I Keep Coming Back To This Fic — It’s So So Good
I keep coming back to this fic — it’s so so good
hysteria | s.r.
in which the BAU is called into a case in rural Appalachia when bodies start showing up in an abandoned insane asylum
margotober masterlist
who? spencer reid x fem!reader category: angst (horror?) content warnings: hanging (staged suicide), enucleation, established relationship, ghosts, insane asylum, rope burn, premonition in dreams, death, pov switches, "the green ribbon", lobotomies, abduction, corporeal vs spirit form, CPR, hospitals, painkillers, first aid word count: 8.8k a/n: hey guys i am literally not one to beg for interaction but like if you could send an ask or gimme a reblog if you liked this it would probably make my day. this fic is just an excuse for me to tell ghost stories! and just like that, margotober is over. man, it sure would be a shame if i had something planned for november!
night one
“This is a joke, right?” You asked, eyeing the rest of the team as they observed the property before you. The dilapidated building that stood in front of you was previously completely abandoned, and now you weren’t entirely sure if the yellow police line was new or if the tattered plastic was a result of a crime of the past.
It looked like one of the haunted houses that Spencer would drag you to, one with a much too high budget that would leave you feeling like you needed to scrub cobwebs from your skin. You were waiting for the sheriff to make his way up the hill that the asylum was perched on, the BAU had made it up in SUVs, but the locals elected to hoof it.
Tugging the sleeves of your FBI jacket over your hands, you tapped your heel impatiently and observed the scenery. The fall foliage was in peak season, orange and red leaves fluttered in the wind, falling from the trees until they hit the ground. To the left was the town, small and hidden within a river valley, and to the right was a field of gravestones. Each life lost in the asylum whittled down to a number, hundreds of weathered rocks marked where a body was buried. Even after all of your years with the BAU, the sight still made you sick to your stomach.
The death count on this property had gone up by twelve recently, a group of college kids had found the first body hanging from the staircase, and it seemed like a semi-routine suicide until the local cops did a full sweep of the building and found eleven other bodies, each hanging in a different room.
It wasn’t until the medical examiner looked at them that they realized they were out of their depth, the oldest of the bodies had been dead before they were hung, which told you that hanging the bodies was the intention of the killer and he was beginning to perfect his M.O. Even more than that, the last two bodies had been enucleated post-mortem.
Being grateful for the method by which a person had their eyeballs destroyed wasn’t an emotion you felt frequently, and it was an odd thing to admit to yourself as you consciously blinked.
Over the curve of the hill, you watched as a couple of locals made their appearance, each of them equipped with a flashlight. The sun was beginning to set. Emily had made the executive decision that this case couldn’t wait until morning, so you took off in the middle of the day. Glancing over your shoulder, you found Spencer’s eyes and he gave you one of his patented half-smiles before you looked back at the foreboding building.
The structure had electrical issues, leading to lights flickering all over the crumbling brick walls. The flashes were starting to play tricks on your eyes because you would’ve sworn that you saw a woman in one of the windows, in a long white dress as she looked down at you and your team.
“You must be the BAU,” the sheriff greeted once he was close enough to your group, he waved before huffing impatiently. “Sheriff Shawn Greenbaum, this here is Deputy Conrad Perkins,” he introduced himself and the man with him. You studied them, trying to gauge information about them based on appearance alone.
Emily nodded, reaching her hand out for him to shake and introducing herself before making the rounds with the rest of the team. “Agents Simmons and Lewis are already at the station getting settled, but the rest of us are interested in getting in the building and taking a look around.”
Greenbaum placed both of his hands on his hips before clearing his throat, “That’s not a problem at all. We’ve got a lock up on those front doors to try and keep people out, we’re hoping it’ll put a halt on any more crime.”
Kicking mud off of your boot, you and JJ shared a dubious look. In your line of work, where there’s a will there’s a way—a padlock would do very little to help keep your killer out of the asylum. Even so, you all followed the sheriff as he produced a key from his belt, leading the way to the front doors. They were made of rotting wood. If someone really wanted to get past the lock, they could probably kick them in.
The smell hit you before you stepped foot inside the building, the stench of mildew wafting through the air made you crinkle your nose as you closely followed JJ into the building. A gentle touch to the small of your back told you that Spencer was behind you, each of you shuffling in single file behind the sheriff.
“The first body was found hanging over there,” the deputy, Perkins pointed straight ahead toward the winding staircase. You studied the peeling wallpaper and looked at the faded signs above the different hallways, barely able to make out the words tuberculosis and adolescent as you strolled through the main lobby.
Since they’d initially assumed it was a suicide, the body had been taken down, so even though you had twelve bodies to start your profile with, you didn’t have a fresh crime scene anywhere. In fact, you’d wager a guess and say there’s nothing fresh about this building.
Cringing as you walked over a pile of wet paper, you listened to Emily as she gave everyone jobs, “Reid and I will keep talking to the sheriff, Rossi and JJ, why don’t the two of you check out this wing here with the deputy, and Luke and Y/N can take the upstairs.”
You looked up and found Luke, following him to the staircase and ducking under the noose to go up the stairs, hesitant to use the handrail as you made your way to the second floor, knowing there was plenty of building for the two of you to explore. Pulling your flashlight from your belt for additional lighting, the sight in front of you was worse than what you had seen downstairs. “Watch your step,” you said absentmindedly, bypassing a bucket filled with what you sincerely hoped was water.
“When was this place built again?” Luke asked you, knowing you had done preliminary research with Spencer on the jet. He produced his own light, slipping his cell phone from his pocket and using the flashlight function.
You checked the ceiling, wondering where the beams were and if any bodies had been found in the hallways, “The 1860s,” you responded, keeping your voice soft so you didn’t disturb anything in the building—living or otherwise. You found yourself wanting to walk to the window you had seen that woman in earlier.
Alvez made a disgusted noise at something, and you refrained from looking back at it, knowing you likely didn’t want to know. “And what patients did they predominantly treat?”
Fiddling with the door handle, you nudged the door open with your knee, coughing at the puff of dust that met you on the other side. “They started with a little bit of everything. The elderly, children, adolescents, epileptics, TB patients,” you listed off. “We even found records of people accused of ‘excessive self-satisfaction,’” you continued, finding the window in question. The only thing you found was the same flickering sconce you had seen from the outside.
“Self-satisfaction?” Luke repeated the phrase curiously.
You tapped the sconce with the end of your flashlight, getting it to stop flickering before you clarified, “Masturbation.”
Expectedly, Luke chuckled lightly at your answer, “How exactly would one quantify excessive masturbation?”
Raising your eyebrows, you studied a strange mark on the cement floor, “I assure you; I have no clue.” You turned around, expecting to see Luke right in front of you. “Luke?” You called out his name, confused when you didn’t see him in your line of sight, you flashed your light around the room, wondering if he had found something. “Ah!” You yelped when a hand touched your shoulder, causing you to drop your flashlight.
Luke cackled from his place behind a bookshelf, “It’s gonna be a long case if you’re that tightly wound the entire time.”
You swatted at him with the sleeves of your jacket, “Asshole,” you muttered, taking the practical joke mostly in stride.
“Y/N?” Spencer called from the first floor. Your voice must have carried down the stairs, or they heard the flashlight fall to the ground.
Glaring at Luke, you shouted back, “I’m fine!” You crouched to pick up your flashlight, blowing dust off of it before you tightened your grip around it, “Grow up, Alvez.”
He rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah, so what did they do after they took in a little bit of everyone?”
You hummed, stepping back out into the hallway, and looking into what you assumed were offices—most of the patients would’ve lived on the first floor. “They started to focus on patients with mental disorders in the 1970s. Around the same time that medicine in psychiatry started to make advancements,” you kicked at a piece of cloth on the ground. “It closed down in the early nineties when people finally started acknowledging that things like lobotomies and electroshock are inhumane.”
Luke picked the next room, wiggling the doorknob before he used his shoulder to push the door open, “Woah.”
Stepping in behind him, you saw what he was looking at. Along the wall was a mural of sorts, a landscape that featured a caricature of the sun. Next to it, the words ‘let the sun shine in’ were scrawled in black paint.The colors were eerily vibrant for the age of the building, “Well that’s…” You let your voice trail off, looking at the size of the furniture in the room and ascertaining that it was likely designed as a treatment space for children.
“Do you hear that?” Luke asked, shining his flashlight around the room and looking for the source of the noise.
Fortunately, you weren’t that gullible, “Yeah, right.” You scoffed, turning back and seeing Spencer at the top of the staircase, “Hey,” you said, tilting your head to the side curiously.
He smiled at you softly, “Hey, it looks like it’s about to rain, so Emily’s having all of us head back to the precinct. We can look at the M.E. reports knowing what we know now about the crime scene.”
You nodded, looking into the room to find Luke, still shining his phone in every corner, “Luke, it’s probably just a rat or a tree branch tapping on the side of the building.”
Luke’s eyebrows were pinched together in concern, but he followed your footsteps into the hallway, falling to the back of the group as the three of you walked downstairs, meeting the rest of the team in front of the asylum.
“It’s kind of weird,” you said mostly to yourself, though you were entirely aware of the people who were surrounding you.
Spencer hummed curiously, making sure the sheriff wasn’t watching before he adjusted the collar of your jacket, “What’s weird?” He asked, mimicking the soft tone of your voice.
You looked back at the window where the light had started flickering again, “How all of these people were forced into the asylum by their loved ones, and now the word has an entirely different meaning.”
Holding your mug in both hands, you listened carefully to the crackling fire in the lobby of the hotel. Matt stood up from where he was sitting so that Spencer could sit next to you, and you absentmindedly slung your legs over his lap, thinking about the case. More specifically, you were thinking about the scene.
Spencer set a hand on your pajama-covered thigh, using his other hand to hold his book open as you listened to the other noises in the lobby. There was a storm going on outside, and a certain level of unease blanketed the team, leading to a convening in the hotel. Emily and Tara were going over case files, Matt and JJ were on the phone with their families, Rossi was playing Tetris on his phone, Luke was on the phone with someone, and you were just observing.
Eventually, Luke spoke up to everyone, “Hey guys, listen to this,” he said, holding his phone out and clicking the speakerphone button, “Okay, go ahead Garcia.”
Your eyebrows raised in amusement at the revelation that he was on the phone with Penelope, but you were still grateful to hear her voice coming through the speaker.
“I hope you’re all cozy by the fire because I have found a story about your crime scene that will chill you to your bones,” she prefaced, and you smiled slightly at her embellishments. “Catherine Pence was admitted to the Barnham Asylum for the Mentally Ill in 1978 at the age of 53. She lived a totally normal and insignificant life until she was 50 years old and her mother passed away, at which point, the people in Catherine’s life said she started to behave strangely.”
Snapping his book closed, Spencer set the novel in your lap before pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, “Strangely, how?”
Penelope cleared her throat, “I’m glad you asked, Dr. Reid. She was convinced that her mother was still with her. In fact, she would frequently be confused when other people told her that they couldn’t see her mom. Eventually, she started showing other concerning symptoms, so her husband brought her to Barnham.”
You frowned, sharing a glance with JJ, who had hung up the phone, “What kinds of other symptoms?”
“The file I got my hands on specifically cites paranoid thoughts, but that’s not even the spookiest part,” she continued. “When the doctors did their first examination of Catherine, they decided that whatever she was dealing with wouldn’t be amenable to any sort of treatment. She was a very calm patient who periodically had conversations with her dead mother and voiced paranoid thoughts, but they put her in Block D.”
Block D was the section of the hospital set aside for patients in need of around-the-clock care, which seemed a bit extreme for Catherine.
There was a clicking on Penelope’s end of the call before she resumed, “Anyway, Block D had sixteen rooms and there was always some form of supervision, usually a nurse. All of the doors were locked and there were bars on the window, so it was impossible to get anywhere without someone noticing, or so you would think.”
You settled further into the couch cushions, and Spencer instinctively squeezed your thigh.
“On December 1st, 1978, when the nurse went into Catherine’s room with her breakfast tray, she found the room in absolute tatters. I mean, the bedding was shredded, there was broken glass, everything was scattered around the room, and Catherine was missing.” Penelope said, emphasizing the last word.
Luke, who had previously seemed bored by the story, leaned forward, setting his elbows on his knees, “What happened to her?”
Penelope hummed, knowing she had sucked everyone into the story, “The search started immediately. You don’t just have someone escape an inescapable room and move on with your day. The windows, walls, and floor in Block D were completely intact and there was no sign of tampering with the door. No one could figure out how she got out, much less where she was.”
She didn’t wait for anyone to speak before she continued, “Catherine’s nurse said that she was unusually moody and had been for weeks. She completely stopped speaking and showed no reactions when people spoke to her and it was apparently very sudden, but that didn’t really provide any insight into where she could be. The staff searched the surrounding area thoroughly, but there were no leads. Eventually, they notified her relatives and the residents of the town in case she had somehow gotten out of the hospital.”
Then, on January 12th, 1979, a group of men that the asylum hired to do repair work on the second floor found that there was a door locked from the inside.” Garcia cleared her throat before resuming the story, “They also discovered an unpleasant smell emanating from the room, and when they finally got into the room, there was Catherine Pence.”
You wrinkled your nose in disgust, simply just imagining the smell of the room.
“Her clothes were removed and neatly folded next to her and her arms were crossed over her chest, one below the other,” Penelope continued. “Mysteriously, when her body was removed and taken to the morgue, there was a trace left on the concrete floor that corresponded exactly to the figure of Catherine. No matter how many times or what they’ve tried, they can’t get the mark out of the concrete.”
Your blood ran cold at the memory of the strange shape you’d seen in the asylum, “What?”
Penelope hummed, “The medical examiner considered hypothermia as a potential cause of death, but apparently that winter was unseasonably warm, so he settled on a heart attack.”
“Did they ever consider homicide?” Rossi asked, attempting to seem uninterested.
There was a chuckle on the other end of the call, “Yes, they did, but they never found anything else to support that theory. At that point, the room Catherine was found in hadn’t been opened since 1976 when it was used to contain patients with a contagious infectious disease. Since then, the room remained locked.” You could practically hear Penelope’s smile as she divulged the final detail, “Residents of the town say that, sometimes, you can hear cries for help coming from the building. There are even reports of Catherine’s ghost being seen in the window of the room where she died, she just stands there and stares out the window.”
Everyone sat around in silence for a moment before Luke grabbed the phone off of the coffee table, “Yeah, alright, thanks, Garcia.”
“Sleep well, my pretties,” she crooned through the phone before the call ended.
You felt heavy as if there had been a weight placed on your chest, and in an attempt to rectify it, you handed Spencer his book, “I’m headed to bed.”
He looked up at you curiously, eyes studying yours before he nodded, “Alright, I’ll be up in a little while,” he assured you.
Your body carried you to the hotel room, using the key to unlock the door and somehow making it to the bed even after your mind had completely turned itself off. You didn’t remember falling asleep, but you remembered waking up.
As you sat up in bed, you were having trouble holding your head up, finding that you couldn’t turn your neck to see if Spencer had made it to bed. More than that, the room was pitch black when the two of you usually leave the bathroom light on in hotels. Opening your mouth, no words came out.
Small puffs of air escaped your lips, but nothing else came out. You couldn’t move your hands to your neck—you couldn’t move at all. You wanted to call out for Spencer, and even though no sound came out of your mouth, you saw him before you.
Your eyes widened at his sudden appearance, suspiciously illuminated in the otherwise dark room.
Tantalizingly slowly, his hand reached out for you, touching the skin of your neck with his fingertips before pulling. It felt like he was pulling at a thread, and all you could do was watch as his hand came back with a piece of twine pinched between his fingers and your disembodied head fell to the floor.
You gasped for air, holding your hand to your chest and panting, unable to figure out how to get air into your lungs when you so desperately needed it. There were other hands on you, gently placed on your hip and upper back, the latter rubbing small circles as you choked on nothing but air.
“Hey,” Spencer whispered, continuing his ministrations on your back. “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he comforted you, trying to get you to even out your breathing.
Carefully, his hand reached up to your neck, sweeping hair behind your shoulder, but as soon as you felt his hand on the side of your neck, you flinched away from him, nearly toppling off of the double bed.
He pulled you back as gently as he could, “Y/N,” he said, his voice stern this time as he turned to flick the lamp on. “What happened?”
You shook your head, appreciating how secure it felt to the rest of your body, before pressing the heels of your palms into your eyes. “It was just a nightmare,” you answered, the sound of your own voice felt disconnected from your body.
“You don’t usually call out my name in your nightmares,” Spencer observed softly, trying to get you to open up more to him, “And you’ve definitely never pulled away from me like that.”
He was right, you had your general recurring nightmares—mostly work related—but you’ve never had anything like this before. You didn’t know how to explain it to him, because how would you explain to your rational, genius boyfriend that you thought you were seeing ghosts?
night two
You felt his eyes on you, Spencer’s big, brown eyes were boring right into yours as you looked at the foreboding structure in front of you. You weren’t even sure how long you’d been watching the stained-glass window, waiting for something to happen, waiting for the ghost to come back.
Sighing, you leaned back in the passenger seat of the car, thinking about the now-cold coffee that you had sitting in the cup holder and wondering if it would be worth the caffeine if it meant you had to pee in the woods at some point in the night.
“You should’ve stayed at the hotel tonight,” Spencer said, his eyes still focused on you.
You pursed your lips, watching the light flicker in the window, “We have a job to do.” That should’ve been enough for him, it had to be enough for you, knowing that at the end of the day, this was just a case and you’d be going home once you found whoever was doing this.
Finally turning his head, Spencer huffed in frustration as he faced the front door of the asylum. “I know you didn’t get back to sleep last night, so you have to be exhausted now,” he told you.
It was nearly midnight now, and you indeed hadn’t gone back to sleep after waking up at two in the morning, but you still agreed to a stakeout when Emily suggested it. Spencer called you out on it then, similarly to what he was doing now, and you were sure he had something to do with you being paired up together. If you ever found out he had voiced a concern about you to Emily, you were going to have issues.
The cool glow of the waning gibbous moon reflected off of the building, the effect only building the eerie feeling in your stomach, winding itself up like a ball of yarn.
With the morning came another body, and it became clear to Emily and the locals that the camera surveillance that had been set up along the perimeter wasn’t doing anything to bring you closer to closing the case. So, she had you and Spencer sitting in a car at the front entrance, each of you armed and on high alert, no matter what your boyfriend thought.
On the other side of the building, Luke and Tara were in another vehicle, keeping an eye on a back entrance that had the potential to be an access point for the UnSub.
Keeping an eye on your window, you squinted as if you could somehow summon Catherine Pence’s ghost. You wished you’d been paired up with Luke again, who at least had seen the mark on the floor, but instead, you had Spencer, who had meddled with your work out of concern for you.
You sighed, reminding yourself that he only did it out of concern for you, wondering how to approach the issue when an all-too-familiar figure appeared in that second-floor window, “Do you see that?” You blurted the question before you could even think about what you were saying.
Instinctively, Spencer placed a hand on his weapon while looking through the windshield of the car, “See what?”
You furrowed your brows, pointing as plainly as you possibly could to the second-floor window where you saw the woman, “On the second floor. Off to the right,” you said desperately, wanting him to see it, wanting him to believe you. “Don’t you see her?”
Spencer’s hand dropped as his gaze went from the building and back to you, “Honey.” You tried to ignore the emotion-filled tone that he gave you, flooding the pet name with an apt amount of concern.
Sitting back in the car seat, “Never mind, I didn’t—” you cut yourself off, “I just thought I saw something.” You tried to play it off, crossing your ankles one over the other and shifting in the seat, trying to keep your ass from going numb.
His eyes were still trained on you, and you tried to ignore him even as he locked the passenger door from the inside. The car remained absolutely silent until you heard a voice come in from the radio, “This is the Death Star calling for the Bat Mobile, over.”
You rolled your eyes at the sound of Luke’s voice, “Don’t call this car the Bat Mobile,” you told Spencer as he lifted the radio to his mouth.
“This is the Bat Mobile, we can hear you loud and clear Death Star, over,” Spencer responded, grinning at the way you groaned in response. The poltergeist of it all nearly forgotten for just a moment.
Placing your head in your hands in frustration as you waited for Luke’s response, Spencer reached over and smoothed your hair back, the gesture feeling oddly domestic for a stakeout. Maybe that was why Emily never paired the two of you together. “Yeah, we aren’t seeing anything out here, are you clear on your end?”
Spencer’s ministrations on your hair faltered for just a moment before he answered, “No, we haven’t seen anything.”
“Tara just got off the phone with Emily, they got the lab results back on those tools we found by the latest victim,” he informed you, “The blood on it was a match.”
You pressed your lips together in a thin line and shared a look with Spencer. Part of you was grateful to finally feel like you’d made some semblance of progress with the case, but the other part of you felt physically ill knowing that the latest victim had been enucleated using an orbitoclast. Her eyes and sockets were pulverized by a lobotomy pick, and it almost made you feel like you needed a word stronger than sadist.
“Did the medical examiner say the injuries matched the patterns of the other two enucleated victims?” Spencer asked into the radio, holding it close to his mouth as he spoke.
There was a pause before Luke responded, “Uh, kind of.”
You frowned, “What do you mean ‘kind of?’”
Another pause, “The M.E. concluded that the wound patterns are the same on the three latest victims, but the injuries on the most recent one were inflicted antemortem,” Luke explained.
Your eyes widened as the weight of Luke’s words joined the pit in your stomach, her eyes had been pulverized while she was still alive. The M.E.’s conclusion matched the one you had proposed when you saw the blood spatter this morning. You held your breath to stop a sound of disgust from escaping your lips, but you knew Spencer saw it on your face.
“Thanks for the update,” Spencer said, turning down the volume on the radio slightly before setting it on the dashboard.
Swallowing thickly, you placed both of your hands in your lap, studying them as if you’ve never seen them before, “Have you ever gotten the feeling that a case isn’t going to end well?”
You caught him while he was about to take a sip of his coffee, his movement paused for a moment before he took a swig anyway, setting the cup in the cup holder and nodding, “Yeah,” he answered, his voice raspy before he cleared his throat, “I have.”
Running your tongue over your molars, you raised your eyebrows at him in curiosity, “What usually happens?”
Spencer sighed, going back to facing the asylum before he held his hand out for you to take, you obliged, setting your intertwined fingers on the center console. “The case usually doesn’t end well,” he admitted.
“When are you going to tell me what your nightmare was about?” Spencer asked, squeezing your hand as he made conversation, trying to keep the two of you awake through the night.
Leaning your head back, you looked through the sunroof of the car, thrilled to see the sun beginning to rise over the tiny town. “I don’t think it really matters, it was just a bad dream,” you told him, clearly aware of why it mattered.
You even knew why it mattered to him. You’d never pushed him away like that before, but as soon as his hand had gone near your neck, you’d completely lost control of your body. “Look, I know I don’t believe in dream analysis—”
“Oh,” you scoffed, cutting him off. “Yes, you do,” you corrected him, “You do this all the time, you talk about dream analysis, and you claim that you don’t believe in it but then you actually get into it, and you admit that you just don’t like what Freud has to say about it. Then you’ll list everyone who has discredited him before you tell me ‘Jung still has his merits.’”
Spencer was quiet, and you immediately regretted your interjection.
Sighing, you wished you could melt into the passenger seat of the car, “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I don’t think that analyzing my dream right now will do any good, but I just… I’m sorry.”
He was still silent.
Chewing on the inside of your lip, you turned your body as best you could in the vehicle, “Do you believe in the afterlife?”
That got his attention. Spencer turned his head to you, concern etched into his face, “Why are you asking me this?”
You couldn’t tell him. You’d break his heart if you told him that throughout the duration of this case, you’d developed a pit in your stomach and started having dreams about dying. “In my dream, it was like… like I was paralyzed, and I couldn’t move my head. I couldn’t speak or anything and when I thought about calling for you, you appeared.” You sniffled slightly, “You reached out for my neck and your hand came back with a piece of twine, and then my head fell to the ground—completely detached from my body.”
The lack of judgment in his expression was what finally triggered the first tear to fall from your eye, but you didn’t wipe it away. Spencer moved his hand and deftly wiped at your tears with his fingertips, cupping your face in his hands, “You’re not going to die.”
“Spence,” you said, your voice strained by emotion.
He shook his head gently, “Nope, not as long as I’m around. You’re not going to die on this case.”
Your chest ached as your eyes studied his, “Okay.”
“But,” he continued, “I want you to take a step back on this one. No more volunteering for stakeouts, no wandering to the second floor of the asylum, and no listening to any more of Penelope’s ghost stories.”
Nodding, you silently agreed to his conditions, holding out your pinky and waiting for him to present his. Interlocking your small fingers, you each kissed your hands, and you took a deep breath. “What do you think we’re looking at, Spence? Is it another witch hunt?”
Names and faces of people like Leland Duncan and James Heathridge flashed in your memory, but if there was an overlap there, you haven’t seen it.
You didn’t feel like the BAU had a very good track record in Appalachia, Shane Wyland and the still unnamed ‘Mountain Man’ were proof enough of that, but you hoped that Wyland was long dead by now, and these crimes were too organized for the Mountain Man.
“I don’t know, baby,” Spencer admitted, and you knew that it hurt him to say that to you, especially now.
Looking out the window, your eyes caught on Luke and Tara as they made their way over to your car. Spencer unlocked the doors as you hurriedly wiped beneath your eyes, trying to hide any evidence of your upset before reconvening with the team.
Luke waggled his eyebrows at the two of you, “Good morning, how was your night?”
Groaning, you stretched out your neck, “Ultimately uneventful,” you told him, knowing that if anything of real interest had happened, Luke and Tara would’ve been the first people you notified.
“Prentiss asked us if we’d do a quick sweep of the inside before heading back to the precinct,” Tara said, jutting her chin in the direction of the building.
You and Spencer shared a look, but now that you were grouped within your team, you felt comfortable enough to slip your hand in his as the four of you approached the building. Squeezing his hand, your eyes flickered up to the second-story window, and seeing nothing, you stepped into the building.
The smell hit you. The strong tang of blood mixed with that of isopropyl alcohol burned at your nostrils as Tara swore at the sight in front of all of you. A body hanging from the stairwell, eyes completely destroyed, and while the body was covered in blood, the floor was completely void of any red.
“She’s cleaning up,” you observed, stepping closer to Spencer and looking at the streak marks that a rag had made on the floor.
Luke raised his eyebrows, “She?” He asked, confused about the sudden change in pronouns while Tara immediately went to call Emily.
Spencer nodded, agreeing with you as the three of you watched the body turn in the glow of the sunrise, “A man wouldn’t care about the mess he’s leaving behind.”
This revelation left you more confused than anything, you had no idea how anyone could lift that much dead weight, night after night. “Oh,” you breathed, blood draining from your face as you looked up at Spencer and Luke. “We were watching the building all night,” you reminded them. “We never saw anyone enter, but we never saw them leave.”
night three
“Alright,” Emily started, fully equipped in her Kevlar, she looked around the entryway of the asylum, “Rossi and Tara will keep an eye out front in case anyone tries to make a run for it. Reid and JJ will take the tunnels beneath the west wing, Simmons and I will take the east wing, Alvez and Sheriff Greenbaum will head north, and Y/N and Deputy Perkins will stay here in the foyer in case anyone calls for backup.”
In the dark building, Spencer gave your hand a squeeze before everyone turned on their flashlights. “Let’s end this,” Rossi said, earning a hum of agreement as everyone split off into their respective directions.
You wished Emily had done you the kindness of letting you be paired with Spencer again, but twice in the span of a single case was seemingly too much to ask for. “You ever seen something like this?” Deputy Perkins asked you, shuffling his feet across the floor.
Shaking your head, your eyes focused on where the newest body had been found that morning. The body was cleared out and the cause of death was blunt force trauma, but once the realization that the killer had been in the building the entire time settled in, the team got to work on figuring out some of the logistics.
That was when the sheriff brought up the possibility of the killer using a long-abandoned tunnel system. The town had assumed they caved in years ago, but a bit of sleuthing had revealed that there were still a select number of tunnels for her to use.
As long as I stay in the foyer, you reminded yourself, no wandering.
The stench of isopropyl alcohol still floated through the air; it had likely sept into the porous flooring that had been underneath the body. You made note of the flickering lights in the surrounding area, making sure not to get any of them mixed up as you rested a hand on your firearm.
“Did you hear that?” Deputy Perkins asked you, looking up the stairs and shining his flashlight on them, trying to see if he could find anything in the eerie abyss of darkness.
Swallowing thickly, you shook your head in response, “No,” you told him, looking to the left and right of you, wondering if one of the pairs that had been sent off was returning. You hadn’t heard anything coming from the upstairs.
He hummed, taking a step closer to the staircase and setting off alarm bells in your head, “I’m sure I heard a shuffling coming from upstairs.” The pit in your stomach reformed as he planted a foot on the staircase and waved you over, “Come on, we should check it out.”
You hesitated, “We’re supposed to be here if someone needs backup,” you reminded him, nearly pleading with him not to abandon his post.
Perkins shrugged at you before taking another step. “I’m going to check it out, and there’s safety in numbers,” he countered before ascending the steps, making it to the first landing before your feet finally moved.
“Fuck,” you muttered as you followed him up the stairs, taking careful steps so that they didn’t creak beneath you. You reached the second-floor seconds after him, but you shone your flashlight around without any sign of him, beaming the light into the familiar room, “Deputy Perkins?”
You stepped into the room, placing a hand on your firearm as you tapped on the flickering sconce again and looked behind you. Your breathing hitched at the sight of the deputy in front of you, he was crumpled to the floor, his legs folded unnaturally, and there was a lobotomy pick that went straight through his head.
Next to him stood a woman, her clothes were tattered and stained with blood, and she came at you, shoving you to the ground and leaving your gun and flashlight scattered on the hardwood. The force of the impact knocked the wind out of you, and you got yourself out from under her while she frantically searched for a missing piece of the puzzle.
She’d used her pick to take out the deputy, leaving her with nothing to gouge your eyes out. You weren’t sure if you should feel grateful as you rolled over and grabbed the closest thing you could, wrapping your fingers around your flashlight and swinging it aimlessly against your attacker.
“No!” She screamed a high-pitched, blood-curdling sound rang out as you hit her on the side with your law enforcement issue flashlight. The object slipped out of your fingers as you sat up and tried to reorient yourself with your surroundings, you couldn’t see your gun, searching for it as she flung your flashlight back at you, the edge of it catching on your forehead as you fell back.
The UnSub straddled your waist, keeping a firm hold on your throat as she held the pick to your eye, having pulled it from the deputy’s head so that she could complete her ritual, “Don’t,” you gasped, “Think—” your voice broke off as vomit rose in your throat. “Think of the mess,” you told her. “You used all the rubbing alcohol,” you reminded her, pleading with her not to take your eyes.
She was seething, very nearly foaming at the mouth above you as instead of stabbing you with the pick, she used the butt of it to crack against your skull. “You took my friends!” She raged, referring to the people that she had murdered, she was collecting them to keep her company.
“No,” you wheezed, shaking your head even through the blinding pain, “I set them free,” you challenged her, resigning yourself to an untimely demise and crying out when she sat you up.
You tried to claw at her, a weak attempt at saving your own life that received a laugh from the UnSub, an almost childlike giggle. “You can be my friend,” she offered, grabbing an already prepared rope from the floor and looping it around your neck before she slung it around an exposed beam, creating a makeshift rig and pulling on it.
Immediately, your hands flew to your neck, trying to stop the rope from suffocating you completely, and it worked for a little while before your feet lifted off of the ground.
After that, you were gone, left standing off to the side as you watched your body hang from the ceiling while the UnSub who would always remain an UnSub to you watched, cackling as she did so. She cackled up until the moment JJ put a bullet in her brain, the sudden death of your attacker leaving your body to drop to the hardwood floor, the hit softened by Spencer and Emily as they caught.
Tossing the rope to the side, Spencer laid you out on the floor and ducked his head to your chest, listening for breathing sounds. He was listening for anything, any sign of life at all.
There was nothing, so he put his hands on your corporeal form’s chest and started CPR, pushing down on your chest in steady motions.
You knelt down to him, watching tears fall from his face as JJ did her best to keep your airway open and Emily frantically radioed for an ambulance, continuously repeating that Y/N is down.
Assuming your hand would go right through him, you placed a hand on Spencer’s back, surprised to find that he was still solid to you. In a sort of daze, you watched him as he tried to save your life, repeating the same three words over and over again, “Come on, baby.” The mantra continued, tears falling onto your shirt.
You felt like you were on fire as if your body was physically burning while you watched life-saving measures be performed on yourself, “Oh, Spencer,” you whispered. “I’m so sorry,” you said to no one but yourself, knowing that he couldn’t hear you.
Looking to your side, you saw her again. The spirit form of Catherine Pence was watching you die in real-time, and you took a shuddering breath as she knelt next to you, expecting her to impart some sort of spiritual wisdom onto you.
Instead, she placed one of her ethereal hands on the back of your head and slammed both of your forms together. The entire world went dark after that, but you could still hear everything going on, searing pain ran through your entire body, from a throbbing in your ankle to an ache in your ribs to a pulsing in your head, but there was no more pressure on your chest.
“Is she…?” You heard JJ’s voice first, and as badly as you wanted to open your eyes, you just couldn’t gather the strength to do so.
There was heavy breathing and a soft weight on your shoulder, two fingers pressed into the pulse point on your wrist, “She’s breathing. She’s alive,” Spencer answered, out of breath. “Oh, my angel.”
A low groan was the only thing you could muster up.
Spencer shushed you, keeping his head on your shoulder and his fingers on your wrist, “It’s okay, don’t try to talk,” he cooed. “You’re going to be okay, the paramedics are here,” he lifted his head then. “I just want to stay with her.”
aftermath
It was far too bright for you, and the low keening sound that you expelled from your throat was the only way you could think to express that feeling. Whoever was in the room with you understood, turning the brightness down for you, earning a hum of approval from you.
“Hey,” Spencer whispered, his voice barely audible as he tried to keep his voice as low as possible.
The universe was taking pity on you, you knew it because you couldn’t feel any pain, which either meant you had finally kicked it or the hospital you were in had given you painkillers.
Your eyes felt like they were stuck together, the way that they get when you wake up from a perfect nap, and it took a surprising amount of energy to part your lips, expelling a deep breath out of your mouth. The action led to a pinching pain in your chest, causing your breathing to hitch, “Ow.”
“Sorry,” Spencer said, though you couldn’t imagine what he was apologizing for. “Can you open your eyes? How are you feeling?”
A grunt was all he received in response, the single noise begging him to slow down. Your eyes opened just slightly, looking at him through slivers as he smiled softly at you. His eyes were red and there was a box of Kleenex on the table next to him, accompanied by his phone and a cup of water.
He sighed in relief once he noticed that your eyes were opening, “Hey,” he repeated, “You look good,” he lied to you.
You rolled your eyes at him and his smile only grew, “Hi,” you croaked, your throat swollen and dry as you tried to reorient yourself. You were in a hospital, but the view outside of your window was of a city, not the tiny town that you had just been in.
Noticing your confusion, Spencer reached out to adjust your nasal cannula, “They transported you to a hospital in a city. The local hospital just didn’t have the capacity to treat you,” he explained. “I’ve been with you,” he reassured you, “The entire time.”
“I’m sorry,” you rasped, but he waved you off instantly.
Spencer grabbed the Styrofoam water cup from your bedside table and held it to you, bending the straw so that you could get some water.
Noting his silence, you tilted your head to the side, ignoring the way your brain felt like it had been scrambled, “Are you okay?”
He pursed his lips while setting the cup back down, “I just remember thinking about how I promised you that you weren’t going to die.”
The antiseptic air made you cringe, your body becoming more and more conscious as time went on, “I wandered,” you reminded him, making sure he knew that you broke your promise first.
“That wasn’t your idea,” Spencer challenged, knowing you well enough to say that without having experienced it himself. His fingers nimbly adjusted the blanket on your hospital bed, “You followed the deputy upstairs, it wasn’t your choice.”
In your current state, Spencer wouldn’t let you take any of the responsibility for what had happened in the asylum and even though you knew the answer, you asked him anyway, “Is she dead?”
Nodding softly, he took your hand in his, “She’s dead, and someday I’ll let you know her name and read the rest of the case, but today is not that day.” He skimmed his thumb over your knuckles, each of them cracked and bloodied from your fight with the UnSub.
You sighed in relief, a single tear receding into your hairline as you closed your eyes again, “How long have I been sleeping?” You asked, squinting over at your patient care whiteboard.
“Two days,” Spencer answered gently, dragging his fingers up and down your forearm, “You were tired, and your body had a lot of healing to do. It still does,” he added the last part, not wanting you to claim being healed. “Everyone’s still here, waiting for you to be discharged,” he continued, “I should message Emily, actually.”
“And Penelope,” you added, knowing she’d rather hear it directly from him than through Emily.
Spencer chuckled lightly, a sound that was as curative as any medicine you could be given, “I’m sure she’ll be waiting for us at the tarmac in Quantico.”
A small smile sprouted on your face, “She’ll be the one landing the plane,” you laughed slightly, interrupted by a fit of coughing. You placed a hand on your chest and winced, inhaling sharply before trying to breathe through the pain.
“What do you need?” He asked you carefully, setting his phone back down after sending his texts.
You shook your head, “Nothin’, just you.”
It was an action that would’ve previously earned a few stares from the team, and at least one wolf whistle from Luke, you and Spencer slipping into the galley together and closing the curtain behind you. Now it was simply the easiest place for you to get some semblance of privacy as Spencer snipped at the old bandaged around your neck.
Your hair was secured atop your head, keeping it out of the ointment as Spencer used his fingertips to carefully cover the rope burn that had been left around your neck. “Does it hurt?” He asked, eyes focused on his canvas while coating the hollow of your throat.
Shaking your head minutely, you closed your eyes, “No,” you told him, a slight rasp still peeking through your tone.
He hummed in response, giving you a small smile as he went back to the tube, putting more ointment on his fingers, “Liar.”
Opening your eyes again, you looked up at him as your face warmed, “Only a little bit,” you altered your answer. At this point, the worst part about the burn was that the nurses recommended keeping it covered, and Spencer was taking his job as caretaker very seriously.
He checked his phone for something before going back to his prior actions, “I think it’s getting better,” he observed, furrowing his brows as he wiped excess ointment from his fingers.
You took his word for it, having been avoiding looking in a mirror at all costs. Seeing the bruises all over your body was more than enough for you. You flinched when someone else slipped into your oasis, Emily shut the curtain behind her, holding out a pack of non-adhesive Telfa pads for Spencer to use on your neck.
“Hey,” you said nervously, wondering if she had another purpose or if she was simply bringing you some first-aid.
Emily smiled nervously; her eyes studied the marks on your throat as Spencer covered them. You expected her to speak, but she just watched in complete silence.
Raising your eyebrows, you looked from her to Spencer, and back to her again. “You should see the other guy,” you joked, earning the slightest smile from the both of them.
“I just wanted to let you know that however much time you decide to take off, it’s yours,” she offered to you, watching as Spencer unwrapped another packet of gauze.
You hummed, “I’m really alright, Em,” you assured her, more than comfortable with the automatic six weeks that you were granted by the bureau. It was the standard set for all agents unless there was an extenuating circumstance that prevented them from returning to work.
Emily’s nervous smile returned, “It wasn’t a suggestion,” she informed you, letting you know that she was more or less forcing you to take the extended time off.
Peering at your boyfriend, you frowned, “You put her up to this.”
Spencer shook his head, “I didn’t. Stop moving so much,” he urged you, trying to stretch the number of Telfa pads he had before he had the chance to go to a pharmacy.
“He didn’t,” Emily iterated, “But he could’ve, and I still wouldn’t tell you,” she added. “We’ll talk more—both of you. For now, I don’t want to see you around the BAU for a while.”
You sighed when she left the galley, Spencer finished his last placement before stepping back. “How do I look?” You asked him, keeping your question mostly rhetorical.
His smile was so gentle that it cracked at your resolve, “Good.”
Looking up at him doubtfully, you leaned against the counter, “You’re a really bad liar.”
“Hey,” he said, carefully wrapping his arms around you and letting you rest the unmarred side of your head on his chest, “You look alive, and that’s good enough for me.”
More Posts from Sunbl3achedfly and Others
Do the dead comfort you? Pt.1
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader
Summary: On your night shift at the mortuary you discover a fresh mutilated corpse that isn’t supposed to be there, prompting the FBI’s arrival.
Content: Dead bodies, like lots of dead bodies (you're a mortician), stalking, murder, dark humour, reader is a little gothic and macabre, first time reader and Spencer meet, Spencer thinks she’s weird at first but his curiosity leads to him finding her endearing, reader is not used to socializing and has questionable coping mechanisms
Author's note: I’ve literally had this idea for months and needed to get it out of my system.
3,038 words
part two
masterlist
The hum of the mortuary’s refrigeration units was usually a comfort, but today, it felt unnervingly loud. The body wasn’t where it was supposed to be, and the one in its place looked like something out of a horror film—freshly dead, blood-soaked, and carved like a grotesque work of art.
You leaned back against the counter as the FBI agents filed in, their presence slicing through the eerie silence. The group was sharp, purposeful, and clearly used to handling chaos. Among them, one man immediately stood out.
He was tall, maybe six-foot-one, with tousled brown hair that looked like it had lost a battle with a comb. His dark blazer was slightly too big for his lean frame, and the way he adjusted his satchel strap every few seconds hinted at his slight nervous energy. But it was his eyes that caught your attention—warm and endlessly curious, darting around the room like they were cataloging every detail. He looked like he’d stepped out of a library and into a crime scene.
“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he said, his voice soft but deliberate as he approached you. His eyes lingered for a moment on your dark hair, the chipped edges of your blood-red nail polish, and the subtle skull pendant hanging around your neck. You could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he formed some unspoken observation.
“I’m the one who found the body,” you said, crossing your arms. His gaze flicked to your black long-sleeve shirt, noticing the faint wrinkles near the cuffs from where you’d been tugging at them earlier.
Spencer tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were just as much a puzzle as the case itself. “You work here?” he asked, though the answer was obvious.
You raised an eyebrow. “No, I just hang out in mortuaries for fun. Great ambiance.”
His lips twitched, the hint of a smile betraying his otherwise serious demeanor. “Right.” He glanced at the body, his tone growing more professional. “You said you found the body when you came in for your night shift?”
“Yes,” you replied. “This drawer was supposed to have a heart attack victim I was preparing for burial. Middle-aged woman, very boring. When I opened it today, this was waiting for me.” You gestured toward the bloodied body on the table, your voice calm despite the grim subject matter.
Spencer’s eyes followed your gesture, narrowing slightly as he examined the victim. “You’re certain this wasn’t here yesterday?”
“Dead certain,” you said without thinking, then winced. “Sorry. That wasn’t—I cope with dark humor. Occupational hazard, I guess.”
Spencer glanced at you, his expression softening. “I understand. It’s… not uncommon in this line of work.”
You studied him for a moment, noticing how his slight awkwardness seemed at odds with his sharp intelligence. He had an air of vulnerability about him, but there was also something strikingly self-assured in the way he analyzed everything around him. You wondered how someone like him—bright-eyed and endearingly earnest—handled the kind of darkness he must face every day.
“Do you recognize him?” Spencer asked, gesturing to the body.
You shook your head. “No. Never seen him before. And no one else has access to this section of the mortuary after hours. I locked everything up before I left last night. Whoever put him here must’ve known what they were doing to sneak it in.”
Spencer nodded, his gaze flicking between the cuts on the victim’s body. “The precision of these wounds… they were made deliberately. Whoever did this wasn’t in a hurry. They wanted us to notice the details.”
“Well, mission accomplished,” you said dryly, folding your arms. “They’ve got everyone’s attention now.”
Spencer glanced at you again, his expression unreadable but thoughtful. “You seem very calm for someone who just found… this.”
You gave a small shrug, brushing a strand of black hair out of your face. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen something gruesome. Probably won’t be the last.” You hesitated, then added with a wry smile, “Though I’ll admit, finding a surprise corpse is a new one, even for me.”
Spencer studied you for another moment, his head tilting slightly as if he were piecing together something about you. “You said you locked everything last night. Did you notice anything unusual before you left?”
You thought for a moment, absently tapping your nails against the counter. “Nothing out of the ordinary. But then again, ordinary isn’t exactly a guarantee in this job.” You paused, your eyes flicking back to the body. “If someone’s messing with me, they’ve got a pretty sick sense of humor. And that’s saying something, coming from me.”
Spencer didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer than necessary before he turned back to the body. “This wasn’t a joke. Whoever did this wanted to send a message.”
The weight of his words hung in the air, and you found yourself wondering just how deep this case would go. You had always been fascinated by death, but now, for the first time, it felt like death was staring back at you.
After the FBI had concluded their search and cameras were packed away and evidence collected, the usual silence you were used to began seeping back into the cold, sterile atmosphere of the mortuary. The body had been carefully documented and removed, leaving behind the faint antiseptic smell of bleach and cold steel. You stood by the counter, gathering your tools and preparing to get back to work once the team left.
You could feel the day's weight pressing down on you, but you refused to let it show and tried your best to keep your movements steady. You snapped on a fresh pair of gloves and reached for your notebook beside your workstation. The slight tremor in your hands betrayed your calm exterior.
Across the room, Spencer watched you. He stood near the doorway with his satchel slung over one shoulder, fidgeting with the strap as he lingered. He didn’t know why he hesitated to leave—there was something about you that held his attention. Maybe it was the way you handled the situation earlier, calm and composed despite the horrifying scene. In a way it may have seemed suspicious to someone else. Or maybe it was the way your dark humor revealed cracks in your otherwise detached demeanor. Whatever it was, he found himself walking toward you before he could think better of it.
You didn’t notice him at first, focused on arranging your tools in neat rows. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat softly that you looked up, startled.
“Oh,” you said, your voice sharper than you intended. “Still here?”
Spencer hesitated, not knowing how to handle your straightforward behaviour, his hands awkwardly stuffed into his pockets. “Yeah, um… I just wanted to check in with how you’re coping... After everything earlier?”
Your first instinct usually would have been to shrug the concern off, but the question had caught you off guard. You blinked at him for a second, unsure how to answer. “I—” You paused, tilting your head slightly as you studied him. “Oh I’m great,” you replied, your voice laced with sarcasm. “Finding a bloodied corpse someone snuck into my mortuary? Best day I’ve had in weeks, really.”
You winced at your own words, immediately looking down after saying them. “Sorry. That was—I shouldn’t have said that.” You fumbled for an excuse, your voice tight. “I just… I don’t talk to people much. I guess I don’t know how to… be normal in situations like this.”
Spencer’s expression softened, his voice gentle. “It’s okay. People cope in different ways. And after today, sarcasm seems pretty appropriate.”
You studied him for a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion. “You’re weirdly nice for someone who spends his days chasing psychopaths.”
The comment seemed to amuse him, though he didn’t quite smile but instead pursed his lips slightly. “And you’re surprisingly calm for someone whose workspace just turned into a crime scene,” he countered lightly.
You almost laughed, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly. “Guess we’re both a little weird.”
For a moment, the two of you stood in silence, the hum of the refrigeration units filling the space between you. Then Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out a small card.
“If you find anything else,” he said, his voice deliberate but kind, “or if you think of something that might help the case, call us. Here’s my number, just in case.” He held the card out to you, his fingers brushing yours as you took it.
You stared at the card for a moment, surprised by the gesture. It was small, routine, even, but it felt like more than that. You looked up at him, your usual stoicism softening into something almost vulnerable. “Thank you,” you said quietly, your voice warmer than before.
Spencer smiled, the kind of smile that was barely there but sincere. “Take care,” he said, adjusting his satchel as he turned to leave.
As he walked off, you couldn’t help the slight giddiness bubbling up inside you. It was a new sensation, as you tended to dislike most people, however, there was something about this handsome stranger that had you way more interested than you would've liked to admit.
It had been approximately 2 weeks since your ‘corpse surprise’, and work at the mortuary carried on as usual. There had been no leads or updates from the FBI regarding the mysterious body. No one had come forward to claim it, and any investigative efforts seemed to have hit a dead end. The unsettling memory lingered in the back of your mind, no matter how hard you tried to focus on work. The thought of someone managing to sneak a corpse into the mortuary without being caught still made your skin crawl.
You had just finished up with the cremation retort, the faint heat from the machine still lingering in the room, and had begun sweeping and cleaning up the crematory floor. The rhythmic swish of the broom against the tiles filled the quiet, accompanied only by the faint hum of the ventilation system.
As you moved toward the far corner, you noticed something out of place—a faint scuff mark on the otherwise spotless floor near the entrance. You frowned, leaning closer. It looked fresh, like someone had dragged something heavy through the room. A casket, maybe? No, you’d been the only one in here all morning, and the retort was prepped before your shift.
Brushing it off as nothing, you returned to sweeping, but a prickling sensation ran up the back of your neck. The kind of feeling you got when someone was watching you. You stopped mid-sweep and glanced over your shoulder, scanning the empty room. Nothing but sterile counters and a row of sealed urns waiting for pickup.
The ventilation hum seemed louder now, almost deafening in the otherwise silent space. Shaking your head, you muttered, “Get a grip,” and went back to cleaning.
Then came the noise.
A faint shuffle, just beyond the doorway that led to the preparation room. Your hand tightened on the broom handle, your heart thudding against your ribs. It wasn’t uncommon for sounds to echo strangely in the building—pipes groaning or metal trays shifting on counters—but this sounded different. Like a footstep.
“Hello?” you called out, your voice echoing back to you. No response.
Setting the broom aside, you stepped cautiously toward the preparation room, your shoes squeaking faintly against the tiles. As you approached, the air seemed colder, though you couldn’t tell if it was the room or just your nerves.
The door to the preparation room was slightly ajar, just enough for a sliver of shadow to spill into the hallway. You could’ve sworn you’d closed it earlier. Pushing the door open slowly, you peered inside. Everything seemed normal—the stainless steel countertops, the neatly arranged tools, the faint smell of disinfectant in the air.
And yet, the feeling of being watched persisted.
You turned to leave, but your eyes caught on something—a small object sitting on one of the prep tables. It hadn’t been there before. Approaching cautiously, you realized it was a photograph.
A photo of you.
It was grainy, taken from a distance, but unmistakable. You were outside the mortuary, standing by your car, looking down at your phone. Your throat tightened as you stared at it, your pulse roaring in your ears.
A faint creak sounded behind you, and you spun around, your breath catching. The door you’d left ajar was now fully closed.
Your hands trembled as you stared at the now-closed door. Despite every instinct in you screaming to leave, to run, you couldn't move. It was as if your entire body had been drenched in ice water and no longer wanted to respond.
When you had finally regained control of your movements you reached for your phone and fumbled through your bag without thinking. Your fingers brushed against the business card Spencer Reid had given you after your first meeting, his handwriting neat and precise on the back: Call if anything comes up.
You hesitated. Would he think you were overreacting? Maybe. But the photograph on the prep table stared back at you, a tangible reminder that this wasn’t just paranoia. You tapped the number on your phone and pressed it to your ear, your breath shallow as it rang.
After what felt like years, you finally heard Spencer's familiar voice on the other end, calm and professional, "Dr. Reid."
“Hi, uh, it’s… it’s me,” you said, trying to sound casual as you leaned against the prep table for support but still refusing to take your eyes off of the door. “From the mortuary? The weird body situation a couple weeks ago?”
“I remember,” Spencer replied, his tone softening. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not exactly,” you replied, but your voice cracked slightly on the last word, betraying your attempt to keep your composure. “I mean, nothing urgent, I don't think. I just… thought I should mention something odd that happened. Probably nothing.”
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. “You don’t sound fine,” Spencer said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. “What’s going on?”
You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the table to ground yourself. “It’s just… someone left a photo of me in the preparation room. Like, an actual printed photograph. I’m not sure how it got there.”
Spencer’s end of the line went silent for a beat, then: “A photograph of you? Where was it taken?”
“Outside the mortuary. By my car, I think. It’s grainy, but it’s definitely me.” You tried to laugh, but it came out weak. “I know it’s probably just someone messing around. But um..." You paused for a moment, wondering whether you should tell him about the odd noises from before and risk sounding paranoid.
“The photo wasn’t the only thing. I thought I heard footsteps earlier, and there was a mark on the floor like something was dragged through the crematory. I… I don’t know, I was sure it was clean this morning when I came in for work, but maybe I’m just spooking myself.”
“You’re not spooking yourself,” Spencer interrupted, his tone more insistent now. “This is serious. Are you still in the mortuary?”
“Yes,” you admitted, glancing toward the door as if expecting it to move again.
“Okay, listen to me,” Spencer said, his voice steadying you. “I need you to leave the building. Lock it up if you can, but get somewhere safe. I’ll notify the team and come to check things out.”
Your chest tightened, a mix of relief and apprehension at his words. “You really think it’s that serious?”
“I don’t take chances with things like this,” Spencer replied. “Neither should you.”
You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you, and pushed yourself off the table. “Okay... Okay, I’ll leave now.”
As you ended the call and pocketed your phone, your eyes darted around the room one last time. The photograph still lay on the table, a grim reminder that whoever had taken it might still be nearby.
You moved quickly now, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Grabbing your bag and coat, you threw them over your shoulder and cast one last glance around the dim room. The photograph still lay on the prep table, but you couldn’t bring yourself to pick it up. Your fingers trembled too much anyway. You just needed to get out.
Sliding your phone into your pocket, you tightened your grip on your keys and made your way to the door. Your footsteps echoed in the stillness, each sound magnified in the empty mortuary. Every shadow in the room seemed alive, every creak of the floorboards sending a shiver down your spine.
“Just get out, just get out,” you muttered under your breath, your voice barely above a whisper.
You reached the door, exhaling shakily as you reached for the lock. But just as your hand brushed the handle, a cold, sharp sensation pressed against your throat, freezing you in place.
“Don’t move,” a low, raspy voice growled behind you, the words sending a bolt of terror down your spine.
Your breath hitched, your mind racing as you registered the unmistakable feel of a blade pressing against your skin. You didn’t dare turn your head, every muscle in your body locked in place once more.
“You scream, and you’re dead,” the voice continued, so close you could feel the warmth of their breath against your ear.
Your keys slipped from your hand, clattering loudly to the floor. The sound echoed in the silence, a cruel reminder of just how alone you were.
“Good,” the voice murmured, the knife pressing ever so slightly harder against your neck. “Now be a good girl and do exactly as I say.”
Your pulse roared in your ears as panic clawed its way up your throat. You had no choice but to comply.
And that was when the lights in the mortuary flickered and went out, plunging you both into darkness.
The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien
Do the dead comfort you? Pt.2
Pairing: Spencer Reid x Female Reader
Summary: Spencer does all he can to save you from the hands of a psychotic unsub, and he makes a promise to remain by your side in the aftermath of the ordeal.
Content: Dead bodies once again, (tw) torture, stalking, breakdowns, hospital visits, blood, (tw) sexual assault, trauma, Spencer to the rescue & being a tad protective of the pretty girl he only met once before, the reader realizes she can't use her morbid sense of humor to cope with everything, hurt/comfort I guess?
Author's note: Here’s part two!!! I was listening to Ethel's new album while writing this and holy moly I was in the zone and wrote most of it in one go. (Pulldrone is exactly what was playing when I wrote the scenes while she was kidnapped and I feel like the eery ambiance encapsulates the utter sense of dread and despair that hits the reader once she realizes how serious the situation is). Hope you all enjoy <33
Let me know if you guys want a part 3!!
5,331 words (it’s a long one aha)
part one
masterlist
When you finally managed to open your eyes again, a sharp, dull pain radiated through your skull. The harsh fluorescent lights above didn't help as they glared down at you. At least you weren't on the floor. Nope, just restrained to an ice-cold metal slab. Fancy that. This must be how all my patients feel before I embalm them.
You attempted to look around the room but the bright lights from above prevented you from doing so. As you regained consciousness, you began to realize that both your wrists and ankles were restrained to the embalming table. And you were only in your underwear. The panic had begun to set in and you tugged at the restraints, but to no avail, they wouldn’t budge.
"Struggling won't help", a voice echoed through the room, "I made sure of that."
Your head snapped to the right as you took in the man who now began leaning over you. At first, he didn't even look real. He stood over you, bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the morgue’s overhead lights, his figure stretched and distorted by your disoriented mind. A nightmare stitched together from shadows and flesh, from surgical steel and the sickly scent of embalming fluid. His eyes—God, his eyes—weren’t just looking at you; they were studying you, cataloging every inch of your body as if you were a specimen he was about to dissect.
On any normal day, his face may have been forgettable, the kind you’d pass on the street without a second thought. But at this moment, in this place, it was the only thing in the world. The sharp angles of his cheekbones cast deep, skeletal hollows in his skin, making him look half-dead, like something that had crawled out of the very slabs you worked on everyday. His mouth curled in something that wasn’t quite a smile, wasn’t quite a sneer—just wrong, like he wasn’t used to making expressions that mimicked human emotion.
Then came his voice, it slithered into your ears, so sickly sweet that it made you nauseous, "You’re quite the fighter, aren’t you? But they all stop fighting eventually.”
You tried your best to focus on anything else at that moment, the details of everything else but him. The thin, latex gloves that he wore, they were stretched way too tight across his knuckles. The way his coat —a pristine white lab coat, because of course it was—fluttered slightly as he moved, the motion strangely elegant. You could smell him too. He smelled clean, too clean, like antiseptic and soap, but underneath that all was something rotten, something decayed. Maybe it was just your imagination. Maybe it wasn’t.
As he began mulling over which embalming tool to pick up first, his fingers hovering over them as if one of them was beckoning to be chosen, you realized just how exposed you were. For the first time since waking up, at the mercy of this thing, wearing a man's skin—you started to believe you might actually die here.
The sound of splintering wood as the mortuary door crashed open was deafening. You flinched violently, your body instinctively pulling against the straps that pinned you to the cold metal table. Relief and terror fought for dominance in your chest.
They’re here. Oh God, they’re finally here.
But then, just when you had begun to relax for the first time in hours, you felt the scalpal press harder against your neck. The tip of it broke through skin, not deep, but enough to make your breath catch.
"Don’t move,” the unsub growled under his breath. His voice was sharp, his calm façade cracking under the pressure. You could feel the tremor in his hands now, the desperation radiating off him.
Your pulse thundered, the pain from the cut on your arm flaring as you tried to keep still. The various cuts and injuries that littered your body were nothing compared to the fear the tiny blade at your neck instilled in you. You bit down on your lip to stop it from trembling. Don’t panic. Don’t make this worse. They’re here. They’ll get me out of this. Please let them get me out of this.
"FBI! Drop the weapon!" A commanding voice filled the room.
"Come any closer and I slit her throat!" The man bellowed. Up until this point he had not raised his voice once, and the sheer volume caused you to flinch again, the scalpal breaking through more skin. You could feel a warm liquid trail over your collarbone.
Your eyes darted to the doorway, tears stinging as you caught sight of the dark vests, the guns, the agents—saviors. But the unsub only pressed closer, his body partially shielding you. The scalpel was an unrelenting threat, cold and unmoving against your skin. The sharp sting at your neck anchored you to the moment. A hot tear slipped down your temple. I’m going to die here.
From Spencer's position in the doorway, his sharp eyes took everything in. The unsub’s trembling hands, the scalpel pressed against your throat, your bloodied arm, and—God—your state of undress. His chest clenched painfully, guilt and anger battling inside him. He only hoped the unsub hadn’t gotten too far before they arrived.
She’s absolutely terrified. One wrong move and she’s dead. Come on Spencer, think!
His jaw tightened as he saw the unsub’s gaze flick toward him, possessive and unhinged. Spencer’s hands twitched, his instinct to charge forward barely restrained. Stay calm. She needs you to stay calm.
"You don’t want to do this,” he finally said, his voice softer than usual. He took a slow step forward, keeping his hands visible. Carefully, he raised them, shifting the gun away from the man. He was acutely aware of the five other guns trained on him, ready to fire if he made a wrong move, which was why he was willing to take the risk. “This doesn’t have to end badly. Let her go, and we can talk this through."
There was a slight pause in the unsub's movements.
“You’re in control right now,” Spencer continued, his tone gentle, almost soothing. “But if you hurt her, that control is gone. You don’t want that. You don’t want to make this worse.”
Spencer’s gaze flicked to yours, meeting your tear-filled eyes. You looked at him like he was your only lifeline. The desperation in your expression hit him like a punch to the gut. The only thought running through his mind like a mantra was that he needed to get her out of there, fast.
The tension in the room was suffocating, each second seemed to stretch on for eternity. Then, the unsub shifted slightly, but it was enough for Derek Morgan to lunge forward like a strike of lightning.
The scalpel hit the floor with a sharp clang as Hotch slammed into the unsub, yanking him away from the table. Chaos exploded around you—shouts, the scuffle of bodies struggling—but it barely registered. Your chest rose and fell in ragged gasps, your throat raw as you fought for breath, tears blurring your vision.
Spencer was at your side in an instant, undoing the restraints that held you down, while simultaneously giving you a once-over to take in any serious injuries he may need to keep in mind for the first responders.
You were in such a state that you barely registered whose hands were touching you and your heart rate immediately spiked. Your eyes were shut and you began thrashing on the table whilst whimpering loudly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. It’s over,” Spencer’s voice broke through the haze.
You blinked, realizing he was kneeling beside you, his hands moving to undo the straps that held you down. You flinched as his fingers brushed your wrist, a sob escaping your throat before you could stop it.
“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft but steady. “He can't hurt you anymore. I promise.”
As the final strap came loose, you tried to sit up, but your body wouldn’t cooperate. Your legs felt weak, your hands trembling so badly you couldn’t push yourself upright.
“Here—let me help you.” Spencer’s hands were gentle as he guided you into a sitting position, his movements careful, almost hesitant.
The moment you were upright, you instinctively reached for him, clutching his shirt as your body shook with silent sobs.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around you. His vest felt stiff under your cheek, but his touch was warm, steadying. “You’re safe. I promise, you’re safe now.”
You couldn’t stop crying, the reality of everything crashing over you. His hand rested lightly on the back of your head, the other drawing soothing circles on your back.
Spencer’s heart twisted at how small you felt in his arms, how vulnerable. Gone was the sarcastic, spunky girl who had left such a strong impression on him after just one meeting. He held you tighter, his own breath uneven as he fought to keep his emotions in check. She’s okay. She’s okay now. But she’s so scared. I need her to know she’s safe.
When you finally managed to speak, your voice was barely a whisper. “He almost…” Yet another sob prevented you from continuing.
Spencer shook his head, cutting you off gently. “But he didn’t. He didn’t, okay? You’re here. You’re safe.”
You buried your face in his chest again, your fingers clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. And in that moment, he didn’t care about protocol or what anyone else thought. All that mattered was comforting the girl with the shattered spirit in his arms.
The sharp, sterile scent of the hospital was the first to hit you as the nurse wheeled you through the emergency room doors. The fluorescent lights felt too bright, their clinical glow exposing every bruise, every scrape, and every jagged line of your vulnerability. They reminded you of the lights in the embalming room. The embalming room. That man. The tools piercing your skin.
You were vaguely aware of Spencer at your side, walking just close enough that his hand occasionally brushed against the armrest of the wheelchair. You wanted to tell him you were fine, that he didn’t have to stay, but every time you opened your mouth to speak, the words got stuck in your throat. You didn't want to do this alone.
The nurse guided you into a small room, where a doctor was already waiting. Spencer stopped just outside the doorway, shifting awkwardly, his hands buried in his pockets.
“We’ll take it from here,” the nurse said gently, giving him a polite but firm smile.
Spencer hesitated, his eyes darting between you and the nurse. You could see the conflict on his face, his shoulders tense like he was bracing for an argument.
You managed to find your voice, though it came out weaker than you intended. “Spencer…”
His gaze snapped to yours expectantly, his features softening.
“Can you… stay?” The words were barely a whisper, but the way his expression shifted—relief, determination, and something almost protective flashing across his face—made you feel a little steadier.
“Of course,” he said without hesitation, stepping into the room. He pulled up a chair near the bed, sitting close but giving you enough space not to feel overwhelmed.
The doctor began her examination, her voice calm and clinical as she asked you questions. “Any dizziness? Nausea? Are you in pain anywhere besides your arm?”
You answered automatically, your voice hollow as your mind wandered. The doctor’s questions blurred together with the sting of antiseptic on your wounds, and the rustle of the hospital gown you’d been asked to change into felt deafening in the quiet.
You couldn’t stop thinking about the unsub’s hands on you, the way his gaze had stripped you of every ounce of dignity. The memory was suffocating, curling around your chest like a vice.
Spencer’s voice cut through the fog, grounding you. “Hey,” he uttered softly, his brow furrowed with concern. “You okay?”
You blinked, realizing the doctor had finished and was watching you with the same concerned expression.
“I’m fine,” you murmured, though your voice lacked conviction.
Spencer didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press. Instead, he waited until the doctor left the room before leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he studied you.
After a few minutes of silence, he spoke up again, "You're not fine."
You looked down at your hands, the hospital gown feeling too thin, too revealing, despite being more covered than you were earlier. You didn't know how to respond.
Spencer hesitated, noticing the sudden vulnerability in your expression. “I uh... I need to ask you a few questions… about what happened. It’s just procedure—to make sure this guy gets what he deserves. We don't have to do it now, but I'm here when you're ready.”
The sincerity in his tone made something in you crack. You weren’t ready to talk, not yet, but the way he said it—as if there was no question that he would be there for as long as you needed—made you feel a little less alone.
“You don’t have to stay,” you said quietly, though the thought of him leaving made your stomach twist.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said firmly. “Not until you’re ready for me to, at least.”
You glanced up at him, expecting to see pity in his eyes, but all you saw was quiet determination. It made you feel safe in a way you hadn’t expected.
You took a shaky breath, your hands clenching into fists as you tried to steady yourself. “Ask the questions,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, but firm with determination.
Spencer’s brow furrowed as he leaned forward slightly, his voice soft but insistent. “You don’t have to right now. We can wait until you’re ready. You don’t have to rush through it.”
But you shook your head, a flicker of something fierce in your eyes. “No… I want to do this now. If I don’t… I won’t ever.” The words tasted bitter in your mouth, but you pressed on, your heart pounding as the weight of what you were about to do sank in. “I need to nail this bastard. For me, for them… for everyone he’s hurt.”
Spencer remained quiet for a moment, watching you carefully, weighing your words. Finally, he nodded, his expression unreadable but softening with understanding. “Alright..." he hesitated, "This is going to sound silly, but can you close your eyes for me and tell me... what he did to you?"
You blinked, caught off guard by the request. For a moment, you didn’t know how to react. But the quiet, sincere way he asked you made something inside you settle, just a little. The room felt quieter now, the world shrinking down to just the two of you.
Closing your eyes, you tried to push the memories to the surface, to bring them into focus. Your heart beat faster, but you steeled yourself, knowing this was the only way to make him pay.
"When I woke up from being knocked out… I was tied down to the embalming table in my underwear, the straps were tight," you began slowly, rubbing your wrists absentmindedly. The sensation of the straps still lingered, and it made your skin crawl. "I couldn’t move."
Spencer stayed silent, his gaze never leaving you, his presence grounding you even as the weight of the memories pressed in. "Take your time," he said quietly, voice gentle but firm.
You took a shaky breath, nodding, trying to find the strength to continue. "He... he just stood there for a while, watching me. I could feel his eyes on me, like... he was enjoying it." You paused, swallowing the bitterness in your throat. "I couldn’t even scream. I just had to wait for him to decide what he wanted to do next."
Spencer’s jaw tightened, his mind was piecing it together, filling in the gaps even if you didn’t want him to. But he said nothing, giving you the space to speak. You appreciated that more than you could express.
There was no avoiding it. You had to talk about it. You had to say the words, had to help the FBI put together the full picture. You took a slow breath, trying to keep your voice steady.
“He—he used different embalming tools.”
Spencer looked up sharply, he noticed the pained expression on your face and realised just how hard this was going to be for you.
Your heart started to pound. As soon as you said it, the memories came rushing back.
The metal table was freezing against your bare skin, your body trembling with something beyond the cold. You pulled at your restraints, but they were too tight, digging into your wrists and ankles.
“I’ve always been fascinated by preservation,” the unsub mused, his fingers trailing over a set of gleaming instruments. “The way death can be… delayed. How a body can be made beautiful again.”
You didn’t say anything. Your throat was raw from screaming earlier, and you were running out of ways to keep yourself from panicking.
The unsub turned, holding up an embalming trocar—long, sharp, and glinting under the fluorescent light. “Did you know this is used to remove fluids and gases from a body before preservation?” He traced the tip lightly down your abdomen, not pressing hard enough to break skin. “It’s important to prepare the body properly.”
Your breathing hitched, and you clenched your jaw, forcing yourself not to react.
His expression darkened. “You’re supposed to be still,” he murmured, and without warning, he pressed down.
Pain flared white-hot in your side as the tip of the tool pricked your skin, just enough to draw blood. You gasped, your body instinctively jerking against the restraints.
The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “Messy,” he muttered, wiping the small bead of blood with his gloved hand. “I’ll have to try again.”
You inhaled sharply, coming back to yourself. The hospital bed, the warmth of the blanket, the steady presence of Spencer beside you—it was enough to pull you out of the memory, but your skin still burned where the tool had touched you.
Spencer’s knuckles were white where he gripped his knees. His breathing was slow, controlled, but his eyes—his eyes were burning with something deep and unsettled.
“He used a trocar,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “He—he didn’t go deep, but he wanted to see me flinch.”
Spencer squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, like he was trying to will away the image forming in his mind. “And the other injuries?” he asked, his voice strained.
You swallowed. “A needle. He… he injected something into my leg. Some kind of preservative, I think. It burned.”
Another flash—
The burn spread up your thigh, a fire beneath your skin. You cried out, muscles seizing, your entire body locking up.
The unsub tilted his head, watching with interest. “Formaldehyde is quite versatile,” he said conversationally. “It won’t kill you. Not yet. But I wonder how much your body can handle before it starts shutting down?”
You bit down on your lip, hard enough to taste blood.
You took a slow, shaky breath, forcing yourself back into the present. The hospital bed. The warmth of the blanket. The steady presence of Spencer beside you.
Spencer’s hands had curled into fists. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitching.
“What else?” he asked, voice strained.
You hesitated again. “He used the embalming pump.”
Spencer’s breath audibly caught in his throat.
The hum of the embalming machine filled the room, a steady, mechanical noise that only added to the horror of the moment.
You were still strapped down, too weak to fight, but your breath was coming in panicked gasps as the unsub adjusted the tube connected to the pump.
“This is a test,” he murmured, almost absently. “A small amount, just to see how the body reacts.”
You barely processed his words before you felt the cool sensation of liquid seeping into your veins.
Your vision blurred for a moment. It wasn’t enough to kill you—not yet. But it left you dizzy, sluggish, your limbs feeling even heavier than before.
“Fascinating,” the unsub muttered to himself. “I wonder how much you can take.”
You swallowed hard, forcing the words out. "The last thing he did... he told me exactly what he was going to do to me. Everything he'd done to his other victims—every single cut, every injection, every—"
Your breath hitched, your throat closing around the words.
"But I—I was going to be his favorite," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "Because I had spunk. Because I fought back."
A shudder ran through you, your entire body recoiling from the memory. You couldn't say the rest. You didn't need to say the rest. The way his voice had darkened, the way he'd described it, savoring every detail like a promise—
You squeezed your eyes shut, as if that could block it out.
Spencer's hand closed over yours, grounding you. His grip was firm, steady, as if willing you to feel something other than that sickening sense of violation crawling under your skin.
“That’s enough,” he said, his voice low but unwavering.
You shook your head, your breathing uneven. “But you need to know—”
“I do know,” Spencer cut in, his voice sharp but gentle. His jaw was clenched, his eyes burning with something unreadable—but underneath it, there was a quiet, unshakable promise. “You’ve given us enough.” He exhaled, slow and controlled, but his next words carried the full weight of his conviction.
“He’s never going to hurt anyone ever again. I swear to you—I’ll make sure he rots in prison for the rest of his life.”
A sob caught in your throat, but you swallowed it down. You weren’t ready to cry—not yet. But for the first time since it happened, you felt the faintest flicker of relief.
Spencer wasn’t just listening. He was hearing you. And he was going to make sure you got justice.
You weren’t alone in this.
And for now, that was enough.
As the night wore on, the hours began to blur together. You knew you wouldn't be able to sleep that night, and as guilty as it made you feel, Spencer didn't seem to mind. Throughout the night, nurses came and went, checking your vitals, re-bandaging your arm, and murmuring reassurances that didn’t quite reach you. And through it all, Spencer stayed.
The hospital room had settled into an almost eerie calm. Machines beeped softly in the background, and the dim lighting made everything feel slower as if the world outside had paused. You were sitting up in the hospital bed, the scratchy blanket pulled tight around your shoulders. Spencer sat in the chair beside you, his legs crossed, thumbing through a book he’d found somewhere in the waiting area at a speed you didn't think was humanly possible.
The silence was interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. The FBI agent that had first pushed the unsub away from you in the embalming room stepped inside. At first, his presence intimidated you, his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure, but there was an undeniable warmth in his deep brown eyes. His smooth, dark skin contrasted with the sharp angles of his jawline, and a hint of stubble shadowed his face. He was holding two cups of hospital jello, one red, the other green.
“Thought you two could use a little pick-me-up,” He said, holding the cups aloft with a charming smile. “It’s not gourmet, but it’s better than nothing.”
You managed to return a weak smile back, taking the red jello as he handed it to you. Spencer set his book aside and accepted the green one without hesitation.
“Thanks, Morgan,” Spencer said.
Morgan gave you both a once-over, his gaze softening when it landed on you. “If you need anything, just holler. But I’ll give you two some space.” He gave Spencer a pointed look as if to silently remind him to keep an eye on you, then slipped out of the room.
You began poking at the jello with the plastic spoon. The silence stretched between you and Spencer, not uncomfortable, just heavy with unspoken things.
"You know", you said finally, your voice a little raspy, “jello might be the most depressing food ever invented.”
Spencer glanced up from his cup, his lips quirking in a faint smile. There she is. “It does have a strange texture. Did you know it’s made from gelatin, which comes from—”
“Animal bones,” you finished for him, giving him a sidelong look. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”
He blinked, a little surprised, then nodded. “Right. I guess... you would know that.”
You smirked faintly, the smallest flicker of your usual sarcasm peeking through. “What can I say? I'm full of fun facts. Comes with the job, really.”
Spencer tilted his head, studying you once again. "Your job... I can't imagine it's easy," he said carefully, his voice gentle.
You hesitated, your spoon hovering just above the jello. For a brief moment, you considered brushing him off with a joke or changing the subject like you usually would. But when you met his gaze, there was something about the way he was looking at you. God, stop looking at me like that. His unwavering, earnest stare made you feel safe enough to answer honestly.
“It isn't most of the time” you admitted, your voice quieter now. “But it’s worth it.”
Spencer didn’t respond right away. Instead, he kept his gaze on you, his expression soft yet intent—like he was trying to unravel everything you weren’t saying. His eyes, sharp with quiet intelligence, searched yours as if they could decode the weight you carried, the thoughts you never voiced, the depth you kept hidden from the world.
There was something about you that fascinated him—not just your words, but the silences between them, the guarded way you spoke about things that mattered. He could tell there was so much more beneath the surface, layers of emotion and experience you refused to share. And yet, just for a moment, it felt like he could see them anyway.
He finally spoke, "Why?"
You sighed, setting the jello cup on the bedside table. “Because… when I embalm and prepare a body, when I make someone look like the person they were before…” You paused, swallowing hard. “I get to give their family one last chance to say a proper goodbye. One last moment where they can see the person they loved, not the person the world left behind.”
Spencer kept his gaze steady as he took in your words. He could tell how much those words meant to you. Surprisingly, his expression held a little bit of understanding and even awe.
"That's... incredible." he said finally, "I had never thought of it that way."
You huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Yeah, well… not everyone thinks it's incredible. Most people just think it’s creepy."
Spencer’s lips quirked into the smallest smile. "I mean, technically, you do spend a lot of time with dead bodies."
You gave him a pointed look. "And you spend a lot of time profiling serial killers, but you don’t see me calling you creepy."
Spencer tilted his head, considering that for a moment. "Fair point."
A comfortable silence settled between you, the heaviness of the conversation lifting just a little.
Before the conversation could continue you blurted out, "Thank you."
Spencer glanced at you, “For what?”
“For staying,” you said simply.
He hesitated for a moment, then gave a small nod. “I couldn’t leave,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Not when you…” He trailed off, looking down at his hands. “I just couldn’t.”
You nodded, understanding more than words could convey. For the first time in what felt like forever, you didn’t feel completely alone.
As you leaned back against the pillows, your eyes growing heavy, you realized that maybe, just maybe, you were going to be okay.
After your third day in the hospital, you were finally discharged. The hospital doors slid open with a quiet hiss, letting in a crisp evening breeze. You inhaled deeply, filling your lungs with fresh air—something that didn’t reek of antiseptic or overcooked hospital food. The gauze beneath your shirt still tugged slightly with each breath, but the soreness was manageable.
Freedom. Finally.
Beside you, Spencer hovered with the same quiet intensity he’d had when you arrived at the hospital, arms crossed like he wasn’t entirely convinced letting you leave was a good idea.
“You know, I appreciate the escort,” you said, adjusting the strap of your bag over your good shoulder, “but unless you’re planning on kidnapping me back to my hospital bed, I think I can manage from here.”
Spencer blinked. “I just— I wanted to make sure you got out okay.”
You smirked. “What, did you think I’d trip over my own feet and fall into traffic?”
“I— statistically, you’re not at full mobility, and with your pain medication, your reflexes might be slightly impaired—”
You rolled your eyes. “Spencer, I’m not going to faceplant into the street.” Then, after a beat: “At least, not immediately.”
The corners of his lips twitched, like he was trying not to smile but failing miserably.
The silence stretched for a moment. For all his intelligence, Spencer still looked like he wanted to say something but hadn’t quite figured out the words. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was debating reaching out.
You tilted your head at him. “You okay there, Doc?”
He cleared his throat, straightening. “I just— I hope you know that you, um… don’t have to go through this alone.”
You raised an eyebrow. “I mean, I was alone in the embalming room with a serial killer, so technically—”
Spencer shot you a look.
You snorted. “Okay, okay, I get it. Not the time."
He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I just meant… I know how trauma can make people isolate themselves, and I just wanted you to know that you have people who care.”
You nodded slowly. There was a warmth in your chest at the sincerity in his voice—softer, earnest.
“Well, in that case,” you said, shifting your weight to your good side, “since you care so much, would you... wanna get dinner sometime?”
Spencer’s mouth opened, then closed. Then opened again. “Dinner?”
“Yeah, you know. The thing where people sit at a table, order food, and consume it?” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I mean, unless you don’t want to—”
“No! I mean— I do! I just—” He ran a hand through his hair, looking both overwhelmed and adorable in a way that made you bite back a grin.
You decided to put him out of his misery. “Spencer," your voice softened, "I’m trying to ask you on a date.”
He froze.
“Oh.”
You smirked. “Yeah. Oh.”
Spencer’s brain seemed to reboot in real time. “I—yes! Yes, I would like that.”
Your smirk softened into something more genuine. “Good. You can pick the place.”
He nodded, still looking slightly dazed. “Right. I, um, I’ll text you.”
You chuckled, stepping back toward the curb where your ride was waiting. “See you soon, Doctor Reid.”
Spencer stood there as you got into the car, still blinking, like he was trying to process what had just happened.
As you pulled away, you saw him through the rearview mirror—standing there, hand running through his hair, a small, boyish smile tugging at his lips.
For the first time in a long time, despite everything that had happened, something felt right.
Busy working on the second part of ‘Do the dead comfort you?’ at the moment and it’s really made me want to write more macabre & gothic Spencer fics
I’m lowkey really proud of it and it’s gotten a lot darker than I originally anticipated it getting but oh wellllllll
Thank you all for all the love on the first part <333
Chills
i saw go before me, a great impossible thing
sensual and concrete
splitting me open
renders me obsolete
i’ve slain greater
and moved on
make room in hell
make room in hell
make room in hell
they cry, you don’t have to go
they cry, you don’t have to go
my love
i know
i know
i know
i know
i know
i know
i know
i know
Some mood boards I made for a final fantasy xvi fanfic I’m going to be publishing very soon on wattpad (sunbl3achedfly) 🤭
Enid Seralyth
dominant of hræsvelgr | bringer of light | warden of life | lost to time | called by fate
"Gods are stubborn, I suppose. As am I."
Hræsvelgr
The Eikon of Life
Morana Lyskaris
dominant of meteion | light eater | warden of death | fallen from grace | defier of fate
"Of all the ways to lose a person, death is by far the kindest."
Meteion
The Eikon of Death
Neutrals: Lace
Please like, reblog and credit when you use my dividers!
-
kemelly-reis-123 liked this · 2 days ago -
x-emxly-x118 liked this · 3 days ago -
333876 liked this · 5 days ago -
fic-fiend reblogged this · 5 days ago -
rosegracewood09 liked this · 5 days ago -
ladyashengrotto liked this · 1 week ago -
katn730 liked this · 1 week ago -
enyalioss liked this · 2 weeks ago -
jax-0b liked this · 3 weeks ago -
man-beast liked this · 3 weeks ago -
elusin00 liked this · 4 weeks ago -
peepeepoopoo538462 liked this · 1 month ago -
witchlinda reblogged this · 1 month ago -
superbeaglewitch liked this · 1 month ago -
witchlinda liked this · 1 month ago
-
newspaperwhore liked this · 1 month ago -
lilizofthevalley liked this · 1 month ago -
dinolily123 liked this · 1 month ago -
tannisroute liked this · 1 month ago -
nobodynoeste liked this · 1 month ago -
ye-haw11 liked this · 1 month ago -
chichip0p0 liked this · 1 month ago -
houseofccards liked this · 1 month ago -
luckbluecross liked this · 1 month ago -
floralxlesbian liked this · 1 month ago -
everreidphan liked this · 1 month ago -
sarejanet liked this · 2 months ago -
scentedhoundshepherdmoney liked this · 2 months ago -
autumnwithgabriela liked this · 2 months ago -
cherrygarcia-07 liked this · 2 months ago -
gh0st-in-green-c0nverse liked this · 2 months ago -
sweetgoddessthings liked this · 2 months ago -
sunbl3achedfly reblogged this · 2 months ago -
hiidkwhatimdoinghere liked this · 2 months ago -
groundclueless liked this · 2 months ago -
zseve95 liked this · 2 months ago -
lovingonthemoon reblogged this · 2 months ago -
thorfemmes liked this · 2 months ago -
verenabelladonna liked this · 2 months ago -
1otherthings2 liked this · 2 months ago
-
batmanlover0202 liked this · 2 months ago -
mixxorball28 liked this · 2 months ago -
killedbythehuntress liked this · 2 months ago -
yeswabisabiblr-blog liked this · 2 months ago -
madisonlittle6277 liked this · 2 months ago -
theoraekensnotsosecretlover liked this · 2 months ago -
drspencerrizz liked this · 3 months ago -
wildflowerel reblogged this · 3 months ago -
casifires liked this · 3 months ago
I mostly write on wattpadjust messing around & practicing my writing here
16 posts