's standard on all federal air transport.”

“Maybe we can give one to the elephant in the room, get him out of here?”

“That'd be the elephant with the dead man's DNA.”

“Well, obviously somebody planted the semen on the victim.”

“In the victim.”

“That's one theory.” He has another. Potentially - definitely - a strange theory, but it’s probably not the strangest thing they’ve heard or seen.

“There's another?”

“Think about who shares the exact DNA makeup of another person.”

Morgan frowns. “Reid, you're not seriously floating around the idea of an evil twin, are you?”

“No, I'm not. “ He’s really not. “I'm floating the idea of an evil-er twin. Traditionally, the concept is a good twin, and an evil twin. But in this case, it's evil twin, evil-er twin.”

When he notices everyone looking at him like he’s just announced that he’s running away to the circus, he looks down and stops talking. 

He then notices Hotch frowning, his head in his hand, and is about to ask if he’s okay when Derek jumps in first. 

“You have been cleared to fly, right?”

The silence tells them all everything they need to know. 

The rest of the flight is spent sending worried glances towards his boss whenever he thinks he’s not looking. 

***

The gun on his hip still feels a bit foreign. He’d qualified while still at the Academy, under Emily’s tutelage, because he’d never done fieldwork with the NSA. He thinks he’s getting used to it, though, because it doesn’t feel entirely out of place to have it against his wrist while he shoves his hands in his pockets. 

***

The case gets even more confusing when he identifies a letter from the dead serial killer as authentic. His only-slightly-better-than-a-layman’s understanding of graphology isn’t exactly a skill he’s been expecting to use, but he’s glad he’s coming in useful.

He really feels the need to prove himself.

***

Rossi and Prentiss come back after the exhumation of Ryan’s coffin, shooting more worried glances at Hotch’s back.

When he gets a moment, he grabs Emily. “Is he alright?”

“He almost collapsed from the noise when the excavator pulled the coffin out.”

“Crap. As if the coffin being empty wasn’t bad enough.”

“Yup.”

He joins Rossi and Emily in their looks. 

***

He knows he’s not being taken out into the field much since he’s so new to the unit, but he’s actually finding himself to be quite happy staying at the precinct and working on the geographical profile. 

He does like getting to take part in delivering the profile for the first time, though. 

Even when the cops stare at him with nothing short of disdain. 

***

When he figures out there’s a code, he almost smacks himself in the forehead because it’s taken him so long to figure it out. The problem is that he still needs to solve it. 

“What do you need to crack it?”

“The ability to clone myself and a year's supply of Adderall.” He’s not entirely sure he’s joking. 

“I’ll put on the coffee.”

Rossi makes sure he’s not without caffeine for the rest of the day, and that it’s suitably full of sugar, too.

***

When Emily comes in rambling about constellations, he feels like he’s actually at home. 

When he figures out the code, he realizes Ryan and their UnSub were in love. 

“So it's a binary code.”

“Yeah. Bacon used a twenty-one letter alphabet. This one's twenty-four. Each letter is assigned a bit string of five binary digits. This combination yields thirty-two possible encodings. Normally you'd use a computer to run all these combinations, but it was quicker just to do it longhand until I found the right one.” He’s never liked computers, not even at the NSA. 

He’s still thinking when Emily pokes him in the cheek. “He's so lifelike.” He barely reacts - it’s not the first time someone has compared him to a robot, after all. He has always related just a bit to Commander Data, anyway.

Everyone chuckles, and Morgan squeezes his shoulder. And that’s when he realizes that they’re not actually laughing at him. It’s a gentle tease, among friends, the way his mom tells him he’s too skinny all the time. 

It’s nice, being appreciated.

***

When they track Kelcher down, she’s already at her next victim’s house.

Prentiss goes onto the megaphone, and Spencer notices Hotch wincing, even as he’s writing the note for her to read out. He can feel the adrenaline pumping through his system, his heart rate picking up. 

When Kelcher comes out, and raises her weapon, two things happen at once. 

The sheriff shoots Kelcher.

And Hotch drops to the floor, hands over his ears. 

Rossi immediately goes to him, and Spencer stands there, feeling a little helpless while Emily goes with the sheriff to secure Kelcher. 

***

When it’s time to head back home, he gets the perfect opportunity to tease his friend back.

“Anyone get directions back to the airstrip?”

Morgan scoffs. “Town's only got one road. We'll find it.”

Emily laughs. “Yeah, Morgan doesn't like to follow directions. You didn't know about that?” 

“Yeah, he likes to ‘vibe it’.” He thinks about the drive from Baltimore to D.C, which had taken almost twice as long as he’d planned it to, because Derek had decided to take MD-97 and go down through Crofton instead of going directly down MD-295, like he’d suggested. 

“Ok, smart ass. You drive.” Morgan throws the keys at him, and he just about manages to catch them with an excited hiss. 

“Oh, great.” Emily laughs at him, and then calls shotgun.

***

The ride to the airstrip is nice - JJ’s in the back with Derek, checking in with Will on the phone, and Morgan’s talking to Garcia, using a truly absurd number of pet names.

“You know, you did well, Reid.”

He barely takes his eyes off the road to glance at her. He can’t drive like he used to when he was a kid, because they’ll yell at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Really well. I’m glad you decided to join us, you know.”

He can feel the words warm him, and he chooses to ignore the blush he knows is steadily creeping up his neck. “Uh, thanks, Emily.”

“You’re welcome. It’s nice to have someone who can out-nerd me now.”

“Hey!” He laughs, and so does she, and when they get on the plane home, they talk about Vonnegut and Asimov the whole way back. 

Also none of them will say it out loud, but he knows they’re all quietly relieved that the empty seat at the table is because their boss - and friend - is actually taking care of himself. 

***

That weekend he researches how to correctly introduce a new cat to a household, and then goes down to the Humane Center.

He brings home Konstantin, who is a two year old black cat like Nikola, but with green eyes instead of amber.

Konstantin, of course, immediately ignores every piece of advice Spencer’s read about bonding cats, as well as every single morsel of cat psychology, and Spencer finds him letting Nikola clean his ears on his comforter, ten minutes after he swears he’d shut him in the spare room.

***

Hotch calls him into his office with Emily two weeks later.

“We need you both to go undercover. We’re trying to infiltrate a cult compound in La Plata County, Colorado, following a report of child sex abuse. Do you think you’re up for it?”

He’s spent the last seven years of his life, bar the last seven and a half months, dealing with this kind of situation, and pretending to be someone he’s not. 

So he nods.

***

The drive in is easy enough, as they go over the plan again. He knows he doesn’t really seem like he’s truly FBI yet, doesn’t even really feel like it, either, so he thinks he can pass himself off as a child victim interview expert fairly well. 

When they meet Benjamin Cyrus, Spencer immediately notices the way charm seems to roll off the man - he’s the quintessential narcissist cult leader. He makes a move to endear himself, even slightly, to the man, by complimenting his intelligence and what he’s built. It seems to work, for the most part.

However, things very quickly fall apart once they’re inside. 

First, a raid team arrives, which definitely wasn’t part of the intelligence Penelope and JJ had collected, and the situation quickly devolves into a shoot-out while he and Emily are ushered into the basement with the children and the women. They are completely unprepared for this scenario, and for the first time since leaving the NSA he wishes he still had access to the things he did there. 

Then, Agent Lunde is shot dead, apparently by friendly fire. 

They’re essentially trapped in a hostage situation. 

He looks at Emily, and he sees his feelings reflected back at him. 

Apprehension, and the tiniest amount of fear. 

***

The rest of the day is fraught, to say the least. He knows it’s made the news, because there’s no way it hasn’t. Shoot-outs at compounds always end up reported.

The good thing about that, is that it means that someone knows that they’re in trouble. 

He knows Rossi has done hostage negotiation, has in-fact trained most of the unit. He’d even been at some of the highest profile cases - Ruby Ridge, Idaho. Waco, Texas. The Freemen Compound, Montana.

Which means…maybe they’re all here.

He almost hopes they are. 

That evening, he hears Cyrus on the phone, as he’s ushered towards a room in the cellar with Emily, presumably to keep them out of the way. It’s probably also to make sure they’ll be useful, most likely as a bargaining chip.

“We're believers, Dave. We believe that God says what he means and means what he says. His laws don't depend on what state you live in.”

Dave.

It’s Rossi, got to be. 

When they get to their “bedroom”, they’re locked in, and he turns to Emily. 

“They’re here. Rossi’s the negotiator.”

“Are you sure?”

He gives her a look. 

“Okay. Thank God. We need to try and get some sleep. We need to be at our best if we’re going to be stuck in here for a few days.”

“I somehow doubt I’ll get much, but you’re right.”

They shuck off their shoes, and lie down, before saying goodnight.

***

There are three things which Spencer is certain will happen to him at any one time - death, taxes, and insomnia.

He tosses and turns on the mattress and thin sheets, and eventually sits up, staring into the pitch black space above him and trying to suppress the shiver travelling up his spine. 

He really, really hates the dark.  

He hears a shuffle from the other mattress, then a sigh.

“I’m sorry, did I-?”

Emily interrupts him. “Don’t worry, I can’t sleep either. Come here.”

He fumbles, but somehow makes it to her mattress, before he reaches back and grabs his blankets. He hears Emily’s hand groping around until it finds his, her fingers threading through his. He’s grateful for the pressure, and he feels some of the tension ebb out of his shoulders.

“It’ll be alright, Reid. Close your eyes.” She sounds like she’s done this before. For all he knows, she has. A lot of the information in her files had been redacted, something he suspects she doesn’t know he knows. It doesn’t matter, anyway - he’s just grateful he’s not on his own in here right now. 

He shuts his eyes, again, focuses on his breathing, and eventually falls asleep, still holding her hand. 

***

They’ve been sitting in the chapel for over two hours when Rossi walks in. 

It takes everything in him to not breathe a sigh of relief. 

When the man’s eyes slide over them, he makes sure not to show any sign of recognition. 

He can see the silent question in the man’s eyes directed at both of them. 

Are you okay?

He bends his head down a couple of times, and hopes that it’s both enough and not too much simultaneously.

When Cyrus barely glances over at them, he knows he’s not caught on. 

And when Rossi leaves, he knows the rest of the team will know they’re alright too. 

He worries about JJ most of all. 

***

As he hears “we have drank the poison together”, he feels Emily stiffen beside him. 

“What do we do?”

“Nothing.” They can’t do anything. Besides, he’s not convinced there’s actually anything to help with, as he watches Cyrus’ movements. 

“We have to do something. These people just took poison.”

“Cyrus just told them he did. I think he's just bluffing.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Just after he told them about the poison, he waited for them to start to react. Then he nodded to Cole. And he started writing.” He pauses, looks around a moment more. “Look. They're scanning the audience looking for reactions. They're writing down the names of the people who are crying.”

“It's a loyalty list.”

“So he knows who will follow him to the end.”

He can’t deny that the way feels something loosen in his chest, though, when he hears Cyrus speak again. 

“Be still. There was no poison.”

***

Things seem to be going alright. Rossi knows they’re there, that they’re alive, and that means the rest of the team does, too. 

However, things go south, very, very quickly, when Cyrus storms into their cellar room, holding a semi-automatic. 

“Which one of you is it?” They stare at him blankly, so the cult leader repeats himself, this time even more irate. “Which one of you is the FBI agent?”

How does he-the media, it must be. Why do they always complicate things?

“Why do you think one of us is an FBI agent?” Deflect, reverse. 

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

Cyrus points the gun at Spencer’s forehead.

“I..I don't know what you're talking about.” His training takes over, and he immediately goes to preserve himself. He doesn’t even dare blink. He can’t show himself to be deferring to this man. 

“One of you does. Who is it?”

He doesn’t know what to do, this isn’t the situation he expected to be in on his first case. 

He hears Emily take in a breath, about to speak, but he doesn’t dare turn his eyes towards her. 

“Me. It's me.”

What?

The gun is pulled away from his forehead, but he doesn’t get a chance to process that before Emily is dragged out of the room by her hair. 

He’s terrified for her. 

Why would she do that for him? She hardly knows him.

When she doesn’t come back, all sorts of possible outcomes start running through his head, even as he tries to do his job. 

He has to make himself useful. 

He knows the CIRG handbook off by heart, having read it years ago.

He also knows one of the first rules of hostage negotiation is to get microphones, bugs, into the place. 

He’s sure they can hear what’s happening from the outside. 

So he does something he learned to do in the casinos. 

He manipulates. He uses his memory of scripture, of the church, to his advantage.

“I can't tell you the number of times I've investigated abuse charges against small religious groups. Almost all of them turn out to be false.”

When that seems to work, when Cyrus listens to him and even defends him against Christopher’s distrust, he plays his ace.

“On the next call, you should test them. Test the negotiator. Make him prove that he isn't a liar.”

***

That night, he’s moved to a bedroom, with a comforter instead of thin blankets.

However, instead of sleeping, he paces, wringing his hands with every second that he doesn’t hear or see any sign of Emily, only stopping to stare out of the window. He can just about make out the lights of the camp. 

His team is out there, he knows. 

He can only hope both he and Emily make it out of here. 

***

He leaves the bedroom early, just as the sun begins to rise, and he’s there when Cyrus gets the next call. He’d had a couple of fitful hours of rest, punctuated by dreams in which either he or Emily was shot. 

Cyrus sends a little girl out, releases her like a bird from the front porch, but he doesn’t know who is there to collect her. 

He’s back in the chapel when he sees Emily, and it’s a combination of horror, relief, and guilt that assaults him when he spots the way she’s favoring one side, and the bruises blooming on her face. 

When she gets close to him, she immediately tries to downplay it. It doesn’t make him feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel worse.

“It's not as bad as it looks.”

“I'm so sorry.”

All he can offer her is a promise that it will be over soon. 

“Wait for a sign from outside to indicate what time the raid will come.”

He forces himself to walk away, back to the man who did this to his friend, and resists the urge to punch the man in the face. He very rarely feels violent, but he’ll make an exception. 

What does, instead, is say “I told her she shouldn't have lied to you like that.”

It lets him keep Cyrus on his side. 

He watches Emily get taken away again, before he tries to occupy his mind with other things, like Cyrus’ impending phone call with Rossi. 

***

It doesn’t work, of course, and the next time he gets a reprieve from the guilt is when he sees the food containers. He recognizes Hotch’s handwriting.

Three a.m. 

He’ll be ready.

***

“You don't have to be a part of this. You can go.”

“I think I'd prefer to stay. Somebody needs to tell your story.” He’s not leaving her here, alone. 

“And I'm glad it'll be you.”

He finds himself hoping he’s the man to take Cyrus down. 

***

He sees them set the explosives, and forces himself to contain his panic. It’s two-fifteen now. 

Will three a.m. be too late?

***

He witnesses Cyrus walk out of the building and start firing shots into the air. 

He needs to do something, soon. 

Or innocent people are going to die. 

***

He quotes scripture.

“Jeremiah 29:11–  "I have for you," declares the Lord, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to bring you hope and a future." Is blowing yourself up part of the prosperous future that God wants?”

“You think you know the Word better than I?”

He drops the helpful act, dissents for the first time. “No. I'm just demonstrating that you can use the Bible to manipulate anything.”

“Matthew 10:24– "do not suppose that I've come to the earth to bring peace. I did not come to bring peace but a sword." The butt of a gun hits his ribs, twice, and he has to force himself to breath

You cannot convert my brothers. No one had to follow. God could have stopped me.”

It’s at that moment that, like an avenging angel, Morgan appears, and shoots towards the man who’s just hurt him without an inkling of hesitation. Cyrus is dead before his body even hits the floor. 

“He just did.” It’s with a grim sense of satisfaction that he watches the man’s blood stain the floor, something primal in him pleased by the sight. 

“You all right, kid?”

“Fine. Where's Emily?” He doesn’t matter right now. She does.

“We got her out of here.” He’s not a religious man, by any means, but he issues a silent thank you to whoever might be listening. She’s safe.

Then Jesse appears, and she grabs the detonator. 

Emily is safe, but they’re not. 

He runs. 

***

When they get outside, lungs filled with ash, and smoke, and probably some asbestos too, there’s only one face he’s looking for in the sea of cult members, police, and paramedics. He hears his name called, and moves towards Emily the way he’s seen moths drawn to lights.

He wraps her in his arms, ignoring the pain in his ribs when she does the same to him, clinging onto him as though she’s worried he may disappear at any moment. Her face is buried in his shoulder, and he can feel her tremors as hot tears leak into the shirt he’s worn for the past three days and is desperate to change out of. 

It’s only when he wipes the ash away from his face that he realizes he’s crying, too. 

***

They get checked out by the EMTs, then the doctors at the ER. His X-Ray shows a hairline fracture on his ribs, so they strap him up and give him a few days of painkillers. He probably won’t take them, like he didn’t last time, but it’s good to have the option if he feels really sore. 

He’s relieved beyond imagination when Emily walks up to him, with the same injuries. He’s so grateful that it wasn’t any worse, for either of them.
“Looks like we’re both on desk duty for the next couple of weeks, huh.”

He nods, not trusting his voice to stay steady. 

He can only think about how much worse it could’ve been. 

***

They don’t say another word until they’re on the jet, and she sits across from him, looking at him with intent.

“I need you to listen to me.” He puts the book down, and she reaches for his hands. They’re warm, and dry. It’s comforting, grounding.

“What Cyrus did to me is not your fault. It was my decision, and I would do it again. Do you hear me?” He wants to argue - she hardly knows him, she took the fall for him, how can she be willing to do this for someone she’s only known for a matter of months - but then he realizes. 

He’d do the exact same thing for these people. 

Somehow, in the space of less than a year, these people have become like family to him. 

So he nods, even as he can’t quite bring himself to meet her eyes.

“Thank you.”

She smiles at him, and he picks his book back up. 

***

It finally hits him when he comes back to desk duty after five days of enforced recovery leave, and finds all of his paperwork has already been done, and that the snack drawer he keeps in his desk has been restocked with all of his favorites. 

He doesn’t even bother trying to hide the smile on his face. 

He has a family now

And he really, really loves his job.