Strikes To Die By
Strikes to Die By
Part 2 of Words to Die By
The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover
Pairing: (FBI!)Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader
Summary: Months after you kissed Tim, you have to save him and yourself without letting your emotions get in the way. His past follows him to the FBI, and you must decide if you want to be part of his past or his future.
Warnings: angst, canon-typical content, violence, near-death experiences, fluff and banter, literary references and spoilers for Revival by Stephen King, canon-divergent Monica Stevens
Word Count: 10.6k+ words
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The air buzzes as a hooded figure walks through the dewy grass. Hair stands on end as the city seems to shake within itself. A door closes silently, and less than an hour later, the figure returns to the static-filled wilderness of Teague, Texas, leaving wreckage in his wake.
Quantico, Virginia
“That’s great, baby girl, but it’s too long,” Derek chides gently.
“No, it isn’t,” Penelope argues. “This is a correct sentence.”
Derek clicks his tongue, then straightens from Penelope’s side.
“Historically, the longest sentence ever printed was 823 words long,” Spencer interjects from his desk. “Victor Hugo put it in Les Misérables.”
“Well, I’m going to be more miserable if we don’t cut some words out of this,” Derek complains. “Where’s the bookworm?”
“Me?” you ask from Hotch’s doorway.
“No, Frankenstein,” he deadpans.
“Actually,” Spencer says, “Frankenstein is-“
“The doctor,” everyone in the BAU bullpen finishes together.
Spencer raises his hands in a dramatic surrender, and you heed Derek’s beckoning and walk to his desk. He points at his screen, and Penelope sighs as she pushes his chair back. You drop your chin forward to read the briefing on the screen and then look at Penelope with your brows furrowed.
“What’s the problem?” you inquire.
“It’s too long. That sentence takes up four lines!” Derek exclaims.
“It’s a report,” Hotch calls. “Not a contender for the Pulitzer.”
You shake your head at Derek’s dramatics, then point to an accurate but lengthy transition phrase. “Remove this, add a period, and fix the capitalization on the right side.”
Derek lifts his arms in victory as Penelope does as you instructed. She hums, pleased, and submits the report to Hotch.
“You’re the best reader in the world, sweetheart,” Derek tells you.
“Careful, Penelope’s right here,” you warn.
“We can share him,” she assures you. “For now.”
“Iceland is probably home to the best readers,” Spencer tells JJ. “They have the highest per capita book reading rate in the world and a literacy rate of about 99%.”
“I bet Iceland is quiet,” Derek muses. “What with all the reading, not so much time to talk.”
“Was that aimed at me?” Spencer replies.
“Conference room!” Hotch barks. “Now.”
You abandon your post beside Derek’s desk and follow him into the conference room. As you lower into your seat, Hotch leans over the table and puts the phone on speaker.
“SSA Hotchner,” he greets. “I have the BAU here with me.”
“Pleasure,” a man with a moderate thick southern accent says. “I’m Deputy Sheriff Neilson of Teague, Texas. This morning, we discovered a man dead in a hotel room.”
“Murdered?” JJ asks.
“We’re not sure,” he replies. “ME took a preliminary look and reckons the victim was electrocuted. But we’re having… We have reservations about actually entering the crime scene or moving the body.”
“Why?” Hotch says.
“The room is spotless. By which I mean, it’s too clean.”
“Do you have CSI photos? Any photos?” Spencer inquires.
“Emailing those now. Photographer got in and out pretty quickly, but the photos should show you how odd this seems. Even the vents are clean, as far back as you can see.”
Penelope types something on her laptop and then casts the images onto the large television screen behind Hotch. He steps out of the way and listens to Neilson’s account of the distressed 911 caller: a housekeeper who entered the room with a master key.
“It’s way too clean,” you murmur.
“That’s beyond what any hotel maid is trained to do,” Spencer adds.
“Or paid to do,” Derek says.
“Penelope, can you go back?” you request after she clicks another image.
You stand and round the table to view the wide-frame photo of the hotel room. There’s something off about it – even more than the cleanliness.
“Is there another picture of the nightstand?” you ask. “Closer?”
Penelope exits the full-screen view and scrolls through the files before she finds one. After it loads on the television, you point to the Bible on the nightstand.
“That should be in the drawer,” Hotch says. “Nielson will call back in a few minutes. I gave him the go ahead to have CSI process. I doubt there’s any physical evidence left to disturb.”
“The Bible should be in the drawer, yes,” you agree. “But that’s not what I noticed.”
“Is that bed frame waxed?” Derek interrupts, peering over your shoulder.
“You’d notice,” Penelope jokes.
“Hotch, I can call the cleaning staff to find out if there’s a reason the room is that level of clean.”
“Sure,” Hotch agrees. “Make sure you ask about the air vent, too.”
Derek salutes as he exits the conference room. After he leaves, you point to the Bible's top and bottom edges.
“The pages aren’t big enough,” you point out. “Whatever is in here, I don’t think it’s the Bible. I think it’s a paperback in a Bible binding.”
“Why would someone do that?” JJ asks. “Aside from the obvious.”
“In a scene this clean, it has to be a signature,” Hotch answers.
“We need to know what book it is,” you say.
Hotch calls Nielson back while you, Spencer, and JJ look through the rest of the pictures. It’s a weird scene, something you haven’t seen before, but it’s carefully constructed. As close to perfect as you’ve ever seen a criminal come.
“Hey, where’s your boyfriend?” JJ asks you.
You turn your head slowly, then scoff. “Tim is not my boyfriend.”
“No, they just use my office to makeout sometimes,” Penelope interrupts.
“That was one time,” you argue. “And we’ve barely seen each other since then.”
“Because he’s moving to the FBI and across the country,” JJ points out. “For you.”
“Not for me.”
“That’s not true,” Spencer states.
You, Penelope, and JJ turn toward him together. He shrugs and continues examining the photos. Spencer’s comment doesn’t change your mind, though. Tim Bradford is part of your life; you have feelings for each other, but it ends there. It has to.
“We would’ve done something already if we were going to,” you admit softly.
“You did. You pulled him out of the bullpen and into a rom-com worthy smooch fest,” Penelope says.
“Who did what?” Hotch asks as he returns.
“Uh, Spencer found a loose screw on the bed frame,” Penelope lies.
“No, I didn’t,” he defends, standing to his full height.
“Oh, then I misheard.”
“I’ll assume I did too, then,” Hotch deadpans. “CSI said you were right. It’s not a Bible. It’s an annotated copy of Stephen King’s Revival.”
You close your eyes and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Fantastic.”
“That means something to you then,” Derek muses as he returns. “Hotel said there is absolutely no way their cleaning staff did that. Bonus, the hotel was closed for two weeks before it reopened four days ago, when our vic checked in.”
“Why was it closed?” Spencer asks.
“Let me guess. An ant infestation,” you say.
Derek’s brows raise as he begins to clap slowly.
“Revival is a nod to horror classics like Frankenstein and Lovecraft,” you begin. “It’s the story of a Methodist preacher who discovers ‘secret electricity’ that can heal people. Jacobs decides that it can take him into the afterlife and – as in most Stephen King novels – loses his mind in the process of trying to get there.”
“How do ants play into this?” Derek asks.
“How does murder play into this?” Hotch amends.
“Jacobs has an unhealthy obsession with Jamie, a boy he met while he was still a preacher, before his family died and his decline began. When they meet, Jamie is playing with toy soldiers on an ant hill. When they open the door into the afterlife, neither heaven nor hell greets them. Instead, it’s something called ‘The Null.’ Inside, ant-like creatures serve ‘Mother,’ who takes over dead bodies and uses them for her purpose: to bring more souls into The Null.”
“That answered half of the question.”
“Jacobs kills with electricity in his attempt to go to the afterlife.” You glance at the map showing Teague, Texas, and tilt your head. “Is the hotel the tallest building in the city?”
Penelope’s fingernails click against the keyboard for several seconds before she replies, “Tallest building, second tallest structure. There’s a decommissioned water tower that stands taller.”
“Why was it decommissioned?” Spencer asks.
Hotch raises the phone to his ear and raises his finger for Penelope to wait. A moment later, Deputy Sheriff Nielson is connected to the call and brought into the conversation.
“Why was the water tower decommissioned?” Spencer asks him.
“It was struck by lightning one time too many,” Nielson answers. “Teague is the lightning capital of the world, if you didn’t know, and over the years, we’ve had to learn to adapt to that.”
“Hotch,” you whisper.
He turns around, facing you with his back to the phone and the team.
“In the book, Jacobs goes to the tallest place he knows of, where’s there’s a big metal flagpole, and that’s where he makes his final kill.”
“You think this guy will do the same?”
“Without looking at his notes in the book, I can’t be absolutely sure, but if he has enough of an infatuation with the book and electricity to stage the scene like he did… it’s likely.”
Hotch nods once, then turns back toward the table. “Deputy Sheriff Nielson, our team is inbound. We’ll be there in a few hours to assist your department with the case.”
Nielson exhales, sounding like it would make him physically lighter. “I can’t thank you enough, SSA Hotchner. We’ll be waiting for you.”
Someone knocks on the open conference room door as you gather your things. You don’t look up until JJ elbows you in the ribs.
“I couldn’t help but overhear the last part,” Tim Bradford says, not even sparing a glance at you. “I can lead the tactical apprehension team.”
“I’ll work on finalizing the assignment,” Hotch agrees.
“We don’t need a tactical team,” you interject. “He’ll get spooked too easily for that.”
Tim keeps his eyes on Hotch, but you can see his jaw working as he tenses his facial muscles.
“All due respect,” Tim begins.
“No, Tim,” you snap, turning toward him quickly. “This is not a storm the castle operation. This guy isn’t limited to electricity, and he will kill anyone who gets in his way.”
Hotch looks between you and Tim and surveys his tight fists and your short breaths. The final decision is his, but he respects your opinion. Then, he remembers that Tim saved you and Spencer on his first day with the FBI. You bring different skills to the BAU, and he doesn’t know which he may need in the Lone Star State.
“Your team will accompany, Bradford,” Hotch agrees. “But you are on standby until further notice. You don’t say or do anything without my instruction, is that understood?”
“Understood, sir,” Tim agrees.
He leaves the conference room first, and you follow Hotch into his office and close the door.
“Hotch, I trust Tim,” you explain. “But if you want to solve this case without losing more lives, you need to tread lightly. If he gets to close, it’s over.”
Hotch nods once, and you step backward, preparing to leave.
“You said the guy in the book had an unhealthy obsession with someone,” Hotch remembers. “Think that affects our investigation in any way?”
You consider the possibility of a Jacobs and Jamie-type conspiracy. It wouldn’t shock you to learn that the killer wasn’t working alone, but something about the efficiency of this particular kill makes you think it was just one man: one man who could somehow control all of the variables in that hotel room.
“Not yet,” you answer carefully. “It took Jacobs a while to actually bring Jamie in as an adult. For this case, I’d say he’s more likely to recruit a former cell-mate or small-time criminal from his past to assist him in the big kill.”
“Victim?”
“There’s only one person in the world who knows that, and he won’t be in any mood to talk to us.”
“Penelope is looking into the town’s residents. If she finds anything, I’ll let you be the first to look.”
“Thank you, sir. Oh, and one more thing. The book isn’t just about faith and the nature of reality. It’s about addiction and morality. Drug addiction, healing addiction, someone turning away from God to make a deal with something worse than the Devil. Whoever this is, there’s more to him than meets the eye. We need to be careful.”
“We’re all coming back from this,” Hotch assures you. “We’re wheels up in twenty.”
Tim splashes water in his face, then grips the edges of the porcelain sink as it drips from his chin. He doesn’t look up in the mirror and doesn’t want to see anything except you. Since you walked into Mid-Wilshire nearly a decade after dropping out as a rookie, you have consumed Tim Bradford’s thoughts, his time, attention, and – most terrifyingly – his heart.
“Regretting arguing with her, aren’t you?”
Tim stands up at the sound of Derek’s voice. He snatches a paper towel from the dispenser and wipes his hands harshly, then wipes his face before he tosses it into the trash can.
“I didn’t come here for her,” Tim defends.
Derek smiles. “Nobody said you did. Nobody except you.”
“I’m not doing this with you.”
Tim begins to walk toward the door but stops when Derek says, “If you didn’t come for her, you need to tell her that.” Tim’s head turns toward his shoulder, so Derek continues, “Coming back into your life wasn’t easy for her, and don’t let her think there’s a spot in it for her if there isn’t.”
“I’d never lead her on.”
“Maybe not on purpose.”
Tim pushes the bathroom door open too hard and walks out.
“What’d the door do to you?” you question from the hallway, your go bag slung over your shoulder.
“It was in the way,” he grumbles.
“Yeah, they tend to do that.”
You look at each other silently for a moment, then speak simultaneously.
“No, go ahead,” Tim insists.
“I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I overstepped earlier. The situation, this killer, it’s all very volatile and I don’t want to see anybody else get hurt.”
“I get it,” Tim responds. “And I’m sorry I stopped reaching out after I went back to LA.”
“It’s okay.” You smile and say, “A taste of my own medicine won’t kill me.”
“It was different.”
You nod, then lead Tim to the plane. It’s a few hours to Texas, and you have over 400 pages of literary research to review on the way. Plus, whatever fun facts Spencer can tell you about lightning.
Hotch’s phone rings as you begin your descent into Texas. He answers it, his brows pinching as he listens to the caller. Extending his hand, he says, “It’s for you.”
Tim glances at you as he takes Hotch’s phone. He introduces himself, then shifts so that his gaze is directly on you for the duration of the call.
“Where?” he asks after listening for several breaths. Then, he says, “Thanks… I’m not, but I can… I’ll let you know.”
He hangs up and returns Hotch’s phone, ignoring the intrigued looks from the rest of the BAU as he stands to speak to you.
“That was Angela,” he says. “Oscar filed a new residency and employment with his parole officer. Then, he got a new parole officer.”
“What are you saying? He moved counties?” you clarify.
“He moved states.”
Tim steps his right leg back into the aisle of the jet to address your team. He concludes, “He moved to Teague, Texas.”
“And you think this Oscar is our killer?” Hotch asks. He looks at you, but your eyes are on Tim.
“If Oscar is the Reverend Jacobs in this scheme, then he’d have another contact in California either with him or coming right behind him,” you point out.
“Or he is the co-conspirator,” Spencer adds.
“In either case, we’d have to comb through decades of Oscar’s criminal history," Hotch says. "Tim? Do you think he’s the mastermind or the recruit?”
“I think he’d used somebody long before he let himself be used,” Tim decides.
“I can’t imagine him being this cold-blooded, though,” you say. “He’s a narcissist, not a psychotic murderer trying to open the gates of Hell.”
“If he’s a narcissist and he found someone to look up to, it could get dangerous very quickly,” Spencer offers. “His narcissistic tendencies would return and likely be worsened. He’d…”
“Have a god complex?” Derek guesses.
“More or less, yes.”
“Then we need to find Oscar and find out what is going on,” Hotch instructs.
“I can do it,” Tim offers. “He knows me.”
Hotch looks at you, and you nod, which ends the discussion. Tim is running headfirst into danger for a case you didn’t even want him to work. It’s a very good thing he isn’t your boyfriend, you tell yourself, even as your hands shake at the mere thought of losing him.
Teague, Texas
“Deputy Sheriff Nielson, this is my team. Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau,” Hotch introduces before he gets to you.
You each shake the Deputy Sheriff’s hand before you enter an oversized office with a large wooden table centered inside. A cardboard box of evidence is on the table and two folders bearing the case number rest atop it. You expected as much - or as little - with such a pristine scene, but seeing how little you have to go on is disheartening.
“Are there any people in your jurisdiction that you think are capable of something like this?” Derek asks Nielson. “Any motive?”
Nielson taps the table in thought, then tips his head to the side. “Kid named Nicholas just got back from a stint in Texas State Pen. He started in high school, little things like petty theft and peepin’ tom charges and worked his way up to manslaughter. Thinks he’s hot stuff around here.”
“What’s Nicholas’ full name?” JJ asks. “We can run him through the federal database and work from there.”
“Hutchinson.”
You look away from the nearly empty evidence box. “Hutchinson? Do you know if he’s related to Oscar Hutchinson?”
“Sure, he mentioned a cousin named Oscar once or twice. Seemed close, but Oscar doesn’t live around here.”
“Wait, Oscar?” Derek repeats. “Oscar who-”
“Tim is going to see?” you finish, unlocking your phone to warn Tim. “Yeah, that Oscar.”
“I take it you have a profile, then?” Nielson asks Hotch.
“One better,” Hotch answers. “We have a suspect.”
You ignore their continued conversation as the phone rings.
“C’mon, Tim,” you mumble as the dial tone trills in your ear. The line finally connects, and you ask, “Tim? Tim, you there?”
“I haven’t seen your name in a while.”
You take in a sharp breath as you wave your hand toward JJ.
“I didn’t know Bradford had gotten his little rookie back.”
“What do you want, Oscar?” you demand.
Your words catch your teammates' attention far quicker than your actions, and Derek rushes to your side. He wraps his arm around your shoulder and lays his head atop yours to listen to your phone call.
“Oh, you misunderstand!” Oscar exclaims with a laugh. “This is about what I can do for you.”
“You know exactly what I’d like you to do,” you reply darkly.
“The BAU has jaded you, dear. Tim is perfectly safe. Aren’t you, Sergeant?”
“Everything is fine,” Tim calls. “Just like the last time we split duties.”
“That’s enough small talk,” Oscar interrupts. “I assume you know about my cousin, Nick.”
“No, I don’t.”
Oscar takes several breaths before he hums. “You’re a good liar. But you’re a better cop, so I’m sure you know exactly who I’m talking about. He was released from Texas State Penitentiary last week and then poof! he disappeared. He’s in Texas, you’re in Texas… you catching my drift?”
“He went missing?” you clarify. “Immediately after being released from prison?”
“There it is. You understand my concerns. Now, to give you a little incentive to release him unharmed, I’ll promise to keep Daddy Cop here unharmed.”
Tim makes a noise of protest, but there’s a roaring in your ears that you can’t ignore. You don't even notice Derek lift his head long enough to repeat Oscar's nickname for Tim.
“Oscar, have you read Stephen King?” you ask.
“No. Live enough horror and you don’t want to read it,” Oscar answers.
“I think your cousin is in danger,” you tell him, looking up at Derek.
“Well, that’s a new play.”
“Oscar, I’m not playing. We’re not here for you or your cousin, we’re here because someone was murdered last night.”
“Sure, because the LAPD cares about that.”
“I’m FBI now,” Tim corrects.
The line goes silent. Your heart races, pounding in your chest, and you prepare to run out of this station and look in every building in the county until you find Oscar and Tim.
“My plan may need some slight adjustments,” Oscar muses.
“Oscar, listen to me. Tell Tim what you know, let him come back to the station, and I promise you that we will find your cousin and get him home safely.”
“I’m not big on the first two points. I’ll tell your boy what I know, and then I leave him here. A baseless arrest is the last thing I need.”
“Oscar do not try to find Nick alone!” you implore. “Let us do this; there’s more at stake than you realize.”
“You have no idea.”
The line clicks, and you clasp your phone between both hands to keep yourself from throwing it at the wall. Derek rubs his hand along your back as he looks at Hotch.
“What can we do to help?” Nielson asks.
“He won’t hurt Tim,” you assure your team. “He’s full of himself, not stupid. Give him a few minutes, and if we haven’t heard back, I will hunt him down myself.”
“You said Nick is in danger,” JJ says. “What does that mean?”
You lean into Derek’s touch and explain, “I was looking at it backward. Nick isn’t Jamie, he’s Mary. He’s the sacrificial lamb. Whoever our killer is, he plans to offer Nick up for whatever his purpose is.”
“Picked the wrong state to deal in religious symbolism and the deadly sins,” Neilson murmurs. “Dallas SWAT, Texas Bureau of Investigations, and Fort Cavazos have teams on standby ready to assist you in any way you need.”
“Excellent,” Hotch responds. “Considering our tactical leader is currently being held hostage.”
You blow out an amused breath and argue, “I told you not to let him come.”
“What can we do while we wait?” Derek asks.
“Find out when the next lightning storm is,” Spencer answers.
“Yep, that’s all you, Pretty Boy, get to work.”
Spencer rolls his eyes but opens a laptop regardless. On the plane, he found out that the estimated time of death aligned perfectly with a cloud-to-ground lightning strike within a few miles of the city. Considering the killer’s infatuation with the book, you support the opinion he’ll time his next kill with another lightning storm.
“We also need to look for places he might choose to commit the murder,” you say. “Between the first mention of the ants and the ultimate sacrifice, Jacobs took more lives. Granted, some of them took a while. I… I don’t think he’ll take that route, actually.”
Your phone lights up, you answer it before the first ring ends, then place it on speaker.
“Hello?” Penelope asks.
“Oh, hey,” you greet, setting your phone on the table.
“Whoa, don’t sound so disappointed that it’s me,” she replies.
“Tim was abducted,” Spencer tells her. “We’re waiting for a call with his whereabouts.”
“Speaking of which,” JJ begins. “Is no one going to mention what Oscar called him?”
“It’s an inside joke,” you say. “What’s up, Garcia?”
“I got the property records for the land surrounding the old water tower,” she explains. “It’s on public land, but everything around it is private.”
“Right,” Nielson agrees. “You can’t get to it without going through someone’s yard now.”
“But, the lot east of the tower was just rented,” Penelope continues. “To Nicholas Hutchinson.”
“No way he can afford something like that fresh out of prison,” Derek argues.
You nod but then consider the idea of land plots. “How many acres?”
“Seven,” Penelope reads.
“Tim said that everything was fine, like the last time we split duties, right?” you ask.
“Yes,” Spencer answers. “Does that mean something to you?”
“Maybe,” you murmur. “He’s either giving us a clue or talking about something I don’t remember.”
“The last time you worked together was in LA,” Hotch reminds you.
You stare at the table, thinking. You spent most of that trip trying to separate your life and work from the past. It didn’t work, and you and Tim were held at gunpoint by a man trying to save you from everything except himself.
“We didn’t work together much,” you say. “I worked with Lucy, he went with Derek, and then we stayed together until we were in the townhouse with Riley.”
“No, you weren’t,” Hotch says.
You turn quickly, your brows raised.
“When we went to the last scene – the one where we found the novella about you – Tim was at the station. Pissed off enough that people stayed away from him, from what I’ve heard.”
“Whoa, watch your language Hotch,” Derek chides. “This is a work trip.”
“I’m still your boss, Morgan.”
“But a big teddy bear of a boss,” Penelope interjects.
“Regardless of who remembers what,” JJ says, “what does that mean to you?”
“I made him stay at the station,” you reply. “He was mad, obviously, but… he was fine. We thought I was in danger because I jumped the gun.”
“And we found two bodies,” Spencer mumbles.
Your breath catches, and you lock eyes with Derek before you look at JJ, then Hotch.
“What?” Spencer asks, looking up from the looping radar on his laptop.
“Hutchinson wouldn’t kill people right in front of Tim, would he?” JJ asks slowly.
“Deputy Sheriff,” you call, “have you had any double murders here recently?”
“No murders, no, but there was a car accident that killed two young girls about a week ago,” he replies. “Out on County Road 650.”
“Any structures near it?” Hotch asks.
“A couple outbuildings a few hundred feet from the curve where it happened.”
“Is there any way our abducted agent would know something had occurred there?”
“There’s a collection of flowers, stuffed animals, stuff like that. And… yeah, there’s a large picture of the girls, the family put it up.”
“We need to get out there, Hotch,” Derek urges.
“I’m going with you,” you say.
“How far is that from the water tower?” Spencer asks.
“A few miles,” Nielson replies. “Faster if you cut through a field.”
You slide your phone into your pocket and follow Derek and Hotch out of the police station. For the first time since you met Tim Bradford, your roles have reversed, and you may be the only thing standing between him and something he’ll never come back from. He’s saved you more than once, and you plan on returning the favor.
“Slow down,” Penelope instructs, her voice clear through Hotch’s speakers. “You’re approaching the curve where the accident happened.”
“Guys,” you say. “Oscar’s calling.”
Hotch slows, steering the SUV onto the grassy shoulder beside the road. He keeps his eyes up, but Derek turns in the passenger seat to watch you as you answer the call.
“You have one chance to save yourself, Oscar,” you remind him.
“He’s unharmed,” Oscar grumbles. “But I’d like to offer a trade.”
“We had a deal.”
“Yes, but this one involves a better outcome for me.”
“What do you want?”
“I’ll tell you where I am, and you can come get me and your boy. In exchange, I want to assist in the search for Nicholas.”
“And then you’re going to jail for abducting a federal agent,” Derek interjects.
“I’m not bartering with you,” Oscar replies.
You meet Hotch’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and when you exhale shakily, he nods.
“You’ve got a deal, Oscar. But you’re on thin ice,” you respond.
“Excellent, that’s where I do my best skating. We’re in some nasty barn off 650.”
Hotch pulls back onto the road, hitting his blinker to turn onto a dirt path that travels straight toward the outbuilding Nielson pointed them toward.
“We’re here,” you tell Oscar. “We’re coming in and you-”
“Better not have a weapon, yes, I know.”
Derek pulls the large sliding door open, and you enter behind Hotch, who raises his gun. Oscar lifts his hands lazily, and Tim stares at you from the back corner of the barn. You walk around Hotch and straight toward Tim.
“I’m sorry,” you say, reaching up to release the knotted rope holding his hands above his head.
“You can apologize later,” he replies. “Oscar’s not our guy.”
“We know. That’s what I was calling to tell you. I had it all wrong.”
“And now?”
You lift your brows quickly, silently acknowledging that you aren’t sure what you have now. You push higher onto your tiptoes before you stumble and place your hand on Tim’s chest to right yourself just as his hands fall from the pole above him. He catches you, his hands firm against your waist as you tip toward him. Looking into his eyes, you don’t move back. At least not until Derek clears his throat.
“Oscar has an idea of who might consider Nicholas as a perfect sacrifice,” Hotch says. “If you’re ready.”
“Yeah, let’s go,” you agree, stepping back.
As you exit the building, you notice the air is growing uncomfortably humid. With your hand against your forehead, you look up at the sky. Thick, dark clouds are gathering in the north, and the wind shifts to blow against your right side.
“There’s a storm coming,” you point out. “A bad one.”
“You think it’s time?” Derek inquires.
“Time for what?” Tim asks.
You drop your voice and say, “Whoever has Nic is going to kill him in some grand display.”
“Where?”
Shrugging, you admit, “Maybe the water tower, maybe somewhere else.”
Tim lifts his brows, then says, “Sounds like you need to do your job instead of worrying about me.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yet you suffer me,” Tim deadpans. “Let’s go.”
“Without a solid lead, we’re going to have to split up,” Hotch explains back at the station. “There are three potential targets for the killing site. The water tower, the top of the hotel - again, or a barn out towards the lakes.”
“But there’s only five of us,” Spencer points out.
“Six,” Hotch corrects. “Bradford’s team was called up to Salt Lake City for a counterterrorism case, but he’s still here.”
“So, we’re sending two people out, so the lucky couple gets to fight a crazed psychopath who kills people with electricity,” Derek reiterates snappishly.
“During a lightning storm,” JJ adds.
“We really can’t narrow this down more?” you inquire. “What about the lead Oscar gave us? Lev Davids?”
“I’d recommend going that route,” Tim interrupts, entering the private office. “Oscar finally told me why he suspects Lev.”
“A criminal he looked up to?” you guess.
Tim nods, and his eyes remain locked on yours as he says, “Monica Stevens.”
The rest of your team turns to look at you, and you stand.
“Tim,” you begin. “I have no idea who that is.”
“Right, sorry, after your time. She’s a corrupt lawyer, she worked for Elijah Stone and Abril.”
“Now those names we know,” Derek announces, smiling again. “I’ll get Penelope on their trails, see what she can find.”
“We only have fifteen minutes before the storm is here,” Spencer says. “Not much time to find someone and get there. And if we’re wrong, we’ll be too late.”
“Then we split up, as planned,” Hotch replies. “If Garcia finds something or someone gets a better lead, we reconvene. For now, it’s our only choice.”
“Why don’t we ask Nielson for officers to help us?” JJ asks.
“We can, but they’re not trained in hostage negotiations and don’t understand the psychology of someone who would do this. There’s too much risk leading them in all the way.”
“We’ll take the water tower,” you say, walking toward Tim.
“I was going to send you with Derek,” Hotch argues.
“Send him with Spencer,” you suggest. “You know we can do this, Hotch. Besides, he may not even go to the water tower.”
Hotch sighs, shaking his head with a hand on his hip. He looks more like a father of five than someone leading a highly trained group of federal agents, but he trusts you. So, he lets you go.
“What are the chances we’re walking into the middle of a storm?” you ask, bracing yourself against the wind as you exit the station.
“You’re talking metaphorically, right?” Tim checks, opening the door for you. “This is going to be awful.”
“That’s not comforting!”
Tim prepares to close the door as he says, “It’s true.”
Your phone buzzes as Tim steers the car around a large rock. The water tower looms above you, tall and imposing against the dark storm clouds. Thunder rumbles in the distance, growing closer as the car shakes with its intensity.
“Garcia hacked into Stevens’ computer; Lev is planning to use the water tower,” you communicate. “She isn’t sure what their connection is or what Stevens’ motivation is for encouraging him to do this, but she’s still working.”
“We can’t wait,” Tim says, glancing at his watch. “The storm’s about to intensify.”
You reach for the door handle and say, “Then let’s do this.”
The wind closes the car door harder than you intended, and you draw your shoulders up, hoping Lev didn’t hear the noise. As you approach the water tower, you adjust your holster so your gun will be accessible even as you climb 150 feet into the air while the wind blows nearly 60 miles an hour.
“Any words of encouragement?” you ask Tim, looking up the metal ladder that seems to reach far past the clouds.
“The chance of tornadoes is low,” he replies over the wind.
Looking over your shoulder, you exclaim, “That is not encouraging! Or comforting!”
Tim lays his hand on your back, leans forward, and promises, “I’m right behind you.”
You nod, take a deep breath, and wrap your hands around the ladder rung. Tim boosts you slightly, and you can feel the metal shift in the wind. Climbing up, you remind yourself not to look down and keep moving as fast as possible without compromising your safety or Tim’s.
“Cavalry is here,” he says as you near the halfway point.
“I really hope they brought a sniper,” you grumble.
Lightning flashes brightly, striking nearly to the ground in the not-far distance, and you hold the ladder tighter as thunder follows it. You’re nearly out of time, and if Lev is ahead of schedule or planning for more lightning, you may be too late to save Nic. Worse, you realize, is that you may be unable to save yourself. Climbing onto a giant metal lightning conductor during a severe thunderstorm was a job requirement today, but it may not have been your best idea ever. You and Tim are on your own, and you have to save a life, keep yourselves safe, and then find a way off this tower before the storm worsens.
Nearing the top, you slow, attempting to gauge where Nic and Lev are. Before you can guess, you hear footsteps. Tim sees the shadow of someone approaching the ladder and climbs several rungs. His chest presses against your back as he wraps his arms around the side of the ladder. You trust him to hold your weight as you let go of the ladder and pull your gun from its holster.
“You need to go!” Lev yells.
“Not going to happen,” Tim replies. “Put your hands where we can see them, and this gets easier.”
“I have to finish! My mission is nearly complete!”
“Your mission?” you repeat. “Or Monica’s mission?”
Lev doesn’t reply, and his shadow remains in place.
“Don’t do this for someone who doesn’t care about you, Lev,” you implore. “There’s more in this world. There’s better people. You can have a life. But not if you do this.”
“You don’t know what I can have,” Lev argues.
He walks toward the top of the ladder, and you aim up and ahead of you before you pull the trigger. Lev drops to the metal balcony as the bullet whizzes by. It cracks loudly when it impacts the tank.
“Go, go,” Tim instructs in your ear.
You slide your gun into the holster quickly and pull yourself up the last few rungs. When you grip the handrail and spin onto the balcony, Lev is gone. Tim joins you, pulling his rifle off his back and into his hands. You duck when another lightning strike flashes, but you can’t focus on the storm now.
“The storm is coming from the north,” Tim reminds you, whispering as he leans toward you. “That means he’s probably on that side.”
You nod, looking over his shoulder quickly before you point toward the north, the opposite side of the tank. He gives you hand signals as the rumbling thunder softens. You will lead the way, and Tim will ensure Lev doesn’t sneak up behind you. It’s a dangerous game of cat and mouse you’re caught in. There is no choice but to play, however, and you distantly wonder if this is what Jamie felt like in the book. But Jamie didn’t have his own gun, you remember. Or Tim Bradford watching his six.
The first raindrop landing on your cheek is an omen, a reminder that even when you get to the other side of the balcony, this is just beginning. As the sporadic drops become a steady downpour, you fight the urge to lower your gun and wipe your face. Tim moves silently behind you, and you wish you were back in Quantico. You wonder what you’d be feeling right now if you had just told you care about him when you had the chance. It’s gone now, and nothing you can do will change that. If you survive this storm, you’ll face Tim Bradford, unafraid and determined. The rain may saturate your clothes as you hear someone screaming in pure fear, but Tim has the unrivaled power to transform your life like heavy rain, cleansing and shaping you just by being near you.
“Steady,” Tim murmurs behind you.
He taps your left shoulder, and you look in that direction. Your eyes widen when you see the large metal pole extending from the side of the tower. It wasn’t in any of the pictures you reviewed of the city, so you know Lev is deviating from the book, no longer trusting nature to do the job for him unassisted.
“He’s scared,” you whisper.
“That’s not comforting,” Tim replies.
“Lev,” you call, pressing yourself against the tank. “Do you like Revival?”
“There has to be more,” he says, raising his voice over the rain. “This is only the beginning.”
“Did Monica promise you that?” Tim asks.
“This isn’t about her!” Lev screams. “It’s about me and what I deserve!”
“Life in prison?”
“No! Vindication!”
You glance at Tim, and his expression mirrors yours. Lev is having a mental breakdown, and you don’t have the time to pull him back to reality.
“Last chance to surrender,” Tim tells him. “If you don’t, we will drop you.”
Lev barks a laugh. “You’re too late!”
At the bottom of the water tower, Hotch looks up, covering his brow with his hand as he attempts to find you and Tim. Derek argues with Spencer about whether or not someone should go up after you, but JJ remains in the car.
“Garcia,” she greets when her phone rings.
“Monica was taken into custody,” Penelope says. “She alluded to the fact that Lev didn’t know the entire plan and that she intended for him to die on that tower too.”
“He’s just a pawn?” JJ clarifies.
“Something like that. The tower is a death trap.”
JJ ends the call and rushes out of the car. “Hotch!” she yells over the thunder. “Stevens expects Lev to die up there!”
“I’m going up,” Derek decides.
“No, you aren’t,” Hotch replies. He looks up again, rain falling on his face. “We’re too late to change anything.”
“Then we should at least warn them!”
“Are you crazy?” Spencer inquires. “Cell phone usage is inviting a lightning strike. At their altitude and the current barometric pressure, they’d die before the line connected.”
“We can’t just stand here!” Derek exclaims.
“I understand you care about her,” Hotch says. “We all do. But… Whatever happens now is in her hands.”
Derek steps toward Hotch with his hands fisted at his sides. “If she doesn’t come down, it’s on us.”
“And we’ll all have to live with that. If- If she doesn’t come down.”
Spencer ducks and Hotch turns toward him before something hits the ground. Derek glances toward the sky and then retrieves it. He holds up two cell phones before tapping the screens to wake them.
“Either they’re alive and taking precautions or Lev is crazier than we thought,” he muses.
“Crazy is a generic term,” Spencer points out.
“Which the FBI frowns upon,” Hotch continues. “But this psycho has two FBI agents up there in a deadly storm, so let’s make an exception, Reid.”
You shake your hand after tossing your phone over the railing. Your gun has metal in it, and your back is against a giant steel plate, but limiting the dangers on your person seemed like a good idea when Tim whispered the suggestion. Lightning strikes in a nearby field, and Tim turns toward you, pushing his arm over your torso. It won’t make a difference when the storm is directly above you. Yet, the idea that he’s still protecting you after everything you’ve done and said makes you wrap your hand around his forearm.
“Tim,” you murmur. “If we die up here, I need you to know that I never meant to hurt you. Leaving was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I don’t regret joining the FBI, but I do regret leaving you without an explanation.”
“I never blamed you,” Tim replies. “I- I still-”
“Don’t,” you interrupt. “We can’t change it.”
“But I can say it now.”
You look into Tim’s eyes, rain running down both your faces. If you weren’t in immediate peril and convinced today is the day you’ll die, you might find it somewhat romantic.
“Let’s finish this,” Tim whispers.
You nod and step forward, raising your gun toward Lev.
“Drop it!” you demand as he pulls a long chain toward the rail.
“Help!” someone calls, his voice muffled.
“Nic?” you ask.
He hums, and you lower to your knee, giving Tim a clear shot of Lev. Moving forward, low against the tank, you round the valves on the northwest bend in the balcony. Nic comes into view, and your heart drops. He is wrapped in chains, and secured to a metal chair against the side of the tank. The metal rod you saw earlier extends into the sky, anchored between Nic’s feet.
“What are you doing?!” Lev screams.
He pulls the chain tighter before he lunges toward you. Another loud thunderclap nearly drowns out Tim’s gunshot. You stand as the world seems to slow, reaching forward as Lev stumbles back. He topples over the balcony rail, and you are several inches short of catching him.
The chain stops unraveling, suspending Lev as he hangs from the tower. Tim pulls the strap on his rifle so it’s against his back once more before he pulls you away from the rail.
“We have to get the rod down!” he reminds you.
You nod, letting the rain wash away the guilt of not catching Lev. He had every chance to surrender, and he was going to hurt you. Tim did what he was supposed to do, exactly what you would have done.
You pull the rod at the base, and it slides up through the grating of the balcony with a sharp screech sound. Tim takes it from your hands, tipping it over the edge just before a nearby tree cracks, struck by lightning.
“We don’t have time to get him freed and down,” Tim points out.
“Go,” you implore, holding Tim’s wet vest. “I can free him, and we’ll hunker down. You can get down.”
“I’m not leaving you up here!”
“Tim, if one of us-”
Tim raises his hands to your face, holding you as his eyes bore into yours. “I’m not leaving you.”
You nod slowly, then step back and search for the end of the chain. The metal links are wet, your hands are wet, and the air turns eerily still and quiet as rolling thunder echoes against the metal.
“I can’t find it!” you exclaim, your hands pushed into the metal.
Tim stands above you, his legs against your back while he begins pulling the chains up over Nic’s head. “This is going to hurt,” he warns.
“I don’t care,” Nic replies through chattering teeth. “Just get me out of here, please.”
You shift to reach the loops around Nic’s legs. You don’t notice that the chains have been filed while you pull the tightened chains over his feet. Sharp points line the outermost links, and they dig into Nic’s skin and yours.
“Go, go,” Tim exclaims as he drops a heavy bundle of chains onto the balcony.
You stand as Nic does, and he limps past Tim as he moves toward the ladder. Rather than following, you’re distracted by a black shadow in the other direction.
“What are you doing?” Tim calls.
“There’s a rubber mat,” you reply.
Tim’s eyes widen as he calls Nic back, but you turn to look at the sky.
“Tim,” you say.
“Yeah, we’re coming.”
“No, it’s too quiet.”
Tim moves to your side as Nic stands atop the rubber mat. He follows your gaze, but there’s nothing to see besides fields, sparse houses over the land, and trees swaying in the wind.
“Please don’t be a tornado,” you say to the sky.
Tim grips your upper arms and steers you to the mat. On it, you have a better – though admittedly not great – chance of surviving a lightning strike. The insulation will help, but it may not be enough.
“It’s not big enough,” you realize as Tim stops.
He looks down at your feet and Nic’s. There isn’t room for him to join you on the safer material, so you step back onto the metal.
“Get on it,” Tim demands.
Shaking your head, you make up your mind. Wherever Tim is, that’s where you’ll be. He puts his hands on your waist and attempts to push you back. Your tears mix with the rain, but when you lay your hands on his chest, he hears your breath catch as you cry.
“I can’t do this,” you admit, gripping his shirt at his collar.
Tim hesitates, then turns so that you’re facing the mat. He steps back onto it, then pulls you forward. Against his chest, he directs your legs so that they’re bracketing his. Your left foot is between Tim’s, and your right is against the side of his boot. Nic shifts slightly to make room for you. Only then do you notice the blood.
“Nic, are you okay?” you ask.
He nods, then raises his hand to his neck. “It’s just a scratch. The chains,” he explains.
You glance at your hands and notice that they’re similarly marked. Holding tightly to Tim, you brace yourself as the tower sways gently in the strengthening wind. Tim glances at his watch and cradles your head against him.
“It’s here,” he murmurs.
Closing your eyes, you pretend that you and Tim are hugging for any other reason. Try to pretend that tomorrow is promised and that Tim will believe anything you confess.
“In the car,” Spencer demands. “It’s not safe out here.”
“JJ, call the fire department,” Hotch requests as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “We need them here as soon as the storm passes.”
“Do you think they’re okay?” Derek asks, glancing out the window at the man hanging from the tower.
“That’s not Tim,” Spencer reminds him. “Different build; it has to be Lev.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
Derek’s phone rings, but he sends Penelope to voicemail. The car brightens with the next lightning strike, and the bright red flash at the water tower’s highest point isn’t promising.
JJ covers her mouth while Derek drops his head into his hands. Hotch sighs, looking at the wheel rather than the tower beside them.
You groan before you open your eyes. Tim’s hand moves slowly across your lower back as Nic mumbles.
“I feel like I’m buzzing,” you murmur.
“Storm’s moving,” Tim says. “Do we try to get down on our own or wait for the fire department?”
You look at Nic, the most injured member of your party.
“I’m ready to go,” he answers. “I don’t ever want to see another water tower.”
You smile as you stand straighter. Tim holds you steady as he taps his boot against the metal platform. Nothing happens, so he drops his hands to your hips as you step off the rubber.
Nic walks beside you, but as you near the ladder, he stops walking.
“I- I can’t feel my legs anymore,” he says.
His eyes roll back before he tips, losing consciousness. Tim catches him, lowering him gently to the balcony.
“I guess we’re waiting,” you mumble as you kneel beside him. “No burns. Indirect strike, I’d guess.”
“You can head down if you want to,” Tim tells you. “I’ll stay with him.”
“And I’ll stay with you.”
Tim nods. He offers his hand, and you squeeze it tightly as you move to sit. He sits beside you, and you lean against his shoulder.
“I want to tell you something,” you say. “But not now. I don’t want you to think that I’m just saying it because we could have died.”
“Will you answer a question?”
“Sure.”
“Was there ever a chance of starting something between us back in LA?”
You consider the question, rubbing your hands on your pants. “No.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Ask me another question,” you request.
Tim notices your constant movement and lifts one of your hands. He brushes his finger along your wrist as he looks at the cuts and darkening bruises lining your skin.
“Why did you kiss me at the BAU?”
As you breathe together, the thunder grows quiet even as the sky remains dark and rain falls in steady sheets.
“I acted too fast,” you answer finally. “I tried to seize a second chance that I don’t think was there.”
“Is that why you stopped talking to me after?”
“It scared me,” you admit. “I messed up before. It kept me up at night for years, Tim.”
“Me too. But… Never mind.”
Your hand is still in Tim’s when you see first responder lights approaching. Some look like police, two or three firetrucks, and at least four ambulances.
“Care for a question?” you ask.
Tim smiles as he answers, “Sure.”
“Is there a chance of starting something between us now?”
Leaning forward, Tim looks into your eyes and says, “There never stopped being a chance after you came back.”
Smiling, you whisper, “I love you. I’ve loved you since I walked into Mid-Wilshire again.”
Before Tim can reply, a police cruiser siren sounds once. Derek speaks through the loudspeaker to threaten, “If you survived, I’m going to kill you.”
“What’s he going to do if we didn’t survive?” Tim asks.
“Kill Monica.”
Tim purses his lips and lifts one brow. “Might not be the worst thing.”
“Derek,” you groan. “Thank you for caring about me, but my head is throbbing, so could we save the lecture for later?”
He stops talking, and when you think he’s about to stomp his foot and start again, he wraps you in a hug.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again, gorgeous,” he implores.
“I won’t,” you reply. “Although, it wasn’t on purpose this time.”
“Shh.” He tightens his grip on you, then steps back and salutes with a smile.
“Do you have a minute?” Hotch asks. “It’s not a lecture.”
You nod, then stand from your seat and join him at the back of the jet. Tim is in Los Angeles for a few days to work on the Monica case, and when he returns to Quantico, you have a lot to discuss. He isn’t aware of your new symptoms from being indirectly struck by lightning, but Spencer assured you they’re temporary.
“Are you okay?” Hotch asks softly.
“I’m… almost fine,” you reply. “That was terrifying, but I’ll be okay.”
“Well, you know the bureau offers counseling if you need anything, and I’m here, too.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“What did you tell Bradford on that tower?”
Your eyes widen, and you search for the right words. “Just some shared history stuff.”
“You thought you were going to die. In that situation, people tend to say something they don’t mean or speak the truest statements in their lives.”
“Yeah,” you agree carefully. “Lots of confessions, real and imagined.”
“So,” Hotch continues, crossing his arms. “Which was yours?”
“You’re a profiler, you tell me.”
Hotch shakes his head at your smile but moves his arms to lay a hand on your shoulder.
“Be sure he meant what he said before you do anything you can’t take back,” he advises.
“You think he would speak emotionally?”
“In the right circumstances, we all can. Even a stoic like Bradford.”
“Are you speaking from experience, sir?”
“This is me giving you advice, not an interrogation, agent,” Hotch replies.
You nod, hiding your smile. “Thank you, sir. I appreciate the advice.”
Hotch turns away, then looks over his shoulder. “One more thing. There’s a bet in the unit about whether or not you kissed up there, so maybe keep the specifics to yourself.”
“What do you think happened?” you ask.
“I know everything.”
“Even the art of romance?”
“I’m leaving now.”
You smile as you trail Hotch until you reach your seat. Derek watches you, then leans back in his seat and closes his eyes. JJ’s computer chimes before she tells you that Monica’s court date has been moved up.
“Bradford isn’t listed as testifying,” she adds.
“Is Lopez? Grey? Chen?”
“Yes, as well as Nolan and a few other officers from the division.”
“Then he’ll be there,” you reply. “Which means, Hotch, you may need someone to fill in for him and keep me safe.”
“You were a lot less reckless before daddy cop showed up,” Derek muses.
“Did you tell everybody about that?!” you exclaim.
He shrugs, practically admitting his guilt before he closes his eyes again. Tim texts you that he is staying in LA for a few more days. The following text, which says he’ll see you when he gets back, is the one that surprises you.
It’s just past 2 a.m. when someone knocks on your door. You roll over, pulling a pillow over your head. Unfortunately, the knocking doesn’t stop. You groan and retrieve your gun from your nightstand as you walk out of your room. At the door, you lean against it and press one eye to the peephole. Suddenly, as if you drank straight espresso, you’re wide awake and pulling the door open.
Tim’s hand raises to knock again, but he stops when you open the door and wrap him in a warm hug.
“Good morning,” he grunts as you collide with his chest.
“Morning,” you reply, your voice carrying traces of sleep.
Tim moves his right arm around your waist and carefully maneuvers back into your living room. He kicks the door closed behind him, drops his bag, and then notices your gun on the table by the door.
“Expecting someone else?” he asks, smiling.
“Not expecting anyone,” you reply, stepping back. Your hands remain on Tim's shoulders as you continue, “It’s a good surprise.”
“Sorry to wake you. I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“It’s fine. This one time.”
“How are you?” Tim asks, pushing your hair out of your face. He slides his fingers into your hair, pushing it up toward your roots gently. He watches your face as if he’s memorizing it, worshipping it. “Headaches gone?”
“How do you know about that?” you ask, tipping your head toward his hand. “Derek?”
“Spencer,” he corrects. “I got a lengthy message about letting you rest and not giving you a reason to be on your phone.”
“They’re good coworkers but they’re nosy.”
“They care about you.”
“Just them?”
Tim raises his other hand to your neck as he steps toward you. In the low light of your living room, only the streetlight outside illuminates your face and the space around you, and it’s as if you are the only people in the world. Tim looks at you like you alone matter. Like this moment is specially made for the two of you.
“They care about you,” Tim repeats. “I think I do a bit more than that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how I felt sooner,” you say. “I… I know our relationship isn’t typical, but you deserved the truth.”
“I didn’t know, no, but I still would have fought for you. I didn’t know what I had until I lost it, and the decade I spent without you taught me that some things- that some people are worth fighting for.”
“You weren’t this nice to me as my TO,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over a scar on Tim’s neck.
He got it protecting you, although he yelled at you the entire time he was treated and bandaged. Tim shivers at your touch yet doesn’t shy away or attempt to hide behind the persona he wears to protect himself.
“What you said on the tower,” Tim says. “Ask me.”
“Do you love me?” you whisper.
“I fell in love with the idea of you the day we met,” he admits.
You recoil from his touch briefly, but he holds you close. “And then I realized that everything I felt, all of the bitterness and disappointment I associated with you, was because I wanted you, desired you, more than anything. I didn’t think I loved you because I’d never been in love like this before.”
“Do you love me?” you repeat, softer. As you step toward him, pressing your chests together, soft rain begins to fall outside.
“Yes,” Tim answers. “Of course I love you.”
His smile grows as you hug him. One arm wraps around your waist as the other remains in your hair, gently curling and uncurling his fingers. Using the hand in your hair, Tim tips your head so he can see your face. He leans forward and stops with a single breath between you.
“Who needs lightning when you’re here?” he jokes.
You roll your eyes and scoff. Before he says anything else, you move your arms over his shoulders and kiss Tim. It’s different than the kiss in Penelope’s office. This moment is slow, meaningful, and full of love, history, and new beginnings simultaneously. Tim lets his hand fall from your hair, trail over your side, and slip beneath your arm to hold your hip.
Tim takes slow steps to move you against the couch and then lifts you to sit on it. Once you settle, Tim breaks the kiss just long enough to take a breath, squeezing your hips as he breathes.
Diving back into you like you are oxygen at the bottom of the ocean or a safe haven in a lightning storm, Tim cradles your face in one hand as he splays his fingers across your back and holds you upright.
“Tim,” you say, repeating it several times before he presses his forehead against yours and lets you speak. “I meant what I said in the storm. That wasn’t my emotions. I’ve felt like this for a long time.”
Tim smiles. “Stop profiling this,” he grumbles before he lowers you onto the couch and hovers above you.
“There’s also a bet running about what we did on the tower.”
Tim lifts your head and moves your hair so it isn’t pulled or trapped beneath you. “Let them wonder,” he whispers before trailing kisses along your jaw and hairline.
“What have we got?” you ask as you enter the conference room.
“Wannabe Bonnie and Clyde,” Spencer answers.
You nod and sit beside Penelope, who narrows her eyes at you.
“What?” you whisper.
“You kissed daddy cop,” she accuses. Your brows raise, and she speaks up to add, “He came to see you as soon as he landed, didn’t he?!”
You look at Derek and mouth, You’re dead, but he smiles and blows you a kiss.
“In line with the theme,” Hotch says, drawing attention back to the case, “this couple is heavily armed.”
“Which our tactical sergeant would know something about,” Derek muses, smiling as he looks at the door.
You turn and see Tim standing in the doorway, wearing an FBI t-shirt.
“Thanks for coming, Bradford,” Hotch says. “We’re going to need backup for this one.”
“Of course, sir,” Tim replies.
After Hotch dismisses you, you wait until you’re alone in the room with Tim.
“Would telling them make the teasing stop?” he asks.
You lean against the table and cross your arms. “You’ve met them, right?”
“We could always pretend to hate each other.”
“Easier for you than me,” you argue.
Tim shakes his head as he takes your hand. He rubs his thumb over the nearly faded marks from the chains.
“We don’t have to tell them,” you say.
Tim’s brows raise as he asks, “You want to keep a secret from your team?”
“They’re outside the door.”
Tim glances toward the door as you stand from the table and pull it open, unsurprised when Derek stumbles inside as he tries to catch himself.
“Secret’s out,” you say flatly. “We good?”
“What about the bet?” Derek asks.
“Morgan,” Hotch warns.
“I mean, what bet? Who said anything about a bet?”
“My office is off limits,” Penelope says, pointing at you.
“Can we get back to work?” Tim asks.
“Excellent idea,” Hotch replies. Nobody moves, so he adds, “Now. Everybody.”
The room clears, and, this time, your team members return to their respective desks.
“Not you two,” Hotch says. “I had an idea to run past you.”
“Sure,” you answer, closing the door.
“Bonnie and Clyde.”
“Yes?” Tim presses.
“They’d be threatened by another couple.”
“Us?” you clarify, pointing between yourself and Tim.
“Only if it’s something you’d be comfortable with.”
You look at Tim, who tips his head toward you, giving you the final decision. It wouldn’t be much different than what you did in Los Angeles a few months ago or some of the lies you played into during your short time as a rookie. Besides, when else will you have a chance and an excuse to be that close while working?
You smile, and Hotch nods. “Pack your bags then,” he says. “You’re going back to California.”
More Posts from Myfictionalbfs and Others
Smile for the Camera
Description: Bruce is convinced by his wife to make a sex tape
Word Count: 0.7k
Warning: Sex, cream pie, recording, reader is described as having pudge from childbirth, reader is black
Bruce didn't know how he kept finding himself in these circumstances. However, he most definitely didn't object to his wife. How could he when she asked if she could record them having sex? He couldn't say no to the smile that he fell in love with. Especially not when she was only wearing an old silk robe that failed to hide her curves and the pudge that she gained from birthing his children. Her brown thighs barely being hidden nearly gave the older man a nosebleed.
Anyhow, that's why he ended up lying down flat on his back with soft pillows on either side. His wife straddled his bare hips and gasped as she felt his length grow beneath her. She held her phone in one hand and grasped the headboard with the other to keep steady. Bruce's hands helped guide her onto his length as they had done a hundred times before.
"Bruce," She whined as she fully sunk onto his length. Her breath hitched as his massive cock nudged near her G-spot. Her wetness was dripping down his shaft as she slowly rocked back and forth.
"Ah-ah. You were the one who wanted this," He reminded her as she continued to whine. The weak knot tying the robe together fell apart. Bruce sat up on the bed, pulling her closer to him. She nearly dropped the phone but found a better angle to record from. His tongue traced her ear lobe before
"I'm lucky to have such a gorgeous wife," He said before moving his assault down to her chest. His tongue licked the dark areola first before taking her nipple into his mouth. Bruce noticed her pace had slowed down with her hips and smirked slowly. He stopped helping her move and she stopped on her own, frustrated from the lack of stimulation.
"Did my sweetheart get tired?" He chided as she let out a small moan. Bruce quickly flipped both of them over and Y/N nearly shrieked from surprise. Now on her back, Bruce could appreciate her properly.
He spread her thighs and licked his lips at the sight. Lining up the head of his cock with her slit, he resisted the urge to pummel her pussy. Bruce liked to think of himself as being rather disciplined but the way his cock was begging for release would suggest otherwise.
"Such a wet pussy. All for me or the camera?" He asked as he pushed his cock into her pussy. Her legs tightened around his hips letting him know he hit her g-spot. One of his hands snaked down to fondle her clit.
"All for you," She admitted shyly. Bruce adjusted her chin so that she looked him directly in the eye. He thought of recording their sessions more so that he could have a few copies from his perspective but anything to keep his wife happy.
"That's right," He reminded her. His resolve wouldn't let him cum until his wife did. Her eyes were nearly glazed over, and her pussy fluttered around his cock. She was fucked out and she hadn't even come yet. That did something for Bruce's ego as he continued to stroke in and out of her pussy.
"Bruce, I'm-" She could barely finish her statement before the pleasure was too much. Her back arched off the bed and Bruce slowed his movements while taking deep breaths.
"I know, sweetheart, I know," Bruce spoke as he came inside of her. The two of them didn't see the point in condoms at this point in their marriage. Well, that and Bruce liked to watch his cum drip from her pussy onto the sheets and her thighs. He pulled out of her and lay next to her while placing kisses on her temple.
"What'd you want the video for anyway?" He asked as he pulled her bonnet from the nightstand and pulled her closer to him. She set her phone on the nightstand on her side of the bed after reviewing the footage.
"Sometimes, I get lonely while you're away and this is as close as I can get to the real thing," She admitted before placing a small kiss on his cheek. She turned onto his chest and quickly began to snore leaving Bruce to simply bathe in her beauty.
Tim Through the Years - The Perfect Ring
Series Masterlist (part 9)
Summary: Tim finds the perfect engagement ring and stops a robbery in progress. 1.2k+ words
Tim loves you and, as a result, he thinks that he knows you well enough to understand what you do and don’t like, what you want and enjoy, and what is special to you. Yet, he can’t find the ring. He has a mental image of the ring he wants to put on your ringer when he proposes, but he can’t seem to find the right piece to match his idea.
Since finding out that Tim was dating you, Angela has dropped hints about getting married: leaving paper samples on his desk, texting venue options late at night, and even slipping jewelry store cards into his pocket. As he slides his hands into his pockets, thinking about you and how he should propose, he isn’t surprised to feel a rectangular piece of cardboard. The slogan about custom engagement rings, however, captures his attention. Tim puts the card back in his pocket to keep it safe before he gets back to work, but he feels a little lighter because he is one step closer to forever with you.
“Welcome!” the owner of the jewelry store calls as Tim enters on an afternoon off. “What can I help you with, sir?”
“Well,” Tim begins, glancing down at the rows of expensive rings and watches in the case between them. “I’m looking for an engagement ring, but I’m having trouble finding the right one.”
“You know what you want then?” the man asks with a smile.
“I think so, I just can’t seem to communicate it well enough to search for it.”
The man nods and pulls an iPad from a nearby shelf. He opens the magnetic case and sets it on the glass case. “I’ve been working with gentlemen like yourself for years. Think of the ring you want and talk me through what you see. We’ll see what we can do from there.”
“Okay,” Tim agrees hesitantly. He smiles and begins talking about the ring he pictures on your finger: the color, cut, size, and design he envisions when he dreams of his future with you. Though you haven’t sent him pictures or said anything to make him think he should propose - or given him an idea of your ring preference, for that matter - Tim Bradford knows you, so he can make connections between your personality, your style, your heart, and a ring. Or so he thinks.
“... and maybe an engraving to signify how we met, at the police station,” Tim concludes.
“Alright,” the owner murmurs, tapping another marker setting. “Give me one second to finish this up. Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but it sounds like the two of you are perfect for one another. You’re lucky.”
“I appreciate that. Hopefully her brothers think the same when I ask him.”
“You don’t necessarily hide it. Okay.” He straightens and sets the pen aside, then turns the iPad toward Tim and asks, “Something like this?”
Tim is speechless as he stares at the sketch of the ring. The owner says something about not being able to hurt his feelings, but all Tim can think of is you.
“That’s it,” he says, looking up to thank the owner. “This is the ring.”
With a smile, the man extends his hand and offers, “Then let’s get started. I’ll need your help with a few things, just picking out the final material choices, and then I’ll start making it for you. I trust you know her ring size.”
“I do,” Tim answers. “One of my coworkers stole one of her rings as a hint, but I already knew.”
“See,” the man points out, “you don’t hide it, so if her brothers can’t see it, they aren’t looking.”
Tim nods and follows the man to a flat cart at the end of the display case. He lifts a box of sample diamonds in different cuts and colors before pulling out the one closest to his drawing.
“What do you think?”
Tim turns the man-made version of the gem in his hand and envisions you walking down the aisle, holding his hand, teaching, and growing old with it on your finger.
“I’ll take that as a yes. Let me get your information and I’ll give you a call with any questions and again when it’s ready to pick up. You’re sure this is the perfect ring?”
“For the perfect girl,” Tim answers.
Since finding the perfect ring for you, Tim was looking forward to his next day off. His plan was to grab breakfast with your brothers then go get the ring afterwards, even if he was told no by your brothers. Tim knew how you saw Dean as a father figure and that traditions were important to you, so he wanted to make sure he got permission. Tim felt pretty confident that they would say yes, they all were pretty good friends at this point. Tim and Dean would go to a sports bar to get burgers and watch the game when they both could. While Sam would go jogging with Tim on occasion, but at least once a month everyone would get together for dinner. But on the chance the brothers would say no, he would ask you anyway. He was in love with you and wanted to scream it to the sky.
Today was finally the day, and it was going great so far. Breakfast went exactly as he planned, the brothers immediately agreeing and then arguing about who would walk her down the aisle, which turned into arguing who was gonna dance with her first. Tim chuckles to himself at the memory, the brothers truly loved you. Finally arriving at the store he feels a little nervous, nervous that the ring is going to be the wrong one, nervous that you will say no, but when the store clerk shows him the ring he ordered, all the fear goes away because the ring is perfect.
“Put your hands in the air! This is a robbery!” a deep voice bellows from behind Tim.
Tim’s smile turns to a frown instantly, this is not how he wanted to spend his day. Tim complies; he didn’t want to get seriously hurt since he is off duty. But when the guy shoves Tim to the side and grabs your engagement ring, Tim grabs the guy by the back of the head and slams his head on the counter then grabs his gun all in one quick motion and aims it at the robber.
“LAPD! You're under arrest!”
Tim is annoyed, he is now trying to make it seem like he was not buying any jewelry as to not involve more people than necessary. But of course Lucy was one of the first people to arrive on scene and so she has to take his statement.
“Like I keep telling you, I was walking by and saw the robbery take place so I stopped it. What’s so hard to believe?” Tim grunts to Lucy.
“Okay, okay, this just doesn’t seem to be the part of town I’d take you to stroll around, it’s too fancy for you,” Lucy replies with a small smile.
“Tim! Great news, I got your engagement ring to not be processed and the owner of the store wants to give you a big discount since the guy has robbed the store 5 times now! Isn’t that great... news. Oh, hey Lucy.” Angela freezes as she gets closer to Tim, not knowing Lucy was with him.
“You bought a what?!” Lucy exclaims.
The Flower and The Serpent : a Walt De Ville x reader FF : six
A/N: I have taken artistic liberties with this fanfic. For example, I have given Walt some different mind abilities and have removed the canon vamp claws because I find them distasteful and overkill, pardon the pun.
18 and up, y’all.
You spent the next couple of days receiving scandalised glances from the maids and even Mr. Field due to the blossomed bruise on your neck, the identical holes in the centre now gone. Mrs. Swift eyed you with obvious concern whenever she saw you, and even cornered you on your way out of your room one morning. You met her gaze with caution, stretching your neck out slightly.
“Miss Alexander, you must be careful” she insisted in hushed tones. “He may act human, but he is not. If you push him too far, he might very well kill you, whether he means to or not.”
Keep reading
It’s so criminal when you start watching a new show/movie, and realize after you are already in love with yet another fictional character, that there’s no fanfics at all.
I need people to start writing for Aldon Reese from Fubar and Patrick Jane from the Mentalist. Plssss
Next Year
Requested Here!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!reader (w/ retinoblastoma + a prosthetic eye)
Summary: Tim accompanies you to your yearly ophthalmologist appointment for the first time.
Warnings: depictions of anxiety about dr visit, fluff, comfort
Word Count: 2.0k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules
“Are you going to Lucy’s party?” Angela asks as she walks into the station beside Tim.
“No,” he answers quickly.
“Did you get invited yet? Because you can’t say no before she asks you.”
“Tim!” Lucy calls.
“When’s the party?” he asks.
“A week from today.”
“Can’t. Maybe next time.”
Angela shrugs, conceding defeat, but Lucy wants to know why Tim refuses to attend. Usually, he’ll say he doesn’t want to, but his short answer - can’t - intrigues her.
“Why not?” she inquires, walking quickly to keep up with Tim’s long strides through the station.
“I’m going out of town that day,” Tim says.
“Why?”
“Chen,” Tim sighs, stopping to face her. “I can’t go to your party, I’m sorry.”
“Okay. But, where are you going?”
“Is no not sufficient?”
“Tim, c’mon, give me something so I don’t just assume you hate me and never want to see me outside of work.”
Tim raises his brows, and Lucy shakes her head quickly. He knows he can’t get out of this easily or quickly, so he blows out a breath and explains, “I’m going to San Francisco with my girlfriend.”
Lucy’s eyes widen as she gasps. “Are you proposing?” she whispers.
“What? No.”
“Why else would you be taking her up there, then? You can tell me if you’re proposing, I’m really good at keeping secrets.”
“Not something to brag about in a police station, Chen.”
“I’ll ask Angela to interrogate you.”
“It’s a doctor’s appointment,” Tim admits. “And truly none of your business.”
“A doctor’s- Is everything okay?”
“That’s what we’re going to find out, so we can’t come to your party, but if you keep this between us, I will make sure I come to the next one.”
“Keep what between you?” Wade asks.
Lucy presses her forefinger to her lips and nods once, but Tim rolls his eyes and answers, “Next week.”
“Ah,” Wade murmurs. “Tell her we’re keeping her in our thoughts and let us know if you need anything.”
“Will do.”
Tim sees the look of hurt that flashes across Lucy’s face at not being included in whatever it is you’re dealing with. Yet, she knows that medical issues can be stressful enough without a bunch of cops asking you questions or treating you differently.
“I’ll see you at the next party then,” Chen says. “And bring me some Ghirardelli!”
“No.”
“Are you ready?” Tim asks as he turns his truck off in the parking garage.
You look at him from your place in the passenger seat and shake your head. “I’m nervous.”
Tim takes your hand over the console and smiles as he promises, “Everything’s going to be fine. Even if it’s not, we’ll deal with it. Okay? And just think about the cheesecake you get later.”
You take a shaky breath and smile as you nod. Tim squeezes your hand before he exits the truck, walks to your door, and takes your hand as you walk to your doctor’s office. The waiting room is tiny, and you cross your fingers as Tim opens the door that it’s not busy. You’re anxious enough without having to stand or step around other people while you wait.
“Good morning,” the receptionist greets.
She’s new, you realize, and you offer a small smile as you tell her your name and birthday.
“Alright,” she says after typing for a moment. “I’ve got you checked in and they’ll call you back shortly.”
“Thank you,” Tim tells her, placing his hand on the small of your back to lead you to a chair.
You clasp your hands together in your lap to hide your shakiness from Tim, but when your leg starts bouncing beside him, you realize it’s pointless. He’ll see your anxiety even without the outward responses.
“I’ll be right back,” you whisper to him.
Tim nods once and watches you walk to the bathroom before he looks at the small table beside his seat. There’s a pamphlet about retinoblastoma, and he picks it up to read the back as he waits for you.
With your hand on the doorknob, preparing to exit the restroom, you realize that you’ll probably have to come straight back. It’s one of the more annoying responses to anxiety, the constant bathroom breaks. When you remember that Tim is waiting outside for you, you feel better.
“What are you reading?” you ask as you sit beside him, leaning toward him.
Tim flips the pamphlet closed, and you smile as you furrow your brows.
“It is my first time,” he points out. “You’ve told me a lot, but I’m not going to pretend like I know exactly what you’ve dealt with or have to go through every year.”
You wrap your fingers around Tim’s forearm as your leg begins bobbing up and down again. He extends his arm over your torso to rest his hand on your leg. Almost immediately, a nurse opens the door and calls your name.
“I’ll be right here,” Tim promises.
You follow the nurse into a small exam room and try to listen to her instructions on reading the charts to test your vision. You’ve done this every year for as long as you remember, so you know how to do it. Still, you haven’t cracked the code to eliminate the anxiety that comes with the yearly doctor visits.
“Read these letters,” she prompts.
Resisting the urge to squint, you read, “A, K, L, M.”
“Good, and these?”
“Y… uh, P? E, R.”
“Okay,” the nurse mumbles before showing you more letters. “Good, done with that. Now we’ll check your eye pressure and dilute your eyes for the doctor’s examination. Do you have any questions about that?” You shake your head, and she smiles as she prepares the numbing drops. “Tip your chin up toward me slightly?” she requests. “Good. Open nice and wide.”
You blink after the drops hit your right eye, and she quickly moves to do the other side. A moment later, she instructs you to sit closer to the machine that checks your eye pressure. After the pressure is checked and your retina is imaged by the retinal camera, she instructs you to turn toward her.
“Time for the worst part,” she announces. “Tip your chin up again? Thank you.”
As the dilation drops begin working, you swallow to get the taste out of your throat. You can feel the drops draining down the back of your throat as your vision shifts, growing farsighted. Luckily, you return to the waiting room before it gets too bad. Tim appears blurry as you sit beside him and wordlessly pull his arm against your chest to hold his hand. He turns to lay his other hand on your knee and brushes his thumb against your inner thigh.
“Feel okay?” he asks softly.
“Yeah,” you answer against his arm. “Just don’t like the dilation.”
“Nobody does,” Tim whispers, as if it’s a secret. “What happens next?”
You appreciate Tim’s presence beside you more than he’ll ever know, but the fact that he’s concerned about you and wants to know exactly what you’re dealing with and thinking makes you love him even more.
“I’ll talk to the doctor about changes, but there aren’t many this year. Then he’ll check my retina, and every other year he does imaging and ultrasounds to look at the tumor. I got them last year, so I shouldn’t need them unless he sees something.”
Tim nods and carefully pulls his arm away.
“How’d you know?” you ask as you stand.
“Do you need help?” he says rather than answering.
You shake your head and walk carefully to the bathroom. Before you sit back in your seat, you’re called back again and wave to Tim. He’ll be there when you finish, and that’s a good comfort as you follow the tech to the exam room across the small hall.
“Good morning,” the doctor says as he walks in, glancing your way before he sits and looks over through your oversized chart and the results of today’s vision test. “Any changes to vision or pain?”
“No pain,” you answer. “My vision is a little blurrier than last year, mostly when I’m looking at things far away.”
The doctor nods and sets the large folder aside as he moves his chair toward you. “Anything else?”
You shake your head and follow his light as he moves it from left to right. He raises his retinoscope and direct ophthalmoscope to further examine your retina.
“Good reflectivity,” he tells the technician behind him. “Minimal changes.”
“So, I’m cured?” you joke, pressing your hands against your thighs.
Your doctor smiles, a rare expression, at your comment and murmurs, “If only it were that easy.”
He moves closer to examine your eye through the ophthalmoscope and hums as he moves upward. When he lowers it and pushes back to look at his notes from last year, you bite the inside of your bottom lip and prepare yourself for bad news.
“You’re fine,” he announces, causing you to release your breath. “There has been a minimal change to your vision, but it’s not even worthy of updating any preexisting prescriptions. Your retina looks as good as it can, there’s no new damage, no swelling, and the tumor obviously hasn’t changed. The nerves are intact and healthy also.” He presses a few buttons on the computer and three images of your retina load, and he points to the one on the far left to say, “This was six years ago, and there’s been very little change since then. These nerves and vessels are maintained, the fovea centralis is healthy, and that’s what I wanted to see.”
“Thank you.”
“And the other eye still matches,” he adds.
“Was that a joke, doctor?”
He shrugs, reminds you of eye safety rules, and tells you to schedule your next appointment with the receptionist before you leave. You thank him again and then follow the tech slowly to return to the waiting room.
“Ready?” Tim asks, offering his arm as he walks to your side.
“I need to make my appointment,” you answer as you wrap your arms around one of his.
“Already on it,” the receptionist tells you. “Does the same day next year at 10 a.m. work for you?”
“Yes,” you and Tim answer simultaneously.
“Perfect. You’ll get some email reminders, and I’ll get you an appointment card now. See you both next year, then.”
You doubt it; you rarely see the same receptionist twice, but you enjoy hearing that Tim will undoubtedly be at your side again next year.
“And?” Tim prompts as he leads you out of the office.
“Everything’s fine. My retina’s okay, the nerves are functioning and healthy, so I’m as good as I can be.”
“That’s great!”
You nod and remind him, “Now I need cheesecake.”
“Of course. Hold on tight.”
You do just that, trusting Tim to get you safely where you need to be. After he gets you into the truck, he drives to Union Square. Then, Tim leads you into Macy’s to go to the top floor and enjoy lunch and cheesecake at the Cheesecake Factory for a reward. You and Tim talk about work, Kojo, and enjoy the time together, even if you are in San Francisco for an unexciting reason.
“Left?” Tim clarifies as he leads you out onto the street.
“Yes,” you answer. “You have to figure it out once we get closer though.”
Tim smiles and pulls you closer to his side as he leads you down the street to your next appointment. It’s much faster, just answering a few questions and waiting for your eye maker to polish, clean, and check the size of your prosthetic eye before you’re ready to go. As you leave, the effects of your dilation begin to wear off.
“At least I don’t have to ride back to LA with dilated eyes,” you tell Tim after he asks what your relieved sigh was about.
“I wouldn’t have made you do that,” he counters. “We could have gotten a hotel.”
“Maybe next year.”
Tim smiles and turns you to face him on a sidewalk in Union Square. He brushes his thumbs gently across your cheekbones before he kisses you. It was his first time accompanying you to an appointment. If every visit is like this, you may actually look forward to next year’s visit.
Freedom - Walt Deville Imagine (The Invitation)
Title: Freedom
Pairing: Walt Deville X Reader
Word Count: 1,145 words
Warning(s): mention of violence/potential violence
Summary: A hunter meets a vampire. The unstoppable force meets the unbreakable object, allowing for the ultimate battle between logic and desire.
Author's Note: Here's that longer plotline I mentioned on my last imagine.
Part of this was inspired by a gorgeous monologue written by Ross McGregor and performed by Christopher Tester. You can find it here! It was truly the last thing that I needed to help me tie this whole plotline together, so go check it out. It's fucking beautiful work.
PART TWO HERE
PART THREE HERE
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"I know what you are."
I froze on the landing of the stairs, looking up at the top of the other staircase.
Walt stood on the top step; one eyebrow slightly raised. He tilted his head at me. Like he expected me to spill every secret to him just because he looked at me.
I knew in my heart what he was referring to. If someone gets a job on your estate with some ulterior motive, you will probably notice at some point.
I was a hunter.
I had been for a long time.
My hunting partner had sent me on this job, insisting that I was the best choice to go undercover and figure out the truth about what was happening in the manor.
I was meant to run under the radar, take care of the vamp, and run for the hills.
I had been there for weeks.
I was convinced I knew who it was. I believed it was Mr. Fields. He was constantly tense and seemed to be always overly cautious. I can admit when I'm wrong, but I didn't think I was at the time.
All I had to do after that was find the time to take care of him.
Which was proving ridiculously difficult.
That's the only reason that I had been there as long as I had.
I never meant for Walt to even notice me.
But once he had, I couldn't just avoid him. It would've given away that there was something about me to focus on.
We talked. A lot.
I had confessed more to him than I ever meant to. I had managed to tell him so much about myself without saying I was a hunter. I shouldn't have said as much as I did, but he seemed so interested and so... kind.
And now he was standing at the top of the stairs, staring down at me like he was daring me to do something. Run, fight, anything at all.
"What do you mean," I finally asked. I needed confirmation.
"A hunter."
There it was.
Nevertheless, I scoffed. "I don't know what you're talking about, Walt."
"You don't?"
"Not at all."
"I don't believe you," he started walking down the steps. "Hunters... they always get just a little too confident."
When he made it down most of the stairs, I took off, going to run down the rest of the staircase. The one night I didn't have a weapon. I had no intention of fighting. He was right behind me, dragging me away from the steps and shoving me to the wall, pinning my wrists with his hands. I flinched a bit, having narrowly avoided hitting the things on and by the wall.
Walt offered a sickeningly sweet smile.
I caught sight of the fangs in the dim light around us. I had been so convinced that it was Mr. Fields. I was such an idiot.
"You hide it well," Walt said quietly. He was so calm that it made me entirely uneasy. "Many hunters have shown up on my doorstep... you've been the most impressive."
I tried to kick him, or just move my leg some way. It didn't work.
"Shh, shh, shh," he chuckled a bit. I felt his claws dig into my skin slightly. "Stop moving."
I calmed down, realizing the risk right now.
"I could kill you now," he muttered, his lips finding my neck. "Hunters were always the most satisfying... but I have no interest in that now."
He pulled away again. I don't know what he was looking for as his eyes scanned every part of my face.
"You are... something very, very different... so clever and so brave and so... tempting..."
He leaned forward and pressed his lips to mine. I froze. His lips were slow, attempting to guide mine to move with them. I almost did. My eyes started to flutter close, longing starting to stop my logical thought.
He pulled away as he moved from holding my wrists to gently holding my hands. Vulnerable. Open for me to take action. Shove, fight, hit.
But I didn't. I couldn't.
He lifted one of my hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm before turning it over to kiss the back. He held it there for a while. It was like he wanted to stop time and hold onto this moment.
"Leave him," Walt said softly. I blinked at him, suddenly snapping back into focus. "Stay here... with me."
I didn't answer. I wanted to quickly decline. To kill him and go home to my normal life. Achieve what my partner wanted of me.
Walt's eyes were closed as another kiss was pressed to my hand.
"He craves your usefulness," he continued. "Your obedience. I... I just want you. You've captured my mind and my heart. I long for you. Stay with me. Please."
"I...," still speechless. How long had it been since I was last speechless? Had that ever happened?
"Imagine it," Walt moved back, guiding me away from the wall.
He stepped behind me when we reached the middle of the landing. His arms wrapped around me, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.
"All of this... ours," he muttered. "You would have your own room for your research and your weapons. Every decision would be yours. At last, your choice. You would be loved, taken care of. Nothing earned, everything offered. And then, when the time is right, you will be joined to me forever. We'll dance through midnights and love for centuries. Unstoppable."
I felt like his words were circling my mind, burrowing into whatever part they could find until they had overwhelmed me. I had never heard something like that before. Not directed at me anyway.
"Let me provide everything that man could never," Walt gently kissed my neck, humming against the skin. "Let me adore you."
I took a deep breath. "My life... my work... all my own?"
"All I ask is your love and commitment."
It wasn't the only factor that I was considering, but I needed to know. Locking myself in this house would have driven me mad. Being able to work... to continue my purpose in this world... that's what I needed. I couldn't prove his love false, but I could do just that with his actions.
I turned around in his arms.
He grinned at me.
I leaned forward and pressed my lips to his. His hold on my sides tightened and he pulled me closer. I touched the sides of his face, grinning into the kiss. I had never had a moment feel more complete. I felt at peace. Free.
I leaned back, resting my forehead against his. "Yes... I'll stay."
His grin grew into a wide smile.
Thus was the beginning of my eternity. And what a brilliant eternity it would be.
--------------------------
Navigation Guide
What I Write For
Some Original Characters
Overcoming Fantasies
Pairing: Brian Cole (Fantasy Island 2021) x fem!reader
Summary: After Brian leaves you because he loves being a survivalist more, he finds himself on Fantasy Island. While he learns that there is more to life than surviving, you chase a pipe dream involving a second chance you'll never get.
Warnings: angst, injury (broken leg), spoilers for 1x07 of Fantasy Island, very brief soulmate connection thing, fluff and reconciliation
Word Count: 2.3k+ words
A/N: I finally wrote Brian. His smile has been in my head for months and this idea forced its way out tonight.
Brian inhales deeply, taking in the serenity and beauty of the island.
“Welcome,” someone calls, “to Fantasy Island.”
“Hi,” he greets awkwardly, turning from the plane to face the beautiful woman welcoming him. “I’m-“
“Brian Cole. Did you come alone?”
“Yes. Was I not supposed to?”
The woman laughs, then explains, “It’s an island, Mr. Cole, there is often more than one visitor.”
“Oh, yeah, of course. No, it's just me.”
“I’m Elena Roarke,” she introduces, offering her hand and a warm smile. “You can leave your backpack.”
He drops her hand and then sets his backpack in the sand before he follows her. A white beach house sits between palm trees, and the curtains on the large windows flutter in the salt air breeze.
“Tell me, Mr. Cole, what is your fantasy?” Elena asks, gesturing for Brian to sit.
He lowers onto a light-colored sofa and fans his shirt gently. It’s humid but not uncomfortable. Despite his history as a survivalist and the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity on the island, Brian is nervous face-to-face with Elena. Suddenly, he wonders if the people who said his fantasy would kill him were correct. If you were right. The last time you spoke to Brian, you had tears running down your face as you begged him to tell you why his obsession with surviving was more important than you. Why he would rather die than come home to you.
“I want the ultimate physical and mental challenge there is,” he answers, looking out at the waves to forget about you. “I want to know if I can overcome it.”
“Why?” Elena inquires. She gestures to the other side of the house, where a large sliding glass door reveals a grassy clearing surrounded by tropical foliage. “What about the outdoors and the dangers it holds makes it a fantasy for you?”
“I’m a survivalist,” he explains. “It’s part of you I am, and the uncertainty makes me feel alive. My… my ex called it an obsession, accused me of having a death wish and loving it more than her.”
“And you’re here to prove her wrong?”
“I’m here to be tested in ways I haven’t before. I want you to put me through the worst so I can show myself I can do it.”
“The island knows your fantasy,” Elena says. “When you exit this door, you’ll be where you want to be.”
“Don’t- don’t send any help. I have to do this alone. There can’t be rescue,” Brian says quietly.
“Of course, Mr. Cole.”
Brian nods and wipes his hands on his pants as he prepares to exit the beach house. Without his backpack, he’s more unprepared than usual. It’s the ultimate challenge, the survivalist fight he’s dreamed of for years. So, without thinking of you or the life he’s leaving behind should anything happen, Brian steps into the grass and the world changes.
“Hey, my friend wants to go on a hike this weekend,” your favorite coworker says. “Do you think Brian could recommend a trail?”
“He’s not into hiking,” you explain. “Dangerous survivalism is more his thing.”
“Oh, wow. That’s intense. It doesn’t concern you?”
You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, and when she tuts and moves closer to rub your back, you admit, “I think my concern is what made him leave.”
Brian moves through the forest, gathering items he can use as supplies. The multi-purpose tool and knife he keeps on his person serve useful, and by the time the sun dips behind the trees and sends long shadows across his path, he’s prepared to make camp for the night. In a clear space against a rock, Brian builds a small bed of leaves and stacks several dry branches to build a fire. He isn’t hungry, so he decides to find food later.
Something moves in the trees nearby, and Brian calls out, “Hello?” No one answers, so he tries, “Elena?”
The forest silences; only the wind in the branches answers him. He chalks the noise up to an animal and returns to work, determined to make a safe camp for the night.
When you get home, you try to forget the reminder of Brian and his obsession. Losing him hurts, and you think it always will. With a warm drink and a new book, you hope to move forward with your life, starting tonight. By the end of the second chapter, you can’t focus because you’re still thinking of Brian. You don’t know where he is, if he’s okay, or if he thinks about you. The first tear falls onto the page, and you slam the book closed. Brian loves to save himself, and you owe it to yourself to do the same.
The following morning, after a small breakfast of double-checked and properly identified berries and a cooked fish, Brian climbs a tree to get a better understanding of the forest around him.
“Does it feel better up here?” a small voice asks.
Brian looks down quickly. He barely catches himself on a nearby branch when he sees the young boy sitting beneath him.
“Who are you?” Brian demands.
“If you’re not going to use the knife, can I have it?” the boy inquires.
“No, it’s mine,” Brian argues.
“Then it’s mine too.”
“You’re saying that you’re me, what? 20 years ago.”
“Gosh, you’re old.”
“Watch it, kid.”
Brian looks away, convinced that he’s imagining his younger self.
“Are you married?” young Brian asks.
“No.”
“Have a girlfriend?”
“I did.”
“But you messed up? Why?”
“Shut up. I can’t answer your questions and get out of this jungle.”
“Apparently that’s not all you can’t do.”
“Okay, fine, I messed up!” Brian snaps. “I lost her, is that what you want to hear?”
His younger self watches him, then says, “I’d like the hear what you’re going to do about it.”
Brian doesn’t have an answer, but that realization doesn’t bother him as much when his foot slips from the branch, and the rock that gave him shelter last night seems to rush up toward him.
You wake a few hours later with a sharp pain shooting through your leg. Standing quickly, you wait for it to pass, then notice that the sun is rising, so you open your back door and sit on the porch to watch the day begin, entranced by its beauty.
Brian groans, clutching the top of his thigh before he cries out in pain. He looks down hesitantly and immediately knows he won’t walk away from this.
“Now the hallucinated company disappears,” he groans as he uses the rock to pull himself into a seated position. “Okay,” he grunts. “Compound fracture.”
After he looks around, he calculates how much time he has. He estimates six hours before sepsis sets in, and doesn’t doubt it will progress rapidly in the heat and humidity.
Brian closes his eyes. He doesn’t know how much time passes before something rests against his shoulder, and a featherlight touch trails up his arm. He mumbles your name, and a fleeting memory of a sigh answers. The touch and the weight disappear on a gust of wind, and Brian opens his eyes. Elena stands before him, frowning at the sight of his broken leg.
“Have you changed your mind about being rescued?” she asks.
“No,” he answers immediately. “You sound like my ex.”
“She was concerned about your death wish. Why are you really here?”
“Being trapped is the purest state of being,” Brian states. “This is how life is supposed to be.”
“Dying alone because you refuse to let people close?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Sounds like I’m not the only one. Good luck, Mr. Cole.”
Brian blinks, and Elena is gone. His younger self returns, carrying fruit and boiled water.
“I wasn’t this resourceful at your age,” Brian says.
“Why do you put yourself in dangerous situations over and over, then?”
“When I was a little older than you are now, I was abandoned in the woods with nothing. It was cold, and I couldn’t do anything but walk. A hiker found me; that’s the only reason I survived. I thought I got over it, and refused to feel that weak or lost again. Maybe I just buried that humiliation. My need to be out here, to survive, is what drove the only woman I’ve ever loved away.”
“The same girl I like?” young Brian asks hopefully.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
Brian closes his eyes and expects a sarcastic reply that doesn't come.
“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he assures. “I’m sorry I was harsh earlier.”
“The secret’s safe with me,” young Brian says softly, wiping tears with the back of his hand. “I’ll be fine. You will too.”
Brian nods, and the sun shines brightly above him when he opens his eyes. Only there are no trees to block the light. He sits up quickly, shocked to find himself on a cliff with no broken bones. Brian stands and follows the sunset through the forest and toward the beach. He smiles and runs faster when the air smells like the ocean again.
The plane descends as you near the destination of the one-day trip your friend insisted you take. Waves lap onto the sand as the sun glints beautifully off the water.
“What is this place?” you ask the pilot.
“Anything you want it to be. That’s why people love the island, I hear,” he replies.
You nod and sit back. After the plane lands, you pull your bag onto your shoulder and open the door.
“Welcome to Fantasy Island,” a woman greets as you drop into the sand. “I’m Elena Roarke.”
You say your first name, wondering who the woman is.
“Your friend tells me that you have a wish no one can grant,” she continues. “This island has a way of doing things like that.”
“I doubt it can do what I want,” you argue.
“You never know. Follow me.”
You walk through the sand as she leads you to a beach house. Inside, you run your fingers across the linen curtains.
“Has the island ever given someone a second chance with a person who doesn’t want one?” you ask. When in Rome - or on Fantasy Island, you think as you hint at your deepest desire.
Elena looks down the beach and then asks you to excuse her. You nod, and she walks out. Alone, you stare out at the ocean. Maybe you should have tried to be more adventurous instead of asking Brian to be less so.
“Welcome back,” Elena says, smiling as Brian emerges from the jungle. “And ahead of schedule.”
“Thank you,” Brian responds. “Thank you for showing me.”
“It’s the island. What now, Mr. Cole?”
“I’m going home. I’ve got… I have to apologize to someone.”
“Good luck.”
Brian hugs Elena as he thanks her again, and he feels complete now that he remembers why he started living like this and realizes that life isn't the same as it was back then.
“Before you leave,” Elena says, “stop in the house. There’s one more thing I think you should see before you leave.”
Brian nods and makes his way toward the coastal building, smiling as he takes his time, enjoying the beauty without thinking about how to use his surroundings for survival.
You hear footsteps, so you turn away from the photos displayed on the shelves beside the couch. When the approaching person steps through the door, you freeze.
“Hey,” Brian says, his smile dropping as his eyes widen in surprise.
You swallow and look at his muddy pants before you say, “Hi.”
Brian watches you as you pull your hands behind your back. He has so much to say that he doesn’t know where to start.
“I should… go. I don’t even know why I’m here,” you murmur.
You step toward the door, toward Brian, but he moves forward to stop you. Looking into his eyes, you wonder why he’s suddenly acting like he doesn’t want you to leave.
“You asked if I loved it,” he begins. “That night you asked if I loved going out on these adventures more than I loved you.”
“And you didn’t answer,” you remind him.
“I was running,” Brian interrupts. “I’ve been running since I was a kid, but keeping that from you, letting it get between us, was the worst mistake of my life.”
“What are you saying?” you whisper.
“I do love it,” Brian says. “Because it makes me feel in control. But I don’t love it more than you... And you shouldn’t believe me.”
You watch Brian, but his eyes are steady on you. He seems genuine. Yet the reminder of how much he hurt you eats at you.
“I messed up, too,” you confess. “I should have accepted it as part of you.”
“No,” Brian argues, shaking his head as he lays his hands on your forearms. “You are part of me. I’ve never told anyone this but the survivalism was a response, a way to feel strong and in control after a terrible experience and abandonment. It’s not an excuse, but it’s a reason.”
“I didn’t want to lose you,” you whisper. “I lived in constant fear that you would die and never come back to me.”
“I’m back,” he insists. “It took me too long, but I’m here now. As long as you want me, I’m here, and if you don’t want me, I understand.”
You raise your hand to Brian’s face and wipe a streak of dirt from his cheek. He leans into your touch, and you move closer to him. Tipping your chin up, you kiss Brian.
He pulls back when he feels a tear hit his thumb. Wiping your cheeks, he matches your smile. You can see it, feel it, and you wholly believe Brian when he says he loves you. This island deals in fantasies, you realize, but not always in the way you expect.
“I keep making you cry,” he murmurs.
“Do you want to go to the beach with me?” you ask.
“I’ll go anywhere with you.”
Elena watches Brian help you into the plane. He seems like a different man when he turns and waves at her before he joins your side.
“I’ll teach you to spearfish when we get there,” Brian says.
“Oh, no,” you reply, laughing before Brian cups the back of your head and kisses you.
“Another satisfied visitor,” she muses.
Words to Die By
The Rookie x Criminal Minds Crossover
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!BAU!reader
Summary: Seven years after failing to become an LAPD officer, you return to Los Angeles as a literary analyst with the FBI's behavioral analysis unit to catch a serial killer.
Warnings: angst, violence, discussions of autopsies and forensic science, literary references, fluff and banter, improper use of a meat locker
Word Count: 13k+ words
Masterlist Directory | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Rules
As the slick black SUV with US government plates parks outside the LAPD Mid-Wilshire station, you try not to reminisce. It would be too easy to remember how excited you were to walk in on your first day after the police academy, too easy to remember the devastation and heartbreak you felt walking through the same doors after surrendering your badge. You open the car door and focus on the current job, keeping your head down as you follow your team into the station that once felt like home. After finding an empty space out of the officers’ way to wait while your boss speaks to the watch commander and captain, you unlock your phone and scroll through the case details you reviewed on the flight, looking for anything you might have missed.
“Can I help you?”
You look up from your phone, the case detail email disappearing as you press the power button and smile at the LAPD officer standing before you.
“Sorry, I’m waiting for the rest of my team,” you explain before brandishing your badge.
“Oh, no worries. This is my first time working in a task force,” she replies. “It’s exciting.”
You nod and subconsciously tug on your sleeves. Officer Chen is obviously a rookie, and her enthusiasm is refreshing.
“Is this your first time in LA?” she asks.
“No, it isn’t.”
“Chen, Bradford wants to see you before roll call,” another officer calls.
“Is Bradford your training officer?” you ask.
“He is. Do you know him?”
You look around, then say, “Tim is on, what? His tenth plain clothes day washout?”
“Eleventh,” she answers, surprised.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Chen.” You offer your hand and say, “I’m number five.”
Chen’s jaw drops before she asks, “And now you’re FBI? How did that happen?”
“Long story… But I’m a literary analyst for the behavioral analysis unit, not exactly a field agent.”
A passing officer stops, then steps backward to look at you. “Are you on Hotchner’s team?”
“I am. I assume you remember him?”
“You know an FBI agent, Officer Lopez?” Chen asks.
“He was responsible for over 100 convictions of corrupt cops six or seven years ago. Five of them were LAPD, and one was our watch commander,” Lopez explains. “Chen, we need to get to roll call.”
You nod to Lucy, then return your attention to an email from Penelope.
“Your phone should be at least twelve inches from your face to limit blue light exposure,” Spencer says as he enters the station. “Sixteen to eighteen inches is preferable.”
“Spencer,” you reply, smiling as you turn toward him. “Penelope used what appears to be 6-point font and then zoomed out. I appreciate the concern for my eye health but take it up with her.”
Spencer frowns and murmurs, “Sounds like a job for Morgan.”
“What’s that, pretty boy?” Derek inquires as if he was summoned by the utterance of his name. “Gettin’ girlie here a date?”
“In Los Angeles?” you ask incredulously. “Hard pass.”
“Right, because the location is the issue with the plan. Not the fact that we’re working a case, and new evidence was discovered this morning,” Hotch deadpans from your side.
“I can multitask, boss man,” Derek defends, tossing his arm over your shoulders.
“Psychologists have determined the human brain isn’t designed for successful multitasking,” Reid begins. “It can cause switch cost, which results when attention and information retainment are suddenly redirected from one task to another, and cognitive efficiency and performance diminish-“
“Says the walking brain with at least fourteen tabs open,” Derek jokes.
“They’re waiting for us,” Hotch reminds. “I mean, only if you’re ready.”
“Your station,” Derek tells you, shaking your shoulders gently as he follows you toward the roll call room.
“… and there is no excuse for failure to communicate,” Sergeant Wade Grey continues as you follow Hotch into the roll call room.
You stand between Hotch and Derek as he speaks and look around the room. Fourteen officers are seated at the tables, listening intently even as their eyes stray to the case board. JJ joins you a moment later, mouthing an apology to Hotch before passing him a folder.
“More evidence?” you whisper.
She nods, then whispers something to Spencer, who furrows his brows and squints at the case board. You know the look, and it increases your concern about the case. Though there have been two notes and a book tied to the previous crime scenes, you’re unsure why Hotch decided you needed to join them in LA. You could have stayed in Virginia with Penelope, you think, but you trust him and the rest of your team. Turning away from JJ, you fight the urge to peek into Hotch’s open folder as you run your eyes up and down the rows of officers. You recognize Chen and Lopez from this morning, but stop when you see Tim Bradford.
Hotch notices your shoulders stiffen in the split second before you relax, and he taps his elbow against you. You look up at him, and he nods once to reassure you. You’re not alone, and unlike the last time you were in this station, someone else knows the truth of what happened.
“Any questions about the case?” Grey asks. He sighs when someone raises their hand and says, “Yes, Nolan?”
Nolan doesn’t seem concerned with Grey’s lethargy. “What’s the connection between the zoo and the first victim?”
Spencer shifts beside you, and Derek shakes his head in amusement. You can imagine the rambling fighting to get out of Reid, and you smile at Derek rather than laugh.
“I should’ve been clearer. Any questions about our side of the investigation?” Grey amends, and this time the officers stay quiet. “In that case, I’d like to introduce Supervisory Special Agent Hotchner of the FBI, the BAU unit chief, who has brought his team across the country to assist in this case.”
Hotch walks to the front of the room and sets his files on the podium. He fixes an evaluating glare on the officers before him, then nods.
JJ leans toward you and asks, “Remember how intimidating that look used to be?”
“Still makes me stand up a little straighter,” you admit.
“We’re here to help,” Hotch begins. “But that means that we need you to be as committed to solving this case as we are. If you’re not ready for that, you’re free to go.” No one moves, so Hotch says, “Good. Sergeant Grey has briefed me on each of you. You’re good officers, but street smarts and police procedure won’t get this monster off the street.”
“But talking about the suspect’s feelings will?” one of the officers jokes.
Hotch’s eyebrows raise, and his serious look fades into a knowing glare. “You must be Bradford.”
JJ takes your hand, and Derek exhales. They know more about your history in LA than the people in LA do, and you appreciate their friendship and presence.
“Sorry, sir,” Tim replies. “I only meant that there is tangible evidence at these scenes, and it seems to me that concrete proof will help us find this guy faster than dissecting his mind through his habits and words.”
Hotch returns behind the podium and admits, “I understand how our process could seem like a waste of time, and criminal profiling is not an exact science, we’re wrong sometimes, but you know as well as I do that there’s no one right way to solve a crime. The important thing in this situation is to get a killer off the streets before he claims more lives. If our behavioral analysis can assist in that, we’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“I can assure you that you have the LAPD’s complete cooperation,” Sergeant Grey interjects, looking pointedly at Tim. “And anyone unwilling to do so will be removed from this task force.”
Tim crosses his arms across his chest and nods, a position you remember well from your limited days as a rookie. You expected this type of attitude from him and possibly more cops. You truly believe that the BAU can offer insights Tim can’t glean from analyzing a crime scene or going through the processed evidence.
“Do any of you have questions for me or my communications liaison?” Hotch asks.
Several officers ask questions about task force protocol, what your team does, and other run-of-the-mill inquiries about the federal agency and its duties.
“I believe it is time for introductions?” Hotch says, stepping to the side as he welcomes Sergeant Grey back to the front of the room.
“The LAPD has selected fourteen of its best officers-“ He turns away from the room and lowers his voice to tell Hotch, “If you’re against rookies on the team, I’ve got some other officers on standby.”
“If you trust them, they’re welcome to stay.”
Grey nods and turns, then continues, “Officer Lopez, Officer Bishop and her rookie, John Nolan, Officer Janssen…”
You tune out most of the officers’ names, trusting Spencer to fill in any blanks for you, until you hear, “Officer Bradford and his rookie, Lucy Chen.”
You were in Lucy’s position just over seven years ago, and now you’re looking in from the outside. You love your job and appreciate the FBI and the BAU for giving you a home and a rewarding career. Yet, sometimes you’re still plagued by the inevitable wondering, what if?
“Pleasure to meet you all,” Hotch responds. “I’m SSA Aaron Hotchner, behind you is my team: Special Agents Reid, Morgan, Jareau…” Hotch meets your eyes before introducing you, and you watch him rather than Tim, who turns quickly in his chair and stares wide-eyed at you before controlling his expression and returning to his usual composed demeanor.
“How is a literary analyst helpful?” someone questions softly.
“This unit has taken down more serial criminals than you can name,” Wade snaps. “Show a little respect.”
“We’d like to brief you before the media,” Hotch explains. “If it’s possible to reconvene before tomorrow’s patrol begins, of course.”
“Not a problem. I want all of you back in here fifteen minutes before beginning of shift tomorrow,” Wade tells his officers. “Keep the conversation in this room, understood?”
“Yes, sir,” the officers respond as they stand and file out of the door, some whispering together, others leaving quietly and alone.
“I think that went well,” Derek says as Hotch gathers his things.
“Socially speaking, there was a divide and a complete lack of faith in us,” Spencer argues. “Though there is the question of authority and a misunderstanding regarding our purpose and purview.”
“Pretty boy and I are going to go find some coffee.”
As Derek and Spencer leave, and JJ excuses herself to answer a phone call, you’re left alone with your current supervisor and former watch commander.
“It’s good to see you,” Wade says, smiling as he pulls you into a hug.
“You, too,” you respond. “Sorry I haven’t been back as much as I’d like.”
“I understand,” Wade assures. “And it seems that you’ve found your perfect place in the BAU.”
“We like to think so,” Hotch agrees. “Although…”
“Bradford won’t be a problem,” you interrupt.
Hotch tilts his head questioningly, and you add, “He fights back on new things, but he’s a good cop, so he’ll do what’s right in the end.”
Hotch hesitates, then asks, “Do you trust him?”
“With my life.”
“He’s the best I’ve got,” Wade comments. “But if there’s a question about him…”
“He’s Morgan, but more serious,” you tell Hotch. He doesn’t change his stare, so you sigh and promise, “I want him here. There’s no bad blood between us and he’s going to be invaluable in this.”
Hotch nods and looks away from you finally and begins asking Wade about one of the files turned in the night before, which you understand as your cue to leave. After you step out into the bullpen, Derek returns to your side.
“Where’s Spencer?” you ask, looking over his shoulder.
“Telling Officer Chen about the health benefits of doing something boring. How are you?”
“I’m okay. Hotch doesn’t seem to think so.”
Derek gasps and holds your shoulder to exclaim, “You have two overprotective father figures to work for now!”
You consider arguing for less than a second before you realize he’s right. Wade stayed in touch after you left LA. Hotch has never left room for you to wonder how he sees you and his need to protect you. So, you’re working on a case that feels like two different versions of your personality, and parts of your life have combined into one perfect yet terrifying case. And you haven’t even talked to Tim yet.
“I hope our hotel has a hot tub,” you lament.
“Plain clothes day washout number five, huh?” Lucy asks Tim as they patrol Los Angeles.
Tim shakes his head and doesn’t answer. He’s gone seven years without talking about you, only having to relive the heartbreak on your face and the disappointment he felt during his loneliest nights. Tim saw great potential in you, considered you more than a rookie, and taking your badge had affected him in a way he never expected. Now, you’re in the FBI, which is news to him, and you’re working on a case that he hasn’t been able to solve even with ten crime scenes to work with.
“What happened?” Lucy tries.
“None of your business, Chen,” he snaps. “That case, Hotchner’s team, all of it stays in the roll call room for now. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
A bell chimes above your head as you enter your favorite Los Angeles diner. It’s your first night in the city, and since you don’t know how long you’ll be here, you wanted to revisit it while you had a chance. When you mentioned the diner, your team gave you their orders to bring to the hotel, where they’re currently reviewing the autopsy reports. It feels wrong to leave them, but you sigh in the comfort of a place that once provided you a refuge after long days.
“Old habits?” you ask as you approach the counter.
Tim looks up from the laminate and watches you. You don’t meet his gaze but look at the menu while you wait for the waitress to return. This was your favorite diner when you started at the LAPD, and Tim has never given himself time to wonder why he kept coming back even after you left.
“Something like that,” he says. “So, uh, the FBI. That’s incredible.”
You shrug. “Not what I wanted, but I love it.”
Tim nods, unsure what else to say. You’re not the girl you were on day one in the academy, not even the girl who left the station in tears after washing out. Tim still sees you, the woman who fought for what was right never gave up, and was smarter than she ever realized. That’s not the person he saw your last week on patrol, but he knew you were still in there somewhere.
“How long have you been with the BAU?” he inquires.
The waitress returns, and you take the excuse to not answer Tim. You retrieve your phone from your pocket and read a large order from the screen, then pass a shiny, FBI-issued credit card over the counter.
“It’ll be a few minutes, hun,” the waitress informs as she returns the card. “Feel free to have a seat.”
You thank her and slide onto a stool, ensuring you leave an empty seat between you and Tim.
“Failing to become a police officer was one of the hardest things I’ve ever experienced,” you confess. “A few months later, Aaron Hotchner knocked on my door. There was a case nearby, a serial rapist who was leaving personalized love letters with every single victim. He found my résumé on a local job board and came to ask for help because of my background. The rest just fell into place, I guess.”
“You get to carry,” Tim points out, gesturing toward the holster on your hip, concealed from everyone else by your shirt. “They don’t let people who just ‘fall into place’ do that.”
“I did everything by the book, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“I’m wondering what changed on plain clothes day,” he responds. “You were on track to be an amazing officer, and then that last week, you just… something changed.”
“I did.”
“There’s more to it.”
“There’s really not,” you insist. “If you don’t want to be on this task force-“
“I do. I wish you could see that you have the potential to lead it.”
“Hotch saved my life. I trust him.” Tim understands the part you don’t say: that you trust him more than yourself.
The waitress returns with two full bags, and you stand as you take them from the counter.
“Goodnight, Tim. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow.”
As you leave, the bell chimes over the door again, and Tim hears your voice in his head, the promise of another chance, but he doesn't miss the fact that you leave every time you see each other.
“What if - and hear me out on this - you just told him the truth,” Derek suggests.
You take a drink from a cheap Styrofoam cup and nod. “You’re right, Derek, why didn’t I think of that?”
“You know, most hotel chains serving breakfast fail to maintain proper culinary heat-“
Hotch raises one finger before Spencer can ruin breakfast for everyone. “Don’t.”
“I agree with Morgan,” JJ says. “There’s clearly questions there, and if you explain what happened, he’ll trust you more.”
“And he can deal with some of the guilt,” Hotch grumbles.
“What guilt?” you inquire, pausing with a cheap metal fork in your hand.
“He clearly blames himself for letting you lose your position,” Hotch explains.
“He knows how good you are, so that final week probably doesn’t make any sense to him,” Derek adds.
“He doesn’t,” you mutter. “He told me last night-“
“You saw him last night?” JJ exclaims.
“I ran into him at the diner.”
“He still goes to your diner?” Derek questions.
“It’s just a diner! But I saw him there and he insisted that there was more to what happened than me changing.”
“And you lied to him?” Hotch responds. “It’s over, you can tell him, you can shout it from the top of the Chinese theater.”
“That would be illegal,” Spencer mumbles.
“And wouldn’t change anything,” you add. “We’re here to work a case, not mend a bridge that has been-“ you scramble for the right word before finishing, “disintegrating for nearly a decade.”
Derek groans as he leans back in his seat, and Hotch finally looks up to say, “If this gets in the way of the case, I’ll have Garcia email him everything he needs to know.”
“I’m cutting holes in all of your quarter-zips tonight,” you threaten in return.
Hotch frowns and mouths, You’ll never find them all.
“Good morning,” Sergeant Grey calls as the door closes behind the twentieth and final member of the task force. “SSA Hotchner is going to fill you all in.”
“Thanks for coming in early,” Hotch begins. “There have been no new developments in the case since yesterday, but my team has created a preliminary profile based on the preexisting evidence and details from the first ten victims.”
Your phone buzzes with an incoming call from Garcia, and you exit the room to answer. “Whatcha got for us, gorgeous?”
“Ooh, does Derek know you’re talking to me like this?” she replies, her keyboard clicking in the background.
“Not like he’s competition,” you say with a playful scoff. “Find anything on the deep dive?”
“Nothing inherently helpful. The prelim suspects are all pretty similar, though one of them did alibi out. Carson Gillery was working remotely from Chicago during the second and third murders. Hotel and airline checks corroborate that.”
“I’ll tell Hotch. Anything else?”
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Fine. Why?”
She stops typing suddenly and then inhales sharply.
“Garcia?” You ask.
The line beeps as she disconnects, and a phone on the desk closest to you begins ringing. A Virginia area code appears on the caller ID, and you stretch across the desk to pick up the receiver.
“Penelope?” you ask hurriedly.
“He’s in the data!” she explains, typing again. “He’s not doing much, but someone is overriding minor coding and there was another line tied into our call. I could hear him breathing; thought you were crying at first, but now I’m running a backward search to find this psycho.”
“None of the prelim suspects would know how to do that,” you point out.
“Uh oh,” Penelope breathes. “I think… I think he left you a message.”
“What is it?”
“It’s in the seventh victim’s ME report, overwriting the details of the posthumous wounding to the back. It says 2/18/17… It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate; I am the captain of my soul.”
“Henley,” you murmur, trying to connect the dots as you forget the first half of the message.
“There’s more,” Penelope says. “A copy of your one-way ticket to Virginia with an alternate ID that says, ‘thanks for the perfect opening night.’”
“It’s about me?” you whisper.
“I’m going to trace these messages,” Penelope declares. “You tell Hotch about this, and please, please do not try to investigate this on your own.”
“You got it. But can you send me a scan of page 39, no- 38, from the William Ernest Henley book in my office? I need the annotated copy of Invictus.”
“You got it. Tell Morgan and I said hi and I’m wearing-“
You hang up and take a deep breath as you return the receiver to the cradle.
“Agent Hotchner,” you call as you return. “I need a word.”
“Let me finish-“
“There’s been a development,” you interrupt. “An urgent one.”
Hotch sees the look in your eyes and calls Spencer to the front of the room to continue reviewing the patterns in the killings and to discuss the psychological traits and drivers they suspect the killer will have. Derek watches as Hotch and Grey follow you out of the roll call room. Meanwhile, JJ watches Officer Tim Bradford as he manages to conceal his concern but not his interest as he watches you through the glass walls.
“Garcia called with information on the prelim suspects,” you explain. “Someone tapped into the call, and then… whoever it was started manipulating her date on the FBI server. She did say that Carson Gillery alibied out, he was out of state for several of the murders, but whoever this guy is, he is incredibly close to this case.”
“Manipulated the data how?” Hotch asks.
You wring your fingers together as you answer, “He left a message. Garcia thinks it was for me.”
“Left it where?” Grey inquires.
“The seventh victim Mel Houghton’s autopsy report. It was a date and a line from a William Ernest Henley poem.”
“The date?” Hotch presses.
You inhale deeply before saying, “February 18, 2017.”
“The day you lost your position in the LAPD,” Grey remembers. “What does it mean?”
You look toward Hotch, and he shakes his head twice. There isn’t an obvious answer to Grey’s question, but the implication that this case has something to do with you isn’t good.
“He… he also had a picture of my plane ticket to Virginia and added a note, something about ‘thanks for the opening night,’” you add. “Hotch, if you have to take me off this case-“
“We need you,” he interjects. “The literary aspect of this case is progressing.”
“Does that mean we could limit our suspect search?” Wade asks, looking between you and Hotch.
“Not likely,” you reply with a sigh. “Plenty of literature enjoyers can’t be located purely based on that. There’s no evidence he’s educated or active in book clubs, debates, anything.”
“Garcia’s tracing the data changes?” Hotch assumes.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then we work what we can until she gets back to us.”
“I need to see the novellas left with the victims,” you request. Hotch begins to speak, and you add, “Not the scans, the actual, physical stories left with their bodies.”
“I’ll get someone to go through the evidence with you,” Wade assures. “Any preference?”
You look into the roll call room through the glass sheeting, your eyes drifting past Tim as you decide, “Officer Chen, please.”
Wade nods once, then returns to the podium inside as Spencer concludes his comments on the psychology of the killer’s modus operandi.
“What are you expecting to find?” Hotch asks you.
“I really wish I knew,” you answer softly. “Hotch, what if this is all my fault?”
“The delusions of a killer have nothing to do with you. If something you did as an officer triggered him to start, there is no reason to assume he wouldn’t have started later. He’s clearly reality-challenged, living in a space between this world and the events of his imagination, and that is not on you.”
You nod, rubbing your forehead as you think. “Literature is clearly important to him. If it comes to it, will you let me go with JJ to a press conference?”
Hotch hesitates, and you know he doesn’t like the idea of putting his team in public view, unless absolutely necessary, but he says, “Fine. Only if it gets that far.”
“Hotch? February 2017 had massive storms. Urban flooding, mudslides, wind, snowfall, there was mayhem that week. I mean, a police chase with a DUI driver, a car fell into a sinkhole. I used some of those cases to…” You trail off, remembering all of the things you did wrong.
“Talk to me,” Hotch encourages.
“Any one of the people who had contact with the LAPD that weekend could have been pushed over the edge. He could have been killing for seven years, since whatever happened, but just got bold and brazen enough to make it public.”
Hotch leaves your side for a moment to wave Spencer out. When he joins you and Hotch in the bullpen, Hotch gestures for you to explain your theory.
“I suppose,” Spencer muses. “The killings have progressed minimally since the first victim three months ago. It does point toward a more practiced unsub, someone who has, in their mind, perfected their method. Yes, it’s completely possible.”
“The books,” Hotch points out. “Those are new. Unsolved cases with novellas or poems shoved down victims’ throats would have caught someone’s attention by now.”
“Serial killers gain experience with each new offense,” Spencer explains. “The learning curve is steep because of the logistics it takes to commit a murder. If he’s been killing without being caught, the thrill of killing would empower him to take more chances. In this case, the trophy aspect of his MO could easily have changed, but his idiosyncratic psychological needs remain the same.”
“We don’t have enough people to comb through seven years of cold cases to find similar killings,” you lament.
“We do have the media,” JJ interjects, sliding her phone into her pocket as she approaches. “It’s a long shot, but if we could find one or two, would it be enough to complete a profile?”
“An estimate of how long he’s been at this, with Garcia’s trace and the analysis of the literature at the scene… Yes, we could establish a firm MO and improve the unsub’s psychological profile.”
“Hold on,” Derek urges into his phone as he joins the rest of your team. He looks at you and says, “Give me your phone.”
You pass it to him, and he flips it in his free hand as he listens. He gives you an apologetic look and then drops it.
“Morgan!” Hotch exclaims as Derek brings the heel of his boot down on your phone screen.
“Unless Penelope told you to do that, I’m going to be very mad,” you say.
“Alright, baby girl, tell us all,” Derek requests as he puts his phone on speaker.
“I found our guy, or his IP address at least,” Penelope says.
“And?” Hotch asks. “Where is he?”
“That’s the thing. He’s in an apartment a few miles from the station.”
You recite your previous address and Penelope murmurs, “That’s the one.”
Penelope explains how she traced his data trail before you interrupt to ask, “Is there anything about another cop in it?”
“Uh, there were some numbers,” she answers.
“34381?” you guess. “And 6147?”
“Amongst others, yeah. Do they mean something to you?”
“One is Officer Bradford’s badge number. The other is Sergeant Kenneth Adamson.”
“I’ll run the rest of the numbers against the LAPD database and get back to you.”
“Are all of our phones in need of stomping?” Spencer asks before Penelope hangs up.
“Not yet,” she replies, and then the line clicks.
“Running everything is going to take too long,” you complain. “He’s probably already targeted his next victim. He could be writing the novella for all we know!”
“His system is organized,” Spencer explains. “We can use that. The past victims have been a week or more apart. Even if he does change his timeline because we’re here, he needs time to plan, write, correct?”
“Yes,” you answer. “He could do it overnight if the circumstances called for it.”
“Assuming he’ll take a break between kills, however…”
“We have two days,” Derek concludes. “Let’s hope he’s not too organized, doc.”
“He’s a criminal,” JJ says. “They all get stupid and forgetful.”
“We don’t change anything. He’s changing the rules, pushing himself, but we’re not playing his game,” Hotch says. “And, for the moment, we keep the LAPD connection to ourselves.”
“What if they could help?” JJ argues.
“No.”
“Act like we have a week, and he won’t expect us to be ready to go,” you say. “In that case, I’ll start analyzing the literature.”
“Speaking of which.” JJ pulls a paper from her bag and says, “The homicide detective said CSI found this on a secondary scene analysis.”
You read the scan of the evidence, and your eyes widen as you look up at Derek. “Good thing you came with. He’s building a bomb.”
“Whoa,” Derek says with little intonation in his voice, but his hands raise as he moves his head in surprise. “Explain the progression from writing stories to bombs.”
“Postmodern literature is the most recent literary movement that contains vulgarity in diction and violence. It’s often used as an authentic portrayal of humanity, depicting violence against gender, race, and the human body,” Spencer answers. “Epic poetry was one of the first storytelling forms to depict interpersonal violence.”
Derek rolls his eyes at Spencer’s reply to the rhetorical question, and you add, “The Victorian literary period was marked by violence through the use of suffering and physical dangers as literary themes. The gothic genre aestheticized the darker elements of human life, explored sexual violence, dramatic monologues, and realistic violence like robbery, beheadings, even serial murders.”
“Which affects us how?” Hotch inquires.
“William Ernest Henley was a prominent figure in the later years of the Victorian movement. He sent lines from Invictus to Garcia, and that piece has been the poem of choice for extremists and terrorists to justify their violence in the last few years. There is some hardship beyond our killer’s control, and this is how he’s dealing with it.”
“Still doubting your hypothesis?” Hotch deadpans.
“Wouldn’t he have to stop all of the suffering somehow?” JJ asks.
“Yes. But he hasn’t decided on an endgame yet, we’ll see the signs of that when it comes. The beginning of a plan for a bomb isn’t concerning yet. For now, we continue as planned, but he will likely strike again in 24 to 48 hours.”
“They’re getting concerned,” Derek whispers, waving toward the roll call room.
“I’ll handle them. You have your assignments,” Hotch states. “We reconvene tonight after end of shift.”
“Yes, sir,” you agree with the rest of your team.
As you return to the roll call room between JJ and Derek, you keep your eyes on the front of the room, ignoring how Tim turns to look at you. Hotch gives an acceptable excuse for your team’s private meeting and then provides tasks with Sergeant Wade.
“What about me?” Lucy asks as the other officers exit into the bullpen.
“You’re with me,” you reply, stepping toward her as you smile. “If that’s okay.”
“Yes!” Lucy cheers. She clears her throat and amends, “Yes, of course, I’d love to help.”
“Keep me updated,” Hotch tells you.
“Yes, sir. Oh, and…” You move your fingers in a scissor motion to remind him of your previous threat before concluding, “Spencer has the information you asked for.”
Hotch nods once, and Wade smiles. Suddenly, you’re hit with the feeling of being torn apart, stuck between the life you wanted and the one you have. When the case is solved, the killer is behind bars, and you’ll have to leave these people again. At least you’ve finally remembered that planes travel both ways.
“Ten victims,” you say as you pin the last picture to the bulletin board in the office you and Lucy have set up. “Six novellas, a book, two pamphlets, and a bloody poem.”
Lucy’s eyes follow the red thread connecting the victims to their evidence and the order of the killings as you stare at the T.S. Eliot poem from the fifth scene with your hands on your hips.
Plus, a William Ernest Henley poem meant to bring me into the killer’s world, you think.
“Ready?” you ask Lucy.
“Yes, ma’am.”
You laugh and invite her to use your first name, then spread the evidence pictures from the first murder on the metal desk. It isn’t the same as reviewing the physical books and poems, the thick paper holding the twisted ideas of a serial killer left warm from the printer beside the lives he claimed for the sake of his own story. It’s the best you can do for now.
“Janice Davis, our first victim. The killer stapled a San Diego Zoo pamphlet to her chest.” You flip through the case file and add, “Antemortem. Ouch.”
“That looks like a building staple,” Lucy muses, leaning over the picture.
“It is. Your forensics lab determined it’s a Powernail galvanized seven-eighths inch crown staple. Intended purpose is woodworking and flooring, and one side of the staple extends out at an angle, so even if she was conscious long enough to try removing it… well, it would’ve hurt more to take it out.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“Unknown,” you read, furrowing your brows. “Manner of death: homicide. But it looks like they couldn’t determine the cause. Any chance ME Daniella Smith is still around?”
“I don’t know,” Lucy confesses. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Sorry, you’re good at this, I keep forgetting you’re a rookie.”
“That’s the nicest thing anyone has ever told me.”
You smile, then return to the evidence before you. “The next victim, Gregory Hunter, was found with a copy of Orwell’s Animal Farm open beneath his head. The page, as far as I can tell, is irrelevant.”
“Then what’s the point of leaving it there?”
“Hunter was Davis’s boss, and apparently they had been involved a few years prior to working together. Animal Farm presents Orwell’s ideas on power, equality, socialism and corruption.”
“All things the San Diego Zoo has been accused of abusing throughout history,” Lucy adds. “Along with the animals.”
“Precisely. Then it wouldn’t be a stretch to assume that our killer was wronged by a failing class structure, abuse of power and control, inequality, or socialism.”
“That’s a lot of options.”
“Which is why we keep looking. Victim number three had a personalized novella…”
“The method of killing has been consistent with every victim. They’re injured, kept alive for three to twelve hours, and then killed. Janice Davis, victim one, was ruled as undetermined cause of death, but there was no evidence of blunt force trauma, gunshot wounds or poisoning, which we’d expect based on the sudden killings of the others,” Spencer explains.
“You can tune him out,” Derek whispers. “When his voice drops an octave, he’s about to ask a question.”
Tim nods, but he wasn’t listening to begin with. His mind keeps drifting to thoughts of you. He watched you talk to your team, has worked with you, and knows the depth of your talent and potential. Yet he continues to wonder how you truly came to work at such an elite division in the FBI and what you’re hiding.
“Do any of you have experience with crime scene investigation?” Spencer asks.
Several officers raise their hands, including Angela. Tim has guarded scenes and looked around on his own time, but he isn’t sure when his unique skills will be required for this case.
“Morgan,” Hotch calls from the doorway. “Take an officer to gather the literary evidence. Someone with a station ID has to sign it out for us.” He looks towards the front of the room and sighs. “And tell Spencer to wrap it up.”
“Doctor Morgan,” Derek calls as he stands. “Perhaps we should move on to the evidence snapshots and physical profile?”
Spencer nods and shifts his attention to the tools and proposed appearance of the killer.
“I’ve got a station ID,” Tim tells Derek. “If you need that evidence now.”
Derek sighs but waves for Tim to join him. He remains quiet while they walk to the evidence lockers, largely because he’s evaluating Tim. Derek knows about your time in Los Angeles, and even if he did encourage you to talk to Tim, he isn’t sure if Tim deserves your time.
“You were military?” Derek asks as they wait for the evidence to be thoroughly signed out and accounted for.
“Army,” Tim responds. “FBI always the goal for you?”
“Oh, nah, I started as a cop up in Chicago. Things just happened.”
“Seems to be a lot of that,” Tim murmurs, remembering your ‘fell into place’ excuse.
“Why be a TO?”
Tim shrugs. He’s never had a good answer for that question, and if he starts thinking, he might get caught up on his fifth washout.
“Special Agent Morgan,” the evidence officer says as he places a large box on the ledge. “Your supervisor has to sign this form upon evidence return.”
“Got it. Thank you.”
Derek picks up the box and steps back, but the officer places another box behind it. Tim takes it without a word and follows Derek to an office with a closed door.
He taps his foot against the door and calls, “Open up, pretty girl, these muscles are just for show!”
You smile as you open the door, and Tim clenches his jaw at the realization that Derek Morgan just called you ‘pretty girl.’
“I fear you’ve mistaken me for Penelope,” you tell him as you hold the door. “Thank you so much.”
Tim nods as he places the box down, and then looks at the case board.
“Oh, Tim,” Lucy says. “Do you know if ME Daniella Smith is still working?”
“She retired,” Tim replies.
You drop your shoulders and nod. “Thanks.”
“I can get her address and phone number, though,” he offers, partially to help and partially because he hates how disappointed you look.
“That would be amazing!” you reply happily. “Lucy, feel free to go with him, move around for a few minutes.”
Lucy follows Tim, and you close the door to talk to Derek. You explain that the literature points toward class structure, abuse of power, or socialism.
“Maybe he should move to Canada instead of killing then,” Derek muses. “Have you told Hotch?”
“Not yet. There’s also the string of violence in the literature. At first, it was metaphorical violence, a symbolic representation of the dangers of power in society, but it’s gotten more blatant, more Victorian in its realism.”
“The novellas?” he guesses.
“I haven’t gotten to read them in their entirety yet, I’ll start that now, but I’d guess he’s outlining his preferred method of violence as well as the reason.”
“Think it will shed some light on the explosives schematics? Which, by the way, are pretty weak. A bomb like that would be hard pressed to flip a Prius, it wouldn’t do major damage unless it was an incredibly confined space.”
“Ask Spencer what he thinks about the space,” you suggest. “The killings have been in relatively open spaces, but he’d know better than me if it means anything.”
“I’ll run it by him if I can get a word in.”
You laugh at Derek’s joke, but he turns serious again to ask, “Are you okay? I know this can’t be easy for you, working a case here after seven years.”
“I’m okay,” you promise. “I’ll let you know if that changes and I need a Morgan hug.”
Derek smiles as he opens the door, and Tim and Lucy return soon after.
“She lives three miles from here and said she’d talk to you,” Lucy relays.
“Let me tell my team.”
Tim raises a hand to stop you as you gather your things and repeats, “She said she’d talk to you. She recognized your name.”
“Oh.” Hotch walks by the door, and you step out quickly to explain, “I found the ME who couldn’t determine Janice Davis’s cause of death. She’s retired, but lives nearby and agreed to talk to me, but only me.”
Hotch weighs his options, but when he sees Tim behind you, he suggests, “Then you should probably take your TO.”
Your eyes widen in shock, but you trust Hotch, so you nod and step back into the office.
“You don’t have to,” you begin as Tim asks, “Ready?”
You fail to find the right words for several moments, then say, “Lucy, do you want to help Derek Morgan review crime scenes for construction and security?”
“Sure! Let me know if you need more help with this stuff when you get back,” she responds. “Good luck!”
“Thanks,” you say, though you think I’ll need it.
“Do you want to drive or should I?” Tim asks once you’re alone.
You lift keys from your pocket and say, “I will. Do you think Smith will be any help?”
“We can hope.”
“Can I address the elephant in the room?” Sergeant Grey asks.
“Be my guest,” Hotch answers, not looking up from his improved profile.
“Bradford isn’t operating at his usual level.”
“She is.”
“Which is why I think there may be more to his side of the story.”
Hotch looks up to propose, “You think he had something to do with Adamson’s misconduct?”
“No,” Wade assures, “nothing like that. But two days of fire-able offenses and not a single correction from her TO? Bradford either didn’t care that she gave up or, for some reason, he wasn’t in a position to.”
“The corruption we found ran deep. There’s a chance he was hoping to get a piece of the takeaway… or he was in a similar position to her.” Hotch reaches for his phone quickly after he speaks and raises it to his ear. “Garcia, I need you to run the badge numbers again. Tell me how many of them had a direct connection to Keith Adamson.”
“One second,” Penelope requests. “Software’s running it now. Oh, the medical examiner, Smith, she resigned less than an hour after the charges against Adamson came in. Thought that was interesting.”
“That’s one connection.”
“Okay, yep, all ten of the badge numbers embedded in the coding have connections to Adamson. Seven subordinates, his captain, and two IA investigators.”
“Thanks, Garcia.” Hotch ends the call and tells Wade, “Whatever Adamson did, it wasn’t just skimming the evidence pile, it pushed our killer over the edge.”
“I remember Janice Davis,” Daniella Smith says as she passes you a mug of hot tea. “She was young, twenty-six, I believe, and had a construction staple in her sternum.”
“Your official report listed the cause of death as indiscernible,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the mug as your thigh presses against Tim’s on the small settee. “Do you remember if you may have had any hypotheses?”
Daniella sighs as she lowers into a chair across from you. “It was asphyxiation. Her mouth was sealed with superglue, and she couldn't get enough air after a few hours of lying horizontally.”
Tim looks at you before demanding, “Why didn’t you put that in the report?”
“I was scared.”
“And you think the people living here weren’t?”
“Tim,” you whisper harshly. You shake your head as Daniella shrinks in her seat. “Why were you scared, Ms. Harris?” She shakes slightly, and you give her a moment to breathe before you ask, “Did someone at the police station ask you to lie?”
She laughs once, a sad sound before she wipes her nose and corrects, “He threatened me if I didn’t.”
“Who?” Tim asks.
“Sergeant Keith Adamson. He was the watch commander at the time. My career, my life, my marriage, he threatened to ruin it all if I didn’t cover up how she was killed.”
“Was there residue?” you inquire. “From the superglue?”
“There were trace amounts, and the lab was able to identify it easily.”
“It was the only death to be covered up, why do you think that is?”
Daniella looks up quickly, her eyes wide as she states, “Because it was an experiment. The others were killed more conventional, faster: a slit throat, hammer to the temple. Her death would have taken time.”
“Was the time of death in your report accurate?” you ask. “Because it was around the same time as the others even with the changed MO.”
“It was,” she explains, “he must have taken her earlier to get a head start.”
“You said it was an experiment,” Tim repeats. “She was victim number one. If it didn’t go well, wouldn’t the others have just been an improved, or changed, MO?”
Daniella frowns, and you lean forward to ask, “How many more were there?”
Tim slams the passenger door as you return to the car. Daniella disappears from the front window, crying as you start the engine.
“The FBI will charge me if this car gets damaged,” you mumble as you shift into reverse.
“Thirty deaths that she knows of!” Tim exclaims. “How could she cover all of those up?”
“Pretty easily. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator.”
“This monster has been at it for years. You were probably on the job for some of his murders, how can you say that?”
“It’s not my place to judge everyone involved in this case, Tim. Not yours either.”
Tim scoffs, but he’s interrupted by your phone ringing. You answer by saying your last name and Hotch’s voice fills the car as he speaks.
“There’s been another murder,” he says. You slap the steering wheel before he continues, “A double murder. I’m sending you the address. Drop Bradford at the station and meet us there.”
“Yes, sir.”
After the call ends, you grit your teeth to keep yourself from yelling. You spent too much time with the retired ME, and two more people are dead now.
“I’m going with you,” Tim states.
“No, you’re not. You heard him, you’re going back to the station.”
“You need me-“
“Actually, we don’t. We have jurisdiction now, Tim,” you snap.
“Do they know about everything you did your last week on the job?” Tim challenges. “How you ignored calls, put yourself, and me, in danger just to let the clearly guilty criminals go? I mean, you let a guy get away with assault and your handcuffs!”
You don’t reply because your mind begins racing. You had forgotten about that specific incident. Your last two days on the job were a blur, just forty-eight hours you have done everything you could to forget.
“Alexander Riley,” you murmur.
“What?” Tim snaps.
“Nothing, Tim. I’m sorry you’re not happy, but you don’t have authorization to join me, and I’m done breaking the rules.”
“Convenient.”
You hit the brakes too hard as you stop outside the back entrance of the station. Tim slams the door again before he walks inside, and you shift into park to call Derek.
“Are you still at the station?” you ask when he answers.
“We’re about to leave,” he replies. “Did you beat us to the scene? You know speed limits still apply to federal agents, right?”
“No, I’m at the station too. I need you to - without raising suspicion - get Hotch and Sergeant Grey out here.”
“Okay,” he agrees slowly. “Why?”
“Because I think I know who the killer is. Bring the novella from the ninth scene, it’s Heralded Angels.”
“You got it.”
You can hear the strain in Derek’s voice, but there’s too much on your mind to dwell on his reaction right now. After Hotch, JJ, Derek, and Spencer join you in the FBI-issued SUV, you follow Sergeant Grey, driving an unmarked car, to the double murder scene.
“You had something for me?” Grey asks as you approach the townhouse.
“I do. Trust me for a few more minutes and I’ll tell you everything?”
Wade nods, and you enter the bloody living room with your team. JJ waits outside, and as you squat beside a bookcase covered in blood splatter, you know you’re right.
“Alexander Riley,” you announce, pushing against your knees to stand. “I think he’s our killer.”
“Why?” Spencer asks. “Wait, who?”
“Alexander Riley is one of the men I should have arrested my last week as a rookie.” You look toward Wade as you continue, “He assaulted a store owner while looting during a flood, and I let him get away. He ran away with my handcuffs, but I didn’t try to stop him because I was sure Sergeant Adamson would have used it against me.”
“Abuse of power,” Hotch deduces.
“Right, and class system. You know, cop doesn’t do what cop is supposed to do. So, he may have taken his escape as a sign that something needed to change.”
“Based on his killings, I’d agree that he saw a wrong that needed to be fixed, but why murder?” Wade asks. “How does that fit his idea of making things right, evening everything?”
“He chose victims he viewed as outliers,” Spencer explains. “The first two victims were romantically involved, and then she got a job in his company.”
“The fifth victim was a single man with adopted children, and he left a copy of T.S. Eliot’s ‘The Hollow Men,’” you add. “He went after people who didn’t fit into our traditional class system or who benefitted from misused power. And, if that isn’t enough… there’s an extra novella in here.”
“What?” Hotch and Wade say, stepping toward you simultaneously.
“It’s a little bloody, but the words cop, dirty, and corrected system are showing up pretty well. My name’s on the first page, and I’d guess it’s on the last, too.”
“He’s going to target you?” Derek translates. “That’s not okay.”
“We need to find him first,” you reply. “He’s not going to press pause until he can get to me, he thinks he has to fix the entire world.”
“I’ll get a BOLO out,” Wade offers.
“Wait, Sergeant Grey,” Hotch calls. “I think this should come from us.” He turns toward you and adds, “It would mean more from you.”
“I’ll do it. Although, some of those cops aren’t going to like hearing that I had something to do with it.”
“Just send ‘em my way,” Derek jokes.
“Our profile is complete,” you begin, looking at the entire task force. “And we’ve used that profile, along with scene evidence, literary analysis, and previous arrest records to identify Alexander Riley as our killer. Sergeant Grey has posted a BOLO, and we’d like to send you out in patrol teams to assist in the search for Riley.”
Tim has his folder open, and you’re sure he’s reading the incident report filed after you let Riley get away.
“Maybe you should get out there and find him instead of sitting in our station and reading,” he snarks, closing his folder.
“Bradford,” Wade begins.
“No, it’s okay,” you assure. “I will be assisting in the search, and I will admit that my incompetence likely played a role in Mr. Riley’s progression from petty thief to serial killer. However, we have reason to believe he was killing in private long before he felt the need to leave his victims in plain view for Los Angeles and all of America to see.”
“Officer Bradford, he listed you by name in the novella left at Liza Renner’s murder,” Hotch interjects. “Do you know why he may have done that?”
“No idea. Sir.”
“I’d appreciate if you would stay and help review the story to find an idea, then.”
You look between Hotch and Tim quickly, but their icy stares make you look away before you continue explaining what the manhunt entails and how the FBI will assist.
“Be safe out there,” you conclude.
As officers stand and leave, Hotch and Wade walk to Tim’s side, and then all three of them exit through a different exit.
“That was fun,” you mumble to Derek.
“On the bright side, no one has been publicly executed in the US since 1936, so it’s unlikely you’ll be burned at the stake,” Spencer says.
“That is bright,” you respond. “Thanks, Reid.”
An officer asks for your assistance and leads you to an observation room. Your eyes widen when you realize Tim and Hotch are on the other side of the glass in an interview room. Rushing into the room, you’re surprised when Hotch invites you to take a seat. As the door closes, Tim clenches his fists and begins to stand.
“Sit down,” Hotch demands, unmoving as Tim rises from his chair. Tim turns, face-to-face with Hotch. “Sit down,” Hotch repeats, quieter yet firmer.
Tim falls back into his seat and crosses his arms to stare at you.
“You can blame me if you want,” you offer. “But it won’t change anything. Twelve people are dead because of me.”
“Then why is my rookie still patrolling the streets of LA looking for the man your team decided did this? Hotch here covering for you again?” Tim challenges.
“Shut up,” Hotch says as he sits beside you, across the Table from Tim.
“Kenneth Adamson,” you say. “Do you have any idea of what he did?”
“Fired you for taking the easy way out when you decided you didn’t want to be a cop anymore?”
“Intimidated me,” you reply. “Got indicted for it, but it was never made public knowledge because ‘he was facing enough personal and professional issues for the widespread results of his corruption.’ Good excuse, right? Tim, I happened to be the person who put cuffs on Alexander Riley and allowed his delusion to take over. I didn’t mean to turn him into a serial killer, but I still feel like I have blood on my hands.”
“Wait,” Tim requests, raising his hand. “Adamson intimidated you?”
“Yes.”
“You could have told me.”
You scoff, and Hotch raises his brows. “Like you would have believed me,” you reply.
Tim leans across the table, ignoring how Hotch moves closer to you, protective and ready to finish this case.
“He intimidated me too,” Tim confesses. “We should have told each other, but we messed up, and I’m sorry for that. Adamson was going to tell IA about something I did in the Army and twist it to get me fired if I didn’t find a way to get you off the force. Then you suddenly stopped trying and I thought… I guess I didn’t think about it, or I would’ve seen it.”
You look at Hotch, who shrugs. There likely isn’t proof that Adamson did to Tim what he did to you, but you have to make a choice. You can believe Tim Bradford or walk away.
“I caught him stealing evidence,” you say. “Skimming money from scenes before CSI got there, pulling jewelry from robbed houses, little things he didn’t think anyone would miss. When I saw him outright lie to a victim who only wanted her late mother’s locket back, I said something. And he was going to make my life a waking hell for it. So, I did what he asked and threw away my career.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your apologies, Tim. I want you to help me find Alexander Riley and put cuffs on him before he goes after another innocent person, because there is nothing to stop him from progressing to killing cops he sees as corrupt. We kept it from the other officers because of that, so please don’t make me regret trusting you.”
Tim nods and murmurs another apology. You read his lips as he says it, and when Hotch stands, you’re prepared to accept it.
“One more out of line comment and you’re off this task force, Officer Bradford,” Hotch says as he buttons his blazer.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to assist you.”
“Do you know why Riley would have used your name as a cursed wanderer in Liza Renner’s novella?” you ask, standing beside Hotch.
“Cursed wanderer?” Tim repeats.
“Remorseful, unabsolved character tormented by their fate and their actions.”
“He must not remember you well,” Hotch tells Tim.
“He’s not a very good writer,” Spencer mutters as he flips the page of one of Alexander Riley’s novellas.
“Maybe we should find a way to charge him for that too,” Derek grumbles. “I mean, ‘Tim Bradford carried the weight of his sins, heavier than the Kevlar on his chest. Each day he was forced to face the memories of how he’d failed his partner, the only woman he may ever love, but would never deserve.’ That’s awful.”
You and Tim turn to face each other quickly, each wondering if you heard what Derek read correctly.
“Derek, does that- when you read it, does it seem like he’s saying his partner is the only woman he’d ever love? Same person?” you ask.
“Yeah. You.”
“That’s what I got too,” JJ agrees. “There’s characters in the third novella that look exactly like the two of you, but they’re married. Doomed by the narrative to watch each other die, but…”
“Are there characters like that in all of them?” Hotch asks.
The sound of papers flipping precedes several firm answers of “Yes.”
“They always die?” you add. “But he doesn’t know. He sees a relationship that isn’t there.”
Tim doesn’t say anything, but you ignore him as you ask JJ to use her laptop. After signing in to your email, you pull up the scans Penelope sent you from the books in your office.
“In the clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeoning of chance my head is bloody, but unbowed,” you read. “Black as the pit from pole to pole.”
“Are you gonna explain it or is this like Jeopardy?” Derek questions.
“He doesn’t portray our characters as corrupt,” you cheer. “We’re unfortunate, ‘doomed by the narrative’ players in a bigger game. I need the newest novella, the extra one from the double homicide scene.”
Wade knocks on the open door as you look through the evidence boxes on the table. He glances between you and Bradford before he asks, “Have any of you heard from Lopez and West?”
“They’re revisiting the last scene,” Hotch says. “They haven’t checked in?”
“Not recently.”
Tim looks at you, and when you meet his eyes, he offers, “We’ll find them.”
“Be careful,” Wade implores. “And keep me updated.”
“Can you do me a favor?” you ask.
“Anything,” JJ and Derek answer together.
“Look for any sign of restoration or avenging. It’ll probably be in the first novella, but I need to know if my character in his story is avenged somehow.”
“Revenge is a psychological response to wounds from others,” Spencer says. “Why would he be motivated to retaliate and justify this level of violence for you, if you’re the one who did wrong?”
“I think he may have changed his motives after Keith Adamson was indicted. If you find something, let me know, if not, Hotch probably has a better idea.”
You follow Tim to an unmarked car and ride in the passenger seat like you’ve pressed play after seven long years of having this part of your life on pause. Somehow, it feels better than before.
Tim's radio crackles as he makes the last turn to reach the crime scene.
“07-Adam-07,” Angela radios. “Sergeant Bradford, contact on channel 3.”
Tim changes the dial to channel 5 as he slows on the curb. You point to the dial, and he raises a thumb to tell you it wasn’t an accident.
“07-Adam-19,” he replies. “Go ahead, Lopez.”
“I think we found something that might be helpful to the detectives. Meet me at the scene and see if you agree?”
“I was already on the way. To tell you the truth, I don’t trust the feds. ETA two minutes.”
Tim returns his radio to the dash and then sits back to wait.
“Don’t trust the feds, huh?” you ask, smiling as he rolls his eyes.
“You really think he realized we were just as aggrieved as him?” Tim asks.
“Big word,” you murmur before dodging Tim’s weak backhand. “Why else would he keep us in the grand story he’s trying to write?”
“You said your character died in the new one.”
“All I saw was my name. I made an assumption without enough evidence. It was stupid.”
“Welcome to the club.”
Your phone buzzes, and you shake your head as you read the message from Penelope. “FBI tech guru Garcia hacked into the house’s security system. She’s got cameras inside. Riley has Lopez and West holed up in the master bathroom. My team and your watch commander are watching, ready to breach if this doesn’t go well.”
“You think it will?”
“I think Derek is going to be very mad after I do something reckless. That’s how it usually goes.”
Tim clears his throat awkwardly, then asks, “Are you and Morgan…?”
“No,” you answer with a laugh. “He’s just one of the many protective men I work with.”
“It’s been a minute and a half,” Tim says, changing the subject and breathing a little easier. “Are you ready?”
“I hope so.”
You exit the passenger seat as Tim pops the trunk. He passes you an LAPD bulletproof vest and a standard-issue belt to help you look more like a cop and less like a fed. After pulling the vest over your head, you struggle to get the belt in place beneath it. Tim gently takes it from you, his hands moving carefully around your waist as he clips the tactical buckle and slides the gun holster to its correct position.
“Thanks,” you whisper as he straightens, mere inches from you.
Tim drops his hands away from your sides but doesn’t move away. “Channel 3 is Lopez’s code,” he explains. “She only uses it when something’s wrong.”
Your phone buzzes again, and you turn away from Tim to answer it. “Hello?”
“Riley is armed,” Hotch says. “He’s got Lopez and West in the master bedroom on the ground floor. They’re uninjured, but he’s fidgety.”
“Did Derek ask Spencer about the bomb?”
“He did,” Spencer replies. Hotch’s phone is likely on speaker, and you turn your phone to allow Tim to hear too. “The bomb schematics were for a very closed-in space… like the townhouse you’re about to go into. It’s not incredibly enclosed, but given that Riley has issues with control, it could be a manifestation of claustrophobia. If his anxiety has caused a fear of enclosed spaces, based on the fear of losing control in those spaces, then he may be attempting to overcome that by giving himself power in the situation.”
“Could he be a cleithrophobe?” Tim wonders.
“What is that?” Derek asks, and you can imagine him looking around Wade’s office.
“I haven’t seen evidence of it,” Spencer answers. “He doesn’t seem to mind being closed in; the murders in the townhouse didn’t seem to affect him, but he is clearly concerned with power, control, and the hierarchy of those. It relates more to claustrophobia. Though I wouldn’t advise locking any doors to test it.”
You hang up suddenly and gesture to the townhouse. Tim looks up in time to see the curtain in an upstairs room fall back into place. He takes the lead, walking to the door with purpose and his hand on his gun. You follow him and look around the front porch for any sign that Riley is planning to kill anyone today.
Tim pushes the door open carefully, nodding to tell you it is unlocked before Angela calls his name. The novella with your name in it is still by the bookcase, and you remove it from the evidence bag and slide it under your vest. You trade places with Tim, going up the stairs first as he covers you. At the top of the landing, Alexander Riley steps out into the hallway with a gun strapped around his shoulders.
“You made it,” he says.
“We’re here to help, Riley,” you explain softly, holding your hands where he can see them. “You know that.”
He nods before jerking his head toward the doorway. You walk past him and stop in the center of the bedroom, scanning Angela and Jackson for any wounds. Luckily, they appear to be fine other than the handcuffs secured around their wrists.
“What’s the plan here?” Tim asks. “Not much room for error, Mr. Riley.”
“Give me your gun,” Alexander replies, holding his rifle with one hand as he extends the other toward Tim.
Tim complies, but his glance at you is a clear communication to not surrender your FBI-issued piece.
“Against the wall,” Alexander tells Tim. “You’re right, there isn’t room for error. But I’m prepared. I’ve been preparing since I lost everything.”
Tim sits against the wall, less than a foot from Angela. Alexander turns toward you, and his gaze softens. You were right, it seems. Alexander Riley has a soft spot for you; he thinks you’re like him, wronged by corruption and abused power, and you’re going to work that soft spot until he’s in cuffs.
“Take your vest off,” he requests. “Please.”
You don’t move but look pointedly at his gun before raising your eyes to his face.
“I won’t hurt you.”
Despite your instinct to refuse, to call in the cavalry and help Tim incapacitate the killer before you, there is too much at stake, and the longer you’re compliant, the longer Riley will keep everyone alive. So, you pull the vest over your head, not bothering to catch the novella as it falls to the floor, the blood on the cover contrasting the neutral carpet below your feet.
Back at the station, Hotch clenches his jaw as you open yourself to Riley, and Derek says, “Don’t do it… I might kill her for that.”
“You wrote it, right?” you ask, gesturing toward the stapled manuscript. “You wrote all of them.”
Riley fidgets, then nods.
You step toward him, keeping your expression soft and conveying understanding as you add, “I read some of them. They’re good, Alex. Can I call you Alex, or do you go by something else?”
“Alex is fine,” he replies, whispering your name under his breath like a prayer.
Tim shifts as Alexander’s attention changes slightly, morphing from a fierce protector into someone who wants to be by your side after you’ve been saved. You don’t spare a glance toward Tim, and for a brief moment, he wonders where you learned to do this. Then reality crashes back in like a wave that knocks Tim off his feet, the reminder that he could have taught you if he hadn’t let Keith Adamson get to him.
“In Brightest Day, you wrote a character who was a young cop, naïve and desperate to do the best thing,” you continue. “Who was she?”
“You know who,” Alex mutters.
You smile and ask, “Was I in all of them?”
“Of course.”
“That’s why you went to my old apartment before you sent the message to my friend in the FBI? Because I’m part of this? No, because you’re improving the character, right?”
“You were so far away,” he whispers.
“Alex, did you learn how to code just to talk to me?” you inquire softly.
He nods, then looks to the novella at your feet. The toes of your boots are inches from the paper, and his mouth twitches like he wants you away from it.
“Kick it,” he demands.
“Why? It’s art, it’s part of your soul,” you argue.
“Kick it.”
Tim nods in your peripheral, and you swallow before kicking it toward the door. Alex doesn’t hesitate to shoot the paper. You turn away from the noise, covering your ears even though it’s too late to keep your head from pounding. As the noise fades and your hearing returns, you see the shredded paper surrounding the hole in the floor.
“How does the story end, Alex?” you ask, stepping toward him again. “Are you like the truck drivers in Animal Farm? The cursed wanderer in Render Down you wrote for Liza? Or are you some new character that only cares about usurping the power for yourself?”
“It was never about me!” he replies, louder than you’ve heard him before. He softens his voice to repeat, “Never.”
“She was mine first,” Tim interjects suddenly.
Alex spins on his heel, the barrel of his rifle rising as he faces Tim. You shake your head wildly, desperate to stop him from saying something that will make Alex pull the trigger again. Angela looks down quickly, and you see her gun beneath the bed. As Alex’s chest heaves, his eyes locked unblinking on Tim’s, you move closer to the weapon, to Alex, and to freedom where you all walk out of here alive.
“I was saving her!” Alex roars. “From corruption, from Adamson, from you!”
“Adamson is the only one who hurt her,” Tim argues.
“February 17, 2017. You took your rookie to a noise disturbance call, and when you got there, four stupid young men were looting a flooded store during a break in the storms. She handcuffed one of them, but the rest ran. Then… then you started yelling at her, blaming her for all of it. While you were busy berating her, the other man ran with the handcuffs. I got away, but the power, the corruption, the greed was all getting to be too much. We hurt the owner because she was too worried about not getting insurance money for the water damage to empty out the register.”
“Something changed,” you say from beside Riley.
He doesn’t move away from Tim but stops talking to listen.
“In the first novella, it was you and me, wasn’t it? You wanted to make a new world together, save me from the love you thought would corrupt me.”
“Adamson used you too,” Alex tells Tim. “I made room for you to come with us and this is how you repay me? Chasing me for making things better. You’re back where you started.”
“Maybe now isn’t the time to act,” Jackson West says. “What if the world could’ve healed on its own and the people you killed might have helped?”
“Fool! They’ve gotten to you, too.”
As Alex’s finger slides onto the trigger, he turns toward Jackson. You don’t hesitate to lunge forward, closing the distance between yourself and Alexander. While you tackle him to the floor, he squeezes the trigger, and the shot rings through the now-silent townhouse and seems to echo for hours as your team watches in horror.
Tim pulls the handcuff key from his belt and passes it to Angela before he crawls on his hands and knees to reach you.
“I hope somebody got scans of that novella before he shot it,” you groan as you sit up.
Tim sighs, taking your face in his hands as he wipes blood from your temple.
“Is his writing really that good?” Jackson asks as he stands.
“It’s a little preachy,” you reply with a smile.
Your phone rings, and you swipe the screen to answer, then immediately hang up.
“That was your boss,” Tim points out.
“He can yell at me when he gets here.”
“Alexander Riley has been charged in the deaths of twelve Los Angeles residents,” JJ says at the press conference the morning after your encounter with Alex. “His victims include Janice Davis, Gregory Hunter, Bryce Keller, Hank Sheller, Peter Bristol, Liza Renner, Mel Houghton, Destiny Crest, Angelica Thomson, Alissa Alvarez, and Jack and Cassidy Wilson. Nearly three dozen cold cases are now being reopened, and the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit supports the LAPD’s claim that Riley could have committed these crimes as well. I’ll welcome any questions at this time.”
You scrunch your nose from the side, resisting the urge to remove the bandage on your forehead. Tim stands beside you, watching you.
Tim notices that the bandage is loose but doesn’t move before Hotch warns, “Don’t do anything in the public view that you don’t want to get out and give Riley a chance at walking.”
When the conference ends, Derek sighs and walks past Hotch to return to the hotel and pack. As he approaches you, he smiles and says, “And you didn’t want to come because I can’t help, and LA is too sunny.”
You try to punch Derek for his poor impression of you but miss as he breaks into a jog. Shaking your head, you turn to Tim and prepare a joke about how you don’t sound like that. Tim’s serious expression stops you, though.
“You didn’t think you could help?” he asks. “You were going to be an amazing cop, and I regret playing a part in taking that opportunity from you.”
You shrug and respond, “I like the FBI, and I got to tackle a murderer, so it all worked out.”
“Yeah,” Lucy interrupts, walking to your side. “But now you have to go back to Virginia.”
“Thank you,” Wade says, stopping at your side. “Come back soon, okay?”
You smile as he hands you a paper. As you read it, you sigh, then shove it into your pocket. The email came in this morning telling all active FBI agents about the new tactical unit, one which will work closely with the BAU. They’re actively recruiting, but if you tell Tim, you’re asking him to choose between you and the job again, and you can’t do that to him. Asking Tim to leave LA would be cruel, you think, so you force a smile onto your face.
“Thank you for everything,” you tell him. “Especially the part where you saved my life and the apology. I’ll try not to stay gone so long this time.”
Tim nods, and you smile at Lucy before following your team. He watches you walk away, ignores Lucy’s encouragement for him to chase you, and waits until you leave to whisper what he wants to say. But Tim lost his chance again. Worse, he lost you again.
Two Weeks Later
“Which one of you wants to die first?” the armed suspect asks, swinging his curved meat hook between you and Spencer.
“Probably you, right?” you whisper. “You know, my blood’ll be on it if he kills me first.”
“The mean value of Staphylococcus aureus in raw meat is 3.84 in a butcher shop,” Spencer replies. “I don’t know where that thing has been. At least your blood has been relatively well contained. And any amount of water on that thing increases the number of bacterial specimens transferred from the meat surface.”
The metal door of the meat locker blows open suddenly, and when the butcher before you turns to see what caused the noise, two men in tactical uniforms subdue him and confiscate the meat hook. Spencer rushes out of the facility, and you watch as the new FBI team takes your suspect into custody.
“I could have done that,” you complain.
“Sure you could, boot,” one of the men says, his voice muffled by the helmet.
You look toward him with your eyebrows raised. He takes his helmet off, and your jaw drops. Tim Bradford.
Smiling, you step toward him with questions racing in your mind, but he extends a gloved hand, holding it against your waist to stop you as he whispers, “Morgan has cameras everywhere.”
As you walk into the BAU bullpen together, Hotch looks up from a paper. He looks at you, then Tim, then back to you, and smiles. With wide eyes, you hide behind Tim’s shoulder, unsure what a Hotch smile could mean in this particular circumstance.
“We’re wheels up to Los Angeles in forty-five,” Hotch says.
“Why?” you ask, stepping out from behind Tim.
“There’s a domestic terrorist leaving Shakespeare at foreign-owned businesses hours before they’re bombed or become mass murder scenes.”
You nod, but before you can speak, Derek calls, “Bring Bradford! We could use the Army experience.”
Hotch narrows his eyes at Tim, then shrugs and agrees.
“Good, good,” you mumble, wrapping your hands around Tim’s arms. “I’ll show him the ropes then and we’ll be back in thirty.”
“Please do.”
You quickly forget the ropes as you drag Tim into Penelope’s empty office. He smiles and prepares to ask what this has to do with terrorism, but you slide your hands onto his jaw and kiss Tim. Finally. Tim's hands meet your waist, and he pulls you closer as he kisses you, both of you melting into one another and getting lost in the moment you’ve waited so long for. When you pull back, Tim keeps you close, smiling like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time, though he’s known your heart and potential for nearly a decade.
A quiet gasp draws your attention, and you both look to the door as Penelope says, “I’m telling Chocolate Thunder!”
A Manly Guard Dog
Requested Here!
Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!reader
Summary: You've been asking your husband for a dachshund, but he tells you that you need a manly dog. When the K9 unit gets a new recruit, Tim reevaluates his view of dachshunds.
Warnings: teasing/banter, pure fluff
Word Count: 1.2k+ words
Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List
“Tim?” you whisper over your dimmed phone screen. “Are you asleep?”
“That depends,” your husband Tim answers. “Why?”
“Look at this.”
“I’m asleep.”
You roll your eyes at his poor attempt to avoid talking to you, even though it is the middle of the night and he has to be at the station in the morning. Despite feeling bad for waking him up, you know he’s awake and need to ask him something important.
“Tim, it hurts,” you add.
“What hurts?” he asks as he sits up quickly. After he pushes up onto his hands, Tim leans toward you and reaches over you to turn on the lamp on your nightstand.
“Look,” you repeat, extending your phone toward Tim so he can see the dog on the screen. “It hurts because I don’t have one of my own.”
“A dachshund? We’re back to this again?” Tim asks incredulously.
“Tim, I want a dog.” Your words are emphasized by your pout, but Tim only grunts as he turns the light off and lies down again.
“If we ever get a dog - big if,” Tim murmurs, “it has to be a manly dog. One that can protect you when I’m not here.”
“We can train a dachshund to be a guard dog,” you argue. “They’re vigilant, loyal, vocal, and easy to train. Tim, it would be perfect and so cute!”
Tim tosses an arm over your waist and kisses your temple before he responds, “Go to sleep.”
As you move closer to him to do just that, he whispers, “I love you, but we’re not getting a wiener dog.”
“Tim, Tim, Tim!” Lucy calls as Tim exits the locker room the following morning. “Oh, you’re not going to believe this.”
“Then don’t tell me,” Tim deadpans.
“So, there’s a new K9, right?” Lucy begins as they walk toward the bullpen.
“And you’re telling me.”
“The trainer brought Officer Fuzz over. Cutest name ever, I know. But when we heard that they were working with a new breed we thought it would be a husky or something. It’s not. It’s so much better. Guess what it is, Tim!”
Tim stops in the middle of the bullpen. A crowd of officers surrounds the K9 trainer, and between two cops, Tim can barely make out the shape of…
“A dachshund?” Tim asks loudly.
“Yes!” Lucy cheers. “Isn’t it awesome?!”
“I can’t believe this.”
“C’mon,” Lucy urges, pulling Tim along by his arm. “Meet Officer Fuzz.”
Tim squats to pet the friendly dog and shakes his head at the tiny K9 vest he’s wearing.
“Nice to meet you, Fuzz,” Tim mumbles. “My wife’s never going to let me hear the end of this, pal.”
“Bradford,” Wade calls from the other side of the circle. “How would you like to take them out for a ride along?”
Tim stands as the trainer adds, “I’d love to join one of the best officers in the field to test Officer Fuzz’s progress.”
“Sure,” Tim answers through gritted teeth. “But are dachshunds really worth anything in a job like this?”
The trainer and Officer Fuzz follow Tim toward his shop, and Tim can’t help but watch the small dog walk happily through the station on his first day.
“If they’re trained right, they certainly can. They’re bred to hunt badgers by tracking scents and entering their burrows. A lot of those skills translate to police dog responsibilities. Basically, because of their intimidating bark, alertness, devotion, braveness and stubbornness - courtesy of their hunting instincts - they’re perfect. Fuzz here can scare a suspect or locate bombs, drugs, you name it.”
“Scare suspects until they see him, you mean,” Tim points out.
“Well, Bradford. Let’s test your theory.”
“LAPD!” Tim yells. “On the ground!”
Behind him, Officer Fuzz barks.
“Is that a dog?” the suspect attempting to steal a sports car asks. “Your car doesn’t say K9.”
“Show me your hands and drop to your knees!” Tim repeats. “Or I can call my K9 partner over here.”
The man seems to weigh his options, then drops his tool and raises his hands over his head.
“Scared of dogs?” Tim asks.
“Police dogs are crazy dangerous, man. Scared is smart, that’s what my-“
“I don’t care who said it,” Tim interjects before he begins reciting the Miranda rights.
When Tim opens the back door of his car, Officer Fuzz growls lowly before barking once.
“Whoa! I’m not sitting by that thing!”
“See the barrier? That’s for your safety, not ours,” Tim says. “Now get in.”
At lunch, Tim pulls his phone from his pocket and begins to type. He hesitates, however, and looks away before he can finish the search.
“Chen!” he calls, waving for Lucy to join him. “Where can I adopt a dachshund?”
Lucy’s eyes widen in excitement before she asks, “You’re getting a dog?!”
“I’m getting my wife a dog.”
“Because of Officer Fuzz,” Lucy states (not asks).
“No,” Tim defends. “No, I just… Dachshunds are a good option for family pets and protection.”
“Which you know because of Officer-“
“Fine, yes,” Tim admits quickly. “Do you know where I can adopt one or not?”
“Maybe you should ask the K9 trainers,” Lucy suggests. “They’ll know where to get a good one.”
“Thanks, Lucy.”
“Sure thing.” Lucy stands to return to her partner, but not before she says, “And I’m glad you’re finally listening to your wife.”
“No, quiet,” Tim commands. “Good. Now, sit.”
“Tim?” you call from the front door.
“Uh, one second!” Tim calls.
He sounds frazzled, and you walk toward his voice before you stop. Tim is whispering to someone, but you can’t make out what he’s saying before the bedroom door opens.
“Hi,” you greet. “Are you okay?”
“You’re home early,” he replies, gripping the doorknob tightly.
You glance at the time on your phone and say, “No, I’m not.”
Tim’s brows furrow as he looks at his watch. He nods, then laughs and locks eyes with you.
“Am I interrupting something?” you ask.
“No, well, yes, but no.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Tim sighs and reaches toward you. You don’t hesitate to step forward and lay your hand on his. With his hand wrapped around yours, Tim leads you into the bedroom, and inside, a brown blur races toward you.
“Tim!” you exclaim as the long-haired dachshund puts its front paws on your leg and wags its tail happily. “A dachshund!”
“Canis lupus familiarias. The K9 trainer that helped me out told me all about them,” he explains.
“Is he…” You trail off, unprepared to hear a negative answer.
“He’s ours,” Tim answers happily. “He’s already been obedience trained and I’m going to work with him to create the smallest but mightiest guard dog you’ve ever seen.”
You pull the dog into your arms and hug him kindly before you lean against Tim’s chest.
“Thank you,” you whisper, looking into Tim’s eyes.
“Sorry I said no for so long.”
“What changed your mind?”
Tim doesn’t answer, and you turn your attention to your new pet, or guard dog as Tim introduced him to you.
“Was it Lucy? I bet it was Lucy,” you whisper to the dog.
“It was Officer Fuzz,” Tim grumbles, wrapping his arm around your shoulders.
“Officer who?”
“New K9 who I’m sure you’ll meet next time you visit the station.”
“I love you.”
Tim kisses your head before he asks, “Wait, me or the dog?”
watch me fuck MY girl
-> t. law 🧊
SUMMARY: y/n likes to go live & flirt with her horny audience for money - but her bf hates it, so he decides to give her a lil scare (he’s insanely jealous)
WARNINGS: mdni, smut, camgirl!y/n, stalker!law, mask kink, fucking on live, dom!law, degrading, teasing, possessive!law, creampie, missionary, doggy
‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
“‘you’re so pretty.’” you gleamed up at your destop camera as you read the comments flowing through your feed, making sure your silhouette showed all your right angles as you replied sweetly. your viewers were obsessed with the innocent little act you put on for them.
your stream was going great as always, meticulously showing off glimpses of your cleavage and speaking in a way that made your glossy lips pout — it was such easy money.
your night was was breezing by, effortless earning hundreds of tips just from entertaining lonleg men in the night. the sultry smiles never left your dolled up face, until something one of the comments made all the color from your face disappear.
anonymous6627: i have her address. watch my live in two hours
more and more comments flooded your feed, discarding the image of the previous comment. but you saw another one.
you knew it was probably nothing but the what if thoughts replayed in your mind.
the comments from the unnamed account kept coming.
anonymous6627: watch yourself y/n
…
anonymous6627: cuz i’m always watching you :)
…
you scoffed. ‘stupids internet trolls, bet you wouldn’t say that off anon.’
sometimes people’s comments got to you, but it was never that serious. you continued on nonetheless.
you said your goodbyes as you were finishing up your stream, growing tired from hours of entertaining and answering questions.
in the next two hours it was your time to destress, cleansing yourself from todays work. a nice hot shower and herbal remedies to put your mind at ease. you were in your more comfortable clothes and rested peacefully with a warm cup in hand in the confinements of your home.
but you heard a knock at the door , you shuffled over in your fuzzy slippers and peeped through the little hole in the wood, feeling safe enough to do so through your locked door. or so you thought.
there stood a man in a mask, hiding his face like a coward. he stood restlessly waiting for you to answer, but you never did.
he slammed against the wood harder, jiggling on the door handle when you didn’t answer the second time.
“open up y/n-ya!”
his voice released the tension that was holding tight on your heart. “shit!! law is that you?? you asshole!” you opened to door to meet his figure, smacking his chest and pulling off the black sack mask he wore to hide his face.
your hits didn’t even phase your tall boyfriend, he just laughed in your face.
“what babe? you scareddddd.” he pulled you inside your apartment.
“i just wanna show those chronically online losers what’s mine.”
what did he mean by that?
he took out him phone and propped it up high on one of your shelves to show the entirety of your bedroom, not quite pressing record yet. he ignored you when you questioned him.
“they were getting too bold in your comments, y/n ya~ ‘i’ll make you do backflips on it’?” he shook his head in disbelief. heat rose to your cheeks as he mocked the people in your comments, you couldn’t meet his eyes.
he laughed again.
“please, they’re speaking as if they could even satisfy my pretty girl~”
he grabbed hold of your chin to force you to look at him.
law knew how to make you squirm, he was embarrassing you on purpose, and he knew you liked it. the way he talked down on your poor choices and belittled you made the ache in your abdomen tremble.
he just wouldn’t let it go.
“such a fucking skank for entertaining those pathetic idiots… you like it don’t you?” his grip on your cheeks fell as he set up to press the little red ‘LIVE’ button.
“praises from touch-starved basement dwellers, want them to fuck you baby? think they could make you cum?”
he faced you with his back towards the camera, ripping back his mask from you and putting it on before turning to the lens and giving it a thumbs up.
“the truth is, you like the attention, huh? let’s just see how badly you want it.”
you pleaded. hoping he would reconsider but there was no sign he was going to change his mind. was this a punishment?
“law, baby wait—”
“nuh-uh, get on the bed y/n-ya… think i can let you talk to those guys like that? your actions have consequences my love, let’s give your fans a show, you’d like that huh?”
you fell to your bed aimlessly, his words coaxing you to follow each command. but really, you did want them to watch how well he fucked you, the idea made the knots in your abdomen tighter than they already were.
before you knew it he was on top of you and between your legs, pulling up your thighs and removing your pants for you. mind already dizzy from adjusting to his fast pace, it was happening too fast, you were whimpering for him.
so rough, and the mask, ugh it did something to you.
his fingers found your clit in seconds, playing with it just barely before slamming fully into you. you yelped.
“law! oh my god!—”
“fuck, that’s it. make noise for them, tell ‘em how good i fuck your tight little holes.”
he held you down as he jackhammered your tight cunt, the sensation of being stretched and then empty again made your head spin. the pleasure making you spew nonsense, the only thing law could understand was just mindless and filthy moans.
“you fuck me so good baby, please, ahh!— keep going!” your hips met his with each quick thrust, smacking sounds and muffled moans filled the speakers of everyone’s phones who was tuned into your stream. you had forgot that was even happening but it made you weak, having your fans watch you squirm from the touch of your crazy boyfriend. you were going to cum, hard.
hundreds, no, thousands of comments fled through the feed.
there were creeps begging for a closer angle and some were disgusted. in the moment, you couldn’t care less what people were saying, you just wanted to feed the hunger growing within your cunt.
law kept up his pace, his thick cock kissing deep in your warmth. “gonna cum for me baby? cream around my cock?”
“uh huh, ahh!— keep… g-going gonna cum-” your fingers clung to the clothes he wore on his back, bracing yourself for the deep contractions that were to come with your orgasm.
“fuck!—gonna fill you baby, make you mine, you’re mine.”
“yes! god, yes!! cum in me law! ‘mmm coming!
he pulled out, smirking under his mask as he did so, you cried out. “babyyyyyyyy p-please… was so close..”
“ass up.” he motioned to do so with his fist closed and his index finger pointing upward.
in his lust filled eyes, you were taking too long. his strong arms latched to both sides of your ass and forcefully flipped you over, pushing your face into the pillows of your messy bed.
“you look so pretty for me baby, gonna fuck you good. okay?” his fingers traced up your ass before plunging them into your sopping cunt. “law! auhhh!—” you whimpered into the pillow, falling apart at the touch of his hands. he swirled his digits around meticulously before taking them back out again.
the tip of his cock slid between your slick folds, coating it with your sweet juices. your walls hugged him perfectly as he filled you back up again. “ya- fuckkk… such a perfect pussy, princess. holdin me so fucking tight, fuck!”
he felt his own high approaching, pre cum spilled within you and his cock throbbed hard. he was at the crash, forcefully stuffing your achy cunt until he heard your cries.
“FUCK iM GONNA C-CUM!”
“wait for me y/n, i’m i’m right fuck. i’m rightt there. shhhiiiiit— ‘m coming baby.. s-scream my name for them.”
you forgot about the audience once again but it was so fucking hot seeing you man get off to fucking you in front of thousands, your fans… you screamed for him.
“laww!! so fucking good!” you fucked back on his hips as he had you bent over, smacking against him as your arousal consumed you—you creamed around his cock, white substance dripped from your stretched hole.
even more poured from your sopping cunt as your man came inside you, moans and whines fled his mouth, your sweet name and many profanities.
you laid there for a moment, completely fucked out, waiting for law to get the towel and run to turn off the camera. once it had stoped recording he came to your side and removed his mask, tenderly kissing your warm skin and cleansing any remaining liquid.
“round two? the cameras off baby.” he kept kissing you, his sweeter side coming through with the absence of the mask. he snickered.
‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - - ୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵
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