In the Stars

by Raemoo22

Summary:

Quinn Bennet is Washington DC’s go-to lawyer for high-stakes disasters. Spencer Reid is the BAU agent who keeps appearing like a legally-appointed headache.

He thinks he can out-evidence me.
I think he can’t read a room to save his life.

Then the case flips, the genius needs a defence, and suddenly I’m arguing law for the man who argued facts at me first.

This is a slow burn. Slight enemies to lovers. Set around Season 10 — in which she tries, fails, and repeatedly fails not to fall for him.

Chapter 1: Is it a requirement for FBI Agents to be hot?

"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you." – Miranda Warning, Miranda v. Arizona, 384 U.S. 436 (1966), U.S. Supreme Court.

~📖Quinn📖~

I was late.

Which, considering my track record, wasn't anything new or surprising. The problem was, I couldn't afford to be late today. Looking back, was stopping for coffee a poor decision? Absolutely.

Did I regret it? Not really.

I walked as quickly as my heels would allow, the sharp click of them against the tile echoing throughout the hallway. Flashing my ID to the security officer, I was waved through without hesitation.

As I glanced down at my watch, the time read 8:49 AM. I grimaced as the second hand continued its steady march forward. The little hand moving in sync with the larger one was a cruel reminder: I was really late now.

I could only imagine the lecture that awaited me when I returned to the office. My boss was generally laid-back for a District Attorney, but when it came to high-stakes cases, I was given one simple instruction: "Don't fuck this up."

Turning the corner, I used the advantage of my familiarity with police stations and holding cells to bypass the need for directions. I waved at a couple of detectives, ignoring their amused chuckles and head shakes as I practically sprinted toward the interrogation room.

They all knew I had a flair for a dramatic entrance. What better way to do that than by slamming the door open and announcing, "My client is done talking!"

Except, I didn't get the chance. When I reached the door, I spotted several people standing outside. Their sharp suits and authoritative stances told me everything I needed to know: the FBI was involved.

Great. Just what I needed.

This was going to make things far more complicated. The sound of my heels clicking on the floor caught the attention of one of the agents. An older gentleman, whose graying hair gave away his years of service, raised an eyebrow as I stopped just short of the door.

"Gentlemen," I began, making sure to use my 'professional voice,' "I'm sure I don't need to ask whether my client was read his rights. It's crucial that the proper procedures were followed, and if there's any doubt about that, I'd like to review the details now. My client is entitled to the full protection of the law."

"Everything was done by the book."

I frowned, the sound of that voice pulling me right back in time. My eyes darted over to the other agent standing beside him, and then it hit me like a punch to the gut. Over a decade had passed, but there was no mistaking him.

"Aaron Hotchner," I said, the words slipping out as a small, amused smile tugged at the corners of my mouth.

Hotch's eyes flicked toward me, and he furrowed his brow, clearly trying to place me. I saw the moment it clicked for him. His serious, stern expression shifted just enough for a small smile to appear. "Quinny."

I groaned inwardly at the nickname, the one I hadn't heard since he'd left. "I'm not 'Quinny' anymore, Hotch. I'm your suspect's lawyer now."

His eyebrows shot up, surprise flashing across his face. "I thought I taught you better than this. What happened to Environmental Law?"

A small sigh slipped from my lips. I could feel my stomach tighten at the mention of my old life, the one I chose to pretend didn't happen. The last thing I wanted was to bring up the reasons I'd switched from advocating for the planet to defending criminals. It was far too complicated... and... messy.

I glanced at the agents standing nearby, noticing the curious looks they were giving me, before turning my attention back to Hotch. "People change," I said, my voice carefully neutral. "I was a naive intern."

Hotch's expression softened, just for a moment, but it was enough. It seemed he was suited for a life as a profiler. He opened his mouth to say something but then hesitated.

"I guess it's been a while," he said finally, as if realizing a decade was too long to have opinions about my career. "Still, I didn't expect to see you on this side of the law."

"No one ever does," I muttered under my breath. "But here we are."

I wanted to escape the awkwardness of this reunion. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect my path to cross with an old mentor, especially not under these circumstances. And now, it was dredging up memories I'd rather leave buried.

"Why is my client here, Hotch?"

His expression instantly shifted, the agent within him taking control. "Your client is here because of his connection to the case we're investigating."

I nodded, my mind racing. Just because he had a connection to the crime didn't mean he was automatically their 'Unsub.' "Do you actually believe he's responsible for this, Hotch?"

He studied me for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly, before answering, "I'm not here to make assumptions, Quinny. But I wouldn't rule anything out."

I suppressed the urge to correct him again. We both knew some things would never change.

From the very little I could see of my client, I could tell he was being grilled. I just hoped he hadn't cracked under pressure. It was clear this was all Hotch would give me, so I moved closer to the door, ready to speak with my client.

Hotch's colleague, the one I hadn't met, seemed to take issue with me trying to enter. He stepped forward, barricading the door. Glancing down at his badge, I scanned his name—David Rossi.

"Is that really necessary? I mean, our guys are just talking to him."

I shot him a pointed look. "Unbelievable. Is this how you work now, Hotch? Intimidate the guy into a confession?"

Hotch glanced between us, clearly weighing whether to manage the situation with me or his team. But I wasn't backing down. He knew the shy, unsure intern I once was—now, I was Quinn Bennet, one of the most sought-after defense lawyers in D.C.

"Rossi, perhaps you should let her through," a female voice spoke, breaking my stare-down with Hotch. I glanced at the blonde, momentarily distracted by how pretty she was.

Rossi stepped aside, and though I was itching to make a snarky comment, I held back. I needed to know what my client had said—whether he'd incriminated himself beyond my ability to help.

Finally, it was time for my dramatic entrance.

"Alright, gentlemen, I believe you're done," I said, swinging the door open with perfect timing, cutting off one of the agents in the middle of his sentence.

The dark-skinned agent turned to face me, his glare sharp and immediate—until he actually saw me.

I was aware I didn't exactly look like your typical defense attorney. Most of the lawyers at my firm were middle-aged, balding men, but I didn't let that stereotype hold me back. I liked my job. I was damn good at it.

"Not another word, Mr. Hall," I said, my tone authoritative as my gaze shifted to my client. The relief in his eyes was almost comical.

Hmm, maybe I shouldn't have stopped for coffee. He looks like he's about to pass out. I made my way over, settling beside him. As I did, I shifted my attention back to the agent who was clearly trying to play hero.

Damn, another unbelievably attractive agent. I was starting to see a pattern.

"Your client was just about to tell us a very important detail—"

I cut him off, unable to hold back a small smirk. "Well, now he's not."

"You do realize a girl's life is at stake here?" A new, unfamiliar voice snapped, cutting through the tension.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'm not heartless, but really? The 'life is at stake' card? How original.

Sighing, I turned my gaze to the other agent, ready to deliver a snarky remark—until I took in his appearance.

Is it a requirement for all FBI agents to be hot?

He had a tall, lean frame, with a subtle but noticeable build beneath the sweater vest and suit. His dark brown hair was slightly tousled, as though he'd been running his fingers through it while deep in thought. His brown eyes, a soft hazel, held a quiet intensity, but there was a certain sadness behind them—an unspoken weight that seemed to hint at the challenges he'd faced over the years. Despite that, he carried himself with a calm, composed demeanor.

As far as looks went, he was undeniably striking, and definitely my type.

Shit

Say something....

He's looking at you like you're an idiot.

Finally, my brain decided it wanted to work, "Look, agents, I'm not unsympathetic to your situation, but unless you've got some conclusive evidence, my client is not going to be saying a word."

"So, you're just going to stand by while an innocent girl dies?" The first agent scoffed, and I glanced at his ID, scanning it for his name.

"Agent Morgan—"

"SSA Morgan," he interrupted sharply.

Well, that's one way to make yourself sound important.

I sighed, reining in my frustration. "Look, I understand you're just doing your job. And I genuinely respect the work you do—protecting lives, combating crime, all of it. But until I have the opportunity to consult with my client in private, we won't be engaging in any further discussions."

From the look on Agent Morgan's face, it was clear he wasn't accustomed to hearing the word 'no.' As much as I appreciated the whole ruggedly attractive thing he had going on, I wasn't about to cave just because he decided to pull out his best intimidation face.

"Fine, but if another girl ends up dead, that's on your hands," he finally said, pushing himself off the desk and storming out of the room.

I watched him go, then turned my attention to the other agent. He didn't seem in such a hurry to leave. Great, just what I needed.

These guys were really testing my patience today. "Agent—" I paused, raising an eyebrow, waiting for him to introduce himself.

"It's Doctor, actually."

Right. A special agent who was also a doctor. Because, of course, he was.

I forced a smile, one that probably didn't reach my eyes. "Okay, Doctor Agent, or whatever the hell you want to call yourself—do you think I could have a moment with my client without your presence?"

A frown formed on his face as he crossed the room, taking the spot where Morgan had just been. "Do you even know what he's done? How can you sit there and defend—"

Oh, this was going to be a lecture, wasn't it?

I cut him off before he could launch into his well-rehearsed monologue. "Because it's my job," I replied flatly.

Doctor Agent paused, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was choosing his words carefully. I could tell he wasn't the type to let anything slide—his job probably made him that way, always analyzing, reading between the lines. Right now, though, I just wanted him out of my face.

"I get that it's your job," he said, his voice calm but tinged with something sharper underneath. "But defending someone who—"

"Who what?" I cut him off, sharper than I meant to. "Who hasn't been proven guilty yet? Or do you just enjoy making assumptions with your so-called profiler skills?"

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised, but he didn't back off. Instead, his gaze sharpened, and he leaned in slightly.

"It's not about assumptions, it's about understanding the why. People don't act for no reason. There's always a pattern."

I bit back a scoff. "Patterns, huh? You really think that's enough to decide someone's fate? What about facts? Evidence?"

He didn't flinch. In fact, his gaze was more focused now, like he was anticipating this response.

"Facts and evidence are important," He spoke quickly, like he was excited. "But understanding the 'why' can help you see things others miss. You think anyone can just walk into a courtroom and make the law work for them without considering the bigger picture?"

I stood a little straighter, feeling my chest tighten. "I'm not here for the 'why,' I'm here to defend my client. And what you're suggesting, I may as well just give up and let them hang now."

"It's not giving up. It's understanding their actions. Without that context, you're just hoping to win on a technicality."

I hated how close he was to being right, but I wasn't about to let him win. I was the lawyer here, not him.

"Maybe," I said, forcing the words out. "But the law doesn't bend to theories about human behavior. If we start letting assumptions rule, well... you know what they say about assuming."

Doctor Agent didn't respond right away. Instead, he studied me, his gaze intense, like he was assessing me. My heart rate quickened, but years of perfecting my poker face kept me composed.

"Fair enough," he said, finally, a small smile tugging at his lips. "But you're telling me the law is black and white. And you know it isn't."

I wanted to snap back, but I held my ground. "I know it's complicated. Doesn't mean we toss out what's worked for years just because we think we can see a few patterns."

His eyes flickered with something—approval, maybe, or something else—I couldn't quite place. And, begrudgingly, I couldn't help but notice how striking his hazel eyes were.

"I'm not here to fight you, Counselor," he said, stepping back a little. His tone was almost soothing now, but something about it still rubbed me the wrong way. "I'm just trying to make sure you have all the facts, all the angles."

"I've got enough angles," I said, crossing my arms. "Just stay out of my way while I work."

He held my gaze for a beat longer, a small smirk beginning to form on his lips. It was irritating to see he was enjoying this.

"The team and I will be in the hall if you need us."

"I wont, thank you." I muttered, unsure if I really meant it.

He turned toward the door but paused, looking back at me with that same smirk, like he knew exactly how to make me lose focus.

And just before he left, he gave a small, almost shy smile. "By the way," he said, "It's not 'Agent Doctor.' It's Spencer Reid."

I blinked, thrown off guard for a second. "Right," I muttered, trying not to smile back. "Good to know, Spencer Reid."

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there for a second, trying to shake off that strange mix of frustration and... whatever else that was.

But I wasn't going to let him get to me. Not when I finally had the room to myself. Though, I couldn't help but wonder how long I could keep pretending his charm didn't affect me.

Someone cleared their voice from beside me, bringing me back to reality.

"Mr Hall." I retrieved my brief case, placing my files onto the table, ready to start. "Shall we begin."

Chapter 2: I’m not here to prove innocence, but to challenge the evidence of guilt

Notes:

Huge thanks to Google and Law & Order: SVU for helping me pretend I know anything about legal terms and proceedings. All mistakes are my own!

"In a criminal defense case, the defense attorney's role is to challenge the evidence, raise doubts, and ensure that the prosecution meets its burden of proof. The defense attorney does not have to prove their client's innocence; they just need to create enough doubt that the jury or judge cannot be convinced of guilt beyond a reasonable doubt."

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

"Mr. Hall, I'm not going to sugarcoat this for you," I said, calmly flipping through the paperwork in front of me. The sheer volume of it is...overwhelming. "This isn't going to be easy."

His gaze lingers on my face for a moment before shifting to the file. "Well, that's why I pay you, isn't it?"

I hold back the urge to roll my eyes. Now that the 'scary' FBI agents have left, his attitude has completely shifted. Gone is the man who cowered at his own shadow—replaced by someone a little more... difficult.

"Let's be clear, Mr. Hall. Yes, you pay me. Yes, I'll do everything in my power to keep this from going to trial, but I will not be spoken to like I'm some piece of gum you stepped on. Do I make myself clear?"

His eyes narrow, and he stays quiet for a moment. He's testing me. Typical male ego. A response I've seen a thousand times, and yet they all end up thanking me once I win their case.

"Good," I said, forcing a sarcastic smile. "Now, let's focus on the facts. The longer we sit here, the harder it'll be to keep this out of court. I'm here to help you, but I need your full cooperation. Got it?"

He shifts in his seat, clearly trying to cling to whatever shred of 'dominance' he thinks he still has. "Fine. But you better get me out of this mess, or we'll have a problem."

I can't help but roll my eyes this time. If only he knew how many times I've been threatened in my life... "You've already got a problem, Mr. Hall. That's why you hired me. But I'm not a miracle worker. I can only work with what you give me. If you're serious about avoiding trial, you need to be upfront with me—about everything. If there's anything you're holding back, now's the time to spill it. Because those guys out there"—I gesture toward the agents lingering in the hallway—"are pretty damn sure you're their guy."

He hesitated, then sighs, clearly weighing his options. The silence stretches on.

I'm about two seconds from walking out if he doesn't talk soon...

Finally, he spoke. "There's more to this. I'm not telling you everything."

I raise an eyebrow, standing up and leaning over the desk slightly. "If you're not going to tell me everything, then why the hell am I here? You're not paying me to play detective and guess what you're hiding. I need everything. Every dirty little secret. Every shady thing you've done. Or you can try your luck with someone else."

He nods, slumping in his chair, looking like he's finally accepted his fate. "Fine. Stop. Just... don't leave... I'll tell you everything."

I sit back down with a smirk, folding my arms across my chest. "Alright then. Now, let's start with the details. And just remember—the more honest you are, the more I can protect you. Simple as that."

Mr. Joseph Hall was a well-known business tycoon, a respected figure in the community, and the kind of man who never missed a Sunday at church. Yet, here he sat before me, his salt-and-pepper hair thinning at the temples, a bead of sweat steadily trailing down his forehead as he confessed... mostly everything. A part of me knew there was more to the story than he told.

It was moments like this that made my job far more complicated than it should be.

"And how did you know the victim?" I asked, eyes scanning the file that held the woman's photos. She was young too—far too innocent to be with this middle-aged asshole.

"I slept with her, but that's it. I don't know how—" He cut himself off, swiping at the sweat on his brow with his cuffed hands.

I sighed, closing the file with a sharp snap and crossing my legs, settling back in my chair. "You can save the acting for the courtroom. Right now, all the prosecution has is CCTV footage of you and her at the same hotel. No DNA, no physical evidence tying you to her murder. Nothing to say you were involved. If you stay quiet, we might have a shot at getting you out on bail. The longer you keep talking, though, the more you risk saying something that could hurt us."

I stood up, gathering my things, but before I could make my move, the door to the interrogation room swung open, and in stepped the Doctor Agent Spencer Reid, followed by Hotch and two other detectives.

Should've just sent in the whole damn station with the way they were carrying on.

"Can I help you?" I ask, keeping my voice flat, and continuing to pack my briefcase.

Hotch stepped forward, that infamous stern expression on his face—good to see that hadn't changed even after all these years.

Reid, with his infuriatingly pretty eyes and that "too smart for his own good" look, spoke up first. "The prosecution might not have all the evidence now, but you're missing the key behavioral patterns. This isn't as straightforward as it seems."

Annoyance fills me at the thought of these guys eavesdropping on my conversation.

I glance up at him, an eyebrow arched in mock interest. "Oh, behavioral patterns? Please, enlighten me. I'm dying to hear all about it." I quickly return my attention to the file, pretending I'm not already regretting this conversation.

Hotch, who had been silent until now, met my sarcasm with his usual calm tone. "We understand your frustration, but you're overlooking the importance of the profile. The evidence may be circumstantial, but the pattern of behavior is undeniable. This isn't about what's on paper; it's about seeing the bigger picture."

I couldn't suppress another eye roll or the frown from forming. Of course, here we go again. "Patterns? Seriously, Hotch? You want me to keep my client here based on some vague 'patterns'? You were a lawyer—why are you fighting me so hard on this?"

Reid moved closer, his voice calm but persistent. "If you'd just listen, we can show you how the unsub's behavior matches your client's. There's a psychological consistency we can trace. We know how this plays out."

I cross my arms, giving an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, no thanks. If I wanted to be a profiler, I'd have joined the FBI. And the jury? They won't give a damn about your 'psychological consistency' if there's no hard evidence."

Hotch gave me that steady look. "We're not asking you to ignore the law. But you're disregarding the role of behavioral analysis. Profiles have been used to solve cases time and time again. It's not about assumptions; it's about understanding patterns."

This conversation was starting to feel like a never-ending loop. The law cares about evidence, and right now, I have about as much evidence as I have patience. I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to stay calm. "You want me to risk my client's future on your 'profile'? That's cute. Maybe you should profile what my answer's going to be, Hotch."

Reid looked like he was about to speak again, but I cut him off with a raised hand. "Stop. Seriously. You want to drag this out? I'm done. The law isn't based on speculation, gentlemen. And unless your profiles come with hard evidence, my client's walking out of here."

Hotch sighed, exchanging a look with Reid. They were getting frustrated—good. They should be.

Reid, trying to press on, finally spoke up. "You're wrong. The profile is key to understanding the full picture. We're not asking you to ignore the law. We're asking you to think about the consequences of letting a suspect go."

I snorted, turning to look at Mr. Hall. "Are you going to go commit a crime while being under the scrutiny of the FBI?"

He shook his head in response.

I look back at the Agents, hoping the problem will be resolved and I would get to leave this place.

Hotch's brow furrowed, clearly not amused by my antics. But, honestly, they were the ones worried about my client.

I swung my bag over my shoulder, signaling the end of the conversation. "I'm done here." I shot Hotch a quick look. "I'd say it was nice to see you again, but I'm pretty sure you're the reason I've got this headache right now."

Reid opened his mouth, probably to argue again, but I wasn't having it.

"My God, you two are relentless," I muttered under my breath, shaking my head. "We're leaving. You can try to stop me, but it's not going to do you any good." I gave Mr. Hall a pointed look, urging him to follow me.

As I started to move toward the door, I caught Reid's gaze again. There was hesitation there—maybe even a touch of discomfort. The kind of tension that came from someone trying to balance their professional duty with the feeling that something wasn't right, but not quite knowing how to put it into words.

"Ms Bennet, look," Reid said, his voice softer than I expected, but still cautious. "I'm just saying—this could go wrong in ways you don't even see yet. I know you're trying to do the right thing, but—"

I cut him off, my patience running thin. "I've made my decision, Dr. Reid. You're not going to change it."

Reid shifted, clearly not used to someone pushing back like this. I could tell he was still trying to figure me out—still trying to gauge if I knew what I was doing.

"I just don't want you- people- to get hurt," he added, though it sounded more like a thought he didn't mean to say aloud.

I gave him a quick, pointed look, holding my ground. "I know what I'm doing, Dr. Reid."

~*~

I underestimated how good Hotch's team was, but here I stood, before the judge, fighting my client's indictment. The FBI may have their suspicions, but there were still no formal charges. The evidence they had? Circumstantial at best. I’m not here to prove innocence, but to challenge the evidence of guilt.”

"As you can see, Your Honor, my client has deep ties to the community. He's been a resident for over a decade, has a steady job, a wife, and a young child who depend on him. These are the kinds of factors that make it clear he's not a flight risk, especially in light of the lack of concrete evidence," I said, standing beside Mr. Hall. I kept my voice steady, a part of me relishing the pressure of presenting my side.

Terry Novak, the prosecutor, shot me a look of pure disdain before scoffing. "Your Honor, while the defense is focusing on my client's personal life, the facts paint a different picture. Mr. Hall is the primary suspect in not one, but a string of brutal murders. The circumstantial evidence we've gathered all points to him. Granting him bail would be reckless, given the severity of the charges and the threat he poses to the community."

God, Novak could spin a story. As much as I hated to admit it, he was damn good at making it sound like a slam dunk. But it was still just a story. A narrative built on assumptions, not facts.

"Your Honor, the prosecution's argument is speculative at best," I countered, my voice unwavering. "There's no direct evidence—no DNA, no fingerprints, no murder weapon. This case doesn't justify denying my client bail. Mr. Hall isn't a flight risk, and to hold him without proof is an infringement on his rights."

Just as I finished, the door to the courtroom swung open with a loud bang, making everyone jump. I snapped my head up, instinctively bracing for whatever interruption was coming.

And there he was. Spencer Reid.

Of course. As if he had nothing better to do than watch a bail hearing?

He didn't acknowledge me, just gave everyone a sheepish smile and slipped into a seat at the back. I rolled my eyes. What was he even doing here? Was he tailing Mr. Hall? Or was he just curious about my performance in court? I couldn't care less... or at least, that's what I told myself.

But then, for some stupid reason, I couldn't help but think he looked especially... handsome today. Damn it. Why did he have to look so good? The stupid hair, the stupid eyes, the stupid purple tie and sweater vest that made him look... stop! I hated it. And yet, I couldn't help but stare for just a beat longer than I should have.

I shook my head, forcing my attention back to the matter at hand. The judge, seemingly unfazed by the interruption, cleared her throat and refocused on the case.

After a moment, Judge White spoke, her voice steady and authoritative. "While I acknowledge the defense's argument regarding the lack of direct evidence at this stage, the seriousness of the charges and the fact that the defendant is a primary suspect in a series of murders cannot be ignored. That said, I will grant bail with conditions. Mr. Hall will be released on the condition that he surrenders his passport, wears an ankle monitor, and agrees to regular check-ins with law enforcement. Should there be any indication that he is attempting to flee or tamper with evidence, bail will be revoked immediately."

The gavel's echo was like music to my ears as she dismissed the court.

I turned to Mr. Hall, a satisfied smile spreading across my face. "Looks like you get to go home."

He shook my hand in gratitude before turning to embrace his wife, who was sobbing with relief. The way she clung to him spoke volumes—they had a real connection, built over years. Ten years, to be exact.

Terry Novak stalked up to me, “Don't get too cocky, Quinn. I'll have Mr. Hall arraigned before you know it."

I couldn't resist the bait. "Remind me again... how many times have we gone up against each other?"

He hesitated for a moment, then grumbled, "Eleven."

I smirked, crossing my arms. "And how many of those did you win?"

"Hey, if I looked like you and flirted with the jury—"

"Don't insult me by implying I won because I batted my lashes." The nerve of this guy. I couldn't stand it.

"Doesn't matter how many you've won before," he sneered. "You won't be winning this one."

I sighed and hefted the massive folder under my arm, turning to leave. Novak could make all the threats he wanted, but my gaze drifted to Dr. Spencer Reid once more, sitting there, looking at me.

Some might say I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I could approach and start a friendly conversation, or I could try to slip past through the judge's chambers to avoid the inevitable questions he no doubt had.

But it seemed he took both options from me as he approached, a shy smile tugging at his lips as he closed the distance between us.

"Good morning, Ms. Bennet."

"Dr. Reid," I replied coolly.

I don't know why I'm the way I am. Here he was, trying to be kind, and I couldn't help but respond like a total bitch. "Are bail hearings a hobby of yours, or are you just following me around at this point?"

He blinked, clearly surprised, but then—just when I thought he might get awkward—a smirk crept onto his face.

Fuck. Me. That should be illegal.

"I wouldn't call it a hobby," he said, his voice a little less certain. "Hotch mentioned there was a hearing for Mr. Hall, and—"

I cut him off. "And you thought you'd try for round five hundred to convince me Mr. Hall is your Unsub?"

His lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smile. "Not exactly. I just—" He hesitated, unsure whether I was serious. "I wanted to talk to you. About the case, but also... about you."

I frowned, my curiosity getting the best of me despite myself. "Me? You came all the way to a bail hearing to talk to me... about me?"

He nodded, still a little unsure of himself. "You're different. I find that... interesting."

I raised an eyebrow. "Different? You've got a strange way of showing interest, Dr. Reid."

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he quickly corrected, visibly caught off guard by my sarcasm. “What I meant was, you don’t handle things like most people. You’ve got this… unique approach. It’s impressive, actually. You don’t back down, even when it’s tough, and that kind of stubbornness? It’s rare. I respect that.”

I had to admit, his honesty was oddly refreshing. Not many people would call me "interesting" to my face, especially when they usually called me something a lot worse.

"Well, congratulations. You've managed to flatter and surprise me."

The shy smile returned as he fiddled with his tie, "Would you—uh, like to maybe have coffee with me?"

I paused, my mind working overtime as I weighed the pros and cons of getting coffee with this guy. He wasn't horrible to look at. He could definitely hold a conversation. But that little voice in my head kept nagging me.

"Alright... Coffee, then. But you have to promise no case talk."

His eyes lit up like he was surprised by my answer. "I know a great place nearby."

I chuckled, shaking my head. "If it's the place I'm thinking of, you are one hundred percent correct."

"Do you go there often?" he asked, already turning to head toward the door.

"Just the days that end in 'y.'" I replied, and he actually laughed at my lame ass joke as we left the courthouse.

 

~*~

We found ourselves at the small, cozy café down the street. To my surprise, he frequented this place as much as I did, which surprised me, I would’ve definitely noticed him before.

He rambled on about everything and nothing—his thoughts on coffee, his latest book obsession—and he articulated it all in ways that left me intrigued.

“So, how many times have you read it?” I asked, especially when he started quoting passages.

“Oh, just once. But—”

I raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You’ve only read it once, but you can recite it word for word?”

He chuckled. “I have an eidetic memory.”

I blinked. “What?”

“It’s like a photographic memory,” he explained. “I can remember things with perfect clarity.”

“I know what it means,” I said, still stunned. “I just can’t believe it. Do you know how useful that would’ve been in law school?” I laughed, shaking my head.

“Not as useful as an IQ of 187.”

My mouth fell open, “You’re like a walking encyclopedia.”

I leaned back in my chair, sipping my coffee as I listened to him chuckle. There was something unexpectedly refreshing about Reid. He wasn't trying to impress anyone—he just was. Normally, that kind of thing would drive me crazy, but... with him, it was kind of charming.

"So, Harvard Law," His voice snapped me out of my thoughts. "It's statistically one of the most academically rigorous institutions in the country. The odds of someone with your background succeeding there must have been astronomical."

I smirk. "Is that your way of saying you think I'm impressive?"

“Yeah, I mean, it's impressive. Harvard Law doesn't exactly take just anyone. But it's not just about the odds—you clearly have something that set you apart. I'm curious, though... what made you choose law?”

I shrugged, hiding the real reason behind my usual nonchalance. "I guess I wanted to make a difference. But not in the typical way."

"I can see that. You challenge everything—the law, people's assumptions, the system itself." The look he gave me was almost teasing.

I smiled faintly. "Hey, I'm good at my job."

He laughed, a genuine laugh that made me feel like maybe he was enjoying my company. "I can tell. If I ever get into trouble, I'd probably need someone like you to get me out of it."

“Clearly, you’d need someone like me. But, just to indulge my ego, tell me why you’d choose me as your lawyer in this hypothetical predicament.”

He looked at me seriously, his eyes narrowing just enough to feel like something more was there—admiration, maybe a little respect. "You don't take no for an answer. That's exactly what makes you a good lawyer."

I smirked, but there was something about his words that I couldn't ignore. "Well, if nothing else, I guess I can be stubborn."

“I think that's the understatement of the century." He smiled leaning back in his seat.

I couldn't remember enjoying myself so much. He was just... so easy to talk to. Of course, it helped that he'd complimented me so much, considering I honestly thought he hated me.

"Listen, do—" I started, but cut myself off when I saw him pull a file from his satchel.

Dread filled me as I eyed the folder.

"What's that?" I finally asked, watching as he slid it across the table to me.

"You're not an idiot, Quinn. Please just... read it. It's a basic profile—"

I stood up immediately, the room around me suddenly too crowded and uncomfortable. This was unbelievable. I knew it. I knew he couldn't possibly be interested in me—he just wanted to close his fucking case.

"I'm going," I said, moving toward the door.

"Quinn, please. Just take—"

"No. Spencer. I will not take the damn profile." My voice dropped to a whisper, my heart pounding in my chest as I tried to keep it together. "What is this? Some sick joke? Oh, I'll just tell her how 'interesting' I find her and she'll be eating out of the palm of my hand?"

Reid frowned, a look of genuine confusion crossing his face, but I didn't buy it. He knew exactly how to play the part, how to make me feel like I was overreacting.

"That's not— I would never—"

"Save it, Dr. Reid," I cut him off, my voice sharp, though a part of me wanted to say more. I wanted to believe him. But how could I, when it felt like the only thing he really cared about was the case?

Chapter 3: Jokes on him, I thrive on drama

A warrant is an official document issued by a judge or magistrate that authorizes law enforcement officers to take a specific action, such as searching a location, seizing evidence, or arresting a person. It is typically based on probable cause, meaning there must be a reasonable belief that a crime has been committed or that evidence of a crime is present. Warrants are designed to protect individuals' rights by ensuring that searches, seizures, or arrests are not conducted arbitrarily.

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

The sharp, high-pitched chime of the fridge snapped me out of my thoughts. I'd been standing there for what felt like forever, staring at the tub of ice cream, debating whether the fleeting pleasure was worth the guilt that would follow.

I was one of those people who couldn't stop at a reasonable amount. No, I had to finish the entire container, only to end up feeling sick afterward.

"Meow."

I glanced down to find Garfield, the best cat in the world, rubbing against my legs—his way of reminding me it was his mealtime too.

I smiled at his squished face, bending down to scoop up the ginger furball and snuggling him against me. "I haven't forgotten, buddy. Wouldn't want you to waste away, would we?"

His purr told me he'd definitely perish without food, but the weight of him in my arms suggested otherwise.

The beeping started again.

Ugh! What the hell was wrong with me? It wasn't even a real date. Just coffee... so why the hell did I feel like total shit about it?

It's because you liked him, that annoying inner voice popped up.

Oh, shut up. It's been a week. I need to just get over it, and by 'get over it' I mean replaying the entire coffee conversation and convincing myself that he did enjoy his time with me.

Great, now I'm having a full-blown conversation with myself. Fantastic.

I sighed dramatically and plopped onto the couch, pulling Garfield back into my arms. He clearly did not appreciate being manhandled but remained in my grasp. I smooshed his squishy face between my hands. "He's the idiot, right?"

"Meow."

"Exactly! I knew you'd get it. It's his loss."

"Meow."

"Right?! I'm a catch. A total catch."

"Meow."

"You're welcome for the company, Garfield. Don't pretend you're not lucky to have me."

Finally, he wriggled free from my grasp and jumped off my lap. I sighed again, watching him scamper off toward his food bowl. I knew I was being ridiculous—and a bit dramatic—but honestly, I couldn't remember the last time I'd had a genuine conversation or a good time with someone. It sucked that all Spencer seemed to care about was work.

Trying to stop feeling sorry for myself, I grabbed the thick sketchbook off the coffee table. I flipped through the pages, mostly filled with doodles of Garfield, but a few from my trips to Rock Creek Park stood out. People-watching had always been a guilty pleasure. I smiled as I came across an image of two older gentlemen deep in a chess game. I wasn't a Picasso, but I thought I'd captured their concentration pretty well.

"Meow."

Garfield's insistent meow snapped me out of my thoughts. He had tipped over his bowl again, reminding me of his strict food schedule.

"Oh, I'm sorry, your highness." I muttered as I set the sketchbook down and grumbled while I scooped kibble into his bowl. He devoured it in seconds, then looked up at me with a glare, as if demanding more.

"Not happening. The vet said you were getting too fat last time," I told him firmly.

He purred and rubbed against my legs, giving me his best pleading look.

"Fine... just a little bit more." I couldn't resist. I scooped another handful. That face was impossible to say no to.

Then, my work phone buzzed, instantly souring my already fragile mood. It had been a week since I'd gotten Mr. Hall out on bail, and he'd been blowing up my phone ever since.

The messages ranged from petty complaints about feeling trapped in his house to more serious threats about removing his ankle monitor entirely.

Of course, being me, I told him he was being an absolute idiot. I reminded him to let things settle, to let Hotch and his team do their job. He needed to stay out of trouble while they figured out what had happened to the missing girl. There was a good chance she'd turn up dead, and my client would be able to prove he was home the entire time.

Still, I couldn't help but think about the girl, Lola Morton, a twenty-two-year-old escort. It seemed like every recent case had involved escorts, and with Lola missing, it was only a matter of time before she was found the same way as the others.

The BAU had concluded it was the work of a serial killer, but did that mean Mr. Hall was responsible? This part of my job always made me question my morals.

Reluctantly, I glanced at my phone wondering what he was going to be complaining about now.

I'm sorry about last week. I realize I pushed too hard with the profile. I was really enjoying our time before I messed it up.
~ Spencer Reid

I had to read the message twice before I realized what I was reading... Spencer... had messaged me... wait...how the hell did he get my number?

Before I could think about it I was typing back.

Yeah it was a shitty thing to do, especially when I said no case talk. Also, how did you get this number?

Only clients and my boss had this number. Not even Hotch had this number.

I bit my lip, eagerly awaiting for his reply.

I may have asked our technical analyst to help me... I get it's an invasion of your privacy but your receptionist wouldn't tell me when you would be in court or your number, something about 'don't let any FBI assholes know where I am.'

I grinned, oh Zoe was now my absolute favorite person. She certainly took her role as our receptionist seriously.

So your response to being told 'no' was to violate my privacy and stalk me via government resources? Tell me, Spencer, do they teach boundary issues at the academy, or is that just a personal talent?

I was expecting him to backpedal, maybe fumble through an excuse. Instead, his reply came almost immediately:

I won't lie—I crossed a line. But I needed to talk to you, and I didn't think you'd appreciate me showing up to court while you were working. I figured this was the lesser of two evils... or annoyances I guess.

I stared at the text screen for a moment, my mind racing. Spencer... he was... different. And the fact that he went out of his way to find my number made me wonder if he had been just as frustrated about how things had turned out... it seemed he was making an effort so the least I could do was reply.

I finally typed, my fingers almost hesitating on the send button.

Well, if you're going to invade my privacy, you might as well make it worth my while.

I pressed send and immediately regretted how flirty that sounded. But there was something about Spencer that made it hard to stay completely serious. Even when he was being a little... well, stalker-ish.

Seconds later, his reply popped up:

I'll make sure it's worth your while, I'm actually reading The Nature of the Legal Process right now—figured you'd find it interesting. It's been hard for me to concentrate because all I keep thinking about is your perspective on it. I really do want to know how you'd approach these cases. You're the expert, after all.

I blinked at the screen. Was he flirting? Or was this just a weird Spencer Reid way of trying to engage me in a conversation?

Spencer, are you telling me that you read a law book and couldn't stop thinking about me? I typed, trying to sound as casual as I could, but I couldn't help the grin that tugged at my lips.

I knew what I was doing, playing this little back and forth, but there was something undeniably intriguing about him. His mind, the way he worked, his unusual quirks... and now, apparently, he couldn't stop thinking about me while reading a law book.

He replied almost instantly, his words spilling out as if he couldn't help it:

Well... yes, actually. It's not that I'm not into the subject matter—it's fascinating—but you... your insight on criminal law, the way you dissect cases, the way you think through moral ambiguities... I can't help but wonder what you'd say about some of the legal scenarios presented in the book. You make the way I look at things seem so narrow. I guess that's why I needed to ask you.

I sat there, staring at the message, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through me. His words weren't just about flattery. He was genuinely curious, and that curiosity was something I couldn't easily ignore.

So what you're saying is, I've got to help you with your legal problems now? I typed, my heart racing a little. This was different, I could tell. There was something between us now that wasn't just professional. It was... starting to become personal.

I wouldn't call them problems. More like... intellectual challenges. But yes, I suppose that's exactly what I'm saying.

The simplicity of his response made me smile. He was so direct, no pretense, no guessing games. But now, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was about to get caught up in feelings that probably should be avoided.

I took a deep breath, realizing that I was already intrigued.

Alright, Spencer. I'll bite. You wanna talk law cases? Let's talk cases. I typed, pressing send with a little more excitement than I cared to admit.

Almost immediately, he responded:

Good. Because I've got a case in mind that I think you'll find... particularly interesting.

~*~

The flashing red and blue lights sliced through the quiet streets of Georgetown, cutting through the stillness of the upscale neighborhood where Mr. Joseph Hall lived.

Frustrated and exhausted, I marched past the police tape, barely ducking under it as officers tried to stop me. It was well past midnight, and I'd rather be anywhere but here.

"I'm his lawyer," I muttered, my voice cold and sharp. The officers exchanged a glance before stepping aside. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

Did the cop deserve my wrath? Probably not. But when I got the frantic call from Mrs. Hall—her voice trembling and panicked, screaming that the FBI was raiding their house—I didn't have the patience for anyone.

I climbed the few stairs leading to the double-story townhouse. The beautiful wooden door was already smashed, hanging off its hinges from the force they'd used to break it in.

Shoving my hands into my coat, I squeezed past a group of detectives and forensic specialists combing through the house.

Unbelievable.

I couldn't wait to find out which judge had signed off on this warrant so quickly. As far as I knew, nothing had happened recently to justify such a drastic move. I hadn't been informed of any new developments. A raid like this could only mean one thing—something serious—and I was just as in the dark as Mrs. Hall about what had triggered it.

The house was a mess. Chaos was everywhere, but I couldn't seem to find Mr. or Mrs. Hall. As I made my way deeper into the house, I finally came across a familiar face. And boy, was he going to get an earful.

"Couldn't have given me a heads-up?" I practically snapped.

Spencer turned, startled at the sound of my voice. Surprise flashed across his face when he saw me standing there. "Quinn... wh-what are you doing here?"

"What? Hoping I wouldn't come because you decided 2 a.m. was the perfect time to raid someone's house? Thanks for that, by the way. Love getting hysterical calls in the middle of the night."

He stepped closer to me, gloved hands moving as he and the blonde agent—who I hadn't caught the name of—searched the living room.

"Time was of the essence," he whispered, not wanting to cause a scene. Well, joke's on him. I thrive on drama.

"Oh, do tell. Did something new come to light in your precious little profile?"

The blonde agent, sensing the tension between us, stepped in. "Lola Morton's body was just discovered."

Shit.

Okay, this complicates things. "I see... and since Mr. Hall's your primary suspect, you were granted a search warrant. The issue, though, is that he's housebound, so—"

Spencer cut me off. "His wife isn't."

Shit. Shit. Shit.

"I'm going to need to see the search warrant," I managed to say, my voice tight.

"The prosecution has it all," He replied, hesitation evident in his tone.

I nodded, of course. Now I had to go find Novak, and try to wipe that smug look off his stupid face.

Spinning on my heel I stalked out the room, but not before hearing Spencer say "I'll be right back JJ."

I could hear his footfalls right behind me as I hurried out the house. "Quinn-." He reached out to grab my shoulder effectively stopping me on the steps.

"What?"

"Where are you going?" He asked softly.

I looked at him incredulously. "Where do you think? To go do my job, Spencer."

Spencer's hand dropped from my shoulder, his expression tightening. "Quinn, please, you don't understand-."

"You think I don't get it?" My words came out faster than I meant. "You think I don't see what you're doing here? We spoke every night for a week! Keeping the warrant and the body from me—was that supposed to be some kind of...strategic move?"

"No," he said, quickly, but the hesitation in his eyes said otherwise. "It's not like that."

"Then what is it, Spencer?" I could feel my chest tightening with every word. "Are you really telling me this whole thing just slipped your mind? Cos we both know that's impossible for you."

He stood there awkwardly, like he didn't know what to say, which was kind of funny for a genius.

"Did it not cross your mind that this was something I'd need to know?" I continued, anger fueling me.

He glanced at the ground, before rubbing the back of his neck. "You're on the defense, Quinn. We're on opposite sides here, but I-I do want to help you."

I stared at him, trying to make sense of it all. Id never been so conflicted in my life. A part of me was so angry I could barely see straight, and part of me understood how difficult it must have been for him to even be here, standing in front of me like this. We were both just doing our jobs... and it just really sucked.

"Then why keep things from me?" I asked, quieter now. "If you want to help, then help. Don't keep things hidden."

He hesitated again before answering, his eyes never meeting mine. "Because... because you're trying to prove him innocent. And that goes against everything I stand for. It's complicated, Quinn, but just know I'm not your enemy, even if it sometimes feels like it."

I took a breath, trying to calm down. "You could've just told me about the body. It would've been that simple."

He sighed, his eyes finally meeting mine. "If it was that simple, we wouldn't be standing here right now, would we?" His voice softened, but the edge of frustration was still there. "I just... don't want you to hate me for doing my job."

I stared at him for a long moment, trying to decide if this was really worth it.

"I don't hate you..." The small smile he gave me made this last part even harder to say. "But I think you will hate me by the end of this."

With that, I walked away. After all, I had Mr Hall to see and a lawyer to yell at.

~*~

I skimmed through the paperwork for what felt like the hundredth time, my eyes aching, the words swimming in front of me. My pulse thundered in my ears as I squinted at the pages, convinced I had to be missing something. This couldn't be real. There was no way...

"Her bracelet was in the fucking safe," I whispered, almost to myself, as I shoved the stack of papers aside and grabbed the victim photo of Lola.

And then it hit me—like a punch in the gut. The same bracelet from the photo... the same one sitting in Mr. Hall's safe.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

A bitter laugh escaped my lips. Look at me. Here I was, spiraling down into my personal pity party, thinking I had a chance to win this. Not that I ever really had a shot in the first place.

I leaned back in my chair, running a hand through my hair, exhaustion weighing me down. I was so close to calling it a night. Ice cream was waiting in the fridge, and I was pretty sure the world could wait another hour. But then something caught my eye—the search warrant.

I picked it up, my fingers suddenly cold.

The scope of the warrant was... too broad. I flipped through it again, slower this time, hoping for some small detail, some loophole to make sense of the mess in front of me.

It was for Mr. Hall's residence, but it only authorized the search of "personal belongings, desk drawers, and office files." No mention of the safe. Not a single word.

They didn't have permission to search the safe.

Shit.

I felt the tight knot in my chest loosen, but only a little. This wasn't just a mistake—it was an opening. A big one. A procedural error that could blow this whole thing wide open.

If I could contest the scope of the warrant—if I could show the court that the safe search was illegal—everything could fall apart. The bracelet, the custody chain, all of it. Gone.

I pictured it in my head: the argument I would make. The Fourth Amendment. Unreasonable search and seizure. They had no legal right to search that safe. No probable cause, no permission. It was a violation.

If I could get the judge to agree, everything they'd found in there—the bracelet, Lola's picture, the entire case—could be tossed out. The prosecution wouldn't be able to use it.

I grabbed a pen and started jotting down notes, my mind racing. Mapp v. Ohio. That was the precedent. The safe was part of Mr. Hall's protected space. And if I could prove the search violated his rights, it could all come crumbling down.

Adrenaline surged through me. I wasn't just staring at some technicality anymore. This was the turning point. This could be my chance to win.

I scribbled the motion to suppress, the words flowing almost faster than I could think. Violation of Fourth Amendment rights. Search exceeded the scope of the warrant. Evidence inadmissible.

But then, just as my pen hovered over the paper, the weight of guilt hit me, hard.

Spencer could hate me after this. After everything. After I tore apart the case, after I pulled this stunt, what would be left of this tentative friendship? If that's what you could even call it? Would he even be able to look at me the same way again?

I clenched my jaw, pushing the thought aside. There was no time for doubt. Not now.

But the guilt was there, always lingering. If I succeeded—if I could make this case disappear—all I could count on was that, in the end, I might win... but at what cost.

Chapter 4: Four: I’ve had 2.2 pi drinks

Notes:

I am not a lawyer—so if there’s any legal messiness in here, it’s 100% my fault. Also, Spencer might do things in this story that are wildly out of character. But hey, that’s the magic of fanfiction, right?

FBI agents are used as witnesses to provide expert testimony on investigative procedures, evidence handling, and the defendant's actions, helping the court understand complex aspects of the case and ensuring the integrity of the evidence.

 

📚Spencer 📚

To say that this month had been one of the most challenging of my time at the BAU would have been an understatement. It was as if Unsubs had become like the mythological hydra—cut one head off, and two more appeared in its place. The constant stream of cases, Derek's kidnapping and torture, and my mother's illness—constantly gnawing at the back of my mind—made it feel like the pressure would never let up.

But what consumed me the most weren't just those thoughts; it was the way Quinn's disappointed gaze had become a fixture in my memories. Why did her eyes have to be such an intense shade of blue that, whenever I saw the color elsewhere, it never seemed quite right? I couldn't stop comparing it, and the constant reminder frustrated me to no end.

"You coming, Spence?" JJ's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, her bag slung higher over her shoulder.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, I'll be right there."

She gave me a small smile before heading out of the bullpen. We were all worn thin, and the absence of Morgan weighed heavily on us all. Sighing, I reached for a stack of case files to take home with me, desperately seeking something to occupy my mind.

"Reid."

I turned at the sound of Garcia's voice, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she approached. "This came for you while you were out."

She handed me a thick envelope, and I frowned as I took it. "Do you know what it is?"

Pen shook her head. "No idea. Some civil servant dropped it off. I figured it would find its way to you."

"Civil servant?" Rossi's voice came from behind us as he, too, prepared to head home for the day.

My heart began to race for reasons I couldn't entirely understand. I tried to suppress the trembling in my hands as I opened the envelope.

My eyes scanned the words quickly, absorbing the key points. "I've been subpoenaed."

Rossi raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. "She's tenacious. I'll give her that."

He walked off, leaving my mind to race. The 'she' in question was undoubtedly Quinn... I couldn't help but smile as I read over the summons.

She always managed to surprise me.

I thanked Garcia, who, although curious about the 'she' and the 'summons,' didn't press for answers. With the subpoena in hand, I made my way to Hotch's office.

I knocked twice when I saw him buried in paperwork. He looked up as I entered, and I held the court order up. "Why would she ask for me and not you?"

He frowned at me before taking the subpoena, his gaze scanning the document as he read.

"Interesting choice, Quinny," he muttered, shaking his head.

"Quinny?" I asked, confused by the nickname. I knew about their history—she had been an intern when Hotch was still a lawyer—but I didn't know how close they had been.

Hotch gave me one of his rare smiles. "Long story, but you better brace yourself, Reid. From what I've heard, she's formidable in the courtroom."

My eyes widened slightly. I'd seen Quinn's stubbornness firsthand and had witnessed how she carried herself in court, but to be on the receiving end of her intensity left me feeling... well, anxious, to say the least.

"Why would she ask for me, though? You're the unit chief." I was still confused about her motives. Was this her way of getting back at me for not telling her about the warrant?

Hotch shrugged. "Quinn never does anything without a reason. If she wants you, it's because she has a purpose."

That didn't do much to ease my anxiety.

~*~

I could feel her eyes on me the whole time—sharp, focused, and calculating. Quinn had been so calm during the whole trial, but there was something in the way she looked at me now that made my stomach churn. It was the kind of look that told you she wasn't going to take it easy on me just because we knew each other.

Why did she have to look so pretty today though.

The prosecutor had just finished his questioning, and I had settled back into my seat, taking a breath, thinking maybe I could make it through this. But I should have known better than to think she would let me off that easy.

"Dr. Reid," Quinn began, her voice smooth, deliberate, like she had all the time in the world. "You've said, under oath, that you believe Mr. Hall is our killer because of his behavior and his patterns. And you've based that theory on your extensive experience with criminal profiling, is that right?"

I nodded, willing myself not to stutter. "Yes, that's correct. Based on the way the victims were killed and the psychological profile of the Unsub, Mr. Hall fits the pattern."

Quinn nodded. "Interesting," she said, tapping her fingers lightly on the table. "So, based on these behavioral patterns, you're ready to label Mr. Hall as guilty. But I assume you'd agree that profiling is not foolproof, right?"

Her tone was casual, but the question was pointed, designed to throw me off course, trying to make me question my own conclusions, and I couldn't help but think she would make a good interrogator.

"I'm confident in my analysis," I replied, trying again to steady my voice. "Profiling is based on patterns, but it's not an exact science. However, based on my experience, the behavioral similarities are strong."

Quinn leaned forward, and I could feel the weight of her gaze pressing into me. "But you're not saying that Mr. Hall definitely killed these women. You're saying you think he did based on his profile, correct?"

I felt a little heat rise in my cheeks. "That's correct. I'm not saying he's definitely guilty, but based on the evidence we have—the way the crimes were committed, the victimology—he fits the profile."

"And yet," Quinn said, her lips curling into a small, almost amused smile, "you've said that there is no physical evidence directly linking Mr. Hall to the crime. No fingerprints, no DNA, no tangible proof that connects him to these women, isn't that right?"

"That's correct, but behavioral evidence is important. It's part of the investigative process. It gives us a framework to narrow down our suspect pool."

Her smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. "Narrowing down suspects based on behavior is one thing. But convicting someone on that basis alone is another. Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Reid?"

I couldn't tell if it was a subtle jab, or if she was trying to pull apart my testimony. Either way I was feeling frazzled.

"I agree," I said, trying to stay composed. "But it's not just behavior. It's the entirety of the investigation. The victims' patterns, the circumstances surrounding each crime—it all points to Mr. Hall."

Quinn paused, her gaze unwavering. "You've mentioned that Mr. Hall's home was searched, haven't you?"

"Yes," I said cautiously, I profiled criminals for living and yet she made me feel on edge. I had no idea where this was going, but I knew Quinn didn't ask questions unless she already had a plan.

"And you testified that Mr. Hall's safe was part of that search, didn't you?" she asked, her voice suddenly quieter, sharper.

"Yes," I said, but the moment the words left my mouth, I realized my mistake.

She was playing me. She'd baited me, and now I was stuck.

Quinn didn't smile, but the coldness in her eyes said it all. "But the safe wasn't actually listed in the search warrant, was it?"

My heart skipped a beat. "I—I don't have the warrant in front of me, but—"

"But you did testify that the bracelet found in that safe links Mr. Hall to the murders," Quinn interrupted, her voice cool but her words felt like daggers the more she spoke. "A bracelet that, according to you, connects him to Lola's murder. And you've mentioned it several times in this trial, Dr. Reid."

I blinked, realizing where this was going.

"Yes, I did, but I—"

Quinn's eyes gleamed as she stood up straight, addressing the judge with a confidence I only wish I could have. "Your Honor, I move to strike the testimony regarding the bracelet found in Mr. Hall's safe. It was obtained through an illegal search that exceeded the scope of the warrant. The Fourth Amendment clearly prohibits the use of such evidence, and as such, it should be deemed inadmissible."

My stomach sank. I'd just handed her everything she needed to dismantle the case.

The judge didn't hesitate. "Motion granted."

Quinn turned to me, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, it felt like time stood. How did she manage to look so beautiful while absolutely destroying me.

But she wasn't finished yet.

"Your Honor," Quinn continued, her voice now dripping with the calm confidence that seemed to agitate me even more, "I would like to request a mistrial. The jury has heard the mention of the bracelet, and while it has now been ruled inadmissible, its impact on the case cannot be undone. The jury's perception has already been irrevocably altered."

"Objection, Your Honor," the prosecutor, Novak I believe, cut in sharply. "The jury was instructed to disregard the mention of the bracelet. There's no reason for a mistrial."

Quinn turned to him coolly. "Either the bracelet was key evidence or it wasn't. You can't have it both ways. The jury heard it. The damage is done. You can't simply erase the impact it has on their perception of the case."

Novak clenched his jaw but persisted. "The jury is perfectly capable of following instructions."

Quinn's tone remained steady, her stare icy. "This isn't about instructions. The mention of the bracelet raises questions the jury can't ignore. It's about fairness, Your Honor."

My heart sank. I hadn't even considered the possibility that something I'd said—something I'd believed was important—could be grounds for a mistrial. But Quinn was making a compelling argument. The bracelet was no longer part of the case, but the jury had already been exposed to the idea that it was a critical piece of evidence. It was possible they'd start to question everything else based on the weight they'd already given to it.

I glanced at the jury, their faces unreadable, and realized how right Quinn was. I had no idea what they were thinking, but I knew that once the seed of doubt had been planted, it couldn't easily be pulled back.

The judge leaned back in his chair, considering the motion carefully. It felt like an eternity, the silence in the courtroom suffocating.

Hotch was right. Quinn was ruthless in the court room.

"Motion for a mistrial granted," the judge finally said, his voice final.

I felt like the ground had been pulled out from under me. The case I had spent so much time analyzing, the case I had believed was solid, was now... gone. And it wasn't because of the evidence—or the lack of it—it was because of a single, careless mention of a piece of evidence that was never supposed to be introduced in the first place.

As I sat there, my mind a blur, I couldn't help but marvel at Quinn's ability to manipulate the situation. In that moment, it wasn't about winning or losing. It was about playing the game, and Quinn had just forced me to play by her rules.

As the judge hit the gavel, dread filled me knowing we just released a serial killer back on the street. My gaze landed on Quinn as she shook Mr Halls hand, but she wasn't smiling, it was clear it was a bitter sweet moment for her.

Her piercing blue eyes then land on me, as she mouthed, "Don't hate me."

~*~
3 months later

I wasn't sure how I ended up this drunk. One minute, I was celebrating Derek's wedding—distracted by the laughter, the clinking glasses, the hum of conversations—and the next, I was sitting at the bar, nursing a third drink that had somehow turned into my seventh. It wasn't the alcohol that muddled my thoughts. It was her. I should've been enjoying the celebration, but she was always there...

Quinn.

Three months. Three months since everything with her had ended, and yet here I was, unable to think about anything except the way her hair caught the low light in the bar as she laughed with her friends.

"Are you okay, Reid?" Derek's voice broke through the haze in my mind. I looked up, surprised to find him standing there. He had that newlywed glow, or maybe it was just the alcohol.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I muttered, forcing a smile that didn't feel quite right. My gaze flicked back to Quinn—of course she was here. Out of all the bars...

"You sure? You've been awfully quiet tonight. That's a first for you," Derek said, his grin amused but also spot on. Usually, I could talk about anything, but the moment Quinn entered the room, my brain just shut down.

It actually took me a solid five minutes to convince myself she was real, not some drunk illusion.

"You know, Derek," I started, the words slipping out more slurred than I intended, "I keep thinking about everything that happened with her."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "You mean Quinn?"

"Yeah," I muttered, ignoring the tightness in my chest. "She just... always surprises me."

Derek chuckled. "Sounds like you're still hung up on her, man."

I sighed. "I don't even know what I'm feeling anymore. I thought... maybe..."

Derek's smile softened. "She's not worth losing your head over, Reid. You're better than that."

I nodded absently, still staring at Quinn. Her laughter rang across the bar, and her smile? It was everything. Despite myself, I couldn't look away.

"And here she is," I muttered. "Out of all the bars in D.C., she had to be at this one. And I—"

Derek shook his head with a soft laugh. "And you never go to places like this. If that doesn't make you believe in fate or karma, I don't know what will."

I snorted, not much of a believer in fate, but this? This felt like one hell of a coincidence.

"I don't know if it's fate or some cosmic joke, but... here I am," I gestured vaguely toward Quinn, swaying slightly. "And now, I can't stop thinking about... well, her."

Derek raised an eyebrow. "Maybe it's time to stop thinking. Go talk to her, Reid. See where it goes."

I glanced at him, then back at Quinn. My heart raced in a way I hated. The alcohol certainly wasn't helping. "I thought you didn't like her?"

He laughed loud. "Do I disagree with her career choices and letting an Unsub go? Yeah. But do I think she's a good match for you? Absolutely."

I blinked, surprised by his words. Before I could respond, Quinn caught my eye from across the room. She was watching me, likely just as surprised to see me here.

She spoke quickly to her friends and started walking toward me, hesitantly—as if giving me a chance to run.

"Great," I muttered, trying to sit up straighter, though my legs weren't cooperating.

Derek slapped me on the back. "Don't make it a big deal. Just breathe." And with that, he disappeared into the crowd.

As Quinn reached me, I realized this was the moment I'd been dreading. The universe had a funny way of ensuring things were never left unresolved with her.

"Has anyone ever told you how handsome you look in a suit, Dr. Reid?"

"You've seen me in a suit before." My reply came sharper than intended, but I wasn't lying. I wore a suit the day she threw me under the bus.

Her expression tightened, but she cleared her throat. "Well, I was hoping you'd let me explain—"

I cut her off. "You used me."

"I didn't—" She paused, reconsidering. "Okay. Yes, I used you so that the best possible outcome happened for both of us."

I frowned. "How is letting a serial killer go free and making me look like an idiot the best outcome?"

Her lips pressed together, her eyes struggling to find the right words. "I'm not allowed to represent him anymore... but I can still help the new prosecutor."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised by her uncharacteristic hesitation. Quinn had always been so confident, yet now she seemed to be wrestling with her words.

"You can't represent him?" I asked, still trying to process what she was saying.

She nodded slowly, a flicker of regret in her eyes. "Mistrials change things. Once there's a mistrial, the defense counsel can't continue representing the defendant. I'm out of it now."

I blinked. "So, that's it? No more?"

She glanced down before meeting my eyes again. "Yes. He's no longer my client. And... I wanted to try and explain myself. I don't like how things ended between us."

I stared at her, unsure how to respond. Was this her trying to make amends, or was she just clearing her conscience.

"I don't like how things-." I wasn't sure what had happened. One moment, I was sitting, trying to steady myself, and the next, everything felt... off. A warm buzz crawled up my neck, and suddenly the floor seemed much closer than I wanted it to be.

I blinked a couple of times, trying to focus, but it didn't help. I could hear her talking, but her voice sounded muffled—like I was underwater.

I could see her saying my name, but everything felt muted.

Without thinking, I tried to stand.

Big mistake.

My legs didn't agree with me. Before I could catch myself, I found myself swaying, almost stumbling. My balance completely failed me.

In an instant, Quinn was there, steadying my arm. Her touch was firm but not unkind. This wasn't how I pictured her touching me for the first time.

"Careful there," she said, her voice light but still carrying that familiar edge—teasing, yet protective.

I let out a breath, trying to steady myself, but the dizziness wouldn't go away. "I think... I think I've had a bit too much?" I said, slurring more than I intended.

Quinn glanced over at me, raising an eyebrow, then shifted her gaze across the room. "I can drive him home, if that's okay with you."

Who she was talking to, I had no idea.

I blinked, struggling to focus on her. She didn't look like she was joking. God, she looked good tonight.

I heard, maybe, Morgan say something in response, but it didn't register in my foggy brain. Quinn was still holding onto me, her hand warm against my arm. I couldn't help but think about how nice it felt.

"Alright, big guy," she said, her tone playful, helping me straighten up. "Let's get you out of here before you decide to start dancing or something."

"Dance?" I repeated, letting out a weak laugh. "I don't dance... I... I've got two left feet, you know?"

She smirked, guiding me toward the door. "You're kind of funny when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk."

"Uh-huh. And how many drinks have you had?" She teased.

"I've had about 2.2 pi drinks," I smirked.

She laughed. "I may not have a math degree, but I know what pi is, Spencer. Seven drinks definitely counts as drunk."

I chuckled as Quinn helped me toward the car. Even half-dazed, I couldn't help but think: it wasn't the worst way to end the night. She looked great in that lilac dress, and she actually laughed at my math joke.

"What's your address?" she asked, her voice soft as she glanced over at me.

"Uh..." I mumbled, eyes barely open. I slurred my address as she started driving.

"Please don't puke in my car, okay?"

I think I mumbled something back.

Quinn pulled into the parking lot of my apartment complex, headlights cutting through the darkness as she carefully parked. She turned off the engine and glanced over at me, her face softening in the dim light. "You good to walk?"

I nodded, though it felt like my legs might not agree. She was already opening the door and standing before I could fully process what was happening. With a steady hand on my arm, she helped me out of the car, supporting me as we made our way up the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, she guided me down the hall to my apartment. I fumbled with the keys until she gently took them from me. She helped me inside, nudging me toward the couch.

"Sit here," she said, her tone soothing. "I'll get you some water."

I flopped onto the couch, sinking into the cushions as she disappeared into the kitchen. I couldn't help but watch her movements—graceful, effortless, even in something as simple as getting a glass of water. She returned with the glass in hand, the cool water a welcome relief. I drank it slowly, hoping I didn't embarrass myself.

"Thanks," I muttered, handing her the empty glass.

She smiled and set it down on the coffee table. "No problem. Just relax, okay?"

As I kicked off my shoes, she paused, her eyes lingering on my feet. "Why are your socks different colors?"

I glanced down, suddenly aware of how ridiculous it must look. "Oh, I never wear matching socks."

Quinn raised an eyebrow, amused. "I see. You're certainly unique, Spencer Reid."

"Unique in a good way..."

Quinn chuckled, then her gaze shifted to the bookshelf nearby. "Definitely good."

She wandered over and pulled a book from the shelf with a quiet exclamation. "First edition?" she asked, her voice full of excitement.

I squinted trying to see which book.

"Pride and Prejudice," she said, turning it toward me. "I didn't know you liked classics."

"Yeah, I—" I started, but words failed for a moment. "I don't know. I like the way Jane Austen writes. She was clever for a woman in her time. "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife."

Quinn nodded, settling down beside me. "Drunk and still quoting books."

"I don't think I'd ever not be able to do that," I chuckled, watching as she flipped through the book.

Finally, Quinn leaned over, nudging me with her shoulder. "You okay?" she asked softly, concern in her voice.

"Yeah," I replied, offering her a sleepy smile. "I'm okay. Thanks for taking me home."

She smiled back, her expression softening. "Anytime, Spencer... I really do want to... I don't know... be friends?"

And in that moment, I realized she meant it. And maybe, just maybe, that was exactly what I needed—even if deep down, I really wanted something more with her.

Chapter 5: The calm before The Storm p.t 1

Notes:

This is a double update. Hope everyone is loving the story! I know I am.

Invoking the right to an attorney means requesting legal representation during questioning or legal proceedings to ensure protection of rights.

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

I didn't predict this.

Was I surprised? Sure, a little. But what did I expect from someone like Spencer? Of course, he'd be the type to spend his downtime playing chess. Still, the fact that he brought me here, of all places—Dupont Circle, a spot I come to all the time—was the real curveball.

It was wild, really. Spencer and I had brushed past each other countless times over the years. He could've been sitting right next to me in any one of those moments, and I'd never have noticed. We could've been inches apart, totally oblivious to each other's existence. It made me wonder how many times we had already crossed paths without even knowing it.

Part of me kind of wished we'd had one of those "meet cutes"—like I accidentally bumped into him while jogging, or he tripped over a book. But no, my reality was: "Yeah, we met when I became one of his Unsubs' lawyers and basically steamrolled him in court."

I probably could have been the "nicer" Quinn, the one who didn't have to walk into that courtroom as a hard-ass. But no. Instead, I showed him a side of me that probably made him question how much I really cared.

When Zoe practically begged me to go to that new bar that night, my first instinct was to say "pass." I was three months deep into wallowing over the loss of some potential "acquaintance-friend-ship" thing. Yeah, I'm still not even sure what we were. But can you blame me? Spencer was... hot, smart, tall—and, most importantly, not a jackass. But then, of course, they practically blackmailed me into going. And there he was—looking gorgeous in that suit and purple tie.

It helped that he wasn't fully himself. I mean, I was relieved he was slightly intoxicated—otherwise, he probably would've ignored me. Totally justified if he did, but I still believe I did the right thing for both of us.

But after a few weeks of talking, I started getting to know him better. The more Spencer opened up, the more I realized how much I liked him. He was... different. And yet, there I was, telling myself I only wanted a friendship. What an idiot. Every time he flashed that smirk or gave me that shy smile, I wanted to scream with frustration.

I glanced at him, trying to focus on the chessboard, but all I could think about was how much he'd been on my mind lately. The more I thought about him, the more I realized just how much I enjoyed his company.

"Which side would you like?" he asked, that damn smile still on his face.

I hesitated before replying. "Bold of you to assume I know how to play."

He chuckled. "I can teach you... but I have a feeling you know how to play."

I shot him a playful look, then moved to take the side that held the white pieces. "Are you profiling me, Doctor?"

Spencer smirked. "Harvard, lawyer—those are both indicators of someone who's good at strategic thinking, pattern recognition, and, let's be honest, reading people. You probably know more about the game than you're letting on."

"You know, you're not wrong..." I considered the next part carefully. I wasn't one to share much about my family, but something about Spencer made me feel like maybe I could. "My Gran taught me."

"Your Gran?" Spencer looked genuinely surprised. Family was just a topic we never really wanted to venture into.

"Mm-hmm," I nodded, focusing on the board. "Grandma Bennet, the first in our family to go to Harvard."

He didn't hesitate before moving his own piece, clicking the timer back. "So it's like a family legacy?"

"Let's just say... it was Harvard or nothing," I muttered, the words heavier than I intended. For a moment, I didn't look at him. I just focused on the game.

Spencer's voice was soft as he spoke. "Sounds like there was a lot of pressure to live up to."

I met his eyes briefly. "Pressure doesn't begin to cover it. My family doesn't really do failure."

I wasn't sure why I'd said it. This wasn't really the time or place to get into 'heavy' conversations. I really wanted a topic change... immediately.

He seemed to understand. "You don't strike me as someone who fails or gives up easily."

I couldn't stop myself from asking. "And you, Doctor? Any family legacies?"

The question seemed to throw him, and for a split second, his smile faltered. It was subtle, but I saw it.

"Not the kind you're thinking of," he said quietly. "My mom was a professor... but uh, she hasn't worked in a while... My dad's... well, let's just say we don't talk about him."

I tilted my head, sensing his hesitation. He clearly didn't want to talk about whatever was bothering him, and I wasn't going to push it. Instead, I decided to change the subject. "I get it. You wanna tell me some random factoid?"

Spencer nodded, a small smile appearing. "Chess is more than just a game; it's a mix of math, psychology, and pattern recognition. With 64 squares and 32 pieces, there are over 121 million possible positions after just the first two moves. The game originated in India around the 6th century, called chaturanga, and evolved into the modern version in Spain and Italy in the 15th century. One of the oldest strategies, the Queen's Gambit, sacrifices a pawn for control of the center. Chess blends tactical and strategic thinking with psychological warfare—it's a puzzle with infinite possibilities."

"Fascinating stuff as always." I replied, genuinely impressed. It always surprised me how he just knew the most interesting pieces of information.

He chuckled, and moved another piece, reminding me we were still playing... and he was brilliant.

"How did you get so good?" I chuckled, thinking through my strategy when I saw his pieces spread out.

"Well, Gideon..." He said, pausing briefly. "He was my mentor. He taught me to see patterns, not just in cases, but in people—how they think, how they act. He always said the mind is like a puzzle, and if you look closely enough, the pieces will show themselves."

I watched as he moved a piece, a little more thoughtfully now, not just on instinct.

"He had this intuition about things, an ability to anticipate moves—both in the game and in life. Sometimes, I think I understand his methods more now, even after he's gone."

"Sounds like he taught you more than just how to play. If you're starting to see things the way he did, I'm sure he'd be proud. It's nice to have the memories of your time together while you play, right?" I'd never been an emotional person. I actively avoided conversations like this for a reason, but, again, I wanted to be someone Spencer could talk to.

He smiled, "Definitely... oh, and check."

I frowned, noticing how he'd cornered my king.

"Look. Spencer, I was going to be nice and let you win—"

He cut me off, "Let me win?"

"Yes, because that's the nice thing to do. But now? You've officially unleashed my competitive side. There's no going back from that." I said, pushing a piece forward.

His expression shifted to a frown. His lips jutted out in a pout. "Interesting."

"What can I say? I'm just full of surprises," I chuckled, watching him eye the board.

"That you are."

I wasn't exactly sure where this was headed, but one thing was clear: whatever this was—what we had—yeah, I wanted it.

"Your timer's ticking..." I teased as his hand hovered uncertainly above the pieces.

"Let's make this interesting," he said, clearly feeling the impending time frame.

I raised an eyebrow. "Like a bet?"

"Yes. If I win, you have to tell me something personal. Something you haven't told anyone."

I snorted. "Come on, Spencer. That's not a real bet."

His lips twitched into a smirk. "Alright, then. If you win, you get to pick where we go for dinner."

I blinked. My heart stopped for a second. Dinner? Like... dinner dinner? As in, a date?

"Y-you want to go to dinner... with me?" God, I had to stutter?

He shrugged, casual as hell. "Only if you win."

"Ooookay." I watched him make a move, one that left him wide open.

"Smooth," I muttered, sliding a piece across the board. "But just so you know, I'm taking this win. And when I do, you're going somewhere way out of your comfort zone."

He chuckled, that amused little smile creeping onto his face as I moved my final piece. "Checkmate."

Our eyes locked, and for a second, I lost myself in the hazel depths. I cleared my throat and reached for my trusty snack stash. "Round two? And no throwing the game this time. I want a real match."

"Wouldn't have it any other way."

 

~*~

I was buried under a mountain of paperwork, which is pretty typical for me. My desk looked like a chaotic mess, but I could've found anything. There was a system in place and I was the only one that recognized it. The coffee sitting next to me was cold, which was a crime in itself, so I was just about to make another and dive into a particularly unpleasant case when the phone rang.

Spencer Reid. I couldn't stop the grin when I picked up the phone.

If this was another one of his calls about some obscure law question or asking me to explain the logistics of a "hypothetical" crime, I was all in.

Last time, he'd asked me what the legal fallout would be if someone hypothetically broke into a "fictional" FBI building. And honestly? I was tempted to ask him more about it. The look on his face when I inquired how he'd gotten caught was so worth it.

"Spencer Reid, the king of hypotheticals," I said, leaning back in my chair. "What bizarre, imaginary crime are we solving today?"

"Actually," his voice cut in, a little more strained than usual, "I've got a legal question. A serious one."

I raised an eyebrow, leaning back in my chair. "Let me guess—another murder mystery, or are you still trying to figure out the legal ramifications of Doctor Who time travel? I'm still recovering from that space-time continuum debate."

"No," he replied quickly, but I could tell there was no humor in it this time. "It's about... when a high-ranking FBI agent gets arrested by the DOJ."

My stomach tightened. "Wait a minute. Are we talking hypotheticals, or is this your way of telling me Hotch is in trouble?"

There was a long pause on the other end, he finally spoke. "It's Hotch. He's been arrested. The DOJ is involved... and they're investigating him. They think he's guilty of something, and it's not just a minor issue. It's serious, Quinn."

I froze, the words slowly sinking in. Hotch? Hotch was arrested? I could feel my pulse pick up, every thought suddenly moving a mile a minute.

"Spencer, why the hell didn't you lead with that?"

"I didn't want to alarm you—"

"Well... I'm a little alarmed!." My voice wavered slightly. "I need you to tell me exactly what is going on. Is he being charged? Or is this some kind of mistake?"

I could hear him shift on the other end, probably running a hand through his hair the way he always did when he was thinking. "The DOJ doesn't arrest people for no reason. And...no one can get to him...except a lawyer. He's in custody right now."

I swallowed hard, trying to keep my emotions in check. Of course he needed a lawyer. They'd throw everything they had at him, and as confident I was in Hotch's ability to handle himself, his team wanted to help, and it didn't hurt to have someone like me in the room.

I rubbed my forehead, exhaling slowly. "Yeah, no kidding. So, are you asking me for advice? Or if you want my help?"

I could hear Spencer's voice soften. "I'm trusting you.. to help us with this Quinn."

This was Hotch. A man I'd known for years... and really if Spencer said he needed help... I'd always help. It was the least I could do.

"I'll take the case. But you're gonna owe me. Big time. Like, I want dinner and drinks when this is all over."

Spencer let out a soft chuckle, and for a moment, the tension seemed to ease.

"I'll take you to as many dinners as you want if you help us with this."

I sighed, "I promise to do everything I can."

It looked like I was diving headfirst into a mess, with no idea where to start.

~*~

The Department of Justice was intimidating, but luckily, my past high-profile cases had made me familiar with its cold, sterile hallways. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as I walked, my footsteps echoing on the polished floors. I'd been in similar situations before, but something about this—about Hotch—felt different.

Agents stood outside of his interrogation room, and I was hit with déjà vu. But instead of Hotch being on this side of the door, he was behind it.

"Agents, I'm Aaron Hotchner's attorney." I spoke confidently, ready to take no prisoners should they argue with me.

They frowned. "He hasn't invoked?"

Ah, time to play some mind games. "I believe the questioning is leading my client into a coerced confession. I request that it stop immediately."

The agents exchanged glances, clearly trying to assess whether I was bluffing. I could practically see the gears turning in their heads as they sized me up.

Without waiting for their response, I straightened my blazer, threw on my best "Don't mess with me" smirk, and casually strolled up to the door. My hand rested on the doorknob, but one of the agents tried to block me.

"Just so you know, I'm the attorney who once got a senator off for tax evasion. So, trust me, you're going to want to let me in. Now."

They hesitated for a beat, I could almost hear their internal struggle: Should they challenge me, or should they recognize that the last thing they needed was an even bigger spectacle than they already had on their hands?

And boy was I ready to give a spectacle.

"Fine," one of them muttered, stepping back.

I threw the door open dramatically, not even bothering to look back at the agents as I entered.

"Hotch!" I called out. "Sorry I'm late, had to convince these fine folks that wasting my time was a huge mistake."

There he was—Aaron Hotchner, looking as stoic as ever. His dark eyes flickered up to meet mine, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Nice entrance," he said, his voice flat but with a touch of amusement in it.

I walked the short distance to sit next to him, taking a seat and looking up at the agent. "You can go now."

He scoffed at me. "Excuse me?"

"I need a moment alone with my client, and unless you want me to file a complaint for obstructing justice..."

The agent shook his head. "He hasn't invoked yet. You don't get to just waltz in here and make demands."

I didn't flinch. "Actually, yes, I do. As his attorney, I have the right to meet with him, whether or not he's invoked. And if you think for one second that I'm going to stand by while you break protocol, you're sadly mistaken."

He opened his mouth to argue again, but I cut him off, the words coming easily after years of practicing.

"You should also know that interfering with my access to my client could be considered a violation of his Sixth Amendment rights. And believe me, I don't think you want to be the agent who gives the press another headline about the department overstepping its bounds."

He hesitated, clearly weighing his options, but I could see the shift in his demeanor—doubt and hesitation creeping in. Finally, he huffed and stepped back, throwing his hands up in defeat.

"Fine. You've got five minutes."

I didn't bother responding. I simply turned to Hotch, giving him a half-smirk.

"What the hell is going on?"

He shook his head. "I'm being framed."

"I gathered," I replied sarcastically. "What have they got on you?"

He launched into details, telling me about the 911 call, the receipts for explosives. The more he spoke, the more my heart raced.

"So you've been under surveillance for a while?" I questioned, my mind racing. "What was the probable cause?"

And then he told me about Peter Lewis, aka Mr. Scratch, and I gotta say, I was absolutely speechless.

"I'm sorry, you left law for this?"

"It's a lot to take in, but I firmly believe he's the reason behind all of this," Hotch said.

It looked like our time was up as the agent slammed the door open. "Can we continue?"

"Yes, but I want to see the testimony of Peter Lewis," I demanded.

The agent considered my request, eventually moving to open the laptop. I frowned as the video was halfway through, having missed the first part.

"It was March of last year, I dosed Agent Hotchner with a dissociative drug," Peter Lewis spoke on the screen.

"What did this drug do?" The agent on the video asked.

Lewis continued, "It put you in a state where you experienced a waking dream. Now, I try to get my victims to see their worst nightmares... but Agent Hotchner, well... he went in his own direction."

This guy... this was terrifying... and I had seen a lot of scary people.

"What do you mean by that?" The agent conducting the interview asked Lewis.

"He started rambling about how I killed his team, which I expected. But then... he started to laugh."

I noticed how uncomfortable Hotch had gotten, but he had to know this wasn't his fault. Whatever drugs he had been dosed with altered everything. Something I would definitely be arguing if this ever got to trial.

I wanted to turn the video off as Peter continued, "Like he was delighted. And I'll be honest with you, in that moment... I was scared... of him... of what he could do to his own team... or his own son for that matter."

"Okay, that's enough. This isn't some faux horror documentary," I snapped, closing the laptop. "Why would you believe anything this lunatic says?"

"We didn't," the agent said. "But it got us digging, into you."

Hotch frowned. "What about me?"

"Was your wife killed because of your responsibilities with this job?"

Oh, man, this guy did not just say that. "Do you want me to end this interview right now, Agent? I'd be very careful with your line of questioning."

But it seemed we were dealing with an asshole agent as he continued grilling Hotch. "Did you question your commitment to the BAU after her murder?"

I shook my head. "And how does any of that connect to this?"

"Because it was then that Agent Hotchner started dismissing procedure."

"I did not," Hotch interjected.

"You faked Agent Prentiss's death. You rubber-stamped the unjustified shooting by Agent Rossi of the man who killed Jason Gideon, giving him a pass for the same crime you expelled Agent Greenaway for 10 years ago," the agent continued.

This was a lot of information to process... interesting to see what Hotch had been up to during his time in the BAU.

"Each of those instances was a judgment call," Hotch said at the same time I argued, "This has nothing to do with why we're here now."

The agent looked at us both. "This last one, he has no defense for." He pointed to the laptop. "He subjected you to a very powerful drug. One that with no other victims led to psychotic breaks. Now, why wouldn't you include that in your Bureau psychological evaluation?"

I glanced at Hotch. His face was impassive, as I answered, "My client is choosing his right not to answer."

"As is his right, but just so you know..." I watched as he flipped open Hotch's file. "The most common trait is an unyielding belief he is always right, often reinforced by a traumatic loss. The suspect will purposefully separate himself from his co-workers and quietly keep score, cataloging every slight against him. He will then use those slights to justify his own self-interest. One final trigger, like a violent confrontation or a drug-induced episode, will push him over the edge."

"Really? A profile? You're trying to fit Hotch into a profile that he most likely wrote?" I shook my head.

"Today will change everything," Hotch quoted.

I sighed; this was just a bunch of conspiracies put together. "What did you think he was going to do? Blow up his team? Leave his son without a mother and father? I mean, think about it—if he was actually going to do all of this, why would he call 911? From what I heard, that goes against everything you just described in the profile."

"I want to believe Agent Hotchner... but I just can't."

"That's fine, I'm not here to get you to believe him. But I'm sure as hell not going to let you pin this on him."

Chapter 6: The calm before The Storm p.t 2

                                ~~📖Quinn📖~~

"This is bullshit," I muttered, pacing the room for what felt like the hundredth time. We'd been stuck in here for hours with no word. "This goes against basic rights. Basic. Rights."

I marched up to the door, which I'd discovered had been locked, and yelled, "Did you hear that? You can't just keep him locked up like this!"

A soft chuckle came from behind me. I turned to find Hotch with that little half-smile of his. "You were always so stubborn."

I put a hand to my chest in mock offense. "Stubborn? Please. I am not stubborn. But rest assured, there will be a very strongly worded letter sent to this guys boss. This is a joke."

Just as I finished my rant, the door slammed open, making me jump as I quickly sidestepped to avoid getting hit.

"Who's Eric Rawdon?"

I glanced at Hotch, hoping the name would ring a bell for him.

"He's behind this," He said. Great. Fantastic. We've got the name of the correct person behind this.

But no, Agent-Not-So-Smart had to shoot that theory down. "Maybe he's your partner."

I rolled my eyes. "If that were true, you'd have evidence. Or better yet, you'd have a clue."

The agent didn't miss a beat. "I do. The storage locker in his name, the supplies..."

I shot back, "Circumstantial at best. And you're grasping at straws. Now, do you want to explain to me why you're keeping Agent Hotchner here?"

Hotch answered for me. "They need me as a cover for missing a major terrorist incident."

"It's a prison break." The Agent corrected.

My stomach dropped. This was turning into the most stressful case of my career, and that's saying something.

"Not for Rawdon. His dream is to blow up a major city—not for political reasons or ideology. No, he just wants to watch it burn. And you're letting that happen." Hotch's voice was calm, but the implication of his words painted a not so pretty picture.

I snapped my attention back to the agent. "You've got your suspect now. What's it going to be?"

He paused, debating on his options. "Now you're grasping."

"Am I?" I raised an eyebrow. "Can I ask you one thing? Is Agent Hotchner more useful to you here, where I promise you he's already writing up a report that'll get your ass dragged in front of a subcommittee? Or out there, actually doing his job and catching the real suspect?"

The silence stretched on, and for a moment, I thought I might have pushed too far. But then the agent sighed, clearly defeated.

"Fine. You're free to go."

Well, didn't have to tell me twice. Hotch and I didn't waste a second. We bolted for the door, and I was already planning my escape from this hellhole.

"Come on, I'll drive you," I said, heading for the parking lot.

As soon as we hit the fresh air, I could see the tension in Hotch's shoulders ease, even if only a little.

"Thanks," he muttered, his voice hoarse from the hours of stress.

"Don't mention it. Seriously," I said, firing up the engine. "Though, just so you know, my fee doesn't include personal taxi service."

Hotch gave me a half-smile as he slid into the passenger seat. "You didn't have to represent me."

"Hey," I grinned, throwing the car in reverse, "I like to keep things interesting... plus... Spencer asked me."

He shot me a look, probably debating whether I was serious, but I was too busy navigating through the busy streets to really notice.

The drive was mostly quiet, just the hum of the engine and the occasional turn of the wheel breaking the silence. Hotch seemed in no rush to talk, and honestly, I wasn't either.

But after a couple of minutes, he broke the quiet. "You heard what they said in there. I've done a lot of things for this job—"

I cut him off with a sharp, "Hotch, you know me well enough to know I'd never judge you for that. Hell, when you've been a criminal lawyer long enough, you get a feel for who's worth saving, no matter the situation."

He didn't respond immediately, but after a long pause, I couldn't help but ask the question that had been nagging at me. "Spencer doesn't really talk about the cases...I mean, he never really talks about work."

"A lot of us try to keep our personal lives and work separate," he said, choosing his words carefully. "Given his circumstances, I think he's trying to shield you from it all."

I snorted. "Doesn't he realize I've seen my fair share of brutal stuff too?"

Hotch nodded "Just so you know, he's been through a lot. Be careful with him."

I kept my mouth shut after that, sensing Hotch wasn't going to say more.

Finally, after a long stretch of silence, he spoke again. "I need one more favor from you."

I let out a half-laugh. "You want another favor? I just got you out off a conspiracy charge."

"Can you please go check on Jack?" His voice softened just a bit, and I could see the faintest of smiles. "I trust you with him. Just... keep an eye on him. Make sure he's okay."

I raised an eyebrow. "Trust me with him? Hotch, you sure about that?"

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. "He'll like you. And I don't want him worrying about me until I can get there."

I laughed, shaking my head. "Your bill is going to be astronomical."

"Thank you, Quinny."

I sighed, pulling into the parking lot at the prison. It wasn't long before Hotch disappeared into the shadows, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I stared at the dark building, hoping like hell both he and Spencer would be alright.

~*~

I'd never been to Quantico before, and considering the hour, they were hesitant to let me in. But all I had to do was mention Hotch, and boom, I was in. Guess he's got some kind of VIP pass around here.

When I finally reached the glass door, I paused. What the hell was I even supposed to say to a 10-year-old kid? "Hey, kid. I helped keep your dad out of jail, but now he's off handling a bomb threat?" Yeah, no. That was weird, even in my head.

I sighed, pushed the door open, and stepped in. There weren't many people around, just a few stragglers, but I did notice a kid up in an office on the second floor. I gave him a quick once-over. Yep. Definitely looked like Aaron's kid.

I made my way past the desks, curiosity getting the better of me—wondering which one was Spencer's, until I eventually reached the office.

"Uh... Hi?" Jack said, his voice tentative.

I smirked and crossed my arms. "You Jack?" I asked. "I'm Quinn. Your dad's friend."

He tilted his head. "You know my dad?"

"Yeah. I'm the one who got him out of that mess he was in." I said, shrugging nonchalantly. "So now I'm checking up on you. You're dads...busy, but he asked me to make sure you're... uh... doing okay."

Jack blinked a few times.He was definitely thinking, This is the person Dad sent?

"I'm fine," Jack said, giving me a half-grin, trying to look grown-up.

"Yeah, of course." I pulled up a chair and plopped down across from him.

Before Jack could respond, the door opened, and a guy walked in with two kids trailing behind him. He glanced at me, surprised to see someone else in the room.

"Uh, hey," he said, his New Orleans accent thick but friendly. "I didn't realize anyone else was here."

I raised an eyebrow. "Didn't realize Quantico was doubling as a daycare," I said, eyeing the two little ones.

He smiled, his expression softening. "Well, I'm Will. JJ's husband. These are our kids. It's late, but they refused to go to bed."

I nodded, glancing at the kids. Yep, they looked like they could belong to JJ.

"Guess I'm not the only one breaking curfew, huh?" I smirked. "I'm Quinn. Aaron's friend. Just here to check on Jack."

Will raised an eyebrow. "Quinn...Yeah, you must be the lawyer everyone's been talking about."

I shrugged. "That's me."

"Well, nice to meet you," Will said, hesitating before glancing at the kids. "Do you know..." He trailed off, clearly trying not to say something in front of them.

I nodded, understanding, "From what I know, everyone's out being superheroes."

Will nodded. "Yeah, sounds about right."

"If it's cool with you, I'll just hang out here until Hotch comes back. I promised..." What I really wanted to say was I wanted to check on Spencer, but was that too stalkerish?

"Fine with me," Will said. "I'm going to try and get these kids to bed." I glanced at the older one, who gave me a little wave as he was being dragged off.

I waved back and looked around Hotch's office. Spotting a notebook on the coffee table, its pages wrinkled but clearly well-loved. "You draw?" I asked, picking it up.

Jack glanced over and smiled, looking a little embarrassed. "Yeah, I like to draw."

I flipped through the pages—simple, but detailed sketches of superheroes, and, well, his dad. "I didn't expect that," I said with a smirk, closing the book and glancing at him. "These are really good."

Jack shrugged. "They're not."

"Dude, I'm serious. These are awesome." I looked back at him. "I might join you. I'm terrible at drawing, but I think it could be fun."

Jack handed me a pencil, and we both settled on the couch, sketching away. The conversation quickly turned to superheroes and which one would win in a fight.

Before long, Jack's pencil stilled, and I glanced over to see him passed out, his head resting against the couch. He was still holding the pencil loosely in his hand. I couldn't help but chuckle softly. My own eyes started to feel heavy...

"Quinn... Quinny."

I jolted awake at the sound of someone nudging me.

Hotch stood there, looking relieved. I glanced over to see Jack, now awake, drawing at Hotch's desk. "What time is it?"

"Early. We just got back." Hotch answered. I stood up, smoothing my blazer and adjusting my heels.

"I should get going—"

Hotch grabbed my arm before I could walk out. "Quinn... thank you."

I shook my head. "My pleasure. Jack's a cool kid."

I heard Jack's embarrassed chuckle from the desk as I turned to head out, leaving them to talk.

Right... I needed about five cups of coffee, a long hot shower, and something greasy to kick off this day. As I walked past the desks, I saw Will talking to JJ. I raised a hand in greeting before continuing toward the door.

"Quinn?" I stopped mid-step, whipping around to see Spencer at one of the desks.

"Hey, Spencer. You're... okay." I waved my hand vaguely at his body.

He chuckled. "Yeah, we're all good. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, just hanging with Jack. We're basically BFFs now." Why did I have to sound so ridiculous?

He smirked. "I see. Hotch... told us what you did for him."

I shrugged. "It was nothing, really. He probably would've talked the guy into letting him go eventually."

Spencer shook his head. "No, you were the one who convinced him to let him go... that's... thank you. Seriously."

I grinned. "Well, I had the incentive of dinner. And food is, like, one of my main motivators."

He laughed. "I did promise that, didn't I?"

"Don't worry. I'll collect soon enough." I smiled, unable to fight it—his laughter was contagious.

"Well... um... Rossi's having a dinner tonight... with the whole team. Would you like to come?"

My first instinct was to say yes immediately, but then I remembered my rocky start with his team. Still, maybe this would be a good chance for them to see the not-so-hard-ass side of me.

"If you want me there... then sure."

~*~

I couldn't help but fidget as we pulled up to Rossi's. Spencer had been a little too calm about this whole thing. I, on the other hand, felt like I might throw up at any second. Dinner with the BAU team. Great idea, Quinn. Not like you were the defense lawyer for their Unsub and then got him off scot-free.

Spencer shot me a warm, reassuring smile as he parked the car. "It'll be fine, Quinn. They're good people."

"Uh-huh." I stared out the window, my stomach a twisted mess. "Good people who probably think I'm a complete monster."

"Not everyone thinks that." I think he was trying to make a joke...

"It wasn't the best of introductions..."

He chuckled softly, but there was no teasing in it. "Well, now they get to see the fun side of you."

I sighed, feeling a little guilty. Even after everything, I regretted that I had used Spencer the way I had, but at the end of the day, I was just doing my job, and it was the best outcome for both of us.

"You'll be fine." Spencer gave me that look—the one he always did when he was trying to convince me he was right.

It was funny. In the courtroom, I was a force—confident, sharp, in control. But out here, with Spencer and the team, I felt like I was standing on shaky ground, trying not to crumble. I was used to fighting for my clients, keeping it all together. But when it came to this, whatever this was—being around people who knew me beyond the legal jargon and the courtroom mask, well it was important that they liked me.

I let out a shaky breath, gathering the bottle of wine I'd grabbed as some sort of peace offering. Spencer opened his door and got out, rounding the car to meet me, that same steady look on his face.

"You'll be fine," he said again, softer this time.

But I still didn't believe him.

He opened his door and got out, rounding the car to meet me. I gathered the bottle of wine I'd grabbed as some sort of peace offering.

"Ready?" he asked, clearly oblivious to the inner meltdown I was experiencing.

"As ready as I'll ever be," I smiled, opening my door. The bottle of wine felt like it weighed fifty pounds in my hand, but I held it out like I was offering an olive branch to a group of people who, quite frankly, probably wanted to throw it at me.

We made our way up to Rossi's door, and I felt my nerves pick up again. I wasn't exactly sure what I was expecting—maybe a few side glances, or a bunch of awkward silences. What I didn't expect was the way Rossi answered the door with a grin on his face and an enthusiastic, "Quinn, Spencer! Good to see you both."

I blinked, trying to process this. "Uh... hey, Rossi." I handed—well, threw—the bottle at him. "I, uh, brought this. For dinner. It's, uh... good wine. Not, like, fancy, but it'll do the trick."

Rossi laughed, taking the bottle with a wink. "I appreciate it. Come on in, both of you. Everyone's inside."

I nodded, following behind Spencer, trying to calm my nerves. I'd have to be on my best behavior tonight, which was always a bit of a stretch for me. Sarcasm was my first language, after all.

As we stepped inside, the team was gathered around, laughing and chatting. I immediately felt like an outsider. Everyone stopped talking when we entered, and I nearly choked on my own breath. I swear, I could feel every single set of eyes on me.

Stand in front of a judge? No problem. Speak in front of a jury? Easy as. This? This was literal hell.

Spencer leaned in close, his voice a soft whisper. "Don't worry. They're just... curious. You're a good person, Quinn. They'll see that."

I wanted to believe him. I really did. But right now, all I could focus on was the fact that at least Hotch was giving an almost smile, but there were a lot of unfamiliar faces I hadn't met yet.

I did my best to put on a smile. "I guess I'll have to cross-examine everyone to figure out your names."

Fuck. Me. I did not just say that.

The tension in the room broke a little. Rossi chuckled and gestured for me to take a seat next to Spencer. "You're sitting next to Spencer, who you know obviously."

"Right," I muttered under my breath, taking my seat.

Before I could get settled, an unfamiliar blonde appeared in front of me, her colorful clothing and eccentric style the first things I noticed. "You are gorgeous. Those eyes! Look at you, you're like a goddess."

I smiled nervously. "Thank you..."

"No, seriously. Are they contacts? I've never seen someone's eyes so blue."

I could feel Spencer's eyes on me—amused, but also a little concerned. I just shrugged. I was happy to let her shower me with compliments.

"All natural," I chuckled.

She laughed back, holding out her hand. "Penelope Garcia, the BAU's technical analyst."

The job title struck something in my mind. "You were the one who gave Spencer my number."

Her eyes darted, an awkward grin appearing. "Guilty. But he was so desperate, and I just couldn't say no to our boy wonder."

"Boy Wonder? Oh, you are completely forgiven for giving me that nickname for him."

After the initial awkwardness, everyone seemed to forget I was supposed to be the "villain" and settled into conversation. The food was great, and by the time I had my second glass of wine, I felt more at ease.

I also got to meet the rest of Spencer's team: Tara, who was an absolute joy, Rossi's partner Hayden, and I finally had the chance to meet JJ properly.

As everyone broke off into smaller groups, I stood back, observing this side of Spencer I didn't know. Jack and Henry had raced up to him, begging him to do a magic trick... another thing I hadn't realized he knew how to do.

I watched in utter amusement as he pulled a deck of cards out, moving closer to see the show.

"Keep your eye on him; he's very sneaky with his cards," Penelope warned, making me bite my lip to stop the laugh that threatened to escape.

"There's nothing sneaky about it; it is merely magic." He held a card in front of Jack. "I need you to blow on this card, please." He moved it to Henry. "And blow."

I watched, fascinated, as he placed the card back into the deck, then, with dramatic flair, said, "And this is your card."

The look on the boys' faces made it clear that it wasn't.

"No," Jack said, shaking his head.

Spencer frowned, turning the card around. "That's not your card? Wait... hold on..." He performed the funniest little magic hands trick with the deck.

"And this is your card," he revealed, with a little flourish.

The boys shook their heads again. "No."

"You serious? That's not your card?" Spencer shuffled the deck, then paused dramatically. "Hold on, you know what?" He turned to me, a shy grin forming on his face as a card suddenly appeared from behind my ear.

I gasped, along with Penelope and the boys. "That your card?"

"How did you do that?" Penelope screeched.

"You're a magician." I said, shaking my head with pure amusement.

He moved back over to me, grinning. "Wait... what's that in your..."

I frowned as he started pulling a long string of colorful ribbons from behind my head. I could only describe the moment as pure joy—on my end and Spencer's—ribbons falling around us as the boys tackled him to the ground.

"You're glowing," Penelope whispered in my ear.

"I'm buzzed, of course I'm glowing," I replied, unable to suppress the grin on my face at seeing Spencer so completely in his element.

"Mm-hmm." The look she gave me said it all.

I had a big fat crush on Spencer Reid.

Chapter 7: Coffee, Cats and Courtroom Chaos

In a courtroom, speculation refers to a statement or opinion that is based on guesswork, assumptions, or personal belief rather than factual evidence. It occurs when a witness, attorney, or party involved offers a statement about something they don't have direct knowledge of or haven't seen or heard firsthand. Essentially, it's making conclusions or predictions without supporting facts or concrete evidence.

~~📖Quinn📖~~

It had been exactly twenty-two minutes since my last sip of coffee, and the ticking of the clock was starting to get on my last nerve. If there was one thing that could make a criminal defense lawyer second-guess their career choice, it was a slow day.

My office had been quiet—too quiet—and it had given the voices in my head all the space they needed to take center stage. I should probably have done something productive. Reviewed case files, drafted motions, prepared for the inevitable stack of paperwork that was always looming—but instead, I had found myself staring at my phone.

Still no text from Spencer. I glared at the screen, my finger hovering over the home button, as if willing it to vibrate.

Traitor.

Not that I was waiting for one. Of course not. I wasn't that person. I wasn't the one who checked her phone like some kind of love-struck teenager, even though I'd spent the last hour typing, and retyping a message. Only to just delete it in the end.

It wasn't that I minded he'd been busy. I got it. He had a good excuse—tracking down thirteen missing prisoners, keeping on top of their cases. It was life-or-death stuff. Meanwhile, here I was, sifting through the dreary case files of petty thefts and drunken bar brawls. Yay. Go me.

Still, though. A text. Just one. Was that too much to ask for?

A soft knock on the door interrupted my thoughts. Well, at least it was an excuse not to work.

"Come in," I called, leaning back in my chair and propping my feet up on the desk, praying I didn't tip over.

The door creaked open, and my receptionist, Zoe, popped her head in. She had that awkward smile of hers—the one she saved for when she knew I was about to lose my mind.

"Hey... Quinn?" Zoe's voice was tentative as she stepped inside, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

I sighed, already bracing myself. "Hey...Zoe?" I could only imagine what she was about to ask me.

"So... I need a favor."

I narrowed my eyes. "Uh-huh. What kind of favor?"

She hesitated for a second, then blurted it out. "Could you ask that Reid guy to help me with something?"

My brain short-circuited. What did she mean, Reid guy? Like... Spencer Reid?

"What?" I barely managed to get out.

"You know, the FBI guy you're seeing."

It was probably the worst time to take a sip of my coffee. I choked, full-on life-threatening choke, my body seizing as I tried not to spew hot liquid all over my desk. Coughing like I was dying, I managed to gasp between fits. "What?!"

Zoe looked at me like I was being dramatic. "You know, Spencer. The FBI agent. Your... you know, FBI boyfriend."

"Boyfriend? He is nn-not my boyfriend." I stuttered, desperately trying to cover the growing redness in my cheeks. I could feel the heat of it creeping up my neck.

She was grinning now, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Do you want me to embarrass you further by pointing out the number of times a day you've spoken about him?"

The blood rushing to my face had to be a blazing crimson by now. It's not my fault I had to tell both her and Grace everything he did and said. Besides, they were my friends. Isn't that what friends are for?

"What... did you... need Spencer for?" I spoke softly, trying to pretend I wasn't two seconds away from having a meltdown. Or maybe it was more like a panic attack. Because every part of me that was still holding on to some shred of dignity was crumbling as I sat there thinking about him.

"Parking tickets," she grinned.

I blinked. Then blinked again.

"Parking tickets? You want a Federal Agent... to help you with parking tickets?"

Zoe nodded eagerly, oblivious to the sarcasm that was dripping from my voice. "Exactly! I mean, he's got connections, Quinn. He could totally make it go away. He's like, really good at solving problems."

I stared at her for a second, still recovering from my coffee-induced near-death experience. "So you want me to ask the FBI guy — who's not even my boyfriend by the way— to fix your parking tickets?"

Zoe's grin didn't fade. "Well, yeah…because he's... connected and stuff. And, like, he knows people."

"Right," I said, laying the sarcasm on thick now. "The FBI agent who's responsible for catching serial killers, etc."

Zoe's grin simply widened. "Please, Quinn? Pretty please?"

I groaned, rubbing my temples like I was trying to ward off a migraine. "I'm not going to ask him, but maybe I can get in touch with a local detective that owes me a favor."

Zoe's face lit up with triumph. "Yes! You're the best!"

I muttered under my breath as I fumbled for my phone, "This is the stupidest thing I've ever agreed to."

And yet, there I was, reaching to call a local cop that I had helped in the past. But the little text message on my screen made me freeze.

I could feel my heart palpitating as I quickly swiped to read it.

Are you free for a rematch?
~Spencer

I frowned. Re-reading the message three times, I felt a weird knot twist in my stomach.

That was it? Nearly a month of silence, and that's all I got? A rematch?

I clearly had issues because the next thing I knew, I was typing back before I could stop myself.

Time and place? I'll be there to kick your ass again
~ Q

I hit send and stared at the screen. Maybe I was overreacting, I mean he probably didn't even realize how much his silence affected me. But then again, this was my chance to figure out what was really going on.

Or, you know, maybe I was about to make a total idiot  of myself. Either way, I couldn't stop fixating on the fact that he actually wanted to see me again.

"Quinn?" Oh, right. Zoe was still here...

"Yes! Parking tickets." I grinned, exiting the message and pulling up my contacts.

~*~

I stood in the middle of my living room, pacing like a nervous wreck. I glanced from the couch to the coffee table cluttered with books and trashy magazines, then to the dining room table that held more books, more magazines, and the occasional coffee cup...

"Okay, Quinn. He's going to think you're an absolute mess," I muttered to myself, not knowing where to start with this... disaster.

"Meow."

I looked down to see Garfield rubbing against my legs, always hungry at the most inappropriate times. Didn't he realize I was having a crisis?

I mean... Spencer Reid. The guy I had a freaking crush on. The guy who memorizes entire books in like two hours. The walking encyclopedia with not one, not two, but three PhDs and an IQ higher than my thermostat setting. He was coming over to my apartment, and I—well, I wasn't prepared. Like... at all.

"Meow."

"Dude." I bent to pick him up, looking into his adorable, smushed face. "I'm having a moment."

His disapproving glare said it all.

"Why am I doing this?" I muttered to him. "I'm going to look like an idiot. Again."

"Meow."

"Yes, I'm sure he will like you... what's not to like."

"Alright, Quinn. Focus. You've got this." I took a deep breath, trying to convince myself that I was overthinking everything.

I straightened the books on the coffee table, though I'm pretty sure I was just rearranging chaos into a different kind of aesthetically pleasing chaos. My sketchbook caught my eye, and I launched myself at it, shoving it under the couch so he wouldn't be tempted to flip through it.

"Meow." Garfield jumped onto the coffee table, swatting at one of the stray magazines.

"Dude, not helping."

I reached down to push him off the table, but my fingers brushed against one of the stacks of magazines, causing the tower to collapse onto the ground.

I glared at the mess. "Okay... you live there now."

Garfield's meow interrupted my thoughts again, "Yeah, I have a feeling he won't be impressed with this..."

I don't know why I was being so jittery. We'd hung out multiple times before, but this was a safe space I'd created for myself, and here I was inviting him into it. But then again, he did the same for me... He might've been drunk, but it was still an invite.

The buzzer echoed through the apartment.

I froze.

I could just pretend I wasn't home... stop! This is why you're still single.

The buzzer sounded again.

I didn't hesitate this time, racing over to hold the speaker down. "Hello?" I knew who it was, but you know... stranger danger.

"H-hey Quinn, it's Spencer."

"Come on up." I held the button to unlock the door, waiting for him to make the small climb up to the second level.

Garfield, not even realizing my dramatic internal meltdown, decided this was the perfect time to jump on the couch and begin grooming himself.

"So not the time for that," I sighed, walking to the door, and took one last look at my living room disaster. At least he had plenty of reading options?

A knock sounded, and I waited the appropriate time before pulling that confidence I saved for the courtroom. I yanked the door open.

And there he was. Spencer Reid. His wide, warm eyes met mine, and for the briefest second, I forgot how to breathe.

"Hi," I said, a little too enthusiastically. "Come in... Spencer."

He smiled, all casual and polite. "Hey, Q-quinn. Thank you." He took a step into the room, his eyes immediately scanning the space.

I instantly regretted everything.

"Yeah, I'm in the middle of—spring cleaning."

His smile softened, clearly amused. "It's autumn."

"I'm getting a head start on it," I gave him my best, isn't that obvious? look.

"I see..." He walked over to a stack of books, clearly unable to help himself from seeing what I liked to read. I watched, fascinated, as his eyes scanned down the spines. "Crime and Punishment. Are you enjoying it?"

"Is it my top ten? Probably not. Am I enjoying the exploration of legal and ethical dilemmas? It's certainly different."

Spencer nodded thoughtfully, then turned toward me. "Yeah, Dostoevsky really dives into the psychology of guilt and redemption. It's fascinating how Raskolnikov's internal conflict almost seems like a precursor to modern psychological studies of criminal behavior. But I always found it interesting how his theory about being above morality—the 'extraordinary man' theory—was so flawed. It's not that he wasn't intelligent or capable; it's that his justification for murder was so disconnected from reality."

I blinked, a little overwhelmed, not just by his words but how quickly he spoke them. "I hadn't thought of it like that."

He smiled, a touch sheepish now. "Sorry, I tend to ramble about these things."

"No, no, it's fine," I said quickly, genuinely interested. "It's just... a bit of a heavy read."

"So what would be your top ten then?" He wondered, but before I could answer, the man of the hour made his appearance.

"Garfield, you want to make a good first impression?" I said, picking up the cat, who barely seemed interested.

The cat gave Spencer a disinterested sniff before turning around and settling on my shoulder.

"His name is Garfield," Spencer said, his smile widening. "Like the comic?"

"Actually, he's named after the 20th president, James A Garfield."

I saw the frown deepen on his face. "But he looks just like the cat..."

I smiled. "I know, but Garfield was a man of action. Assassinated after only serving four months in office—talk about a guy who knew how to make a quick impact. And this cat? Totally channels that energy. Look at him—barely doing anything, but somehow, he dominates the room."

Spencer raised an eyebrow, waiting for the punchline that wouldn't come.

"I mean, sure, maybe there's a slight resemblance in terms of attitude, but it's all about the president here. You know, James was known for his intellect and leadership. Garfield the cat? Well, he leads by doing absolutely nothing but still somehow gets all the attention. It's a visionary leadership style."

He looked at the cat, then back at me, clearly not buying it. "You're telling me you really named him after a president who only lasted four months in office? No comic reference whatsoever?"

"Yes, exactly. Because naming him after a comic character would just be too predictable, wouldn't it? You know I'm all about thinking outside the box."

A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Uh-huh. Sure. It's definitely about his leadership skills."

I just shrugged. "You can believe whatever you want, but history, Spencer. History."

He laughed—a deep, genuine laugh that I'd never seen from him before. The corners of his eyes crinkled, his whole body shaking from my insane chatter.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn't going to be as disastrous as I'd thought.

I'm pretty sure I gave him a dopey smile as I asked, "Coffee?"

He wiped a tear of laughter from his eye before nodding, then moved to make himself comfortable amidst the chaos of my home.

I began grinding the beans, hearing the soft sound of him pulling out what seemed to be a chessboard from that satchel of his. The faint thud of him assembling the pieces mingled with the gentle drip of espresso into the cup.

"So, how's work been?" I called out casually from the kitchen, as if I hadn't been waiting all day to ask.

There was a pause. I couldn't see him from where I stood, but I could hear the familiar creak of the bookshelf as he ran a hand along the spines.

"We've... been busy," he said finally. "Most of the escaped prisoners have been caught—Agent Luke Alvez handled most of that. He's sort of a... manhunter."

"A manhunter?" I asked, stepping into the living room with two mugs in hand. "That sounds incredibly dramatic... and a little bit badass."

Spencer gave a small, amused smile, still half-focused on the shelf. "He's actually more like—never mind. The eighth fugitive led us to the ninth. Daniel Cullen. He goes by the Crimson King."

I raised my eyebrows. "Okay, now that definitely sounds like a comic book villain."

"Yeah. But this. This is real. And worse? The mastermind behind it all is Peter Lewis. Mr. Scratch."

My stomach sank. "He's behind this?"

Spencer nodded, the humor gone from his face. "He orchestrated the entire prison break, every move planned out. And the people he's going after..." He trailed off, jaw tightening.

No wonder he'd been off the grid for weeks. Suddenly, my problems about slow days seemed silly compared to his.

I handed him his coffee and dropped onto the floor beside the couch, legs folded under me.

My suspicion of him setting the board up, were confirmed as I took in the assembled game.

"So... are you any closer to catching him?" I asked.

Spencer shook his head. "Not yet. But we found a pattern. One of the victims, Brian Phillips, had dissociative identity disorder. Lewis targeted him because of it. He was treated at a psychiatric facility in Tempe when he was a kid. We think Lewis is going back to where it all started. Anyone tied to that institution could be in danger."

I nodded, realizing how much of a burden his job was sometimes. "That's a lot to carry."

Spencer didn't respond right away. Then, he spoke quietly, "I know it sounds like a lot, but I didn't want to worry you. You've got your own life, and I thought..."

I glanced over at him. "You thought what? That I wouldn't be interested in hearing about your day? Checking in occasionally so I knew you were okay? You do realize that’s what friends do right?”

He looked down at his cup. "I just didn't want to pull you into something dark. It's not exactly... light conversation."

"No, it's not," I said, my voice gentler now. "But that doesn't mean you have to go through it alone. Plus, I think you're forgetting what I deal with on a daily basis as well... it's not exactly 'light' conversation."

His gaze flicked up to meet mine, those hazel eyes always searching for something.

"I get it," I went on. "You're used to being the one who holds it all together. But even you get to lean on someone now and then. Doesn't have to be dramatic or deep. Just... let someone be there."

Spencer looked like he might argue, but then he just nodded slowly. "You're right, I guess I'm still figuring out how that works."

"We both are, but there's no pressure. Just—next time, let me be there. Even if it's just to make really bad, and probably inappropriate jokes."

His smile widened, just barely. "Deal."

I nodded, happy to move past the moment, "Are you ready for a rematch?"

"Absolutely. Which side would you like?" He gestured to the board.

"The side that's going to kick your ass." I replied, already moving the pawn forward.

He chuckled, "Your confidence should be documented."

Ha! If only he'd been inside my head twenty minutes ago...

"Why am I picturing some doco-series about my life now? Like The Office or some nature show narrated by David Attenborough."

Spencer tilted his head, amused. "David Attenborough?"

"Yeah." I cleared my voice, putting on the best British accent I could, "And here, we witness the Quinn in her natural habitat—overthinking everything and challenging a literal genius to chess."

He chuckled. "Is that his voice?"

"Spencer... are you telling me you've never watched a David Attenborough documentary?"

He shook his head. "Or The Office."

I stared, unable to believe he hadn't seen either of those shows. "We're fixing that, right after I beat you."

"You say that like you've already won," he replied, smoothly sliding his knight and taking my bishop ruthlessly.

"You ever think about letting someone else win? Just for fun?"

He looked at me seriously, "Why would I do that?"

I laughed, "No, you're right, it's better I win on my own merit, not because you let me."

He laughed quietly, then sipped his coffee. There was a pause, not awkward, just... quieter. His eyes drifted away from the board, thoughtful.

"Everything okay?" I asked, keeping my voice light but curious.

He nodded, then shrugged. "Yeah. Just... been a long couple of weeks."

I got it. His work would be tiring, and mentally draining. I had a feeling we only just scratched the surface of the whole Peter Lewis situation.

"You want to talk about it?"

I didn't push, just moved a pawn and leaned back, waiting.

Spencer glanced up at me. "It's kind of strange... being here."

"Here as in my apartment or..."

A smile tugged at his lips. "I just didn't picture this."

"Well, this place does come with espresso and judgmental cats."

"I noticed." He glanced at Garfield, now draped over the back of the couch like he owned the place.

I chuckled when I saw him reach a tentative paw out and claw Spencer softly.

A moment passed, and he held one of Garfield’s paw. "I've just been thinking about... home. I guess."

"Home like where you live now?" I asked, intrigued now. "Or like the place you grew up?"

He hesitated. "The place I grew up."

I didn't say anything, allowing him to take this at his pace.

"I used to go back to Vegas more often," he continued. "Lately it's been harder."

"Too far? Too busy?"

He shook his head. "It's neither of those, really."

I could tell that this was taking a lot for him to say, to bare this part of himself to me.

"My mom's there," he added quietly. "She's... sick."

I looked up, my teasing dropping away completely. "Spencer..."

"She has schizophrenia," he admitted, like it was something he had practice saying over and over again. "It's been most of my life. Some days she knows me. Other days she thinks I'm someone else. Lately, there have been more of the second kind."

I swallowed, my voice soft. "That must be... difficult."

He gave a faint smile. "She's been diagnosed with Alzheimer's on top of her schizophrenia, and it's been... harder than I thought. I'm trying to find a way to help her, but sometimes it feels like nothing I do is enough—no matter how many treatments or specialists I bring in."

There was a quiet honesty in his voice that made my chest ache.

I really didn't know what to say to that. I reached for my mug, just for something to do. "She sounds... pretty important to you."

"She is."

"And I bet she'd be proud of you. Even on the days she doesn't remember why." I added softly, wanting to offer him some sort of comfort.

He looked over at me, really looked, like he hadn't expected anyone to say something like that.

"Thank you."

"Of course," I said. "Next time, if you want, you can tell me more about her."

"I'd like that."

I felt the moment shift—he'd just shown me something important, real. And I... well, I'd never been great with that sort of thing. Blame my parents: masters of emotional evasion.

I fidgeted with a pawn. "Thanks for...telling me."

It seemed he was just as awkward with the whole vulnerability thing too..."Thanks for listening."

After a second, I cleared my throat and sat up straighter. "Well. Now that I've successfully manipulated you into emotional distress... prepare to be destroyed."

He laughed. "That was your strategy?"

"Obviously. Emotional sabotage. Very advanced tactic."

He moved his bishop, still smiling. "Let's see how far it gets you."

As the night wore on we continued to laugh and chat, and I realized that maybe this could be the start of something. It wasn't the time for me to see if things could go beyond friendship—I knew that. Spencer had his own burdens to carry, and I didn't want to complicate things further. But that didn't mean I didn't want to be there for him. We were both still figuring out how this "leaning on someone" thing worked, and it was okay if it took time.

Just... right now, this was enough...

~*~
The prosecutor's voice grated on my nerves, but I wasn't about to back down.

"Objection, Your Honor!" I shot to my feet, cutting him off mid-sentence. "This is irrelevant. The witness's statement is hearsay and inadmissible."

The prosecutor, clearly irritated, shook his head. "Your Honor, we are simply establishing the defendant's motive with the testimony. It's all connected—"

"It's not connected," I interrupted sharply. "You can't tie a motive to my client based on a witness who was not even present at the scene. Your Honor, I ask that this testimony be stricken from the record. It's pure speculation."

I turned toward the jury, watching their expressions carefully. "You've seen the evidence. The defendant's fingerprints were not on the weapon. The security footage shows him miles away at the time of the murder. There's no DNA linking him to the scene. What they have is one witness with a questionable history and a timeline that doesn't even make sense."

I was about to continue when the courtroom door creaked open, instinct had me turning to see who the latecomer was.

Hotch.

The moment I saw him, I knew something had changed. His face was drawn, his expression tight with worry. My heart lodged itself in my throat. Whatever the reason he was here, it clearly wasn’t good.

Without even thinking, I looked to the judge. "Your Honor, I'm requesting a recess. We need to confer immediately. There's a critical issue I need to address with my client."

The judge blinked, clearly thrown off by the sudden interruption. "A recess? How long do you need, Ms. Bennet?"

"Fifteen minutes," I said quickly, my gaze flickering to Hotch.

The judge didn't question me further, nodding. "Court will be in recess for fifteen minutes."

I rushed over to Hotch, barely sparing a glance at my client as I passed. "Is everything okay?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "What's going on?"

Hotch's jaw clenched, and his eyes were darker than I'd ever seen them. "We've got a situation. We need to talk. Now."

Chapter 8: The one where Hotch ghosts the team

A safeguard is a person, action, or system put in place to protect someone from harm, danger, or emotional fallout. In the context of witness protection, it can mean more than just physical protection—it can also mean someone who offers stability, emotional security, and trust in a world that's been turned upside down.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

I couldn't believe I was here right now. When I woke up this morning, I thought it'd be a typical day—argue in court, tackle a mountain of paperwork, daydream about Spencer... but no. Instead, I was stirring the cheap tasting coffee I ordered as I waited.

Across from me, Hotch watched with that signature calm-bordering-on-grim expression that made it impossible to tell if he was about to tell me someone died or if he'd just won a million dollars. I'd hope he'd look slightly less serious if it were the latter. But hey—this was Hotch.

"So...are you confessing to a felony, finally confronting your emotional baggage, or just here to ruin my day with that classic Hotchner minimalism?"

He didn't laugh. Which was expected. Hotch had always treated my sense of humor like something to avoid, unless it was really funny, which clearly it wasn't today.

"I'm going into witness protection," He replied.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

"Wow. Okay. So dramatic. What happened to just ghosting people like a normal emotionally repressed adult?"

Still nothing. Just that look. The one that said this wasn't a joke, and he was already halfway gone.

And suddenly, I was nineteen again—nervous, overdressed, sweating through my blazer in a courtroom conference room that smelled like paper and disappointment. My first internship. He hadn't even looked up when I walked in.

He was sitting at the end of a long table, surrounded by files and associates who looked like they'd sold their souls to corporate law. His first words to me were:

"If you're here for the intern spot, take notes. Don't speak unless spoken to. Don't apologize for everything."

My first impression of Aaron Hotchner: arrogant, cold, and clearly unimpressed with me—or the fact that I was the youngest intern their office had ever had.

Three weeks later, I was still there. And so was he—quietly correcting my memos, occasionally tossing me a note on how to improve. The first time he called me by name, I wrote it down in my journal like a loser. Underlined it twice. Circled it. Might've drawn a tiny heart, but that's not the point.

Because back then, he wasn't just a lawyer. He was the lawyer. The guy who didn't flinch in court. Who could talk a judge into a recess with two words and a raised eyebrow. He made it look easy, effortless. He was exactly the kind of lawyer I wanted to be.

And now he was sitting across from me, asking me to maybe say goodbye to him forever.

It didn't make sense.

I frowned as he pushed a sealed envelope across the table toward me.

Eyes shifting between it and him, I asked, "So this is the part where you tell me what's going on exactly?"

He exhaled, I'd never seen him so... tired.

"This is the part where I ask you to look out for Jack, should anything happen to me. And... I need someone I can trust. Someone outside the BAU. Outside the system."

I blinked, processing his words. "What do you mean? Are you being threatened? I can help, draw up a restraining order-."

He cut me off, "It's Scratch. He's threatened Jack, and a restraining order isn't going to do anything. If I disappear, if something happens... I need to know he'll have someone who won't back down. Someone who won't hesitate. I need you to be his safeguard."

I stared at the envelope, that slow, crawling pressure building behind my eye—the kind that warned you a migraine was coming whether you wanted it or not.

"You sure about this?" I asked. "I mean... what about his aunt.."

He nodded once. Slow. Final. "I'm asking you."

"But...Hotch...I don't understand why."

A second passed before he met my eyes. "Because you see things others miss. And because I trust you to protect Jack as fiercely as I would. I remember that nineteen-year-old who walked into the office like she had something to prove. Passionate. Stubborn. Scared out of her mind—but already fighting for people she barely knew. You haven't changed as much as you think."

He graced me with one of his rare smiles. "I know you, Quinn. And I know Jack would be safe with you."

But...how do you really know someone after a decade?

He said it like he hadn't been gone all this time. Like nothing had changed. Like I was still someone he could just hand this off to without question.

And Spencer—God. He was still trying to make sense of Derek leaving, still carrying that guilt around like it was his fault. Like he could've fixed it if he'd just tried harder.

And now this?

I kept my voice steady. "Spencer's not going to understand this. You know that, right? He's going to take it personally."

He said nothing.

"And I don't know how you—of all people—can just walk away and expect everyone else to be fine with it."

But sure. Tell me you still know me. Like I haven't changed.

"I'll protect Jack," I said. "You don't have to worry about that."

Then he slid another thick envelope across the table. "For the team."

I didn't touch it. "You know they're not going to take this well, right?"

"I know."

"They'll probably come looking for you."

"They won't."

My eyes narrowed. "Because you told them not to? Or because you're underestimating how much they actually give a damn?"

He didn't answer. Which said enough.

I nodded slowly, even though my chest was tight. This wasn't hypothetical. This was real. This was Hotch disappearing off the map—and me, the girl who once tripped over her own briefcase on her first day, being the one thread left tying him to the people who hadn't walked away.

No pressure.

I pushed the coffee aside, suddenly less interested in caffeine and more interested in how the hell this became my life.

Finally, I reached for the envelope. My fingers hesitated just a second longer than they should've. Like if I waited long enough, maybe it would just vanish on its own.

"I still feel like you should have given this to Spencer..."

Hotch gave the smallest smile. It didn't reach his eyes.

"You'll know what to do," he said.

And the worst part?

He actually believed that.

"Take care of yourself," I said quietly. Not a demand. Not a plea. Just...a goodbye.

Hotch stood slowly, giving me one last look as he paused beside me.

"Thank you, Quinny."

Then he walked out.

And I sat there, alone, wondering what would've happened if I never took that case. If our paths had stayed separate. If ten years of silence had just stayed that way.

The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, I had to convince myself that actually happened, and not some wild dream.

"You really picked the worst possible person for this, Hotch," I muttered under my breath, glaring at the envelopes.

~*~

"I just need a visitor pass, please," I told the security officers, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.
This was total bullshit. Suddenly they were being strict about who they let in, but just a few weeks ago, I'd mentioned Hotch's name and it was all 'please, make yourself at home.'

"Unless you have a specific reason—"

"I do," I cut in. "I need to talk to the BAU. That should be enough."

"Have you been in contact with Agent Jareau?"

"If I say yes, does that get me a pass?"

He sighed, like I was the problem here. "We'll need her to confirm."

Urgh. I did not have the emotional capacity for this right now. I'd spent the better part of two hours mentally preparing to drop a bombshell on the people Hotch considered family—and this guy decided today was the day he wanted to follow protocol.

"Penelope Garcia!" The name burst out of me. "She'll escort me."

He gave me a skeptical look but picked up the phone. "Your name?"

"Quinn... Bennet."

He wasn't on the call long. I could hear a high-pitched voice through the receiver—definitely Penelope—his throat bobbing and nodding as she rapid-fired something at him.

Finally, he hung up. "She'll be right down."

"Excellent."

I didn't even have to wait long.

A ding announced the elevator's arrival, and a second later, Penelope Garcia practically exploded into the lobby—platform boots clicking dramatically, pink cardigan swishing like a cape. She looked like a cupcake and rainbow rolled into one, and I have to admit, it totally worked for her.

"Quinny!" she squealed, spotting me instantly and hurrying across the floor like we were besties and not people that had only really spoken in passing.

I tried not to visibly recoil at the nickname. "Hey, Garcia."

The security guard stepped aside as she marched over like a woman on a mission. "This is so not how we treat guests, by the way," she said, shooting the poor man a glare. "This building has enough paranoia already."

She wrapped me in a quick, soft hug before I had time to prepare, then pulled back with a grin.

"Wait—don't tell me. You're here to surprise Spencer, aren't you?" she asked, eyes wide with delight. "Is this, like, a pop-in with muffins and suppressed feelings? Because if it is, I fully support it and demand details."

My stomach twisted. Oh, man... Spencer. I really should've brought something. A book. A coffee. What do you bring someone you like but haven't exactly discussed being more than friends with?

"Uh. Not exactly," I said, forcing a weak smile.

Her grin faltered—just a fraction.

Garcia tilted her head, scanning me in that unnervingly accurate way of hers. Like she could sense my inner turmoil.

"Okay..." she said slowly. "But you are here to see the team?"

"Yeah," I said. "I've got something I need to give them. From...Hotch."

Her expression didn't change, but something in her posture did—shoulders hunching, smile dimming. Guilt hit me instantly. For someone who was basically a human rainbow, the last thing I wanted was to disappoint her.

"Okay," she said again, this time quieter. "Let's go upstairs."

She didn't ask questions—which I gathered wasn't something she normally skipped. Instead, she simply looped her arm through mine like she had earlier, but this time it felt less like a greeting and more like support.

As the elevator doors slid shut, I braced myself for the hardest part: telling the people who loved him most that he was gone.

Not dead. Just... gone.

And somehow, that felt a little worse.

The bullpen was a blur of movement—agents pacing between desks, phones ringing, whiteboards covered in half-scribbled notes.

Garcia led the way, her arm still linked with mine as we moved across the BAU floor.

Halfway through, my eyes landed on a desk piled with books—tall stacks layered between case files, coffee mugs, and what I was pretty sure was a half-finished crossword.

I tilted my head toward it. "That's gotta be Spencer's desk."

Garcia shot me a proud smile. "You know your boy."

You know what... I'm not even going to correct that. Because she's right. I do want him to be mine.

And then we were climbing the stairs, Garcia already pushing open the conference room door.

I'm not going to lie—the infamous round table (yes, I'd dubbed it that in my head) was pretty cool to see in person.

But the second Garcia opened the door, my eyes found him.

Spencer was seated at the far end of the conference table, mid-discussion with JJ, but whatever he'd been saying trailed off the moment he saw me.

He looked stunned—like his two worlds had just collided and no one gave him a heads-up.

"Quinn," JJ said, standing with a soft smile. "It's good to see you."

"Hey," I said, tearing my eyes away from Spencer. "It's... good to be here."

That was a lie. But the kind you're allowed to tell when someone's being nice.

Rossi turned in his chair with a smirk. "They're really letting anyone in these days, huh?"

I gave him a dry look. "Relax—I only came for the coffee."

There were two people I didn't recognize. A woman with sharp features and dark eyes, the other-tall, broad-shouldered, and so objectively attractive I immediately thought I had to find the part in their manual where it was a requirement to be undeniably attractive.... even Rossi had silver fox energy.

Introductions were made—Emily Prentiss, Luke Alvez.
Wait... wasn't she the one who died? I kept the comment to myself. For about three seconds.

"You died, right?" I asked, way too casually.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "Briefly."

"Cool. That's kinda badass."

Garcia let out a soft snort beside me, and even JJ looked vaguely entertained.

But then Emily glanced at Spencer—just for a second—and I caught it.

That tiny shift. The kind people only make when they already know something. Or someone.

Oh my god.

He'd talked about me.

Not in a casual "yeah, I kinda know her" way. No—this was the kind of look people give when they've heard actual details.

Like stories. Plural.

And okay, I played it cool on the outside, but internally? Full meltdown. Because the way she looked at him? That wasn't surprise.

That was recognition.

And then he stood, reminding me that this wasn't the time to have a fan girl moment. "Hey... I didn't know you were coming here."

"Neither did I, really." I offered him a small smile.

He smiled back and suddenly the room didn't feel so overwhelming.

JJ motioned toward the table. "You wanna sit down?"

I shook my head. "I'm not staying long. I just... have something I need to give you."

Right, the reason I was here. Time to add more trauma to these people's lives.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the envelope. The emotional statement of it still felt unnatural in my hand.

"It's from Hotch."

Every movement in the room froze.

Rossi sat up straighter. JJ's brows pulled together. Emily's head tilted slightly. Spencer looked at the envelope like it might vanish if he blinked too fast.

"He asked me to deliver it," I said. "To all of you."

"Is he okay?" JJ asked carefully.

"He's safe," I replied. "So is Jack."

The silence was suffocating.

Emily stepped forward. "Safe from what?"

I glanced at each of them, then set the envelope down like I wasn't internally spiraling. A+ performance, honestly.

"He's in Witness Protection."

I was used to being the one who mic-dropped—especially in the courtroom—but this was the kind of explosion even I wasn't ready for.

"No," Spencer said, too fast. "No, he wouldn't just leave. Not without—"

"He didn't have a choice," I said, quietly. "Scratch got too close. There was a credible threat to Jack. Hotch didn't want to risk it."

They all stared at me like I had two heads...

"He left that letter for you," I added. "As a goodbye...I suppose? I didn't really ask him."

Spencer didn't look at the envelope. He looked at me.

"You saw him?" His voice was sharp—too sharp. Like he hadn't meant for it to come out that way, but couldn't stop it.

I nodded once. "Right before."

His jaw clenched. That flicker—hurt, maybe betrayal—flashed across his face.

"I don't know," I muttered, sharper than I meant to. "He didn't give me a play-by-play. Just showed up, handed me the letter, and disappeared like it was no big deal."

Garcia stepped in beside me—soft, cautious. Like I might bolt or say something wildly inappropriate.
"You're just the messenger," she said. "He trusted you."

I scoffed. "Right. Trusted me to play messenger and stick around for the emotional fallout. Fun."

I looked down at the envelope, jaw tight.

I can't believe I got stuck with this.

As soon as Garcia gently reached for the envelope—like it might burst on fire if anyone grabbed it too fast—I stepped back from the table.

"Well, my deed is done." I said, already turning toward the door.

This was far too emotional for my liking. No one stopped me. JJ looked like she wanted to, but didn't. Emily gave me a small, respectful nod. Rossi just looked... tired. And I got that. I really did. I don't think I ever related to a person more.

I made it out of the conference room, down the hall, through the bullpen—past Spencer's desk and its multiple stacks of books—before I heard footsteps behind me.

"Quinn," Spencer called softly.

I stopped, but I didn't turn around right away.

"Care to snap at me some more?"

"No... I'm sorry." His voice was softer, apologetic.

I finally turned to face him. And honestly? It was rude how good he looked. Like the universe decided I hadn't suffered enough today and threw in the bonus of a soft smile and a jawline that deserved its own legal disclaimer.

"You said you didn't read the letter? Or know what's in it?" He continued; ruining his pretty face with that frown.

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "It wasn't exactly my business to read it."

We stood in silence for a second.

"He didn't tell me," Spencer said, eyes meeting mine. "Not even a hint. Do you know how insane that is?"

"He didn't tell anyone," I said. "That's kind of the point."

"But he told you."

His voice wasn't angry. Just confused.

I sighed. "He trusted me to do the one thing he couldn't: look you all in the eye and tell you he wasn't coming back."

"Why you?" Spencer asked, not accusing, obviously trying not to snap at me again. "Why not Garcia? JJ? Me?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Because I just scream emotionally detached courier service, obviously."

He gave a faint smile but didn't drop it. His eyes stayed on mine, searching.

I sighed. "Because you would've tried to stop him," I said. "Didn't you tell me the BAU is like your family? Don't you think Hotch feels the same way?"

Spencer was quiet. Clearly just... thinking. Always thinking.

"And you?" he asked. "You didn't try to stop him?"

"No...and I think it would have been pretty selfish of me to add to his already massive amount of guilt if I did. He didn't choose this lightly, Spencer. He is putting his son first. And I get that, it's probably a sore subject for you, but at the end of the day, he's doing what he believes is right."

Spencer looked down, then back up. "A-are you ok?"

The question caught me off guard.

I shrugged again, but softer this time. "I've been better."

He stepped a little closer, allowing me to inhale that addictive smell that was simply Spencer. Cinnamon, coffee, and old books.

"I think I'm starting to understand why he asked you."

That surprised me more than anything else.

I looked at him for a long moment, starting to get lost in those hazel eyes. "Want to tell me then? Because I still don't really get it."

"You, um... you've always looked at things differently. Not just analytically, but emotionally too. You notice things most people miss, and you somehow make sense of them in this... human way." He paused, as if he was trying to sort all those thoughts in his head.

"Hotch knew that. He knew I needed it. Needed you. Because I don't always know how to process things like this. But you make me see it clearer—not by telling me what to think, but by helping me think differently."

He took a breath. "And he trusted you with this because... I think he knew I already do."

And suddenly my brain decided to short-circuit. My heart did this ridiculous flutter thing it absolutely had no right doing, and every sarcastic defense mechanism I had just kind of... shut down.

"Did you guys just get back from a case?" I asked, blurting it out like I hadn't just been emotionally steamrolled.

He nodded, clearly a little confused by the abrupt change. "Yeah, we were just about to all head home."

"Do you want to go on a... da-dinner with me..."

Awesome. That was supposed to be date. A simple, normal human sentence. But no. I bailed halfway through like the big fucking chicken that I am.

"Da-dinner?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Da-dinner. You know, like 'Da-Dinner is served.'
..that sounded much cooler in my head, and now I want to go crawl under a rock...

But before I can fully wallow in the cringe, he laughed. That beautiful, contagious laugh that made his whole face light up.

"I would love to go to dinner with you," he finally managed to choke out between his chuckles, and yet the way he looked at me... maybe I wasn't being as much of an idiot as I thought.

I watched as he wandered over to his desk. I was, in fact, correct when I saw him swing the satchel over his shoulder, then pause at the sight of a couple of books.

He grabbed them both and walked back over.

"For you," he said with a grin.

I held the leather-bound book in my hands. The style was clearly old, but timeless—the kind of thing someone would hold onto for years. I flipped it open, feeling the smooth, well-worn pages. The title was faded but still legible: Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. It was obvious from the creases on the spine and the slight fraying at the corners that Spencer had spent hours reading it.

"This was yours," I said softly, running a thumb along the edge of the pages. "You've read this a hundred times."

"More like two hundred," he admitted, a little sheepish. "My mom used to read it to me when I was a kid. It was one of the few constants during a time when everything else felt... uncertain."

I looked up at him, the weight of that admission settling somewhere in my chest. "And you're giving it to me?"

He shrugged, but his eyes stayed on mine. "You'll take care of it. And you'll understand it... maybe even better than I ever did."

My voice was quiet when I replied. "You know you can't just go around doing things like this... someone might actually fall for you."

He flushed slightly, and if that wasn't the cutest thing I'd ever seen...

"Well," he said, clearing his throat, "I figured I'd work up to that. Maybe over da-dinner."

"Da-dinner and Dickens," I grinned. "Be still my nerdy heart."

He gave a soft laugh, that frown came back as he spoke. "I meant what I said earlier... about trusting you. I don't say stuff like that often. Not because I don't feel it, just because... it's hard."

I nodded, stepping a little closer, holding the book against my chest. "You don't have to say it all at once. I already know."

His expression softened in that way that made it suddenly very difficult to breathe.

"So," I said, nudging his arm. "Dinner? I'm warning you now, it's not going to be candlelight and violins. We're talking burgers. Possibly milkshakes."

"I like milkshakes," he said, a smile stretching across his face.

"Good," I replied. "Because you're buying."

Chapter 9: The best non-date ever

"Under federal law, kidnapping becomes a crime of interstate jurisdiction when the victim is taken across state lines—thankfully, emotional abductions don't count."

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

I was asleep. Blissfully, unapologetically asleep.

It was the rare kind of sleep where I was actually comfortable. My legs were tangled in my favorite fleece blanket, the one with the cartoon gavel. My face was mashed into a pillow that definitely needed to be washed. And my brain? My brain was floating somewhere far, far away from the concept of paperwork, courtrooms, or emotionally confusing FBI agents with objectively perfect jawlines.

Knock knock knock.

I groaned into my pillow.

No. Nope. Not today. Let me just sleep...

Knock knock knock.

Jesus. Christ. It's Sunday people. The day of rest. The day of sleeping in, the day I don't have to look or interact with people.

I peeled one eye open and glanced at the clock. It wasn't even ten. My soul hadn't rebooted yet. I cocooned myself tighter into the blanket, hoping whoever it was gave up and decided I wasn't home... or moved, whatever made them leave.

Knock knock knock.

Ok. Looks like someone wants to die today.

I sighed dramatically to no one and dragged myself out of bed, tripping over a pair of boots and stubbing my toe on the edge of the coffee table because the universe was cruel and I'd made poor furniture choices.

As I shuffled toward the door, still wrapped in the blanket like a disgruntled burrito, I did some quick mental math.

Odds were, it was Mrs. Kim.

She was eighty-two, lived two doors down, and had recently decided I was her personal tech support/life coach/target for passive-aggressive comments about "unmarried women with strong opinions." Last week she brought me expired yogurt and a pamphlet about finding Jesus.

So yeah. Chances were, it was Mrs. Kim.

I threw open the door mid-rant. "Mrs. Kim, I've told you a thousand times—"

And then I stopped.

Because it wasn't Mrs. Kim.

It was Spencer.

Holding two coffees.

Looking at me like this wasn't our usual routine of "just friends who accidentally spend all their free time together."

Cool. Love that for me.

His hair was a little messy. His cardigan looked freshly wrinkled, like he'd tugged it on in a hurry. And he was smiling at me like this was exactly what he'd hoped for. Like I wasn't a human disaster who answered the door in a blanket cocoon and sleep crust in her eyes.

I blinked.

"You're not Mrs. Kim," I said intelligently.

He tilted his head. "No. But I'm starting to wonder if I should be worried for her."

I stared. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to kidnap you," he says simply, like this is a perfectly normal response.

And honestly? It kind of is. We've hung out before—chess games, late dinners, that time he helped me alphabetize my bookshelf and we somehow ended up watching The Twilight Zone at two a.m.—but this? This feels different. He looks nervous. Or excited. Or both.

And I'm wearing cartoon gavel pajamas. Great.

A lot of thoughts ping around my brain at once. Some that suggest I've clearly read too many dark romances.
But luckily, what comes out is: "That's illegal. And you're in the FBI."

"Only if I cross state lines."

I squint at him. "Are you... joking?"

"I brought coffee." He lifted one of the cups. "That makes it less threatening, right?"

My heart was awake now. My entire nervous system was awake now.

I narrowed my eyes. "You know we already hang out, right? You didn't have to show up like a Netflix original rom-com."

He just shrugs, totally calm. "Yeah. But I hoped this one would feel different.”

Aaannnd there goes every functional brain cell.

"Can I ask why?" I asked, even though we both knew I'd say yes the second he smiled like that.

He shrugged. "I thought I'd show you some of my favorite places in the city. You said once you didn't really get D.C. I thought... maybe you hadn't seen the right parts."

I hated how sincere he was. Hated that I wanted to say yes so badly I might actually scream. And I really hated that he was standing on my doorstep at nine-something in the morning like he hadn't just turned my heart into a Mexican jumping bean.

"You're calling this what, exactly?" I asked, even though we'd played this game before—dinner-that's-not-a-date, chess-that-turns-into-movies. This was just the first time he was being this obvious about it.

"A non-date."

I snorted. "What the hell is a non-date?"

"A date that isn't technically a date," he replied, dead serious. "No pressure. Just mutual enjoyment of architecture, bookstores, and maybe sandwiches."

God help me. "I like sandwiches."

I tried not to. I tried to keep my face neutral and unimpressed, but something traitorous cracked through anyway. He saw it—of course he did—but he didn't say anything. Just waited.

I looked down at myself—blanket, cartoon pajamas, morning breath, no bra—and then back at him.

"Give me ten minutes," I muttered. "And I'm going to need you to erase how I look right now from your brain."

"You know I can't do that," he said, handing me the coffee.

And then I closed the door in his face.

And then immediately pressed my forehead to it.

Because I liked him.
Because I've been trying not to like him this much for weeks.
Because I was already smiling like an idiot and it wasn't even ten a.m.

I stood there for a moment, trying to tell myself that it was just a guy, and this was not even a date.

But... he's not just a guy...

I looked down at the coffee he bought me. This was clearly a bad idea... I was already in over my head, and he'd just shown up with caffeine and a cardigan.

I turned and marched straight to my bedroom.

Right. Clothes. Human clothes.
I peeled off my disaster pajamas and glared at my closet like it had personally betrayed me. Nothing too date-like, but also not my usual panic hoodie. I needed something that said casual charm and not just rolled out of bed after panic-sweating over a boy on my doorstep.

I landed on jeans that didn't offend me and a black sweater that whispered "functional adult" if you didn't look too closely—there was a stain I gave up on weeks ago.

Hair: fine. Makeup: borderline. Perfume: one spritz. Two felt like trying too hard.

I caught my reflection in the mirror and flipped it around. Immediately.

Nope. No time for a breakdown. I was being kidnapped by a cardigan-wearing genius with 187 IQ points and weaponized eyelashes. I needed to focus.

I took a sip of the coffee—strong, a little sweet. Of course he remembered how I take it. I bet he filed it away like one of his weird facts about poisonous mushrooms or obscure presidents.

God, I liked him.

It was unbearable.

I pulled on my boots, stuffed my phone in my back pocket, and stared at the door. He was still out there. Waiting.

My heart did a traitorous little flutter.

I took a deep breath, blew it out slowly, and muttered, "Alright, Quinn. Go outside and pretend to be normal."

Then I opened the door.

He looked up the second I opened it.

And damn him, he smiled like I'd just made his day. Like I wasn't fifteen minutes post-blanket burrito and dangerously close to combusting in public.

"You look nice," he said, like it was a perfectly casual observation and not a verbal landmine.

I made a noise in the back of my throat that could've meant thank you or please stop being cute before I do something really stupid.

Then I stepped outside, locking the door behind me with more focus than necessary.

"So... do I get to know where you're taking me?"

"Somewhere quiet. Easier to talk.” I wish I could tell if he was nervous... he normally was... but this... he was like a confident Spencer Reid and I didn't know how to take it.

"You’re so taking me to library, aren’t you." I said, sipping my coffee like it was a sedative and praying he couldn't hear how loud my heart was panicking.

He just grinned. "This way."

We walked side by side down the street, and I hated how easy it was. It was always easy with him. But today it felt... intentional. Like maybe we weren't pretending anymore.

Our hands were doing that awkward brush against each other, and if I were any other person I might have just grabbed it but no, we weren't in a court room, my feelings had to interfere with logic and all I could think was the embarrassment of REJECTION.

"So," I said, needing a distraction. "Is this how you lure all your non-dates? Show up with caffeine and excessive optimism?"

He glanced sideways at me. "Only the special ones."

"Rude," I said, and bumped his shoulder lightly with mine. "Accurate. But rude."

We ended up at a small brick café tucked behind a row of bookstores—one of those hidden D.C. spots that looks like it belongs in a black-and-white film. Inside, there were maybe six tables, all mismatched. Jazz played softly over a crackling speaker.

Spencer opened the door for me and gave the barista a nod like they were old friends. Of course he was a regular. Of course he had a secret café. Of course it was charming as hell.

I was a little hurt he had another spot he liked that wasn't 'our' cafe.

We settled into a corner table, and I looked around, trying not to be obvious about how soft this all felt. I was used to bars, courtrooms, sterile fluorescent lighting. This was warm. Personal.

He sat across from me, his hands wrapped around his coffee cup.

"Okay," I said, pointing a finger at him. "You're laying it on pretty thick for a non-date, Reid."

He smiles into his coffee cup. "That's because it's not really a non-date. But I figured easing you into that part might increase my survival rate."

I stared at him. "You're not allowed to say things like that with jazz playing. That's emotional entrapment."

~*~

Our second stop was... well. Very Spencer.

The Smithsonian Museum of Natural History.

Morning had officially given up. The lobby buzzed with tourists and the smell of floor polish, my coffee had finally kicked in, which meant my brain was now caffeinated enough to overanalyze everything. Light filtered through the massive glass entryway and lit up the mammoth skeleton looming over the atrium like it was watching us for signs of emotional instability.

Spencer paused just inside, looking up at the towering bones like he was greeting an old friend.

"Have you ever been here?" he asked.

I shrugged. "Once. School trip. I remember someone dared me to touch a fossil and I ended up banned from the mammal hall. Which, by the way, is exactly as humiliating as it sounds when you're twelve and covered in vending machine Dorito dust."

He smiled. "That sounds about right."

"What, me being banned from places?"

"No. You being the one who touched the fossil."

I nudged him with my elbow. "You're dangerously close to sounding smug."

"I'm just observant."

We walked slowly into the first exhibit—deep ocean creatures. Blue light flickered along the walls like we were underwater.

He slowed near the squid display, expression soft.

The cardigan was hanging off his shoulder like it had better things to do, his hair was doing that annoyingly perfect messy thing, and the glow made his eyes look even more unfair than usual.

I pretend to read a plaque about bioluminescence instead of thinking about how kissable he looked next to a dead squid.

"I used to come here whenever I had the chance," he said. "By myself."

I glanced over, quieting instinctively at his tone.

"It reminded me of her. My mom," he added. "She never brought me here—she couldn't—but she loved places like this. Museums. History. The weird, niche stuff most people ignore."

He looked around like he was seeing it through old eyes. "I'd spend hours in the mineral exhibit or reading plaques on fossilized plants. It made me feel close to her. Like I was still learning with her, even if she wasn't really there."

He didn't say Alzheimer's. He didn't have to.

"How...is your mom going?"

"She's in a clinical trial now," he said softly. "They're testing an experimental drug—trying to target tau protein misfolding. It's still in the early stages, but... I've been reading everything I can."

He finally looked at me, and his eyes were tired in a way that coffee wouldn't fix.

"I know it's not a cure. But it's something. It makes me feel like I'm doing more than just... watching her fade."

I didn't try to fix it. I just reached out and nudged his hand.

"That sounds like something to me."

That earned me a real smile. Just a small one. But I felt it all the way in my ribs.

God, Quinn. Get a grip. It's just a smile...

We wandered deeper into the exhibit halls. He kept a polite distance from the glass, fingers never quite touching anything, while I examined a diorama of prehistoric whales doing something violent and majestic.

"So," I say, casually enough to make it obvious I'm trying to sound casual. "How's work?"

He lets out a short, humorless laugh.
"It's fine. Functional. We're getting through cases. But it feels... off. Like everything's technically in the right place, but the room's still wrong."

I glance over at him. He's not just saying it to say something. There's real weight there—quiet, honest.

"That's actually kind of beautiful," I say before I can stop myself. I looked down at the ground, “And a little depressing.”

He smiles softly. Then, after a second. “Have you heard from him? Hotch?"

"Wouldn't be a very good secret keeper if I said yes, would I?"

He laughs. Just barely. But I can see it—the hope, the want, even if he doesn't say it.

I don't offer more. Instead, I say, “Do you miss them?"

He nods. "I do. It's not bad now, just... different. I got used to certain people being there. I keep waiting for that part to settle again, but it doesn't."

I stepped closer, not touching him, just enough for him to feel it. "Yeah. I get that."

He looked at me. Not skeptical, exactly—just unsure.

I shrugged. "I grew up an only child. No siblings. No big family holidays. Just me and a couple of empty rooms and a mom who tried her best but... I don't know. You get used to feeling a little unsteady."

He softened, visibly. A quiet understanding passed between us—not loud or dramatic, just mutual recognition.

"But," I added, "you've still got JJ. Rossi. Emily. Me."

"You're part of the team now?"

I shrugged. "Honorary. Mostly I think I'm just Garcia's new best friend. You should have seen her face when she found out about Garfield."

That got his attention.

"You and Garcia?" he asked, amused.

"She's decided we're soulmates. She started texting me out of nowhere. Sent me memes. Invited me to her game night. We had lunch once and she showed me sixteen photos of her cat dressed like 2000s pop icons."

Spencer huffed out a laugh. "That sounds about right."

"She's relentless. She called me at midnight to ask my opinion on which nail polish color says 'I could kill you but I won't unless you're rude to my friends.'"

He blinked. "I didn't realize cats tolerated costumes."

"Yeah, and she had five options."

He shook his head, still smiling—softer now.
“You fit. Even if you don’t think you do.”

I look at him, startled by how casually he says it. How certain he sounds.

“…Yeah. I’m starting to think that too.”

I didn't mean to say it like that. So honest it practically gave me heart burn. Great. Cue the feelings migraine.

But he looked at me like he heard it. Really heard it.

Something shifted. Not loud, not dramatic—just that kind of stillness that means something’s about to change

He turned a little, not fully facing me, but closer. The space between us shrank in that almost-accidental way that absolutely wasn't accidental. His eyes dropped briefly to my mouth—just for a second, but enough that I felt it in every nerve ending.

I should've looked away.

I didn't.

He smelled like cinnamon, coffee, and old books. My breath hitched. And in my head, every single neuron was screaming: If you're going to kiss me, now would be an excellent time.

Then—CLACK.

Someone dropped a guidebook behind us, and we both startled like we'd been caught making out in a church pew.

I jerked back half an inch. He blinked hard and cleared his throat.

I cleared mine too, because apparently we were just two awkward emotional teenagers.

"So. Fossils?"

He cleared his throat. “Yes. You're about to judge my taste in ancient cephalopods."

"I'm counting on it."

~*~

We were halfway down the block when I felt the first drop hit my forehead.

I looked up. The sky had gone from vaguely gray to full apocalyptic slate in the time it took us to walk out of the museum.

"Please tell me you brought an umbrella," I said.

Spencer glanced at the sky, then at me, already frowning. "I checked the forecast this morning. It wasn't supposed to rain until—"

Thunder cracked overhead and the sky opened up on cue.

I shrieked—zero shame—and we took off running.

"Why is it always the Smithsonian?!" I yelled over the downpour.

"I told you, the architecture creates a pressure funnel!"

"Stop trying to science the storm, Reid!"

"You're the one yelling about museums!"

"I'm the one running next to an overstimulated marionette!"

He looked over at me, flustered. "What?"

"Your limbs! They're flailing! How are you bad at running?!"

"I'm not bad! I'm efficient!"

I didn't have time to argue, because we were turning the corner and dodging puddles like we were in some bizarre government-mandated obstacle course.

We finally ducked under the first awning we could find—some old bookstore that looked abandoned but blessedly dry. It was barely wide enough for two people, which was unfortunate, because we were unfortunately two people

And I was now pressed up against his side like a very damp, very overwhelmed human squeegee.

We were soaked. Hair dripping, clothes plastered, shoes squelching. I looked like a raccoon that had lost a fight with a mop bucket. He, of course, looked like the emotionally tortured lead in a French indie film.

He pushed his wet hair out of his face and looked down at me, grinning like it was the best day of his life.

"You—" I started, breathless. "Was spontaneous storm not on the agenda today?"

He laughed again. Not just a chuckle—a real laugh. Loud. Warm. Full-body. It made something in my chest tighten.

I tried to shift my weight, but the pavement was slick and uneven. My boot skidded slightly, and I instinctively reached for something—anything—to grab.

His arm. His chest. Both, maybe.

Whatever it was, it worked. But I overcompensated and stumbled forward, straight into him.

He caught me. Hands at my waist. Steady. Warm. Close. Way too close.

"I'm fine," I said quickly, like that would make the tension evaporate.

"You almost wiped out," he murmured.

I shrugged, trying to stay upright and casual. "Still not as tragic as your sprinting technique."

"Efficient," he corrected.

"Erratic," I countered. "I've seen wet laundry move with more grace."

His laugh was quiet this time. His hands didn't move.

And neither did I.

There was no space between us anymore.
My breath caught, and suddenly everything felt louder. His eyes, the way he was looking at me—like I wasn’t just some one-off connection but something more. Something real.
And that? That was terrifying.
Oh no. I really want to kiss him.
My brain, ever helpful: Great. Cool. Terrible idea. Deeply unwise. Kiss him anyway.

But then—

He tilted forward just slightly. So did I.

And our mouths—

Brushed.

Soft. Uncertain. So brief it could've been mistaken for an accident—if either of us believed in those.

And I—

Fell.
Not far. Just enough.
Into him. Into this.

His grip at my waist tightened, anchoring me like he wasn't ready to let go. Our foreheads bumped.

I hovered there, suspended.

If I didn't back away right now, I was going to forget every reason I ever told myself not to want this.

One inch. That was all it would take.

One inch and I wouldn't be able to pretend anymore.

And that—that—was the problem.

So I stepped back.

Not far. Not fast. Just enough.

"We should probably go before we get struck by lightning."

That pulled a blink from him. "Technically, you're more likely to be struck while standing under a tree or near a metal structure, but the probability overall is still about one in a million—"

I smiled. That was better. That was Spencer.

We walked the rest of the way in silence. Wet. Shivering. Every step echoing with the thing we didn't say.

By the time we reach my door, we're soaked—dripping hair, damp clothes, and that breathless, wide-eyed silence that comes right after laughing too hard.

He glances down at me. Water clings to his lashes.
"That was... really nice," he says, like he's surprised to hear it out loud.

I look up at him. “The rain? Or the part where you dragged me through half the Natural History museum like an overcaffeinated tour guide?"

His mouth twitches.

"All of it." A pause. Then, softer—"Mostly you."

Oh.

Okay.

"Was that flirting? I feel like I should be taking notes."
Hey, brain... do you wanna do your job and stop me from saying things like this? No? Cool. Just checking.

"I'm... trying," he says. And there's a smile now—small, real, and entirely unfair. “I'm not very good at it, but I am."

I laugh, because what else am I supposed to do when my brain has very literally left the building.
"Well. Thanks for today. D.C.'s slightly less unbearable now."

He nods, gaze lingering a little too long. “Goodnight, Quinn."

"Night, Reid."

I closed the door before I could do something even more stupid.

Like kiss him for real. Which, clearly, would've been catastrophic.

~*~
"I swear to God, he smiled at me like he was trying to ruin my life," I said, sprawled across the floor with my legs tangled in a blanket and my shame rapidly disintegrating.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Grace said, draped across the couch with her wine like a woman born to stir the pot.

"It is a bad thing!" I threw a chip at her and missed. "It means my brain stopped functioning somewhere between thanks for the coffee and oh no, he's so pretty in the rain."

"Oh no," Zoe said, flopping backward into a pile of pillows, arm flung over her eyes. "Not pretty in the rain. You're finished."

"Tell them what you told me," Penelope said, practically vibrating with excitement as she sipped something suspiciously neon out of a Hello Kitty tumbler. "The part where you slipped and he caught you."

"I didn't slip, I... slightly lost traction."

Zoe stared at me. "Quinn."

"I slightly fell into him."

"You threw yourself into his arms like a Shakespearean heroine," Penelope corrected, eyes sparkling with glee. "Do not rob me of this moment."

Grace leaned in. "Wait, back up. You were running?"

"It started raining," I muttered, burying my face in the nearest pillow. "And we were trying not to die. He was flailing. His limbs were doing interpretive dance. I made fun of him, then I almost wiped out, and then—"

"She landed on him," Pen finished, like a closing statement.

"In the rain," Zoe added.

"Pressed up against a bookstore wall," Grace said.

"Stop narrating my non-date like it's a Jane Austen reboot," I groaned.

The three of them stared at me, entirely unrepentant.

"So did you kiss him?" Grace asked.

"No."

"Did you almost kiss him?" Zoe pressed.

I hesitated.

And that was all they needed.

"OH MY GOD," Penelope shrieked. "You wanted to!"

"I didn't not want to," I said, voice muffled by throw pillows and shame.

Grace smirked. "So what stopped you?"

"I don't know!" I sat up, arms flailing. "Existential fear? Emotional repression? My very consistent history of self-sabotage?"

Pen reached over and patted my knee like I was a small, emotionally fragile dog. "It's okay, honey. You're doing great. All things considered.”

Zoe raised her glass. "To our girl: accidentally in love with the BAU's finest wet cardigan."

I groaned again and faceplanted into Garfield’s fur, while Penelope screamed, "I KNEW IT," and Grace tried to re-enact the almost-kiss using two stuffed animals.

"I'm not in love with him," I said.

All three of them turned to me at once.

Grace blinked slowly. "You literally just described a full slow-motion rom-com moment. In the rain. With chest contact."

"I am not in love with him," I repeated, louder now, like sheer volume could make it true.

"You sighed when you said his name earlier," Zoe said.

"I was out of breath!”

Penelope gave me a look so pointed I was honestly surprised she didn’t pull out a clicker and start a presentation called “Delusion: Exhibit A.”

“Let me get this straight,” she said, settling deeper into the couch like she was about to cross-examine me.
“He showed up with your exact coffee order, took you on a personalized tour of D.C., got caught in the rain with you like a Nicholas Sparks character, and then got all soft and stare-y at your front door?”
She took a sip of wine.
“Quinn, that’s not flirting. That’s a relationship soft launch.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"He meant it, Quinn," Pen added, softer this time. "He likes you."

"I know," I whispered, immediately hating myself for it.

Zoe gasped. "SHE KNOWS!"

"I didn't mean—ugh." I flopped backward onto the floor again, pulling a blanket over my face. "I don't do this. I don't crush on people. I don't swoon. I don't spiral about feelings."

"Babe," Grace said gently. "You built a pillow fort and invited us over to re-enact a conversation that happened four hours ago."

“I know,” I groaned from under the blanket. “We are fully grown women. This is unhinged. We’re in our thirties and acting like sleep-deprived teenagers at a slumber party.”

“But thirty-year-olds who drink,” Penelope said, lifting her glowing cocktail like it came with a medal.

"You've never done this before," Zoe said. "That's why you're freaking out."

"I'm not freaking out," I insisted, muffled. "I'm just—processing. Loudly. And with snacks."

"Denial," Penelope sang. "It's not just a river in Egypt."

"I hate it here."

"You love it here," Zoe said, tugging the blanket off my head.

I squinted up at her like a mole. "I don't love him."

There was a beat of silence.

"No one said you did just now," Grace said, grinning.

"You can’t trick me, I’m the lawyer here."

"I told you," Penelope said, nudging my shoulder with hers. "You fell into him, and now you're falling. Deal with it, Counselor."

I groaned and buried my face in my hands. "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me."

Grace raised an eyebrow. "Worse than that guy who brought a guitar to court and tried to sing his closing argument?"

"...Okay, second worst."

Zoe handed me a cookie like it was a peace offering. "You don't have to do anything yet. Just admit it's something."

I stared at the cookie. Then at Pen. Then at Grace. Then at Zoe.

"...Fine," I muttered. "Maybe I like him. A little."

They all screamed.

And I hated how good it felt to say it.

Just a little.

Chapter 10: Fourty-Six hours and counting

Under federal law, identity fraud includes the unauthorized use or falsification of personal information for deception or gain. When it involves forged documents or the psychological manipulation of someone's identity, it becomes more than impersonation—it's a violation of both legal and personal autonomy.

 

📚Spencer 📚

 

My socks were wet.

Not metaphorically. Just—wet. Cold, soaked, sticking-to-my-skin kind of wet. It wasn't important. I mean, it was, in the immediate sensory discomfort sense, but—God. Okay.

I kissed her.

Or almost kissed her. She leaned in, I leaned in, and then something happened—barely a shift, barely anything. But it was enough to stop it. Just contact. A flicker of something, and then she pulled back—soft, quick, like she thought better of it halfway through.

Now I'm standing in my apartment like my brain hit pause mid-motion. And I can't tell if I'm reading too much into it or not enough.

She smiled afterward. That has to mean something. People don't smile after mistakes. Unless it was a reflex. A panic smile?

I should sit down. I was still wet. My shirt clung to my back, my shoes were still on, and I hadn't moved since I walked in.

And the whole day—

Okay. It was good. Better than I expected. She didn't make fun of the museum. Much. She rolled her eyes when I started talking about cephalopods, but it was the teasing kind, not the dismissive kind. And she let me talk. Like, actually talk. I didn't feel like I had to walk anything back or downplay the things I care about.

That's rare. It felt easy. Too easy.

And that's the problem, right? It didn't feel like I had to be anyone. I could just be. And she didn't look at me like I was saying too much, or not enough, or like she was waiting for me to make it weird.

I don't know if she felt it too or if I'm just... projecting. Romanticizing. Making it more than it was because our faces got too close under an awning during a rainstorm.

What if I imagined it?

What if she already told her friends it was nothing—just a weird moment—and I'm the only one still replaying it like it mattered?

No. She lingered. She laughed.

Unless that was just her being polite?

God. I'm terrible at this.

I kept checking my phone like she might text and clarify the entire situation via perfectly-timed message. She wouldn't. No one would.

I should text her. But what would I even say?

"Hey, about that moment in the rain—was that what I thought it was?"

Too intense.

"Thanks for today. Let me know if you want to do it again sometime."

Too vague.

"Hi."

...That's worse.

 

~*~

It had been 46 hours and 14 minutes.

I wasn't going to count. I told myself I wouldn't. That lasted six hours. After that, it became a passive calculation. Like checking the weather, or recalculating pi in my head.

We hadn't talked. No texts. No calls. I hadn't reached out either. I kept telling myself I was giving it space, but that wasn't true. I just didn't know what I was doing.

I'd written out a message thirty-two times. Deleted it every time.

The first one just said "Hi."

The second one included an unsolicited fact about echolocation in dolphins.

I don't want to talk about the third.

I was at my desk, staring at a case file I'd read three times without retaining a single word. I was trying to work. Trying to focus. Failing, quietly.

JJ brought me a coffee and said, "Rough morning?"

I said, "Something like that."

Garcia sent me a message that just said, Get it together, Romeo.

No context. I didn't ask for any.

Everyone else was pretending things were normal. Or maybe they really were. But to me, the air felt thick—like we were all waiting for something to go wrong.

And I kept thinking about her. About Quinn.

Not just the almost-kiss. The whole day. The museum. The way she let me talk about ammonites and ancient squid teeth without interrupting. The way she looked at me like I was... interesting.

And then there was that one second. Her face shifted. Not away from me—just inward. A flicker of something sharp and human. Fear.

It was the kind of thing I wouldn't have noticed before Maeve. But now?

I recognized it. The fear of being known. Of not being able to take it back.

And I hadn't known what to do with it. I still didn't.

I didn't check my phone this time. I already knew.
(Still nothing.)

It was fine.

It had only been 46 hours and 15 minutes.

Not that I was counting.

I mean—I was. But I was also cataloging all the ways I'd misread things before, so my entire data set was compromised.

I'd graduated from checking my phone to just staring at it. Like it might flash a solution if I waited long enough.

"You're doing that face again," Quinn muttered. Not really here. Just... in my head. "The one where you look like you're trying to mind-meld with your inbox."

I almost smiled.

Almost.

JJ walked up beside my desk. Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. "Emily's in the conference room. Should we go?"

I blinked. Nodded. Grabbed my tablet, even though I'd been holding it this whole time.

"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."

My legs moved before my brain caught up.

"I'm vigilant myself," Garcia was saying when JJ and I walked into the round table room.

She was clearly mid-offense—shoulders tense, voice sharp, eyebrows performing their own protest.

I followed just behind JJ, still mentally half-absent. I hadn't slept much. Hadn't eaten much either. Mostly existed. My phone was still in my pocket. Quiet.

Quinn would've made a joke about that. Or a face. Or both.

"You're not gonna die if you hit send, Spencer."

Debatable.

"What's going on?" JJ asked.

"It's Gabriel," I said, pointing to the screen. Tara's brother.

JJ's gaze flicked to the photo. "Oh."

Garcia turned, eyes wide. "How did—how come you guys know about—?"

"She told us about him when she first joined the team," JJ answered.

I nodded. "He flew in this morning. He probably wants money."

Luke and Rossi stepped in from the hallway.

"Hey. Is there a case?" Luke asked. "What's Tara's brother's picture doing up?"

"He's in town," Emily said.

"He must want money," Rossi added.

Garcia slammed the remote down. "Come on. The new guy?" She spun toward Luke. "He knows? How come I was the last one to know?"

"It was an experiment," I said. "She wanted to see how long you could keep a private conversation private. You made it twelve hours."

"Damn," Luke said. "I had you down for six."

Garcia's face twisted like she'd just been betrayed by a sitcom ensemble cast. "Okay, you know what? I thought you were my friends. But you suck. You all suck. Especially you, new guy. But then you always suck."

She stormed out, muttering "Newbie" like it was both a slur and a spell.

There was a pause.

"I had fourteen hours," I said. "I think I win, right?"

"Uh, who had eleven?" JJ asked.

"Oh, I did," Emily said, raising her hand.

I frowned. Not because I lost. Just... because.

I glanced at the empty chair beside me and imagined Quinn sliding into it.

"So... you'll tell Garcia she lost a bet, but not me that you like me?"

I should text her.

Or call her.

Or say something besides nothing.

But I didn't. I just sat there, pretending nothing was wrong.

~*~

He said he was Gabriel Lewis.

He wasn't.

Tara and I walked into the bullpen together. She didn't say anything. I waited, mostly trying to figure out where to start.

"We're running prints and DNA," I said eventually. "So far he wasn't in the system."

She didn't react.

Quinn was beside me.

Not physically. Obviously. But my brain had apparently voted her in as lead counsel for my subconscious, because she'd been narrating my life all day.

"Bold move," she muttered. "Impersonating someone's brother? That's at least three felonies and one very awkward Thanksgiving."

Emily looked up from the case files. "We can hold that man for twenty-four hours. After that, we need to either charge him or let him go."

Tara pulled out her phone. She held it like it weighed more than it should.

"Was Gabriel answering his phone?" I asked.

"This is his phone," she said. "His contacts. His emails." She flipped the screen toward us. "Look at this. He was in the Capitol District. And look at the time stamp. He'd been in my backyard for a month and hadn't told me."

Garcia let out a quiet exhale.

My Quinn hallucination whispered again, "Showing up in town and timestamp-stalking your sister? Yeah, that's healthy. Definitely no red flags there.

Emily asked, "Did your father know?"

"Maybe," Tara said. "I mean, I had to speak to him."

"Albert Lewis Body Shop," I said. "He was listed, right? I'd bring him in."

I turned toward the door.

My phone was still silent.

No text. No call. Not even an awkward email.

I wasn't asking for much. Just something. Anything.

Instead, I walked out into the hallway and imagined her voice beside me again.

"Try not to scare him, Doctor Agent. And maybe don't lead with 'we think your son's fake.'"

I didn't smile.

But I did make a mental note that if her voice kept showing up like this, I might need to consider therapy. Again.

~*~

Garcia and I were in the bullpen. Tara and Luke were calling in from the car. Everyone was where they needed to be—except me.

I stared at my phone. Same as it's always been.

I flipped it face down like that would somehow change the outcome.

"Okay, here's what I can tell you about Carl Brubaker," Garcia said. She was typing fast—focused, intense. The kind of pace that usually meant bad news was loading. "He does in fact live in the city, and the GPS on Gabriel's phone has been consistently there for the last month."

"So he had been staying with him, like my father said," Tara replied.

"Maybe he still is," Luke added, "but our unsub got ahold of his phone somehow."

I heard them. But I wasn't fully in it.

Quinn would've noticed that. Not the evidence—I mean, maybe—but me. She always clocked when I drifted. When I got stuck in my own head and didn't say anything. She'd nudge me out of it without making it obvious.

She'd glance at the screen, then at me, and say something like, "You're doing that stare again. The one where you stop blinking and everyone gets nervous."

But Tara's voice pulled me back in.

"With my brother, it's never that simple. Something else is going on."

It was. And suddenly, the image I'd been staring at earlier clicked into place. Not emotionally. Technically. Something was wrong—too precise.

"Guys, we're being set up," I said, sharper than I meant to.

Luke's voice came through the speaker. "What do you mean, Reid?"

I stepped forward. I could still see the photo in my head. "The face in the driver's license photo displays perfect facial symmetry. I mean perfect. Beyond what the human genome can produce."

I looked at the screen. "The picture's a computer-generated forgery."

There was a half-second of silence. Then—

"Who would hack into the DMV and plant a fake—" Garcia started, then stopped.

She'd already figured it out.

We all had.

Only one person did this. Only one person weaponized identity like this.

Scratch.

I felt Quinn beside me again. A little closer this time.

"Great," she muttered. "The one time you actually try to believe what you're seeing, and it's Scratch behind the curtain. Don't beat yourself up, Spencer. His whole thing is turning people inside out."

I closed my eyes for a second.

Then opened them.

We weren't looking for a missing brother anymore.

We were looking for something much worse.

~*~

Emily stood at the head of the table, posture tight. "I've placed protective details on Hayden and Joy, and Will and the boys, and Theodora," she said. "We need to assume that Mr. Scratch is targeting this entire team."

The entire team.

It hit low in my stomach. Like something had already started ticking, and we just didn't know how much time was left.

"You know, that could be why he had Gabriel screaming out my name," Luke said. "He wants us to know that he knows I'm part of the BAU now."

"Isn't his M.O. to drug his victims and make them hallucinate?" Emily asked.

"Then he evolved," JJ said. "He's taking these victims' multiple personalities and brainwashing them with someone else's memories."

Of course he did. Because it wasn't horrifying enough already.

"So he took Tara's brother," Luke said, "and did God knows what to get him to spill his life story. Then he planted those memories in the guy downstairs. The more memories he has, the stronger the identity he can create."

"He must have put Gabriel's whole life inside of Desmond," JJ added quietly.

I glanced at Tara. She hadn't said much. Just watched. Absorbed. I recognized that kind of stillness.

It was the kind you used to survive.

"Well, the good news is we have a list from before," Garcia said. "Patients with dissociative identity disorder Scratch might target next."

"Okay, cross-reference those against missing persons," Emily told her.

"The rest of us need to figure out how to deprogram the unsub safely. He's still our best lead to Scratch—and Gabriel."

It went quiet.

Then I said, "It's the pictures that are baffling."

Emily looked at me. "What about them?"

"Scratch left them out specifically to draw our attention."

Luke crossed his arms. "He's a math genius. He wants us to solve his puzzles. They're usually traps."

"But the configuration is strange," I said. "They're clearly Gabriel at different ages, but they're not arranged chronologically. Fifteen, eleven, and thirty-two. That's a pattern. A message."

"Not for us," Rossi said. "For Tara. It's personal."

I nodded. It made sense. Emotional targeting was Scratch's specialty.

And, apparently, mine.

Somehow, my phone was in my hand again. I didn't remember picking it up.

Of course there wasn't anything.

She wasn't even here, and she was still the only person I could think about.

The way she looked at me when I left. And the way I looked back—hoping she'd pick up on everything I didn't know how to articulate, but probably overcomplicated anyway.

"Nice of you to check in," imaginary Quinn muttered. "You really went with the classic 'say nothing and hope she reads your soul' approach, huh?"

Emily's voice called out. "Should you call Quinn?"

I nearly pulled a muscle, snapping my head up.

"What?" I asked too fast.

Emily blinked. "Just—if Scratch is targeting the team. She's close to us. That might be enough."

"Right," I said quickly. "Yeah. Good idea."

Garcia didn't hesitate. "Is she saved in your phone with a cute emoji? Tell the truth."

"I bet it's just 'Quinn' with a period," JJ added. "Or no last name. Or all caps."

"Actually," Garcia said, squinting, "I bet it's still just her number, and he knows it by heart like it's 2005."

I didn't say anything.

Which was apparently an answer.

Emily smirked. "Spencer?"

"...Yeah?"

"Don't make it awkward."

Too late.

I stood up a little too fast. "I'm gonna—uh, step out."

"Tell her we said hi!" JJ called after me.

I stepped into the hallway, shut the door behind me, and stared at the screen.

Her name was there. Still no message.

Okay. Now or never.

I called.

It rang once. Twice. Three times—

"Reid?"

She sounded cautious. Not cold. Just like she wasn't sure which version of me was calling.

"Hey," I said. Immediately regretted it. Out of all the words in the English language, I chose hey?

There was a pause. Just long enough to be uncomfortable.

"So... what happened?" she asked. "Is this a case thing or a personal crisis thing? Because I only packed snacks for one."

"It's a Scratch thing," I said. "Case-related. Mostly."

"Define mostly."

"He implanted false memories into someone. Made the guy believe he was Tara's brother. High-level identity manipulation."

"So... a guy thinks he's someone he's not, and somehow that's your icebreaker?"

"No," I said quickly. "Well. Kind of. But also... Emily thought you should be looped in. Since you're close to the team. And Scratch might see you as... adjacent."

"Right. Emily thought." Her voice flattened. Not cold. Just walled. "So this is a professional courtesy."

"It's not just that."

She didn't answer right away.

"I wasn't sure if you wanted to hear from me," I added.

"You waited forty-six hours," she said. "That's... admirably restrained. Very emotionally bureaucratic of you."

"You didn't call either," I said before I could stop myself.

"I know. I was being stubborn."

"I wasn't." I paused. "I just... didn't know where to start."

Silence. Then, quietly, " I panicked."

I blinked. "What?"

"At the bookstore. Under the awning."

I didn't breathe.

"I shouldn't have pulled away."

"I wish you didn't," I admitted.

She went quiet. But she was still here.

And then, in her normal voice—lighter, dry, safer.
"If I see anyone in a gas mask, I'm either screaming or suing. Depends on the heels."

"I'd recommend both," I said.

"You would."

There was a pause. The kind that meant neither of us wanted to say goodbye first.

"I'm glad you called."

"I'm glad you answered."

Eventually, she said, "You should get back to work. Go save the world or whatever."

"I'll try."

Then the line went quiet.

I stared at the screen for a while.

I didn't know what came next. But I didn't want to stop here.

~*~

We were packed into the elevator, vests zipped, eyes forward like we were trying to outrun what was already catching up to us.

Tara stepped in last.

"Thank you," she said.

No one spoke after that. Not because there wasn't anything to say—just because none of it would help.

Emily broke the silence. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm getting real tired of losing to this rat-faced son of a bitch. He's not going to take anyone else away from us. Not on my watch. Am I clear?"

"Hoo-ah," Luke said.

Emily nodded. "Let's go to work."

The SUV jerked to a stop. Gravel crunched under the tires. Doors opened before the engine finished shutting off.

Tara moved first. Emily followed. Then Luke. JJ caught my eye long enough to ask, silently: with me?

She moved ahead. I stayed close behind.

The building looked abandoned on purpose—no signage, no lights, like someone had scrubbed its existence from memory.

We split the way we always did. Tara and Luke peeled off to the left. JJ and I took the right. Emily stayed at the entrance.

Inside, it was worse. Cold. Quiet. The kind of quiet that made you listen harder. My flashlight swept across exposed pipe and crumbling drywall. It was hard to tell if it was being built or torn apart.

JJ moved ahead. I stayed half a step behind, my hand never far from my sidearm.

We converged at the base of a staircase. Luke's voice cut through the comms: "Clear."

Then I saw it—left of the landing. A junction box. Newer than everything else. Clean. Angled wrong.

"Hold up," I said. "That doesn't belong."

Emily stepped in fast. "Lewis, Alvez—second floor. Reid, JJ—open it, but don't cut anything until I give the go-ahead."

JJ dropped down next to me. I opened the panel slowly.

Wires. Dozens. Color-coded, but deliberately confusing. And tucked in the corner—three red cylinders.

Emily's voice crackled through. "JJ, we found him. What have you got?"

"We've found the power source," JJ said. "If we cut the right wire, it should shut down the device."

I kept staring. Something was off.

"JJ?" Emily asked again. "What have you got?"

JJ leaned in. "We might have something. Hang on."

I picked up one of the red pieces. It was too heavy to be a fuse. The texture was wrong.

"These aren't fuses," I said. "They're shotgun shells."

A pause.

"It's a decoy," I added. "The shotgun isn't loaded."

This didn't feel like Scratch. Not even close.

"So he's moved on from mind control to Scooby-Doo traps?" Quinn's voice filtered in—teasing, dry, but sharper than usual. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you're getting outplayed by a guy with a flair for the theatrical. Come on, Reid."

She wasn't wrong.

"This isn't his profile," I said. "It's too dramatic. He doesn't bluff."

"Reid, JJ—look for another trigger," Emily said.

I opened a second panel beneath the first.

"Reid," Emily's voice came through again. "What's Exodus, chapter 8, verse 24?"

"It's one of the plagues," I said. "'And the Lord did this—dense swarms of flies poured into Pharaoh's palace. Throughout Egypt, the land was ruined by the flies.'"

The system started beeping.

JJ was already on comms. "There's a redundant switch somewhere. It's going off."

I traced the wiring, fast.

"We can interrupt it," I said. "If I bypass the correct fuse—"

I cut it.

A green light blinked on.

"That'll delay the trigger," I said, quieter now. "Only for a few seconds."

"Perfect," Quinn muttered. "Just enough time for us all to dramatically escape and say something meaningful. You're really sticking to the theme today."

She wasn't wrong about that either.

~*~
We made it back to Quantico in silence.

That kind of silence that builds behind your eyes. Pressure more than sound. The kind that doesn't let go, even when you're off the clock.

The bullpen was mostly dark. Half the lights were off. Computers humming softly. Everything looked the same.

That was the worst part.
The way it all looked normal. Like none of it happened.

And then—

She was at my desk.

Quinn.

Legs crossed. Coffee in one hand. Like she'd been here for hours. Like this was normal.

Definitely not the worst part.

I stopped walking.

For a second, I genuinely couldn't tell if she was real. I'd been hearing her voice in my head for so long, I didn't know if my brain had finally decided to go fully off-script.

She looked up. "You're late."

"I was almost impaled," I said, still trying to process the fact of her actually being in front of me.

She blinked. "You weren't even upstairs."

"I was in the building. That counts."

"And yet—fully intact. Incredible."

"I brought back a headache and a lot of unresolved thoughts."

She raised her cup like a toast. "So... nothing new."

I didn't respond right away. My body had been running on necessity for two days, and now it didn't seem to know what to do with the stillness.

"Garcia called," she said. "Told me what happened. I figured you weren't going to call."

I hesitated. "I kept starting to."

That earned a small nod. Not sarcastic. Not angry. Just—knowing.

"You're not the only one who doesn't know how to do this," she said.

I sat down across from her. My posture was stiff—too upright, like my muscles hadn't gotten the memo we could actually relax now.

She slid a cup across the desk.

Black coffee. Way too much sugar. Exactly how I take it.

I reached for it without thinking.

"You remembered," I said.

"Hard to forget," she murmured. "You basically drink liquid candy."

"You shouldn't be here."

"Probably not."

I looked at her. Really looked.

There was tension in her posture. A kind of caution I recognized.

She didn't rush to break the moment. Just let it sit there—like she knew I needed it.

And somehow, for the first time in days, my thoughts weren't racing to catch up with themselves.

We stayed like that. Not quite comfortable. But not pulling away either.

I glanced at her coffee. "You still take it black." Even though I knew...

She tilted her head. "That your idea of small talk?"

"I panicked."

She snorted. "That tracks."

I glanced down, then back at her. "I wasn't sure what the rules were."

She didn't say anything at first. Just tilted her head slightly, like she was running the question through every possible outcome.

I tapped my thumb against the cup. "Why'd you come?"

She didn't answer right away. Her eyes dropped to her hands, then lifted.

"Because sitting at home thinking about that call sucked," she said. "And I missed you."

I didn't realize how much I'd been waiting to hear it.

"I missed you too," I said. Quieter than I meant to.

She held my gaze. Didn't flinch. Didn't look away.

"You're not very good at this," she said.

"I know," I said. "But I don't want to mess it up."

She was quiet for a second. Then her voice dropped, softer than before.

"Yeah. Me neither."

I nodded. That was as close as I could get to saying everything.
Then I took a sip.
It was sweet. And for the first time in days, it didn't taste wrong.

Chapter 11: Confusion tactics are underrated

In contract law, mutual assent is required to form a binding agreement: an offer, an acceptance, and the intention to create legal relations.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

I knew she was here before she knocked.

It had been a few weeks since the Scratch mess.
Enough time for life to pretend it was normal again—and for me to pretend I wasn't mentally doodling "Mrs. Spencer Reid" in the margins of every legal pad I owned.

I wasn't. Probably.

The perfume hit first — sharp, expensive, and already judging me. Three knocks followed, sharp and familiar.
Nobody else knocked like that. You see, Gran didn't visit — she broke in like Jack Nicholson with better posture. I half-expected her to axe through the door and mutter, "Here's Gran."

Garfield bolted under the couch. Coward. If I could fit, I'd probably join him.

I opened the door before she kicked it down.

Aaaand there she was: wrapped in navy wool, sunglasses despite the clouds, carrying a pastry box like it was contraband.

"Darling," she said, breezing past me. "You look awful. Is this something new you're trying or just a slow descent?"

"I call it 'functioning with minimal breakdowns,'" I muttered, shutting the door. "It's trending."

But she was already halfway to the kitchen.

"The cat's still alive?"

"He lives out of spite."

Garfield popped his head out just long enough to hiss at her, then disappeared again like an angry ginger poltergeist.

"Rude little goblin," she muttered, dropping the box. "When I said you needed companionship, I meant something housebroken. Or a therapist."

"It's always a joy when you visit," I said, grabbing mugs.

"I bring carbs. You endure my presence. It's a sacred arrangement."

She unpacked two croissants — one technically for me, one already halfway to her mouth. I handed her coffee like it was part of a negotiated settlement.

She sipped, gave me the kind of look usually reserved for malfunctioning appliances, and said, "You've been weird lately."

"Thanks?"

"Not a compliment. You're twitchy. You're distracted. And you keep dodging questions like you're prepping for cross."

I busied myself with my croissant. Attack strategy: deny, deflect, distract.

"Maybe I'm tired."

"You're always tired."

Garfield slunk onto the chair beside me, kneading my leg like he was weighing my odds of survival.

Gran narrowed her eyes at him. "Why couldn't you get a normal cat?"

"He chose me. Probably as a social experiment."

I tore off a piece of pastry and tried to look disinterested.

Failed. Miserably.

Gran leaned back, sipping, all predatory patience.

"So," she began sweetly, "are you going to tell me who he is, or should I interrogate the cat?"

I paused mid-chew. Rookie mistake.

"What?"

"The man," she said, like it was obvious. "You're practically glowing."

"Pretty sure that's just residual caffeine and spite."

She smiled — the slow, dangerous kind.

I sighed, because self-preservation was clearly a lost cause — and honestly, I'd already spilled to everyone else. Might as well finish the humiliation tour.

"His name's Spencer."

Gran didn't blink. She just filed it away for future emotional blackmail.

"And?"

I shrugged. "And nothing."

"You," she said, picking apart her croissant like she was picking apart my soul, "don't do nothing."

I shrugged harder. Maybe if I shrugged enough times I'd dislocate a shoulder and get out of this.

"He's... sweet," I muttered. "Smart. Talks too much. Gets this look when he's excited about something, like he can't believe I'm still listening."

"And?"

"And... he sends me facts about poisonous plants because he thinks it's flirting."

She grinned. "And you love it."

"I do not."

"You do."

I glanced at Garfield, he licked his paw and refused to back me up.

Gran looked at me like she had all the time in the world to watch me fall apart.

"He makes you feel like you matter," she said, voice low.

I didn't answer.

I didn't have to.

The silence stretched. Not awkward — just all emotionally tense.

I picked at my coffee cup, feeling that old, familiar sting creeping in. The part of me that still remembered what it felt like to be someone's second choice.

Even in my own family.

"And you're terrified," Gran added, like she was handing down a verdict.

I tried to drown in my coffee. No luck.

Gran squeezed my hand lightly, but it still didn't help that bitter sting I felt.

"You know," she said casually, "your mother would like him."

I stiffened.

"Let's not ruin a perfectly good croissant," I snapped.

Gran just raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, unfazed. How she managed to pull that look off still amazed me.

"Suit yourself," she replied, tossing a piece of croissant to Garfield. "Doesn't make it less true."

She leaned back like she hadn't just thrown a grenade and waited for me to finish sulking.

I didn't give her the satisfaction.

Garfield sneezed like he agreed with her.

Gran pulled a battered deck of cards out of her bag and slapped it on the table.

"Now shuffle," she said briskly. "I intend to humiliate you."

I rolled my eyes, grabbed the cards, and accepted my fate. More than happy with the subject change.

 

~*~

I was mid-swear, mid-email, and mid-existential crisis when my phone rang.

I grabbed it without thinking. "What?"

"Good morning to you too, sunshine," Zoe chirped — insufferably smug. In the background: phones ringing, someone yelling about a retainer, the sweet sounds of hell.

I pressed my fingers to my temple. "Sorry. Drowning. What's up?"

"You've got a visitor," she sing-songed, which was unlike her...

I frowned. "Client?"

There was a pause. A suspicious pause.

"Not unless you're representing 'Tall, Devastating, and Built-Like-a-Sexy-Librarian' now."

I froze.

"What?"

"Seriously, Quinn," she hissed. "He's standing here with two coffees, looking like he's about to plead guilty to being adorable. If you don't marry him, I will."

Every coherent thought I had immediately packed up and left.

"And—wait—" she added, but I hung up before she could finish.

I set the phone down harder than necessary and stared at the door.

It had to be Spencer.
It had to be.
Anything else would just be cruel at this point.

After everything — almost kissing him, almost combusting, almost making a complete idiot of myself — now he was actually here. And my emotional skill set was wildly underqualified.

A knock came. Quiet, careful, devastating in a way Gran's could never be. Gran knocked like she was serving papers.

This was... different. This was him.

I wiped my palms on my skirt, checked my reflection in my dark laptop screen, grimaced, and forced myself to breathe like a human.

"Come in!" Aaaand why did my voice have to crack like a prepubescent boy?

I stared at the door. My heart was doing something medically inadvisable.

This was either going to be the best thing that ever happened to me... or the fastest emotional collapse on record.

Deep breath. Lawyer voice. Pretend you're a functional adult.

The door cracked open—

And there he was.

Spencer Reid.

Two coffees. Messy hair. Sweater clinging in a way that triggered every deeply inappropriate instinct I owned.
Honestly, they should slap a "hazardous materials" sticker on him and call it a day.

He smiled — small, crooked, a little unsure, and I honestly felt my IQ drop a few points.

"Hey," he said.

I stared at him a second too long. Again.

"If you weren't pretty," I said dryly, "I'd be throwing a stapler at your head for interrupting."

His mouth quirked like he was fighting back a laugh.

He held up one of the coffees like a shield.
"Interesting greeting...how about a peace offering?"

I moved before my brain could second-guess it, reaching out and brushing his fingers as I grabbed the cup.

Brief, but wildly satisfying.

Garfield trotted out from under the desk like he'd been lying in wait, shamelessly launching himself at Spencer's leg.

"Hey, Garfield," Spencer said easily, crouching to scratch behind his ears like they were old friend, which they kind of were...I suppose.

"Dude, I'm the one that feeds you." I muttered into my coffee.

Garfield, who had decided my office was his second apartment lately, ignored me completely, purring like a traitor.

Spencer stood, brushing cat hair off his sleeve — Garfield's love language, apparently — and gave the office a quick, cataloging once-over like he was already building a psychological profile on my filing system.

"Still ranks higher than seventy percent of the field offices I've been to," he admitted, completely serious.

I took a sip of coffee to distract from the fact that I was two seconds from forgetting how words worked.

"It's because of the cat, isn't it?" I replied. "You're just here for Garfield."

Spencer shook his head quickly. "Technically, I didn't know Garfield would be here," he said, almost like he was explaining a math problem. Then, softer, a little awkward: "You're the part I was hoping for."

He said it so adorably. Like it was just... obvious. Like showing up for me was normal.

Meanwhile, my brain was just — cool cool cool cool cool. Totally fine. Not at all about to throw myself at him like an idiot. I needed to say something. Preferably not "Please... take off your clothes."

I waved vaguely at the open file on my desk — a lifeline in the middle of whatever emotional implosion was currently happening inside me.

"Client punched a judge yesterday," I said, deadpan. "Claimed it was an instinctive negotiation tactic."

Spencer blinked. "That's... not a recommended strategy."

I took a sip of coffee. "Apparently they prefer verbal arguments. Who knew."

A deep, real laugh broke out of him. It wrecked something in me.

He glanced around the office, half an excuse, half buying time.

Until he finally said, "Looks like you're surviving. That's good."

Simple. Casual. The kind of thing you say when you don't know how to say you were worried.

I froze for a second.

Because it wasn't about paperwork. It wasn't about a case.

It was about me.

And it hit the exact spot where all my pretending was supposed to hold.

"Careful," I said, half-smiling into my cup. "You're setting a dangerous precedent."

He straightened a little — not much, but enough — like something reckless and hopeful had finally outrun his nerves.

"I was also wondering if you might want to grab dinner later."

I blinked once. Maybe twice.

"Wow, Buying me coffee, helping me avoid paperwork, asking me to dinner... If you're trying to seduce me, you're doing a terrible job."

He didn't even flinch.

"I'll try harder," he said, dead serious, and that tiny flicker of confidence nearly took me out.

I barely managed to cover.

"Dinner sounds good," I said, clearing my throat before I could say something stupid like, Let's fu—
Nope. Nope. Absolutely not.

Relief flickered across his face. "I'll text you."

He started backing toward the door like staying longer might give me time to change my mind.

"Text me," I echoed, somehow not sounding like I was about to combust.

At the door, he paused — one hand on the handle — and said, almost shy. "Don't let Garfield talk you out of it."

So blissfully, devastatingly sweet, like he actually thought there was a universe where I'd back out of this.

I lifted my coffee in a lazy salute. "Please. If Garfield could stop me, he would've staged an intervention already."

He smiled, full, blinding, and unfairly gorgeous, as he slipped out the door, leaving me standing there like an idiot with way too many feelings and one deeply judgmental cat.

Garfield meowed at me, unimpressed.

"Save it," I muttered, dropping into my chair. "You're just mad he didn't bring you anything."

We spent months driving each other insane.
Weeks pretending we weren't flirting.
And somehow, here we were.

I had a date. A real one. Not a non-date, or Da-Dinner.
With Spencer Reid.
Tonight.

~*~

I told myself to be normal.
Just sit across from the guy who literally chases serial killers for work, and pretend like picking the wrong pasta was my biggest life decision.

And yet somehow, despite all that pep-talking, I still spent the first ten minutes of our dinner date sitting across from Spencer Reid, feeling like I'd been hit by a bus full of hormones.

He looked... distractingly good.
Messy hair, tie still painfully straight, because of course it was.

I had absolutely no business wanting to undo it with my teeth. And yet.

Something coil low in my chest, hot and reckless.
God help me, I wanted to wreck him.

"You're quiet," he said, setting down his menu carefully. "Not that I'm complaining. Just... observing."

"I'm strategizing," I said, tapping mine. "Trying to figure out if ordering both pasta and steak makes me look confident or like I'm about to cause a scene."

He ducked his head, quick, awkward and adorably goofy.

"You should order both," he said, dead serious. "Confusion tactics are underrated."

I raised an eyebrow, grinning slow. "You know, in some cultures, offering someone food is basically a courtship ritual."

He lit up — that stupid gorgeous spark that always hit when someone said something interesting — like I'd just handed him a new favorite fact.

God help me, watching Spencer Reid look at me like that should not be this satisfying.

After that, dinner was ridiculously easy, like we'd both forgotten we were supposed to be nervous.

We talked, real stuff, stupid stuff, absolutely unhinged stuff.

He told me about how he'd once gotten banned from a crime scene for arguing too passionately about glass fracture patterns.

I told him about the time I made an opposing counsel cry during a cross-examination and had to awkwardly pat their shoulder afterward like I was consoling a toddler.

At some point — somewhere between debating dessert and him trying to explain why pistachios aren't technically nuts —

I tilted my head, grinning over my wineglass. "What's the most terrified you've ever been on a case?"

He blinked, like the question actually caught him off guard, and thought about it.

Then, a little sheepish, "I got stuck in an elevator with Morgan once."

I pouted. "That's it? An elevator?"

"You didn't see him," Spencer shook his head. "He was fine until the elevator jolted. Then he panicked. Loudly."

I covered my mouth to hide a laugh. "Oh my god."

"I thought it would help if I started reciting survival statistics about elevator accidents," He continued, like this was a reasonable decision.

I dropped my forehead onto my hand, laughing harder. "You gave Morgan math while he was having a full-on meltdown?"

He nodded, completely serious. "He yelled at me to shut up. Multiple times."

"And you?"

"I stood very still and hoped he wouldn't throw me through the ceiling."

I was losing it — actually losing it — and Spencer just sat there looking faintly confused as to why this was funny.

God. He was absurd. And perfect. And so, so him.

Somewhere after that story, somewhere between leaning closer and stealing the last piece of bread off his plate, I realized how dangerous it had gotten.

How good it felt.

For one reckless second, all I could think about was how close I'd come to missing this — to missing him.

And it made me grip the edge of my wineglass just a little tighter.

He looked at me.

And it wasn't casual. It wasn't polite. It was like he saw every screwed-up, too-loud, too-much part of me, and didn't even think about running.

His eyes, wide, serious, unbearably pretty, just stayed.

I could feel it happening.

Every dumb wall I'd duct-taped together started crumbling.

And somehow, instead of panicking, all I wanted was more.

Like if I could hold onto that look long enough, maybe I'd finally believe I was worth it.

And then, voice low, careful, like he meant every word he said. "I really like you, Quinn."

My stomach twisted so hard it should've taken out a few vital organs on the way down.

Oh.

Cool.

So this is how people die of feelings.

I stared— not because I doubted it, but because functioning like a normal human suddenly seemed very difficult.

He rushed on, almost tripping over himself:

"I know I'm... not always the easiest. I overthink everything. I talk too fast. I memorize survival statistics because it makes me feel like I'm in control of something."

He waved a hand like he hated even saying it out loud.

I opened my mouth...maybe to crack a joke, or confess my own feelings but he beat me to it.

"But I'm not confused about this," he said, bumping his foot lightly against mine under the table.

"I'm not confused about you."

Everything inside me slowed, not frozen, just... braced. Like my brain realized too late there was no way out of this without jumping.

I should've said something safe, something that kept me breathing air instead of whatever this was.

But he was still looking at me...waiting...like he was willing to be messy if I was.

Without thinking, I reached across the table and brushed my fingers against his. Light, quick, stupidly reckless.

"You know you're insanely hot when you're nervous, right?" I muttered before my brain could even file an objection.

Spencer blinked, color rising in his cheek, and cleared his throat like he was trying and failing to play it cool.

He ducked his head, a half-laugh slipping out, short, surprised, almost like he didn't know what to do with it, and when he looked back up, the smile he gave me was small, crooked, and gut-punchingly good.

"I... I'll take that as a compliment."

I grinned, I honestly couldn't help it, and let my fingers brush his once more, more deliberate this time.

"You're not the only liability here," I added.

Spencer's mouth twitched, "Statistically speaking, people who admit their liabilities have better long-term outcomes."

He dragged his thumb along the edge of his napkin, hesitated just a moment, then added, softer, "Especially if they're honest about it from the start."

His gaze flicked up — quick, sharp, stupidly devastating — and his voice dropped even lower. "But there's one thing I should probably mention."

I tipped my head, heart stumbling forward like it was chasing after him.

"I have to leave town for a few days."

I smirked "Wait. You leave town? Shocking. And here I thought the jet was just for prestige."

He huffed an almost a laugh, but it faded fast.

"You know that clinical trial I had my mom in?" he questioned.

I nodded.

"She's... not doing great. I need to go to Houston. Check on her."

He said it like he was handing me an exit — like if I wanted to run, he wouldn't blame me.

"It's just a few days," he added quickly. "I just... didn't want you to think I was ghosting you."

I smirked. "Aw. You remembered your vocab lesson."

He shrugged, a little self-conscious. "I remember everything you say."

Without even thinking about it, I hooked my pinky around his under the table.

My brain didn't just pack a bag. It burned the place down and left a note that said "good luck."

"I'm not scared of you leaving," I admitted quietly.

Lie. Maybe a little. But not because I thought he'd run.
Because life had a nasty habit of yanking things away just when they started to matter.

He let out a breath and squeezed my pinky once.

Which was honestly rude, because now I was definitely going to have to name our future children after him.

And somehow, between caffeine, bad jokes, a very empty bowl of pasta, and a pinky promise, I knew exactly what I wanted.

Him. Us. All of it.

Chapter 12: Tension, Meet Surface

Under pressure, even legally binding agreements can fracture. Stress doesn't nullify obligation — it just exposes the cracks.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

I ducked into my bedroom and shut the door before Garfield could follow — not that he respected boundaries, he yowled loud and offended.

I paced once, twice, then jammed the phone between my shoulder and ear.

"Are you alone?" he asked, voice sharp.

"Obviously," I said. "You think I'd risk national security and get judged by a cat?"

"What's wrong?"

I hesitated. My hand tightened on the phone before I even realized it.

"This line's for emergencies," he reminded me, like I hadn't memorized it the first fifty times.

"Well aware of that, Hotch." I muttered. "I wouldn't call unless—" I stopped. "It's Spencer."

Nothing from his side. Just space for me to embarrass myself further.

"Why are you calling me about your personal life?" Hotch asked, completely dry.

"Because," I snapped, "everyone else keeps handing me crap advice about 'giving him space' and you're the only one who'll actually tell me if I'm being insane."

"Smart choice," he said, like it was obvious.

I flopped down on the bed and stared at the ceiling, heart pounding way harder than necessary.

"He went to Houston," I said. "Came back. Pretended everything was fine. Now something else is going on, and I'm just sitting here feeling like the world's biggest idiot."

"You're dating a federal agent. There's a learning curve."

I huffed out a half-laugh, half-sigh. "Fantastic. Should I be expecting a survival guide in the mail?"

"We ran out of survival guides in '06. Budget cuts."

It should've made me laugh.
Instead, I just felt more uncomfortable and slightly nauseous.

"So...you good?" I asked, voice rougher than I wanted.

"Jack's good. We're both good," Hotch said. "He's...happy."

"Tell him I said hi," I muttered. "And that I'm still cooler than you."

"I'll let him know."

My throat tightened. Like that did anything except prove how screwed I am.

"You think Spencer's okay?" I asked. Quiet. Scared in a way I hated.

"You wouldn't be calling me if you thought he was," Hotch replied.

I closed my eyes. That nauseous feeling doubled.

"If he needs me..." I started, but couldn't finish.

"You'll know."

"And if he doesn't?"

"You'll know that too. And you'll survive it."

I dug my thumb into my palm hard enough to leave a mark. It didn't help. Nothing did.

"But he's not the type to walk away," Hotch added. "Not unless he has no choice."

That's the part that terrifies me...

I nodded and scrubbed a hand over my face.

"Thanks," I muttered, meaning it in all the ways I didn't have the guts to say out loud.

"Don't thank me," Hotch said. "I'm hanging up before this turns into a therapy session."

"You wish," I said, managing something close to a smile.

He made a sound that almost counted as a laugh. Then the line went dead.

I dropped the phone onto the nightstand and sat there, letting the silence creep in. Just me. And the sinking certainty that I was about to lose him before I ever really had him.

~*~

I was halfway through drafting a motion to dismiss a homicide charge — staring down the world's most ridiculous prosecution memo — when my laptop froze.

A full-blown, code-red betrayal. By a MacBook.

I mashed the spacebar like maybe violence would fix it.

Nothing.

"Sure," I muttered. "Why not. Add a tech meltdown to the list. Go ahead."

Somewhere down the hall, a cluster of junior associates burst out laughing, loud, obnoxious, like they'd never missed a deadline or emotionally unraveled in public.

That'd be me. Unraveling, party of one.

I ground my teeth and hit the spacebar again. Harder.

"Break," I muttered. "See if I care. Take the whole system down with you."

My phone buzzed on the desk.

Unknown number. Naturally.

I snatched it up. "Bennett."

There was a breath. Barely.

"Hey."

Spencer.

But not normal-Spencer — not the one who once argued with me about the Dewey Decimal System for an hour just to be annoying. This Spencer sounded hollow, like something had shorted out inside him.

My stomach knotted instantly.

"What's going on?" I asked, already reaching for my jacket.

He hesitated. And in Spencer-language, that was basically the equivalent of setting off a five-alarm fire.

"The nurse left," he said finally, voice rough.

I was already halfway to the door... and so confused... nurse? Why did he have a nurse?

"And the waterline—" another jagged breath — "the waterline burst. The books are ruined. I..."

His voice snapped off like a frayed wire.

I tried to talk, words stumbling out. "What do you need?"

He didn't explain. Didn't justify. Just said it, like it physically hurt to admit: "Can you come?"

I didn't even think about it. I was already out the door, halfway to the car before my brain caught up to my body.

By the time I reached his building, the front door was cracked open like even it had decided to quit.

The smell hit first — like soaked paperbacks and academic regret.

I followed the trail of squishy carpet, soaked papers, until I found him.

Spencer. Mopping. Sure. He had to start somewhere. Didn't have to look that good doing it, but here we are.

Yeah. No. This was bad. His mom is apparently here. Surprise. Thrilled to learn we've entered the "skip the life updates" phase of whatever this is.

I crossed the room and tugged the mop out of his hands.

He resisted — briefly — but I gave him the look.
The one that said: don't waste both our time.

He let go.

"You called me," I said. "Let me help."

He sighed, looking like he hadn't slept in a week.

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "It's not just the water. She— she thought the nurse was spying on her. Screamed until—"

He broke off. Swallowed hard.

"The nurse quit," he finished quietly.

I didn't say anything. Not really the time to ask why I'm finding this out mid-crisis, apparently.

I just wrung out the mop and kept moving, until the door creaked.

I turned.

Okay. Here we go. No big deal. Just meeting his mother. Totally fine.

Diana Reid stood there — bare feet, aggressively pink robe, and a face like she was trying to remember if I was real or just a side effect of the meds.

No smile. No recognition. Just that brittle, scrambling look people get when their brain's buffering.

Beside me, Spencer shifted — awkward, guilty.
Poor guy looked ready to throw himself out the nearest window.

"Mom," Spencer said, voice low. "This is Quinn—"

"You were in my class, weren't you? Debate? No — philosophy. You always had something to say."

I blinked. "Back row, bad handwriting, lots of opinions. Sounds about right. I'm Quinn."

She clapped her hands softly. "Quinn! Yes. You argued with that guest lecturer about moral relativism. Wouldn't let it go."

I shrugged. "He called the trolley problem 'derivative.' I considered it a personal attack."

That got a laugh — not manic or confused, just... amused. Real.

"You were clever. I liked that about you."

"You were the only one who didn't pretend the syllabus was scripture," I said. "I appreciated the chaos."

She nodded, pleased. "You kept things interesting."

I watched her wander off down the hallway like we hadn't just time-jumped ten years and one full identity crisis. But...she liked me.

I'll take it.

Spencer however looked like he wanted to fall through the floor.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, so quiet I almost missed it.

I shook my head fast, cutting him off.

"Please," I said. "If your mom thinks I still pass for eighteen? That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me all week."

He almost laughed. Almost.

I picked up a paperback, mostly to avoid making eye contact with the situation.

Diana was still nearby, standing over the mess. She didn't touch anything — just looked down like it was something she'd seen before. Something she understood.

"Your books are ruined," she said softly. Like she wasn't really talking to us at all.

Spencer automatically stepped toward her.

"It's okay," He replied too fast. "Just a few. It's not a big deal."

Yeah, sure. 'A few.' Like we're using a new scale where ten shelves equals one.

Diana shook her head, cradling the wet book like it had feelings.

"No," she whispered. "Destroying a book is like... destroying a whole world."

Spencer looked like he might try to salvage it.
I stepped in first — calm, like we weren't both pretending that book hadn't drowned hours ago.

"Good thing some worlds have second editions," I said, stacking damp paperbacks into what could generously be called a pile.

Diana smiled. It was crooked and brief, but it counted.

"I should rest," she murmured, almost like she was asking permission.

"Yeah, go for it," I said easily. "I've got an eye on him."

She nodded, shuffled off down the hall, humming under her breath like nothing had even happened.

I stayed crouched by the books a second longer, pretending to fix the pile even though there wasn't anything left to fix.

Spencer rubbed the back of his neck, the universal sign for 'everything's fine, except absolutely nothing is.'

"God, Spence. You're allowed to be human, you know."

"I'm sorry," he muttered again, voice low.

I shook my head, more for me than for him.

"Spencer," I said, straightening up with a towel in my hand. Because if he apologized one more time, I might actually start crying instead of cleaning.
"If this is the worst thing you throw at me, you're doing fine."

He hugged me.

No warning. Just arms around me like we did this all the time. Like this wasn't a Category 5 meltdown in disguise.

And for a second, I didn't move. Not because I didn't want to. Because my body forgot how.

He was warm. Steady. Smelled like coffee, cinnamon, and something I'd absolutely crawl across broken glass for. I let him hold me, even though my brain was already halfway to imagining what he'd sound like if I bit his neck.

My arms found their way around him, slower than I'd like to admit. One hand settled at his back. The other just... stayed there, holding on.

For once, the disaster loop in my brain just... shut up.

"I have to jump on a conference call," he said finally, pulling away.

I blink. Probably pouted. Right. Okay. Great. Let's break the hug and my will to live. Perfect timing.

I toss a towel at a puddle near the couch.
"Business as usual," I replied. Even if it isn't.

The laptop flickered awake. I stayed quiet, no point making it worse.

Penelope's voice hit first — bright, bubbly, classic Garcia — then stalled the second she spotted me.

"Well, well," she said, grinning. "If it isn't our favorite lawyer."

"He asked me to stay. I didn't break in, promise."

It was a joke, mostly. Safer than saying I just didn't want him doing this alone.

Emily leaned closer, smirking. "Didn't think we'd see you here."

Translation: We didn't know it was this serious. Message received loud and clear.

“She’s just—” he started, clearly regretting this entire meeting.

"Relax, Reid," Rossi said, voice easy. "You're allowed to have backup."

I bent to retrieve the towel I'd thrown earlier.
"Backup's a stretch," I muttered, just loud enough to count.

That got a few soft chuckles. Normal, easy. Like I hadn't accidentally crashed something important.

Then they moved on. No questions asked.

Spencer cleared his throat, flipping through paperwork.

"I had a chance to look over the case files. Do we know anything new about the two victims in Tampa?"

Should I even be listening to this?

It was like someone flipped a switch. Steady voice, sharp brain, zero trace of the guy who’d called me mid-breakdown. I wasn’t sure if I should be impressed or deeply concerned.

Tara jumped in. "Only about how little there is to learn, and Garcia can't find any connection between Helen Bollinger and George Findley."

"Which isn't that surprising," a new voice said. "Homeless vet, upper-middle class suburban mom. Not much overlap there."

I turned.
New guy.
Wonder who-

Spencer didn't even look up. "That's Stephen Walker. He's new."

Walker nodded. "Nice to meet you."

"Quinn," I said. "Spencer's..." I paused. Thought too long. "...friend." Cool. Nailed it. Gold medal in emotional dismounts.

He gave a polite smile and turned back to the file. Which, yeah. That’s what you do when someone forgets how basic human words work.

"What about their personal lives?" Luke asked, taking the focus off me, thank god.

"Well George was homeless, so his personal life was sort of problematic. Helen, on the other hand, ticks every box on the wholesome soccer mom checklist. President of her PTA, super active at church, heavily involved in charity work," Garcia said.

Which probably meant nothing.
Or everything.
Cool. Now I'm thinking in Reid. That's healthy.

"Spence, have you looked at the ink markings yet?" JJ asked.

"I did," Spencer said. "Whatever it is, it doesn't come from traditional sources of art, mythology, and literature. Except for the incomplete base of a triangle, the design is evocative of the Pagan symbol for earth."

Pagan symbols. Because normal murders are too much to ask for, apparently.

"Garcia," Emily said, voice snapping sharp again, "look into other questionable suicides and accidental deaths in the Tampa area recently."

"Search into sad stuff, on it," Garcia chirped, and the screen flicked off.

I didn't sit down. I wrung the towel out in the sink and stalked back across the room.
Sort the books. Dry what could be saved. Suppress everything — because that's the system.

Spencer hovered awkwardly by the couch, like he didn't know if he was supposed to help or apologize again.

“Okay,” I said aloud, because apparently we’re narrating now. “How do we MacGyver this mess?”
I looked around — towels, fans, and a half-dead hairdryer buried under a stack of medical journals by the sink.
“Of course you own one,” I added, already walking over. “Let me guess — mildew prevention study?”

Spencer blinked. “It was a good study.”

I yanked the dryer free, flipped it to the lowest setting, and aimed it at the nearest soggy book.

“If this thing catches fire, I’m blaming physics.”

He stared, clearly trying to figure out if I was serious.
I wasn’t. Not entirely.

"Paper towels, Spence," I said, jerking my chin toward the kitchen. "Unless you'd rather stand there looking hot and helpless — in which case, carry on."

That got him moving. And yeah — there was a blush. Just the faintest one, but I clocked it. Victory.

He handed me a roll of paper towel. I tore off sheets and shoved them between the worst-off pages, flipping on the fan near the window for good measure.

Was it a perfect system?
No.

Was it better than watching everything rot?
Definitely. yes.

He was standing too close again.

"So... friend?" he finally spoke, looking at me.

I didn't turn. Just kept blow-drying the pages of a half-ruined novel like it was going to save us both.

"I panicked," I said. "It was either that or 'emotional support lawyer.'"

A silence bloomed. The awkward kind...

"And one of those sounds like I charge by the hour."

He hesitated.

“I mean… if that’s what we are, that’s fine. I just—I didn’t think we were still… calling it that.”

Another pause. Longer this time. Great. Love that for us.

“Yeah,” I said. “Me neither.”

Then, because God forbid I let a silence pass without emotionally detonating something:
“But it felt safer than saying whatever this actually is.”

The blow-dryer whirred back to life in my hands.

~*~

The living room looked like a crime scene for paperbacks.

Books across every flat surface. Towels everywhere. One half-dying hairdryer buzzing like it wanted to be put out of its misery.

We'd done what we could.

Now came the part I actually hated: the quiet. No crisis to fix. Just soggy books and too much room to think.

I switched off the hairdryer and set it down, suddenly very aware of how loud silence could get.

Across the room, Spencer sank onto the edge of the couch — not giving up, just worn out.

He didn’t say anything. Just sat there.

I stood a few feet away. Damp sleeves. Empty hands. Nowhere to aim any of it.

I looked at the mess. Then at him.

The books. The water. His mother in the next room.

And this is when I get brought in—after everything had gone to shit.

Not when she moved in.
Not when it got complicated.
When it all fell apart.

Cool. Glad I made the shortlist for mop duty.

I grabbed the nearest half-dry book and flipped it over.

Crime and Punishment....oh the irony....

"Good news," I said. "Dostoevsky survived. Your hardwood, not so much."

Spencer blinked like I’d just said something deeply unhelpful.
Which, fair.

 

I set the book down on the driest patch of table and lined up another beside it. Kept moving — because standing still felt too close to thinking.

I was halfway through prying apart a swollen dictionary when I saw movement at the edge of my vision.

Diana shuffled in. Still looked like royalty. In a pink bathrobe. So, yeah — impressive.

Spencer straightened like it was reflex. Something built in.

"Hey," he said, voice gentler than mine ever gets. "How'd you sleep?"

"I don't know," Diana said. "Okay, I guess."

I stayed in place, doing my best impression of a lamp. Because if there was a guest list for this moment, I wasn't on it.

Spencer picked up a box and pulled out something heavy and worn. A thick, cracked scrapbook.

"This came while you were sleeping," he said. "Uncle Gordon sent it."

"What is that?" Diana asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"You made this one in high school," Spencer said. "See?" He opened it to a page with a younger Diana in a graduation cap, all bright eyes and unearned optimism.

"You used to put pictures in here — things you wanted to remember."

He set it down between them like it might fall apart if handled wrong.

I leaned back slightly against the wall, heart pounding.

Come on, I thought. Just give him something. One flicker. Anything.

She stared. Flipped a page.
Nothing.

Spencer didn’t react. Just shifted like he’d stopped hoping for an answer a long time ago.

"It's time to take your medicine," he said.

"No," Diana snapped. "It tastes terrible."

I didn't move. Nope. Not getting involved.

"Mom, it's not poison," he replied gently. "Remember in Texas? It helped. You felt good enough for San Antonio. Just wait here."

He gave her hand a light squeeze before disappearing down the hall.

Diana looked down at the floor, then crouched near a ruined paperback. She bent over it, her fingers hovered above it but didn't touch.

"This one had a blue cover," she said.

It didn't. It was beige, swollen with water, pages warped beyond saving.

"Sure," I said. "Let's say it did."

She looked over at me like I'd interrupted a thought. "Do you live here?"

I shook my head. "God, no."

"But you're helping."

"Bad habit."

She straightened slowly, giving me a look that honestly made me a little nervous. "Are you in love with him?"

Jesus.

I blinked. "That's direct."

"Well," she said, "I'm not dead."

I huffed a laugh, caught completely off guard.

She narrowed her eyes like she was solving a puzzle I didn't know I was part of. "You don't look like his type."

"Thanks."

"That wasn't an insult."

"Wasn't a compliment either."

She looked at me for a long second, then nodded once, like something had clicked.

“He needs someone who’ll call him on his crap.”

I tilted my head. “That your way of saying good luck?”

“It’s my way of saying — he’s not easy.”

Across the room, I could feel Spencer watching. Not intruding. Just listening, like he was trying to translate a conversation that didn’t quite involve him.

I didn't look.

At least she wasn't accusing me of being a spy...yet...

Spencer eventually wandered back in with a glass of orange juice and handed it to her carefully.

"I mixed it," he said. "It won't taste as bad."

Diana didn't move.

He nudged it into her hands. "Mom. Come on."

She looked between the two of us. Trying to decide if we were a team. Or a trick.

"You going to stand there and watch me?"

"Yes," Spencer said, like it wasn't even a question.

I zeroed in on a ruined copy of The Bell Jar and stared at it like it might offer me a way out.

Diana — to her credit — didn't drag it out. She tipped the glass back and downed it like a pro.

Then stuck her tongue out like a five-year-old. "Ahhh."

I ducked my head, laugh escaping before I could stop it.

"You don't have to do that," Spencer said, smiling despite himself.

"Of course I do," She waved him off, and padded down the hallway.

Spencer just stood there, still holding the glass like he forgot it was in his hand.

I leaned against the counter and raised an eyebrow.

"So that's your compliance strategy? Mild guilt and orange juice?"

He let out a soft, tired sound — probably the world’s longest sigh.

"Next time," I said, "try cake. Lead with sugar. Then ambush her with the meds."

He shook his head — not at me, not really. Just at the whole mess like it was too big to untangle.

"Now that you're no longer swimming in the apartment... I guess I should—"

"Don't go." It came out fast. Unfiltered. Like he hadn't meant to say it out loud.

I froze.

He looked anywhere but at me.

"There's another nurse coming," he said quickly. "From the agency. I just thought... maybe you could help me vet her?"

I blinked.

Right. Because obviously I'm qualified to screen healthcare professionals now.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. "Sure. I took half a semester of pre-med and once got into a yelling match with a cardiologist. I'm basically certified."

He stayed quiet.
Which, apparently, is how he gets me — silence and that face. Unfair. Honestly.

~*~

Spencer worked at the desk, flipping through case notes with grim focus. I was half-slouched on the arm of a chair nearby, pretending to answer emails — because pretending was easier than watching this particular disaster roll downhill in real time.

Across the room, Diana sulked into the couch cushions, arms crossed, glowering at the world.

The doorbell rang, sharp and jarring.

Spencer looked up immediately.

"All right, Mom," he said, standing up and smoothing a hand down the front of his shirt. "I just want you to meet her, okay?"

He crossed to the couch, crouching in front of her like she was a bomb he wasn't sure how to disarm.

"Just meet her and tell me what you think."

"I already know what I think," Diana said coldly, not moving.

Spencer exhaled, tension tightening his shoulders.
"Come on, Mom. Let's go. Let's go say hi."

She pressed herself deeper into the couch.

"Mom—" he grunted trying to pull her off. "Mother."

I flicked through my inbox, not bothering to hide the smirk tugging at my mouth. Sue me — I had a terrible sense of humor at the worst possible times.

In a last-ditch effort, Spencer grabbed the scrapbook off the side table and dropped it into her lap.

"Maybe you can show her your scrapbook, huh?" he said, forcing cheer.

Diana stared at it like it was covered in acid.

"What for?" she asked flatly.

The doorbell rang again.

"Spencer," I said without looking up, "pretty sure that's the sound of your rescue party getting impatient."

He shot me a look — exhausted, half-amused — and moved toward the door.

He opened it and pulled it wider with a forced smile.

"Miss Campbell?" he asked.

"Dr. Reid," she said brightly, extending her hand.

"Thank you so much for coming on such short notice." He added, "Oh, come in," stepping aside.

She walked in, surveying the disaster zone of books and towels without comment.

"My goodness," she said lightly. "You must be quite a reader."

"Yeah," Spencer said, sheepish. "Yeah, I am."

Her gaze shifted and landed on me. “And you must be... Mrs. Reid?"

I blacked out for a full second.
There was no air.
Just that phrase — echoing around like a punchline in my head.

Spencer choked audibly.

I died a little.

Did she...?
She did.
Cool cool cool. I'm married now. Guess I missed the ceremony. Hope there was cake.

"Ah—" I managed. Which, frankly, is pathetic for someone who yells at judges for a living.

Cassie chuckled politely, looking a little confused but rolling with it.

"We're so sorry about the mess," Spencer said quickly. "We had a... a little bit of an accident. Come, meet my mom."

They crossed the room.

I did not.
I sat there trying to figure out if I was supposed to correct the record or go legally change my name.

"Mom, this is Miss Campbell from the agency. Miss Campbell, this is my mother, Diana Reid."

"Very nice to meet you, ma'am," Cassie said warmly.

Diana stared at her for half a second, then stood up, tossed the scrapbook onto an armchair with dramatic flair, and disappeared down the hallway.

"Mom," Spencer called after her. "Mom, just say hi to her. All you—"

The bedroom door slammed.

Cool. We're doing great.

"Mother, you are behaving like a— Mom, come out—!"

I lifted my eyebrows and gave Spencer a small hand-flip motion, this was way out of abilities to handle.

Cassie smiled politely. "It's all right. Let it go. Happens a lot."

Spencer deflated but nodded tightly.

"I'm so sorry," he said. "She's not— she's been really upset, but I know if I talk to her—"

"This happens a lot," Cassie repeated kindly. "Come and sit. Tell me more about your mother."

Spencer glanced at me once, then followed her back to the desk.

I however stared at the wall, still hearing it.
Mrs. Reid.
I was unwell. Like, seconds from changing my email signature and ordering custom stationery. God help me, I wanted it monogrammed.

"I made the decision to bring her back to Washington with me," Spencer said, voice low but steady.

Cassie nodded. "It's a very difficult thing you're attempting to do, Dr. Reid... Mrs. Reid."

She said it again.
Mrs. Reid.

Fine. I'll go file the marriage license and change my email signature.

And Spencer didn't even blink. Just kept nodding like she'd said something neutral and not a legally binding marital status. Although he did have a lot going on right now...

"The Anderson Clinic is one of the best facilities in the world," Cassie continued.

"Yes, I know," Spencer said. "In terms of conventional treatment, I entirely agree. That's why I sent her to Houston in the first place. But there's a vast amount of literature and research on the workings of the human brain, and we have not even begun to scratch the surface."

Okay. We're quoting journals now. Because his mom just slammed a door mid-intro and we're countering that with neuroscience optimism.

Cassie smiled, polite and practiced as she listened to him ramble.

"Personally, I believe that great breakthroughs, especially in medicine, often come from thinking outside the box, which—"

"Yes, but the box is there for a reason, Dr. Reid," she interrupted gently. "Safety. Quality of life. Controlled environment. Your mother needs that."

She softened a little, careful.

"My strong recommendation is that you put her in an assisted care facility."

The words hit the room like a depth charge.

I shifted back in my seat but kept my mouth shut.
Barely.

Because here it was.
The part where someone finally said it.
The thing I hadn't been brave enough to ask out loud.
Should he really be doing this? Is this actually helping?

"I'm not gonna do that," Spencer said.

"He's not gonna do that," I muttered under my breath, before I could stop myself.

Cassie laughed lightly. “But you're not gonna do that.”

Spencer cracked a small laugh too, tension bleeding off for half a second.

"I'm not," he confirmed.

And there it was. Decision made. No room for debate.
Not even with a licensed professional who's seen this play out a hundred times.

Excellent. Good. Great. Just keep stacking the awkward.

"Well," Cassie sighed, standing up. "That being the case, I'd be happy to help you with your mother."

Spencer blinked up at her, stunned.

"You—are you serious?"

"Oh, my gosh, thank you!" he said, lunging forward and—

Oh, no.

He hugged her.

Cassie stiffened visibly but managed to smile through it.

Spencer pulled back fast, looking mortified.

"I'm so sorry. Sorry. Thank you," he said, grabbing her hand with both of his.

Cassie muttered, half to herself, "Okay, I'm hallucinating now."

Honestly? Same.

"You have no idea how much this means to me," Spencer added.

He meant it. Every word. And for a second, I wanted to believe that meant it would all be okay.

But the back of my throat burned anyway.
Because I still wasn't sure this was the right call.
And I hated that I was starting to doubt it.

"Now, one more thing," Cassie said, professional again. "I need to see the medications she's currently taking."

"Of course," Spencer nodded.

He crossed to the desk, grabbing the bottles we had gathered earlier.

"It's something we monitor carefully for obvious reasons," Cassie said.

"Of course," Spencer repeated.

He handed her the bottles carefully.

"Haloperidol, doxepin, galantamine," she read aloud, flipping them over.

The names weren't new. But hearing them out loud — seeing them lined up like that — made it harder to pretend any of this was temporary.

"Fairly standard for the treatment of schizophrenia and Alzheimer's," Cassie noted. "She's not taking anything else?"

"No," Spencer said quietly, shaking his head.

"Okay then. I'll work up the contract and send it over tonight," she suggested. Then, as if she hadn't already done enough, “You two have a lovely day. Dr. and Mrs. Reid."

I opened my mouth to correct her.
Paused.

What was the point?
She wasn't the only one who'd gotten the wrong idea today.

"Thank you. You too," I said lightly.

"Thank you so much," Spencer said, walking her out.

She gave us both one last warm, oblivious smile and disappeared down the hallway.

Spencer closed the door behind her with a quiet click.
The lock clicked into place.

I stayed put. Then crossed my arms.

"You want me to start," I said calmly, "or are you planning to pretend any of that made sense?"

Because I would. I'd rip this whole thing open if I had to.

Spencer didn't turn. He just stood there, shoulders drawn up like he'd been holding his breath since the moment she walked in.

"Quinn—"

"No. Walk me through this. You brought in a stranger today — a nurse you barely know — and decided that's the solution."

"She's not a stranger," he lashed out. "She came recommended."

"From an agency you found two days ago."

His jaw clenched. "You think I have a better option?"

"I think you're barely holding it together, and you're calling that a plan."

"I'm managing it."

“You waited until it all fell apart before you called me,” I said. “That’s not managing. That’s pretending damage control works after the damage is done.”

Spencer turned around fully now, wearing an expression I’d never seen on him — furious, like I’d just crossed a line I didn’t know was there.

"I'm not abandoning her."

"I didn't say you were."

"You're implying it."

"No," I said, voice quieter now. "I'm saying this is already too much. And you're pretending it isn't."

He looked away.

"She needs support," I explained. "Real support. Doctors. A facility that's equipped. You are not a treatment plan."

He didn't answer. Just stood there, looking like something was cracking just beneath the surface.

"I get it," I added. "You want to help. You don't want to lose her. But this—this isn't love, Spencer. This is penance."

His head snapped up. "You don't get to talk about family like you know, you hate yours."

The words hit fast. Sharper than he meant.

I held his gaze. "I don't hate them," I said. "I survived them. There's a difference."

He shook his head. “I can handle it," he snapped. Which was, frankly, the worst lie in the room.

You can't.

I wanted to say it. You're breaking. And dragging her with you. But I didn't. Not yet.

I grabbed my jacket off the chair, because if I didn't move, I was going to say something I couldn't take back.

"When you figure out whether you're trying to save her or yourself," I said, quiet now, steady, "call someone else."

Then I walked out.

No slam. No last word. Just gone.

Chapter 13: The case of Spencer Reid

Concurrent jurisdiction
A situation in which two or more courts from different systems simultaneously have authority over the same matter.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

There it was.

Another sigh. Long. Exasperated. Like I was the most frustrating person he'd dealt with all week. And he works for the federal government.

I didn't respond. Mostly because I knew I'd earned it. Also because I was trying not to laugh.

"Your Honor," I said, keeping it civil even though I wanted to ask if he needed a lozenge or just a therapist, "my client's right to a fair trial doesn't vanish because the prosecution is allergic to facts. They opened the door with character evidence. I'm just walking through it."

The ADA shifted next to me. I didn't bother looking at him. He'd object eventually, but only after he did that thing where he flared his nostrils like a cartoon bull.

"This is a courtroom, not a PR stunt," I continued. "So unless the state has something better than hearsay and a character assassination, I'll be wrapping up now."

From the gallery, I heard someone click a pen. Or maybe it was a camera shutter. Hard to tell, now that my job had media crawling everywhere.

The judge sighed again. Deeper this time. Maybe hoping the second one would finally break me.

"I've heard enough, Ms. Bennett," he said, waving a hand like I was interrupting his lunch plans. "Move on."

I smiled the kind of smile that got me labeled "difficult" in law school. "Of course."

I sat back down, opened my folder, and stared directly at the same sentence I'd read twelve times already. None of it stuck. I couldn't even remember what point I'd just made. Something about admissibility? Whatever.

Didn't matter.

The guy I was defending was an Ivy League swim coach with too much money and the emotional range of a potato. Allegedly slept with one of his students. Possibly more.

The DA had a nice, clean narrative. The press had their villain. And my client? Was busy complaining about the courtroom lighting.

I hated him. I hated this case.

But it wasn't about liking people. It was about being better than the idiot arguing against me was.

So I did the job.

Until I didn't. Because there it was—out of nowhere. Mid-sentence. Mid-whatever. Like it had been waiting to corner me.

Reid.

His name written on a piece of paper just to haunt me.

Two weeks of radio silence. Not a word after I walked. Not even a half-assed excuse.

And the worst part? He made it effortless. No fight. No guilt. Just gone. A line item he crossed off like it never mattered.

I curled my fingers around the folder until it creased. The ADA cleared his throat again—twice now, which felt ambitious. Sorry, did my inner monologue interrupt your opening statement?

Zoe caught my eye from the second row. She mouthed, You good?

I gave her a shrug. The kind that meant no, but also don't ask.

Lucky for me the bailiff called for a recess. I stood. Collected my notes like I hadn't just mentally blacked out the last ten minutes.

I walked out before anyone could ask questions I didn't feel like answering. And yeah—stepping into the hallway was a mistake.

Reporters were already waiting. Microphones. Flashbulbs. That one guy with the slicked-back hair and veneers who always shouted my name like we were friends.

I kept walking. Head up. Pace steady. God forbid anyone realize I'd officially lost it over a man who bailed faster than my last three exes combined.

Zoe caught up to me halfway to the stairwell.

"You've got twenty minutes," she said, offering the coffee like it was a sedative. "Want food, or do we scream into a closet like functional adults?"

"Tempting," I muttered, taking the cup. "But I'll take caffeine and a wall that hasn't heard the words 'my client's porn habits' today."

She held out my phone next, face down. "This buzzed like six times during closing... an Emily Prentiss."

My stomach dropped so fast I barely caught the step down into the basement hallway.

Six missed calls from Emily. No voicemail. No text. Just her name—stacked in a row—like a warning I didn't want to open.

I hit "Call Back."

"Quinn?" Emily's voice was low. Cautious. The kind of calm you use when things are the opposite.

Every part of me went still.

"Yeah," I said, already veering into an empty conference room and shutting the door behind me. "What's going on?"

She paused. Just for a second. Long enough that adrenaline started pumping through me.

"It's Spencer."

Everything inside me just... halted.

"I'm in a twenty-minute recess," I said, voice hollow. "You've got about seventeen left. Talk fast."

Another pause. "He's been arrested."

Ah...what?

"Arrested?" I repeated. "No. Try again. Use different words."

"In Mexico."

I stared at the wall like maybe—if I looked hard enough—I'd find a hidden camera, or an explanation, or just the will to keep functioning.

"Okay," I said, slow and deliberate, like if I waited long enough she might say something else. "Emily, unless you're two seconds away from saying 'just kidding, you got punk'd,' I'm going to need you to start over. Slowly. With less of the part where you said Mexico."

"We don't have all the details yet," she replied. Grim. Definitely not kidding. "There was a car chase. They said he ran. There were drugs and money in the trunk of the car."

I pressed a hand to my temple. Still waiting for the punchline because there's just no way that she's being serious.

"Drugs."

"Quinn—"

"Let me guess. Heroin? Cocaine? Fentanyl for flair? Jesus Christ, Emily."

"He's okay."

"That's not even remotely true and you know it."

"He's alive," she corrected. "I'm on my way with Rossi and Alvez."

I sat down. Hard. Plastic chair, cold metal legs. Didn't matter. I was about ten seconds from mentally tapping out.

"Cool," I said, staring straight ahead. "Cool. So... you'll sort it out... get him back in US jurisdiction."

Emily didn't reply. That's how I knew it was worse than I thought.

"Where is he exactly?"

"Local holding, for now," Emily eventually answered. "But it's serious, Quinn."

No shit this is serious.

Because it couldn't just be a paperwork issue. Or a mix-up. No—it had to be narcotics, international custody, and Spencer Reid caught in the middle of it.

"Are you going at DOJ?"

"We're trying."

"Okay. I'll help. I'll come at them from the other side."

She exhales—relieved, maybe. Or just tired.

I should've called him.

I hung up before I said something I couldn't take back.
Or worse—something I meant.

Then I just... sat there. Doing nothing.
Staring at the wall while my brain tried to make it make sense.

Arrested. In Mexico.

I grabbed my phone and texted Penelope.

~*~

JJ was waiting at the security desk. No smile. No small talk. Just a quiet, "Thanks for coming," like we were already ten steps behind.

We were.

It all looked the same. The bullpen. The desks. His desk. But it didn't feel the same. Not anymore.

Penelope looked up as we walked into the conference room. She stood so fast her chair wheeled back and hit the filing cabinet. And then—without a word—she crossed the room and hugged me. Hard.

I froze for half a second, then let her.

Her arms were warm. Familiar. Shaky.

"You're here," she whispered, like it mattered more than she could say.

"Of course I am," I said, keeping my voice steady for both of us.

She let go, wiped under her eyes with the back of her hand, and straightened her jacket like that made any of it okay.

JJ gave my arm a light nudge. "We cleared space."

I nodded, and headed for the round table.

Stephen stood as I approached. Ah. The new guy. Clean-cut. Probably says "folder" when he means binder.

"Nice to officially meet you," he said, offering a hand.

"Wish it were under better circumstances." I shook it. "But yeah. Hi."

I dropped my bag, blew out a breath that didn't help.

"So," I said. "What the actual fuck are we dealing with?"

A few half-laughs broke through the tension as I dropped my bag. Because I wasn't here to panic.

I was here to work.

"Arrest report?" I asked, flipping open my laptop.

Penelope slid hers across the table without a word, and I opened the file like I wasn't already bracing for impact.

Name. Time stamp. Border crossing. Sloppy notes from customs. Then the arrest report—clunky formatting, inconsistent phrasing, chain of custody? Doesn't exist. I kept scrolling.

And then—there he was.

His booking photo. Blurry. Cuffed. Eyes half-lidded. Dirt streaked across his face. Hair a mess.

Wearing jeans and a flannel shirt.
I'd never seen him in anything other than a suit or a sweater vest. It didn't look like him.
None of it did.

I made a mental note to roast him for it later—if there was a later. And if he even came out of this still looking like the man I remembered.

But his face...He looked... vacant...unplugged.
Not tired. Not distracted. Not like... my Spencer...

There was a line further down the page. 'Suspect appeared under the influence of an unknown substance' and I felt my stomach turn.

No.

That's not him.

Spencer doesn't take anything. Not after Tobias.
Not after everything he told me. It took him weeks to get there. To trust me with that.

You don't fake that kind of shame.

I didn't say anything. Just scrolled past the photo. Past the half-baked description of his behavior and just kept going.

"So," I finally said, not looking up, "where are we at?"

"Emily and the others are just about to touch down," Penelope answered. "She said they'll call as soon as they do."

I nodded. Not like I was in charge. But I needed something to aim at. Something to do.

"You know, we should check with Monty over at IRT to see how many times Reid has crossed the border," Stephen added.

"Our smarts are on the same channel—I just IMed him," Penelope said.

"Where are you with the searches?" he asked.

Penelope typed fast. "The Scratch of it all—I am thus far coming up with nothing."

I frowned. "Wait—what?"

"We think it's Scratch that's behind all of this. For all we know, Peter Lewis could be in Mexico orchestrating this whole thing."

I blinked. That name again. "You guys really need to wrap this one up."

"I know, right? We're talking about a dude who hacked into DMV records, and cross that with a cyber wall run by the Mexican drug cartel, which is an even scarier wall of cyber than I'm used to," Penelope said.

I cut in. "But what about Spencer?"

"Oh, right. Well—luckily, he leaves more digital breadcrumbs than Mr. Lewis. I have info on his flights to Houston, looks like he checked in and out of a hotel there. But if he rented wheels to get to Mexico, there's no record of it."

Of course not.

So many things I didn't know. That he didn't tell me.

"Maybe he has a contact down there and could've borrowed their car," Stephen offered.

"He could've taken a bus," Penelope added.

I shook my head. "He could've sprouted wings and flown for all we know. There's a hundred ways to cross the border. Half of them don't leave a paper trail."

JJ walked back in, arms full of journals and loose papers. "Okay, so I dug around his desk—found a whole bunch of articles in medical journals. No big surprise."

She handed one to me. I skimmed the cover.

"This is all about experimental medicine," Stephen noted.

"Okay, experimental medicine makes sense," Penelope said. "I got an email from a librarian friend of mine, from the FBI library. It looks like our boy wonder has been processing a lot with that beautiful brain of his—all having to do with alternative medical procedures for fighting Alzheimer's."

So all of this had something to do with his mom.

"He told me he was supplementing her meds," JJ said. "With omega-3s and making sure she was eating a ton of leafy greens."

I could see it. Him standing in a kitchen somewhere, trying to sell her on the medicine in orange juice like it was a cure-all.

"But he said her prescription plus vitamins weren't enough. Maybe he took it to another level," JJ added.

My brain kicked back into motion.

"Because it takes years to pass through FDA guidelines," I said, "a lot of holistic medicine is practiced outside of the United States."

JJ's phone chimed.

"Okay. They've landed," she said. "They're on their way to Spence."

Those were the words I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath for.

"I'm going to get started," I said, already reaching for my bag. "Drafting something DOJ can't ignore."

No one asked what, exactly. No one needed to.

We all had the same goal. Get Spencer out.

 

~*~

The conference room was all tension and paperwork.

JJ stood near the door, phone in hand, waiting for a call from someone—Emily, maybe. Or God. Hard to tell.

Tara didn't look up from the file. Penelope was all flying fingers and muttering under her breath.
Stephen stayed near the whiteboard, flipping through pages like he was determined to find something useful.

I was done reviewing. I was drafting a legal nuke.

The DOJ file was already six pages deep—part memo, part warning label. I'd ditched the polite tone around paragraph two.

"Violation of Vienna Convention protocols."
"Consular access delayed without justification."
"Evidence handling inconsistent with both U.S. and international standards of admissibility."
"Detention conditions inconsistent with due process."
"Immediate review recommended—before this turns into an international incident."

I'd already triple-checked the phrasing on the consular violation paragraph. Highlighted. Cross-referenced. Bolded. I was about two keystrokes away from ending it with Sincerely, go fuck yourselves.

But I didn't. As tempted as I was.

JJ walked over, sat down, and clearly decided waiting was a waste of time. She dialed without hesitation. I respected that.

"Hey, JJ," came the voice—Luke, from memory.

I held my breath. Just for a second.

This was it. Contact.

"Is he okay?" JJ asked.

"Yeah, I mean, he's in one piece," Luke replied. "I'm not sure he recognizes us."

Something sharp twisted in my chest. I couldn't describe it—only that it made sitting feel impossible. Like my body wasn't calibrated right anymore.

"That could be the drugs," Stephen offered.

Tara tapped her pen. "Would a cognitive help?"

"I really think we're a little far off for that right now," Luke said. "He definitely didn't recognize Scratch's name, but he wrote the name of his local contact. Rosa Medina. I just sent the picture to Garcia. He says that she's a doctor."

So his short-term memory was hanging by threads. Long-term—probably worse. Which isn't ideal.

I couldn't sit anymore. I moved to Penelope's side, leaned over her laptop.

The handwriting on the image was definitely his. Chaotic, familiar, and somehow still legible only to him.

"Okay, this is definitely Reid's chicken scratch," Penelope muttered, just as another pop-up hit the screen.

"Oh, there are a lot of Rosa Medinas in Mexico."

Of course there were.

"Let's start with women in Houston and Brownsville," Stephen suggested, "then cross them with Mexican citizens."

"Got it," Penelope replied.

"He told Emily he was going to talk to his mom's doctor," JJ said. "If that was true, we all assumed it was the doctor from the clinic—but maybe it was this Rosa Medina."

"And she could be being cautious," Tara added. "Which is why we haven't been able to find any communications between them."

I stopped listening.

Not because it wasn't important. It was. But all I could focus on was the fact that he hadn't told me any of this. None of it. The doctor. The trip. His mother's meds. I'd known something was off. I told myself it wasn't my place to push.

Now look where we were.

And the worst part?

It hurt.
It fucking hurt.

"What's the story on Nadine Ramos?" Stephen asked, yanking me out of it.

"She specializes in experimental drugs that reverse brain degeneration," Penelope said. "Sending you guys a photo now."

My phone rang. I didn't flinch. Didn't hesitate. Just picked it up and answered flatly, "Bennett."

"This is Alister McKnight from the DOJ."

Perfect.

"Hold on," I said, already getting up. "Let me step outside before I start yelling."

~*~

"You're stalling," I said. "He's been in custody for over twenty-four hours, drugged, alone, and there's still no legal rep on the ground."

"Quinn—"

"No. Don't 'Quinn' me. You've got field intel coming out of Quantico, and I know you've seen it. Don't pretend this is the first time the DOJ's hearing Spencer Reid's name today."

McKnight sighed. "I've seen the reports, yes. But without a formal request from the Bureau—or IRT—our hands are tied."

"I talked to Monty," I snapped. "I know what's coming through. I know you've got travel data, arrest records, and a digital trail that's messy enough to raise red flags in six departments. And still you're playing wait-and-see."

Another pause.

"You should also know... he didn't use his government passport."

I stopped pacing.

"What?"

"He entered Mexico on a civilian passport. No official travel notice. No agency clearance. From their perspective, he's a private citizen."

I was backed into a corner.

No agency backing. No diplomatic leverage. Just Spencer—off the grid and on his own.

And now it was going to look intentional.

"Great," I said, voice like ice. "When this blows up—and it will—I'll make sure your name is the first one attached to it."

I ended the call, heading straight for the tech room.

Penelope and Tara looked up the second I walked in.

"He used his personal passport," I said. "No Bureau clearance. No paperwork. Nothing."

Penelope blinked. "But... he wasn't working. Right? That makes sense, right?"

I shook my head. "Not really. He's a federal agent. Leaving the country—even unofficially—comes with protocols. The kind he didn't follow."

"So how bad are we talking?" Penelope asked, already bracing.

"It's bad," I said. "If the Bureau wants to wash their hands of this, they can. He handed them the loophole."

"Why didn't he tell us?" she asked.

I didn't answer. Just stared at the screen—at Spencer's smiling picture.

"I didn't know he crossed the border once," Pen added. "let alone three times."

Because he didn't want us to. Because he knew what I'd say. That it was reckless. That it was dangerous. That he wasn't thinking. And he still went. And he still didn't tell me.

Like I wouldn't drop everything for him.

"Three times in the last three months?" Tara asked. "What was he doing down there?"

Lying, I thought.

Penelope and Tara kept going—swapping timelines, tracing movement—but I was already stepping back.

My phone buzzed again.

Not DOJ.

Worse.

My boss.

"Shit," I muttered. "I'll be right back..."

I stepped into the hallway and answered without looking.

"Bennett."

"Where the hell are you?"

Ah. My career calling to tell me you're in deep shit.

"Good morning to you, too," I said.

"You walked out of a trial, Quinn. In the middle of a recess. The judge is circling contempt and the ADA is practically foaming at the mouth."

"I'm flattered."

"This is a federal courtroom, not amateur hour. You can't just disappear because you're in a mood."

"I'm not in a mood," I said, sweetly. "I'm in a crisis. There's a difference."

"I need you back in court—"

"And I need a vacation in Bora Bora. Looks like we're both disappointed."

"Quinn—"

The conference room door creaked open behind me.
JJ stepped out. Her face said it all—tight, grim, and very much about to deliver bad news.

"Quinn... It's Nadine Ramos."

I blinked. "What about her?"

"She's dead. They think Spencer did it."

Everything in me went still. Like my brain decided it was done.

On the phone, my boss was still yelling.

I pulled the phone from my ear, didn't even bother with a sign-off.

"I'm so getting fired."

 

~*~

I was back in the conference room. Fingers flying across the keys like I could file motion after motion until the entire Mexican legal system cracked in half.

Drug possession was one thing.
But a possible murder charge....That was a whole different beast.

JJ came back in, her voice low. "So Emily said they're going to try a cognitive, but she isn't very hopeful."

I looked up at that. Cognitive? Now? With him like this?

Fantastic. Let's prompt the drugged federal agent into blurting out something they can twist into motive.

"Did they run a full tox screen?" Stephen asked.

JJ shook her head. "No, they only looked for cocaine and heroin. Because they were the only drugs in his possession."

"And?" Penelope.

"And he tested positive for both," JJ said.

Shocking.

It didn't matter. He wouldn't have taken them willingly. Not Spencer. That just became their mistake, and my leverage.

"Well, there's gotta be some other sedative present for him to be missing so much time," Stephen added.

He wasn't wrong. And if I could get it in writing, I could use it. Twist it.

"Look, they're only going to investigate what helps their case," JJ said. "Right now they have a dead Mexican citizen and a drugged-up American suspect."

I didn't flinch.

"That's true," I replied. "It's not their job to prove what we believe—that he's being set up. Their job is to make what's in front of them fit into a conviction."

Penelope nodded. "Okay, but we can't let them get stuck there."

"Then we better hope they come up with something useful from the cognitive," JJ said.

I shut my laptop slowly. Stood.

"Where's Emily?"

JJ blinked. "She's with Spencer."

"Good." I held out my hand. "Give me the phone."

JJ hesitated for half a second, then passed it over.

I brought it to my ear. "Emily? Hi. It's Quinn. Just a quick thing—if he says anything in that cognitive that even hints at self-incrimination, I will personally bury the entire transcript in enough litigation to make it disappear from existence."

There was a pause. Then Emily, dry as ever. "Nice to hear your voice too."

"I'm serious."

"I know. That's what's terrifying."

The room didn't go back to normal after that. It just... stalled.

No typing. No movement. Just this weird stillness, almost as if everyone was pretending they weren't waiting for the next shoe to drop.

JJ's phone buzzed. Ah. That would be the shoe...

One look at her face told me everything. She put it on speaker, and Emily's voice came through flat.

"They've charged him. First-degree murder of Nadine Ramos. Transfer to federal custody is already in motion."

I barely registered Penelope gasping or Stephen swearing. My heart was already in my throat.
If they moved him now, it was done.

No injunctions. No clean chain of custody. No time to fix any of it. I needed something to stall them. Anything. A delay. A loophole.
God, even a typo would do.

"Okay, I am obsessively refreshing the Mexican prison logs," Penelope said, typing furiously, "and so far Reid is staying put. But they could transfer him to Santa Adaladia or El Diablo, both of which make Matamoros look like a day spa. Like a who's who of bad guys. Crazy rough, really overcrowded. There's assaults and murders on inmates monthly."

Nope. Absolutely not. I will fly to Mexico and chain myself to the prison gates if I have to.

"He's an American, accused of murdering a Mexican citizen," Tara added. "The government is well within their rights to keep him there."

"Well, they could do worse," JJ muttered. "They could lock him up and throw away the key."

"Did you forget I was here?" I said shaking my head, "Like I'm going to let that happen."

"Look, the only thing we know Reid is guilty of is getting the vials of medicine for his mother. Now maybe the drugs in those vials weren't illegal," Stephen offered.

"I hate to say it, but they probably were," Tara said. "I mean, he couldn't get whatever it is stateside."

"Or let's say it wasn't an illegal substance," JJ added, "but whoever planted the heroin in the trunk—"

"Put something crazy in the vials as well," Tara finished.

Then Penelope's computer chimed.

She stared at the screen. "Reid is going to El Diablo maximum security by the end of the day. They just put in the transfer."

All eyes landed on me.

I didn't flinch.

"Excuse me," I said, grabbing my phone. "I have a few calls to make."

And by "calls," I meant time to launch a bureaucratic bloodbath.

I was already dialing before I hit the hallway.

"Emily," I said. "We can't let them move him."

"They're already prepping the transfer order. He's being processed this afternoon."

I stopped mid-stride.

"Once they process him, we lose access. You know that, right?"

"I've tried to stall them," she said. "They're not budging. As far as they're concerned, it's done. They've got their guy."

"They have a sedated American citizen, no completed cognitive, and a tox screen that wouldn't hold up in traffic court." My tone went flat. Legal-flat. "They don't get to fast-track this like it's open and shut."

"Quinn—"

"You said they're listening to the wrong people? Great. Let's give them the right one."

There was silence—then muffled movement, voices—before a clipped male accent came through.

"This is Capitan Reyes."

"Captain. Quinn Bennett, attorney of record for Dr. Spencer Reid. I'm requesting a delay in transfer until the legal situation is clarified."

"We've followed protocol—"

"You've followed part of it," I cut in. "You waited until after the arrest to notify the embassy. You ran an incomplete tox screen. You have no clear forensic timeline on the murder, and my client was under the influence during questioning."

A pause. I didn't wait.

"I'm not telling you how to do your job. I'm telling you if you move him before we have clarity—before I have documentation—I'll be filing formal notice with the U.S. consulate and elevating this to both our Departments of Justice."

"You are not in Mexico, señora."

"Correct. Which means if I'm already causing this much trouble remotely, imagine what I can do when I land."

There was a moment of silence.

Then the line muffled again.

Emily's voice came back on. "He threw the phone back at me."

"Good. He heard me then." I said, turning back toward the conference room.

She hesitated. "They might still go through with it."

"They won't, especially if you tell them if they proceed with that transfer while his mental competency is still in question, we'll hit them with procedural misconduct, failure to observe Vienna Convention protections, and unlawful detainment under Article 36. If that doesn't land, mention extrajurisdictional liability and see if anyone gets nervous."

Emily let out a breath. "Quinn..."

"I'm drafting a writ for injunctive relief now—through federal court, with embassy backing. If they so much as load him into a van, I'll file a notice of violation before they hit the highway."

A pause.

"I'll buy you time," Emily said.

"Good. Now I just need them to screw up."

~*~

Penelope nearly sprinted into the conference room, clutching a tablet to her chest.

"Quinn—hey, Quinn, you're gonna want this," she said, breathless. "Nadine Ramos has dual citizenship. U.S. and Mexican."

I froze mid-coffee sip.

"You sure?"

Pen nodded hard. "Confirmed. Birth certificate filed in America, active residency in Mexico. She's in both systems."

I stood. "That means we've got concurrent jurisdiction."

Stephen looked up. "You can argue for U.S. legal intervention."

"No," I said, already grabbing my phone. "I can demand it."

I was halfway to the door, already dialing. "If she was a U.S. citizen, even partially, and Spencer's a federal agent—they can't railroad this case through one side. This gives me leverage."

Finally.

A break.

I could use this to pull jurisdiction into a holding pattern. File a writ through the embassy, backchannel the DOJ, force review through mutual legal assistance treaties. If I could get someone in the State Department to co-sign it, we could suspend the transfer.

And then my phone rang.

Emily.

I answered on the second ring. "Tell me you're calling to say they've frozen the transfer."

"They're doing it anyway," she replied in a rush. "They're moving him now."

My heart slammed into my ribs.

"Put Reyes on the phone."

"Quinn—"

"Now."

A pause. Then muffled movement.

"This is Capitan Reyes," came the voice I was already tired of hearing.

I didn't yell.

I didn't breathe.

I just smiled into the receiver.

"Captain. I've just been in contact with DOJ, the consulate, and legal affairs out of D.C. With Nadine Ramos confirmed as a U.S. citizen, the Mexican government can't claim exclusive jurisdiction. This isn't their case to run anymore—it's ours to contest."

Silence.

"So if you proceed with transferring SSA Spencer Reid to El Diablo prison—knowing that his legal status, cognitive state, and international protections are now under dispute—you won't just be violating protocol."

I prayed my heart to slow, my hand to stop shaking.

"You'll be obstructing an active federal review. Which means if you go through with this, your government risks violating our Mutual Legal Assistance Treaty—
and I'll make sure every press release, every cable, and every complaint leads straight to you."

I let it hang for half a second longer, then added, calm as ice.

"He will be returned to U.S. custody. Or I will make sure this the biggest diplomatic screw-up your government's ever had to explain."

Silence again.

Then a low mutter. "Damn lawyers."

The line shifted.

Emily came back on, voice quieter than before.
"It's done. We're bringing him home."

I didn't move.

Then she said it—just loud enough to break something open in me. "You did it."

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I just let the words sit there.

~*~
The bullpen went quiet before they even walked in.

I knew the timing. I'd memorized every estimate Emily gave, every ETA JJ mumbled under her breath. I'd been watching those glass doors for twenty-three minutes—yes, I counted—waiting for him to appear.

And when he did?

Everything inside me stopped.

Spencer.

There he was.

Still wearing that flannel. A jacket had been draped over his hands, like that would somehow make the cuffs disappear.

I didn't move.

It was the first time I'd seen him since everything.
And for a second, I couldn't tell if I felt relieved or sick.

He hadn't seen me yet.

Emily entered first. Rossi and Luke behind her, travel-tired and quiet. Everyone stepped back instinctively, giving space, making room. I didn't have to ask.

Then Spencer looked up.

And he saw me.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just stared like I was something his brain hadn't caught up to yet.

I crossed the floor toward him. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just steady. A part of me was waiting for him to vanish. That it was a sick joke and he was still in Mexico.

Up close, he looked worse.

Hollow. Grey. Like whatever was holding him upright had run out hours ago.

"You look like shit," I said.

His mouth twitched. "So do you."

"Good. We match."

Emily stepped up. "Transport's en route. They gave us a short stop here before he's processed."

I nodded.

Then turned back to him.

His eyes dropped to the cuffs. "They said they stay on until I'm processed."

Like that was going to stop me. I moved, wrapping my arms him.

It was awkward. Clunky. His arms were pinned in front of him, and mine barely fit around his shoulders—but I didn't care. I needed it. I needed to feel that he was here. That we had him. That all of this—the filings, the calls, the threats—wasn't just noise.

He leaned in. Just enough.

"I've got you," I whispered. Even if you lied. Even if you left me out. I'm still here.

When I pulled back, I heard Emily speak quietly to Stephen behind me.

"BAP's not stepping in," she said. "They're calling it outside their scope."

Stephen swore under his breath.

I turned back to Spencer and shrugged. "Good. He doesn't need them."

He blinked.

"You've got me," I said. "I filed this morning. You're officially under U.S. jurisdiction. Arraignment's scheduled. I'm working on bail."

His voice cracked a little. "You're... my lawyer?"

"Of course I am."

He didn't say anything at first. Just looked at me like... he couldn't believe I was here. That I was helping him.

"I didn't think I'd see you," he said finally. And it hit me—he really hadn't expected this. Me. Any of it. He'd been ready to go through all of it alone.

"I've been here the whole time."

"But... you left."

"You let me."

He hesitated.

"I thought... if I didn't call, you wouldn't get dragged into it."

I tilt my head. "If you ever try to protect me like that again, send a fruit basket. Or a memo. Something that doesn't end with you in federal custody."

He huffed a quiet breath, something that might've been a laugh in a different life.

"I'll be there," I said. "Every hearing. Every motion. Every time someone tries to say your name with intent, I'll be the one interrupting."

"Quinn," he said softly. "I can't thank you enough."

I swallowed.

"Don't thank me yet... we're just getting started."

Chapter 14: So this is what a collision feels like

Collision course (n.) — A path or progression that will inevitably result in conflict or disaster, particularly when two parties are unaware, unwilling, or unable to alter their trajectory. In legal terms, it often refers to circumstances where professional obligation and personal interest are on an unavoidable crash path—one that demands recusal, or consequences.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

I was parked in Emily's car, two blocks from the precinct, burning through the last of my self-control and second cup of coffee.

There was a voicemail. From Cassie.

I hit play.

"Hey. Just letting you know Diana asked if you were coming by again this week. She misses having someone to argue with. Said she prefers your company to mine, which I can't blame her, you're certainly entertaining."

I smiled, barely.

"She also said your taste in pastries is acceptable and your opinions on poetry are 'less stupid than most.' So... I think that's her way of saying she likes you."

A pause.

"She's okay today. But you help. Just thought you should know."

Click.

I didn't move. Just hit save.

Emily slid into the driver's seat a second later, coffee in one hand and her mouth set in that expression that meant she was thinking too much.

She handed me a cup. "Still tastes like ass."

"Of course it does," I said, taking a sip anyway.

She let out a long breath. "Mexico is still refusing to release the full blood panel."

"Shocking," I muttered. "Can't admit they ran three tests and gave up."

"You sure you want to do this?"

I didn't look at her. "You mean—am I sure I want to represent the man I may or may not be in love with while technically on unpaid leave, ignoring a dozen ethical landmines, and possibly setting my career on fire?"

She blinked. "I was just going to ask if you were okay, but... cool. That works too."

I took a sip. "He's not my boyfriend, if that's what you're getting at."

She shrugged. "Didn't say he was. Just noticed you didn't actually deny it."

"He’s my client.” I stared out the windshield. “And right now, that’s all I’m legally, emotionally, and professionally allowed to admit.”

Emily glanced sideways. "Won't this be a fun story to tell the kids one day."

I snorted. "Oh yeah. 'Daddy got framed for murder, and Mommy argued with the Department of Justice until someone cried.' Real bedtime classic."

And then my brain, traitorous little bastard that it is, immediately served up an image of Spencer reading 'Goodnight Moon' in that quiet voice of his, glasses slipping down his nose while a toddler tugs on his cardigan.

Nope. Absolutely not. Brain, I am begging you—don't go there right now. We are in a legal crisis, not a Hallmark special.

Emily's voice snapped me out of it, "What's our plan here?"

I took a sip of coffee that indeed tasted awful. "Simple enough. I talk, he listens. If the prosecutor wants to turn this into a circus, I hand them a malpractice suit and let them choke on it. If Spencer starts apologizing for breathing, I shut that down hard."

She didn't even blink. "And you're sure you can do that? Keep it clean?"

I snorted. "I'm still mad at him. So probably not clean. But I won't blow it up, if that's what you're asking."

Emily raised an eyebrow.

"I'm not going in there to fall apart," I said. "I'm going in to fix it. That's the job.”

She studied me for a second, “Just remember—you've got the BAU behind you too."

I let out a breath. "Right. So no pressure.”

I drained the coffee, tossed the cup in the holder and tucked the file under my arm.

Emily reached for the door. "You're doing the right thing."

I didn't look at her. Just opened my door and stepped into the cold.

"Right thing, wrong thing—it's him. What else was I gonna do?"

I stood there for a second. Just one. Took a breath in so deep it hurt.

Right. Here we go.

~*~

We got a few nods as we walked through the precinct—half courtesy, half the kind of quiet fear that meant someone had warned them I bite. Which, to be fair, wasn't entirely wrong. I'd been here before. Once slammed a door hard enough to crack the hinge. Apparently that stuck.

"Hey, Bennett," one guy called out, grinning. "You planning on breaking any furniture today?"

"Not unless someone deserves it," I muttered.

Then someone else asked, "Who are you here for?"

I glanced over. "Spencer Reid."

The smile dropped. That instant forehead wrinkle of wait, seriously? Yeah. That's what I thought.

Spencer was not my usual clientele.

We rounded the corner, and I braced myself. Instead, we found him asleep. Slouched on the paper-thin mattress like someone who'd been dragged through hell and left to nap in it. Head resting against the cinderblock wall. I'd heard he wasn't sleeping.

Well. Same.

The door clinked shut behind us. That got his attention.

His eyes opened slowly—confused, dazed. Then they landed on me. And he didn't speak. Just stared. Like he thought I might disappear if he blinked.

"Hey," he said, finally. Voice hoarse. Then his gaze shifted to Emily. "You should be in the office."

"I'm right where I need to be. You ok?" she asked.

Classic Emily. Calm in crisis. Even when the crisis had a name and looked like this.

"Yeah. I'm okay," Spencer whispered.

Sure. And I'm the poster girl for patience.

He sounded fine. He wasn't. But if he was committed to faking it, I could at least pretend not to notice—for now.

"How's my mom doing?" he asked, dragging himself off the bed and over to the bars.

Emily glanced at me.

I sighed. "She's fine, Spencer. I explained everything. JJ's been checking in. She seems to like the boys. I've got Cassie sending me updates."

He shook his head, already spiraling. "I'm such an idiot."

"Yeah," I said. Flat. No hesitation. "You are."

Emily cut in, doing her best Switzerland impression. "Don't, Spencer. Don't. You were trying to help your mother."

"Which he could've done in about a thousand less felony-adjacent ways," I muttered.

He didn't argue. Just gave me that look—those eyes—like if he stared long enough, I'd stop being mad and forgive him.

"I fell right into Scratch's trap," he said.

"He won't win," Emily replied.

"He already has."

"Just the battle," I said under my breath. "Not the war."

Emily added gently, "You didn't do anything wrong."

I didn't say it out loud, but my brain filed that under: generously debatable.

He looked at me again, and this time it hit differently.

"We all know that doesn't matter, all that matters is what the prosecutor can prove. And Scratch stacked the deck. Even the FBI's abandoned me."

"I know. But we'll keep fighting," Emily said.

"But you shouldn't. You could lose your reputation at the Bureau." He turned to me. "And I'm sure you have enough going on—"

I cut him off before he could spiral further. "Okay, no. Stop right there."

He blinked.

"You are going to let me represent you. I don't trust anyone else with this. And you don't get to pull the noble self-sacrifice crap just because you feel bad. You want to make it right? Then let me do my job."

I was mad. I really was. And then he hit me with those puppy dog eyes—the ones that should be illegal—and my whole spine gave out. Useless.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Both of you."

I stepped closer to the bars. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to make sure he heard me.

"We're going to get you out of here, Spencer."

He nodded.

"Give me a couple hours. I've got things to set up. After that... we meet. Officially. Lawyer and client."

~*~

Nothing had prepared me for the moment they brought him in.

Two guards. One with a hand on his arm, the other hovering like they expected him to bolt. He didn't. He just walked. Head down. Expression blank. Like he was already halfway out of his own body.

It shouldn't have been happening.

He wasn't dangerous. He was Spencer. The guy that texted me a three-paragraph apology for borrowing a pen.

And the worst part?

I couldn't touch him. Couldn't soften. Couldn't feel anything.

Because right now—he was my client. Full stop. No exceptions. Whatever might've been between us? Didn't exist. Never had.

I cleared my throat. "Let's get started, shall we?"

My voice came out wrong. Too tight. Too neutral. He frowned the second he heard it.

I sat down and kept my mouth shut. I was still chewing on about twelve different emotions, none of them pleasant—but that didn’t stop the back of my brain from whispering, just make him smile. Like that would undo any of this.

Not the job, Quinn. Not today.

"I'm sure you're aware that everything we discuss here is protected under attorney-client privilege. This conversation is confidential. Not even the BAU will have access to it."

He stared at me for a beat. "Why are you talking like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you hate me."

Of course he said that. God, he was dramatic.

"Spencer," I said, voice low and flat. "I don't hate you."

Still don’t totally understand why you did it.

"But this is serious. Beyond serious. I can't—we can't—" I shook my head. "This has to stay strictly professional."

"You want me to act like I don't feel anything? Like I haven't been trying not to this whole time?"

I exhaled hard. "Yes. For now. Pretend I'm a tax form or laundry or something equally joyless. Because if you don't, we're both screwed."

"Quinn—"

"No—stop." I lowered my voice. "We don't get to feel anything in here, Spencer. One wrong look and they'll call it a conflict-of-interest, and this whole case goes up in smoke. I can't lose you to a technicality, so please, just hold it in with me for an hour."

He went quiet.

Good. Because one more sentimental comment and I'd either cry or snap a pen in half.

"Okay," he said eventually, "I understand."

I nodded once. Let out a breath. It didn't help. My spine stayed locked, my jaw tight. The lawyer mask had already started to slip.

"Alright," I said, flipping open the file I'd already memorized line by line. "Start from the beginning. I need you to tell me everything that happened in Mexico."

He shifted in his seat. "Do you really think I could murder someone?"

I looked up. Detached. "That's not what I asked."

"I just—"

"I don't think you could. But I'm not the one who needs convincing, Reid. Tell me what happened. From the second you crossed the border."

He swallowed. "You know I don't remember much."

"Nothing? Not even flashes? Smells? Sounds? Anything?"

He shook his head. "Just gaps. Like... pieces are missing. Big ones."

I bit the inside of my cheek. Hard.

"Well, that's a problem," I said—blunt, maybe even a tad harsh. "Because I'm good. But I can't work with blanks. We both know you're not capable of murder—not like this. But I need something to work with. And I need you to not lie to me. Because if you lie, I will find out, and it'll blow up in both of our faces."

Like it already had.

He stared down at his hands. They were shaking. Just a little.

"I told the Mexican police everything I remembered."

"Yeah. Very cooperative. And not your best move. You teach behavioral response to trauma—you know better than to talk without counsel, even drugged."

His head snapped up. "You know I didn't take anything willingly. You know that."

I bit the inside of my cheek again. Pretty sure there was blood this time.

"Hey. Look at me. You don't have to defend yourself to me. I'm already on your side. Just give me something to work with."

His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists like he didn't know what else to do with them.

"I know," he said finally. "I just—I feel like I'm unraveling, and I don't know how to stop it."

I sighed. “I'm trying to keep you out of prison, Spencer. But I need you with me right now—not spiraling. Just the facts. Let's focus on that."

"I didn't take the drugs willingly," he said again, slower. Steadier.

I nodded. "Okay. Next. You stole a car?"

"That's what they told me."

"Did you know there were drugs in the trunk?"

He hesitated. "I don't... think so."

I narrowed my eyes. "Was Rosa already dead when you took the car?"

"She was bleeding," he said. "Stab wound. A lot of blood."

"Who stabbed her?"

"I don't know."

"Did you see who did it?"

"There was someone else in the room," he rushed out, like he'd been holding that part in. "But it was—hazy."

"Man or woman?"

"I don't know," he said, frustration bubbling. "I told you, I was drugged. It's like watching a dream underwater."

"How'd you get blood on your hands?"

He froze. Just for a second. But I caught it.

"Spencer."

His jaw clenched.

"I know you cut it," I said, softer this time. "Just tell me how."

He exhaled. "I... I cut it on a knife."

No one told me that.
And suddenly, that cut didn't look small anymore.

"The murder weapon?" I asked.

He paused. "I think so."

"Who stabbed her?"

"I. Don't. Know."

His voice cracked, but I didn't back off.

"Spencer—"

"The other person in the room stabbed her," he snapped. "Not me. I think—I think I tried to stop them. But I don't remember. I've been trying to piece it together but it's just—static. I keep pressing on the cut, trying to trigger something, but—"

He slammed his fist against the table.

Blood bloomed into the bandage. My stomach twisted.

"I don't remember anything! And I swear to God, I'm telling you the truth."

The room went still. His breathing came in hard and fast. I didn't move until it started to slow.

Then—screw it. I reached across the table.

"I believe you," I said, quiet. "But I'm scared. Because if we don't find something—if we can't prove it—then that belief won't mean a damn thing to a judge."

He nodded. Just barely but wouldn't let go of my hand.

I cleared my throat. Pulled away. Went back to my folder like I hadn't just crossed every emotional boundary in the manual.

"Rossi's covering your bail," I continued. "Arraignment's set. I'm pushing for release pending trial."

"I'll plead not guilty," he said, standing too.

"Damn right you will. And if anyone so much as whispers otherwise, I'll file a motion so fast it'll give them whiplash."

He watched me start for the door.

"Then comes the hard part," he added.

"Yeah." I glanced over my shoulder. "They've got a lot of circumstantial evidence. And absolutely no shortage of people ready to believe it."

"Any good news?"

I smirked. "Besides the fact that you've got me? They still don't have the murder weapon."

He almost smiled.

~*~

Emily was halfway through a rundown on the latest lead. "If it's Scratch, he'll still be two steps ahead."

My phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Finally.

She paused mid-sentence. "You need to get that?"

I nodded once. "Yeah. Hang on."

I stepped into the hallway, thumb already hovering over accept.

"Bennett," I answered, clipped.

"Ms. Bennett, this is Assistant U.S. Attorney Raymond Wells, calling regarding the Spencer Reid matter."

About damn time.

I glanced through the glass—Emily was already watching me. Of course she was.

"Yes, Mr. Wells. Go ahead."

"We've reviewed the reports and evidence from both jurisdictions. Given the sensitivity of the situation, we're prepared to offer a reduced charge. It could avoid a prolonged legal process... and further complications."

There it was.

I didn't blink. "Let me guess—this is the part where you pretend you're doing us a favor?"

"Involuntary manslaughter. A two-to-five range, with eligibility for early release if your client cooperates fully."

Perfect, just what I needed.

I cleared my throat, "You think that's generous?"

"I think it's more than fair under the circumstances."

"No murder weapon. No confession. No timeline. Just a sedated federal agent and a political mess you're scrambling to clean up. You'll forgive me if I don't start drafting thank-you notes."

A pause.

"You're welcome to review it with your client, but I'll remind you, offers like this don't stay open long."

"Oh, I plan to review it with him," I said, voice flat. "Thoroughly."

I hung up before he could say anything else.

Emily met me at the door. "That who I think it was?"

"Yeah." I exhaled. "They're offering a deal. Reduced charge. Prison time."

Her jaw tightened. "Already?"

"They want this wrapped before it gets worse."

"Did you turn it down?"

I shrugged, "Not my choice, even though it's utter bullshit."

We made our way back to the precinct. It felt too fast—probably because I spent the whole drive trying to figure out how to tell him the truth without watching it break him. How to say, fight this—and still live with it if it ruined him.

Spencer looked up as soon as we stepped in. His eyes found mine instantly.

"They're offering a plea?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Reduced charge. Minimal sentence. If you play nice."

He went still. "And you think I should take it?"

That was it. No preamble. No warm-up. Just the worst question in the world.

I took a breath. "I think it's a terrible offer. I think they're trying to bury this before it draws too much attention. And I think it's insulting that they're pretending it's a favor."

"But it's... safer."

"Safer doesn't mean it's right." My voice dropped. "It's still a conviction, Spencer."

He looked down, frowning. "I don't think I can lie and say I did something I didn't do. Is that foolish?"

"No," I said. "It's brave."

And terrifying.

Bravery's what got him into this mess—believing the system he served would protect him, that the truth would speak for itself. Like it ever has.

Emily spoke gently. "If the offer's that low... maybe it means they know they don't have a case."

"Maybe," I replied. "Or maybe they just don't want the press asking questions."

He was quiet for a long moment.

"What would you do?"

I wanted to tell him to fight. To say screw the deal, screw the politics, we go all in. But if I said that, and he lost, it wouldn't just break him. It'd break me. And I don't know if I'd come back from that.

So I told him the only truth I could live with.

"I'd ask myself what I could live with. And what I wouldn't hate myself for later."

He met my eyes. "And you'll be there either way?"

"Always," I said. "But if you want to fight, I'm all in."

He didn't speak. Just let his fingers brush against mine.

"I want to fight," he said.

And that was all I needed to hear.

~*~

And then shit well and truly hit the fan.

Emily was already at the precinct, standing near the hallway like she had moved in.

"Did you hear?"

I nodded. "That's why I'm here. How did—"

"I got a call..."

I cut her off, sharper than I meant to. "Wait. No. Don't tell me. I don't want to know." The less I knew, the safer we both were. And I was already barely holding the line.

I blew past her, running on caffeine, dread, and whatever emotional glue was still holding me together. She called after me, "How bad is it?"

"We need to talk to Spencer," I said. And that was me being polite.

When I walked in, Spencer was already on his feet, like he could feel it coming. He just didn't know what it was yet.

"They found the knife."

His eyes snapped up—wide, searching, full of that same desperate hope I couldn't protect him from."Where?"

"In the desert." The words scalded my throat. "Theory is you tossed it out the window during the chase."

Emily jumped in with the only scrap of optimism we had left. "It must've been whoever was in the car you were chasing."

I landed the next blow. The one that made my fists curl uselessly at my sides.

"But that car and its driver are gone. And the blood and the prints on the knife? They're yours."

Spencer went pale. "This is bad."

No shit, Spence. This was catastrophic.

"There's more," I said, because of course there was. "The blade on the murder weapon matches the cut on your hand."

I watched the breath leave him. His fingers twitched, like maybe his body could remember what his mind still wouldn't.

And then I dropped the hammer. The part that had made me nauseous when I heard it.

"That deal—the two-to-five? Gone. They bumped it. It's now five to ten."

"Jesus Christ," Emily muttered.

"And it's an exploding offer," I said. "You've got until arraignment. After that, it's trial or nothing."

"And if he loses, it's 25 to life?" Emily asked.

I didn't speak. I just nodded. Saying it again would've shredded whatever composure I had left.

I turned to Spencer. "Do you remember anything else? Anything about the knife? The cut?"

He shook his head, frustrated. "No. I'm trying. I still can't remember. But I'm not taking the offer. I understand what's at stake. I'm not taking it." He looked at me. "I trust Quinn."

Everything inside me stopped.

I glanced at Emily. "Can I have a minute?"

She nodded and slipped out without a word.

The second the door clicked shut, the pressure snapped.

I started pacing. Quick. Too fast. My heart was climbing into my throat, and my brain was white-knuckling logic while the floor cracked under it.

"I just need you to think about this," I said, forcing my voice steady.

He moved closer—didn't touch me, but close enough I could feel him. "I am thinking."

"Then think like a jury," I snapped. "Think about the blood. The knife. The prints. That deal is garbage, but it's something. And you said it yourself—Scratch dots his damn i's."

"I know," he said, voice quiet but sure. "Scratch always covers his tracks."

"Exactly. But a jury won't see him. They'll see you. They'll see what he left behind and assume it's the truth."

He stared at me. "You think they'll convict me?"

"I don't know," I said, and that was the terrifying part. "And I hate that I don't know."

I paused. Just for a breath. "Spence... five years is nothing. It's survivable. You could have a life—"

"Not as an agent," he said, too fast. "Not with you."

It hit like a sucker punch straight to the ribs.

"You think I wouldn't wait?"

He looked away. "I wouldn't let you."

God.

"You don't belong in prison," I said, quieter now. "But if I screw this up—if I miss anything—you won't get five years. You'll get life."

He stepped in again. Closer. Close enough I could feel the heat of him, the quiet tremor in his hands.

"If Scratch is framing me, you'll prove it," he said. "You always do...What happened to the lawyer who argued with me for three hours about statistical patterns?"

"She's still here," I whispered. "She's just... scared she's going to lose the person she—"

I stopped.

Too far. Too much.

Spencer's lip trembled. His hand twitched like he wanted to reach for me—but didn't.

"You'll figure it out," he said. "I know you will."

"I will," I echoed. "We will. But we're not going to crack this in the next five minutes. And I have to think like a lawyer right now, not—"

He broke.

His eyes went glassy, his voice wrecked. "What do I do?"

I couldn't think. There wasn't a right answer.
If I said "take the deal," he'd never look at me the same way again. If I said "fight," he might never walk out of here.

And that was the choice. That was all I had to offer.

"I don't know," I admitted. "But I can't—God, I won't lose you."

And I moved.

I crossed the room and wrapped my arms around him like I could hold the whole damn world back. Like if I held on tight enough, maybe time would stop.

He didn't hesitate.

His arms came around me like he'd been waiting for permission.

And for one terrifying second, I almost kissed him.

My hand curled instinctively at the back of his shirt. His breath hitched. Mine stuttered in my throat.

I felt him lean in, just barely. Just enough.

And I wanted it. God, I wanted it. Just for a second.

My nose brushed his cheek. I think my lips parted. I know I stopped breathing.

But that would be selfish.

He was scared and vulnerable and standing on the edge of a cliff—and I couldn't be the one to push him further.

So I froze. Swallowed it down. Pressed my forehead lightly to his shoulder instead.

Not this. Not now.

I just held on. Let him hold on, too.

And prayed that would be enough

For a second, it was just him and me and the disaster outside the door pressing pause.

~*~

I was going to be sick. I was going to throw up all over the nice, polished floor of this god-awful courtroom.

Why did it have to be this judge? Why did it have to be this prosecutor?
Why the hell did it have to be Spencer?

I was on my feet the second I heard his name. "They're calling his case." And there they were—the whole damn BAU. Lined up like backup. Some part of me exhaled. At least he wasn't walking into this alone. That had to count for something.

Spencer was escorted in, cuffed, looking way too calm for someone about to be weighed, measured, and possibly locked up. He slid into the seat beside me.

I reached out and straightened his tie—not for vanity. I just needed something to do with my hands.
Something that wasn't reaching for him like I could shield him from all of it.

"You've got this," he said softly. "Quinn, I trust you."

God help me. I nodded.

The clerk read it out: "Case number 149-CR 0308, United States versus Reid."

The judge barely looked up. "Ms. Bennett, your client's an FBI agent, is that correct?"

I rose. "Yes, Your Honor."

Spencer stood beside me. Calm. Steady. The kind of brave that made your throat close up.

"You're charged with murder. A very serious matter," the judge said.

"Yes, Your Honor," Spencer replied.

She turned back to me. "Alright, Ms. Bennett. Does your client wish to enter a plea at this time?"

I could barely breathe. "He does."

"And how do you plead, Agent Reid?"

"Not guilty," he said, clear as glass.

Oh how I wished that were enough.

The judge didn't even blink. She turned straight to the one-man thorn in my spine. "And as to bail?"

The prosecutor jumped to his feet, already riding the high of his own smugness. "The people oppose bail and request remand, Your Honor."

Saw that one coming...

I stood. Civil. Controlled. Fire tamped down, for now. "Your Honor, my client presents no flight risk—"

"Ridiculous," he interrupted. "The defendant was arrested after fleeing the murder scene in Mexico."

I shot back before he could cut in again. "He'd been drugged and manipulated. His cognitive state was compromised. That's not flight, that's coercion—"

"He failed to notify the Bureau of his travel. That is a direct violation of FBI protocol."

"And that makes him a fugitive?" My voice sharpened. "My client has deep ties to this community. His mother, who suffers from Alzheimer's and schizophrenia, lives with him. He's her sole caregiver."

The prosecutor wouldn't quit. "He's a federal agent. He has contacts around the world."

"And he'll surrender every passport—civilian and government. You want ankle monitoring? Fine. I'll staple it to him myself. You want house arrest? Great. I'll personally measure the goddamn radius."

"If he wants a fake passport, he knows where to get one."

"You're seriously standing there with that nonsense and calling it law? Bold."

I stepped forward, barely stopping myself from slamming my file on the table. "He has no criminal record. Zero. Not a traffic ticket. He's served this country for over a decade. He's risked his life for people who don't even know his name. And now you're pretending he's some kind of mastermind because your case is flimsier than wet cardboard?"

"The defendant is uniquely equipped to evade law enforcement."

"He doesn't want to evade anything," I said, voice rising. "He wants to clear his name. He wants to go home."

"He should've thought about his good name before sneaking across the border," the prosecutor muttered.

That was it.

I nearly came across the table. "I have agents in this room—right now—who will testify to his character. Who would trust him with their lives. Have trusted him with their lives."

The judge raised her hand. "Simmer down, Ms. Bennett. It's almost six. I'm not inclined to hear from character witnesses. Actions speak louder than words, I always say."

No. No, no, no.

"We'd be willing to agree to any condition," I said quickly. "Home confinement. Supervised release. You name it."

She was already shaking her head.

"Too little, too late, Counselor. If past behavior is the best predictor of future conduct—and I do believe it is—then your client presents a flight risk."

I tried, one more time. Voice tight, everything in it.

"Your Honor, respectfully, past behavior only matters if there's a pattern. There isn't one. Not before this. Not ever. One mistake doesn't make him a risk. It makes him human."

Then she said it.

"Bail is denied. Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial."

The gavel hit like a bullet to the chest.

The courtroom erupted. Chairs scraped. Voices raised. The BAU pressed forward—The BAU pressed forward—too many voices, too many questions, none of them loud enough to stop what just happened. Someone was asking, “How long until trial?”

I heard myself answer, hollow. "Three months. Maybe longer."

And then the guards moved for him.

Something in me snapped. Loud enough I'm surprised no one turned to look.

Spencer was already on his feet. Calm. Composed. Holding out his wrists like this was fine. Like handcuffs weren't a sentence to isolation, or withdrawal, or whatever hell waited next.

Like he hadn't just been handed something he wouldn't come back from clean.

Talk, Quinn. Say something.

"Spencer," I said, stepping toward him. My voice cracked. "I'll fix this. I swear to you, I will figure it out."

He didn't say a word.

But he looked at me.

And he didn't stop looking.

Not when they cuffed him. Not when they walked him out. Like he hadn't just been gutted in front of everyone.

And I just stood there.

Frozen.

My mouth couldn't move. My legs wouldn't work. All that fire and fight and noise I'd come in with? Gone.

I'd said I'd fix it. I swore I would.

And they still took him.

I stood there like a goddamn amateur, with my hands clenched and nothing left to throw. Nothing left to argue. No one left to convince.

And the worst part?

He believed in me.

He looked at me like I was still the person who could save him.

And I wasn't.

Not today.

Not fast enough.

Not enough.

Chapter 15: Six feet had never felt so far

Discovery (n.) — The formal process of exchanging information between parties in a legal proceeding.
Required by law.
Respected by no one.

~~📖Quinn📖~~

The second I stopped moving, the universe decided I hadn't suffered enough.

Penelope.

I didn't answer right away. Just stared at the screen like I could will it into silence.
No luck.

I picked up on the third ring. "Bit busy, Garcia."

"We haven't heard from you in two days, Quinny."

I flinched. Did she really have to call me that right now?

"I've had things to do," I said. "Briefs don't file themselves."

"You also didn't answer JJ's text. Or mine. Or Emily's. Or anyone's."

"I didn't realize there was a group project involved."

She paused. "We're just worried."

"Yeah, well don't."

Another tense silence which I knew would be killing her.

"You did everything you could," she said gently.

I stared out the windshield. "No. I didn't."

"Quinn—"

"If I had, he wouldn't be in a cell right now."

She didn't argue. Just went quiet.

I drummed my fingers once on the steering wheel. "Look, I'm on my way in to see him. I'll tell him you called."

"Okay," she said. Then, softer—"Just... be nice to yourself, Quinny."

Well that felt like a nice steel-toed boot to the ribs.

"I'll try," I lied, and ended the call before she could say anything else.

Shoving my phone in my bag, I grabbed the paperwork off the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind me harder than necessary.

At least I have a plan.

Start small. Motions, filings, noise. Follow the process.

Then set it on fire.

I'll file until their inbox crashes. Bury them in so much paperwork they start seeing my name in their sleep. I'll show up every single day—louder, bitchier, harder to ignore—until someone cracks.

Because he won't be alone. He doesn't get to be.
Not while I still have a bar card, a pulse, and a deeply unhealthy need to win.

I stalked toward the front desk and slapped my ID down. "Quinn Bennett. I'm here for Spencer Reid."

The officer, maybe twenty-two, max, glanced at the ID, then at his monitor. "Yeah... he's not here."

I stared at him. "What do you mean he's not here?"

"He was transferred this morning."

My pulse spiked. "Transferred where?"

He clicked. Scrolled. Sipped coffee. Like we weren't discussing a federal fucking disaster.

"Millburn Correctional Facility."

What. The. Fuck. Did. He. Just. Say.

"Millburn?"

"Yeah."

I blinked. "The prison."

"Correct."

I let the silence sit. Just long enough to see if he'd realize the magnitude of what he'd just said.

He didn't.

"You transferred an FBI agent. With no prior convictions. Who hasn't even made it to discovery yet. To a prison." That wasn't a question, that was me calling him stupid.

The kid shrugged. "Transfer order came through early. Federal override. Warden Harding signed off."

"Warden Harding. Of course." I snorted.
"Let me guess—decided to make things interesting and dumped a federal agent in gen pop to spice up his day. That's a joke, by the way. Please tell me that's a joke."

He gave the shrug of a man who wanted to disappear into his chair. "I just work the desk."

"Right... because this hasn't been enough of a disaster already. Do you have the goddamn paperwork or not?"

"The—?"

"The transfer order. The authorization. The timestamp. The name of whoever gave the green light to do this without notifying counsel."

He blinked. "I... think it's in the system?"

"Think faster."

He fumbled a bit, clearly stalling. I leaned over the counter, every part of me vibrating.

"Oh, and just so we're clear, if anything happens to him, your name's going straight on the front page of my filing. Bolded."

The kid swallowed. Eyes darting back to the screen.

"Where's the paperwork?" I snapped.

He tried, and failed, to find a response, clicking away.

I didn't wait. "Don't worry. I'll just go straight to the source."

I yanked my ID back, spun on my heel, and shoved the door open with both hands. It hit the wall so hard the glass rattled. Good. Let's break another one here.

Once outside, I didn't stop walking. Unable to stop the thoughts that raced through me.

They moved him.

They moved him before I even got here.

No warning. No explanation. Just—poof. Millburn. The place you send someone when you want them to rot quietly.

I gripped the steering wheel and tried to breathe.

Didn't work.

Spencer Reid was in prison. And I let them take him.
I've never hated myself more.

But I knew one thing. Someone was going to answer for it. And I was going to burn down every mile of red tape to make sure he came out alive.

~*~

The door clicked shut. Way too polite for what was about to happen.

Warden Harding didn't bother to stand. He just glanced up from his paperwork like I was an annoying appointment he'd forgotten about.

"Ms. Bennett," he said. Flat. Completely dismissive.

I didn't sit. Let my bag drop next to the chair, kept my eyes on him.

"Warden."

He said nothing. Thought silence made him powerful. It didn't.

"I'm here regarding Spencer Reid," I added, voice even. Professional. Only a little bit annoyed.

His expression didn't shift. "You're his legal counsel?"

I nodded. "Yes. I'm representing him."

Harding gave me a once-over, slow, clinical, like he was trying to decide if I was worth taking seriously.
"Then I assume you're aware of the transfer terms."

"That he was moved here without notifying his lawyer? Yeah. That part's crystal clear."

He didn't blink. "The transfer followed standard procedure. Classification was handled upon intake based on available data, risk factors, and housing constraints."

"Tell me you didn't put him in gen pop."

He didn't answer.

"Jesus Christ, you actually did. You're that delusional. You threw a fed into a prison full of guys he helped lock up and hoped for the best?"

He sighed, basically rolling his eyes at me. "He was flagged as high-profile, but not high-risk."

"He's not at risk," I shot back. "He is the opportunity! You think half the people walking your yard wouldn't love to make a name off putting Spencer Reid in a hospital bed?"

No reply. Just leaned back like being the biggest ego in the room was a full-time job.

I stepped in closer. "Protective custody. Now."

"It's not that simple."

"Uh-huh." I smiled like I was explaining gravity to a brick. "You call someone. You check a box. You stop housing an actual federal agent in a dorm full of men who'd love to turn him into a cautionary tale. It's not that hard, champ."

He sat there like none of this phased him. “PC status requires authorization from higher up. Transfer orders don't grant me unilateral power to reassign housing without documented threats."

"You are the documented threat," I snapped. "You signed off on putting him in there."

Silence.

"Ms. Bennett, I've followed all protocol. If a threat arises, we'll revisit it."

"That's not protocol. That's you screwing up."

Hardings jaw ticked. "If you're unsatisfied, you're welcome to file through the Bureau of Prisons. But unless something changes, he stays where he is."

Fine.

New tactic.

"I want to see him," I said. "Today. Face-to-face."

He didn't hesitate. "Not possible."

"Why?"

"He's under restricted access. Legal visitation is only granted during scheduled contact blocks. His aren't until Friday."

"It's Wednesday."

He shrugged. "Why... yes it is."

This guy...is seconds away from a punch to the face.

"You're denying me access to my client?"

"I'm denying unscheduled access. You want on the list? Make an appointment."

"You moved him without informing me. You think I trust your schedule?"

Harding was already standing, but I beat him to it.

"I don't care if I have to camp outside your office or haul your entire department into federal court. I will see him. And when I do, if he so much as looks like he's been touched—"

"You'll do what?" He asked, calm as ever.

"I'll ruin you. Paperwork, press, your pension…gone."

His face didn't move. "Have a good day, Ms. Bennett."

"Asshole." Quiet, but not quiet enough.

I started walking. If I stayed one second longer, I'd say something that would start a whole new problem.
Then I saw it, movement, just ahead.

A guard passed by with an inmate in cuffs—early 50s, tall, quiet. He didn't look at me, not directly. But something about him made me pause.

Not danger. Not recognition. Just... that flicker.

Have we met before?

He was already gone by the time I turned fully.

The moment passed. I didn't stop. Just filed the face away. Neatly. Like everything else I didn't have time to process.

I pushed through the doors and stepped into the parking lot like it hadn't all just gone to hell. Walked to my car on autopilot. Bag thudding against my side. Keys already in hand.

The sun was too bright. The birds freaking chirping. Like the world had the audacity to keep turning.

I got in. Shut the door.

And then I lost it.

"FUCK!"

I punched the steering wheel so hard the horn blared.

"FUCK YOU! FUCK THIS—FUCKING—FUCKING—PRISON!"

Another hit. Palms, fists, both hands—whatever landed.

Just rage. No filter, no breaks.

I screamed. Wordless. Furious. The kind that tears your throat out.

Then silence.

Just me. Breathing like I'd sprinted through a marathon.

One breath.

Two.

Three.... still not calm.

"...Okay," I muttered, voice shredded.

My pulse started to steady. My hands were shaking.

"Plan C, let's go."

~*~

The guard unlocked the door with a clatter, muttered something I didn't hear, and left me alone in the room.

I couldn't sit just yet. My eyes stayed on the chair across from me like that would make him show up faster. I hadn't seen him since court. Since they pulled him away and didn't look back.

Now I was here. Finally. And I didn't know if I was going to cry or just scream. Possibly both.

Then the door opened again.

And he walked in.

Spencer.

God.

He looked tired, which wasn't unusual. Definitely paler though. His hair was a mess—too long, curling into his eyes like it was trying to shield him and show him off at the same time. The uniform didn't suit him. It never would. Wrong color, wrong fit, wrong everything.

But he was still him. Still Spencer.

And even now even like this, I still thought he was the most unfairly gorgeous person I'd ever seen.

Which made me feel like an asshole.

He froze when he saw me. Just for a second. And something in me stopped, too.

Six feet had never felt so far.

We both moved—reflex, instinct, I don't know.
I took a step forward. So did he.

And then we remembered.

No touching. No hugging. No comfort. Just concrete and rules and too many goddamn eyes.

He stopped. I stopped.

I told myself it was fine. It wasn't.

"I know it's stupid," I said, barely above a whisper, "but... are you okay?"

He looked up at me.

Not all the way. Just enough for me to see it in his eyes.

That no, he wasn't.

That something inside him was unraveling and he was too tired to hide it.

"They took my stuff," he said. Quiet. Flat.

"What?"

He glanced down at the table. "First night—they took everything. Books, clothes. Just... gone."

I sat, slowly. The chair squeaked under me like even it couldn't handle this.

"Did they hurt you?"

His eyes flicked to mine again.

Then shook his head. "Not yet."

Not yet.

I felt my fists tighten.

"Quinn."

Just my name. And somehow that broke me more than anything else.

I pressed my palms flat to the table like that might ground me.

"I should've done more," I said. "I should've—I should've seen it coming. I should've found a way to keep you out of here."

His jaw tensed.

"You didn't put me here."

"Didn't I?" I laughed once. "I stood there in court and told you not to worry. Told you I'd handle it. That I had a plan. That I'd keep you safe."

He didn't interrupt.

"And now you're behind bars. Sleeping with one eye open. No space to think. No safety. And it's on me. All because of everything I didn't do."

He didn't look at me, just said it low, almost like he didn't want me to hear it, "Don't do that."

I blinked. "Do what?"

"Make this your fault."

I didn't know what to do with that.

"If you do... I won't know how to come back from it."
His hand twitched against the table like he wanted to reach for something—me, maybe—but didn't.

"You're the only reason I didn't completely fall apart…You still are."

I swiped at a tear before it could fall, quick and irritated. Like that might undo it.

His voice barely made it out, “I'm scared. But I know you won't let this break me."

I exhaled—too much all at once. I needed to shut it down. Fast.
“Well. I’ve got work to do, then.”

I didn’t look at him. Didn’t trust myself to.
“So don’t fall apart while I’m gone.”

A faint smile. The first real one. Just for a second.

"I brought you some books," I added, voice still raw. "They probably won't show up till next week, but they're coming."

"Really?" he asked softly.

"Yeah. Even that obnoxious one you love with the equations and the hideous cover."

He lifts a brow. "Imagining the Tenth Dimension is deeply misunderstood."

I smirk. "Mm. So are you. But at least you're less pretentious."

That earns another faint smile. "Thank you. For remembering."

I shrug like it's no big deal.
(It is. It always is.)

"When this ends..." A pause. Like he's choosing each word with care. "...I want to still have us. Arguing about physics and law and whatever else you feel like being right about. I just. I need to know this didn't scare you off."

I stared at him. Breath gone. Brain blank.

But my voice...my voice still worked.

"I'm right here, and when I get you out? I'll still be right here."

~*~

He was already seated when I walked in.

Leaning back in his chair, like this was his office and I was the problem.

I didn't bother pretending it was a social call.

Took three glasses of wine and a stack of case notes before it clicked. FBI agent kills his CI. Made headlines. Congressional oversight. Internal disaster. I wasn't lead counsel, but I was in the room. Junior executive with a stack of files and a front-row seat to a Bureau takedown.

"Calvin Shaw," I said.

His eyes flicked up. Focused. Then narrowed.

"...I know you?"

I tilted my head. "Yeah, you do. You glared at me for six weeks straight during your pretrial hearings."

He blinked. Then—grinned. Slow and smug.

"Bennett. That's right. Legal kid. Big mouth. Tight skirts."

I crossed my arms. "And now I'm the one they listen to. So maybe try not be such a dick.”

He hummed. "Still mouthy then....Didn't expect to see you here, though."

"You wouldn't be the first."

"What do you want?" he asked, already suspicious. Already interested.

"You're on C Block. Same wing they dumped Spencer Reid into. You've been in this place long enough to know how to survive. I need you to help him do the same."

Shaw's eyes twitched—just the smallest reaction.

"That profiler?" he said. "He's not built for this place."

"You think I don't know that?"

"So you want me to hold his hand?"

"I want you to watch him. Make sure no one thinks he’s an easy target.”

"Interesting request," he said. "Even more interesting coming from you."

"I'm not here for small talk, Shaw. I'm offering you a deal."

He leaned forward slightly. "Go on."

"You keep him safe—eyes on, no incidents, no one hurts him, and I start making noise about your case. You're buried right now. Forgotten. But I'm very good at reminding the right people who they forget. You want your file flagged for review? You want a federal clerk poking around procedural misconduct? Done."

He watched me. No grin this time. Just calculation.

"That's a lot of noise—for one guy. What's he to you?"

My throat tightened.

"Don't worry about it."

He nodded once. "Alright. I'll help him out."

"He doesn’t get hurt." I repeated.

"No," he said. "No one will hurt him.”

I stood. "Good. Because if anything happens to him under your watch I'll make solitary look like a vacation. And I won't even break a sweat.”

That earned a low chuckle. "Still got that bite."

"You have no idea."

I knocked for the guard.

And as the door opened, I looked back once.

"Watch him, Shaw."

 

~*~

The visitor badge clipped to my shirt felt ridiculous. Like it might as well have said: Spencer's girl. Which was fine. Totally fine. Borderline accurate. Whatever.

The guard walked me in without a word and nodded toward the table like I didn't already know where to go. Then he took his spot by the wall—close enough to hear, not close enough to pretend he cared.

Spencer was already there.

And he was... ok.

That was the first thing I noticed. No bruises. No bandages. Still breathing. Still here.

I didn't let myself react. Just sat down across from him like it was any other day.

"You didn't have to come," he said, quiet but warm.

I shrugged. "I wasn't going to be anywhere else."

He smiled a little. My stomach instantly unknotted from it.

He had a book open in front of him—already dog-eared, like he'd been through it twice since breakfast.

"You're not hurt," I said, scanning him again. "Not even—"

He shook his head. "No. This guy… ah… Shaw stepped in.”

"Shaw?"

"Calvin Shaw. He's in my block. Used to be FBI."

"He stopped people from hurting you?" I asked. I didn't expect it to work. But it did.

Spencer nodded, like it wasn't a big deal. "Got between me and the worst of it. Gave me this after—said it deserved better than sitting in his cell."

He held up the book, fingers lingering on the cover. Like it mattered.

I stared at it.

"Things've been manageable since," he added.

Manageable.

I nodded. Just once. Still processing that Spencer could have died... I needed a lifeline. Something small and stupid and normal.

"I talked to Cassie yesterday," I said. "Your mom asked about you."

That got his attention, his eyes lighting up.

"She said the nurses were being condescending again. Told one of them, 'My son's smarter than all of you combined, and that sharp girl he's seeing knows it.'"

That pulled a smile from him.

"She still talks about you the same way," I said, softer now. "Like none of this changes anything. Like you're still just... you."

His expression didn't change, but I saw the way he breathed a little easier.

And then—I completely blew it.

"She may have... dropped the phrase almost-daughter-in-law," I said, way too fast.

Silence.

My entire bloodstream caught fire. "Which is obviously not a thing. I didn't say it. She just—she talks. Sometimes. And I didn't correct her because she looked so smug about it, and—"

I cleared my throat. Hard. "Anyway. JJ came by yesterday. She brought the boys."

His brow ticked up. "Yeah?"

"She told them you were on a top-secret FBI mission. In space."

That earned an actual laugh.

"I brought their drawings," I added quickly, still recovering. "You're gonna love the aliens. One of them has six heads and a lightsaber. Which somehow still makes more sense than this week."

He nodded, and some of the tension in his shoulders slipped. If I could just keep reminding him of the good things, maybe it'd give him something to hold onto.

We both pretended that was enough.

I stood, slow. "I'll come back soon."

"I know," he said, no hesitation.

I lingered a second longer. Just long enough to count the ways he was still him.

Then I turned. Walked out like I wasn't plotting a homicide.

Which is how I ended up parked outside Warden Hardings house.

Calm. Collected. And about fifteen seconds away from committing a felony.

He opened the door in a fleece quarter-zip and the expression of a man who really thought his day was over.

It wasn't.

I didn't wait for a greeting.

"You're going to move Spencer Reid into a private cell," I said, "and you're going to do it tonight."

He stared at me. "Ms. Bennett—"

"Don't Ms. Bennett me. He got jumped. In your facility. Under your watch. The only reason he isn't in the infirmary is because another inmate stepped in."

His jaw twitched. "You can't just show up here—"

"I can," I snapped, "because you approved the transfer. Because I requested protective custody and you ignored it. Because he's in there with nothing—no safety, no backup—and that's on you. So if you think I won't hold you personally responsible for every bruise, every missed hour of sleep, every second he spends looking over his shoulder, think again."

"You're out of line."

"No," I said. "You crossed the line the second you stopped doing your job. I'm not asking again. I'm not waiting for signatures or excuses. I'll bury you in court filings and make sure your name's in every headline that uses the word negligence."

He didn't speak. Just stared.

"I'm not leaving," I added. "Not until you make the call."

More staring.

Silence.

Then—he turned. Picked up his cell, and dialed.

I watched him do it.

Watched him order Spencer transferred into a private cell under medical review.

Watched him flinch when I smiled.

~*~
I shouldn't have been here.

Technically. Legally. Morally. Whatever.

Visitor pass clipped crooked to my hoodie. Sunglasses pushed up in my hair. I looked like hell and walked like I hadn't slept, because I hadn't. But hey, nobody stopped me.

No small talk. No detours. Just one goal—and no patience left.

I moved fast. Quiet. Straight to Spencer's desk—still clean, still untouched. A half-empty pen holder. A physics textbook tucked under the monitor. One of those stupid squishy stress balls someone (Penelope) probably forced on him.

I crouched low and yanked the bottom drawer.

It was still unlocked. Either a mistake or he never expected to be gone this long. I grabbed it all. Didn't even pause to read it, just shoved it into my tote like a shoplifter on a timer.

"Um..."

I froze.

Slowly turned.

Penelope Garcia stood near the coffee station, cradling a mug with a unicorn on it, wearing an expression that was a mixture of confused, concerned, and mildly impressed.

"...Are you robbing the FBI?" she asked.

I stood up fully. "No."

"You are very much robbing the FBI."

"I'm researching."

Her eyes narrowed. "With a tote bag?"

"It's a very sturdy tote."

I went back to rifling through the drawer. Penelope took a step forward, peeking around the table like she was afraid I'd throw a chair.

"You know this is literally illegal."

"So is wrongful incarceration."

She winced. "Okay, fair."

A pause. Then she sighed and walked over.

"You could've just asked me, you know," she said quietly. "If you needed files. Help. Anything."

"I didn't want a paper trail."

"Quinny..."

That nickname. Soft. Familiar. It hit like a knife under the ribs.

I didn't answer.

One more file. One more note. Then footsteps.
More than one pair.

Should've know this wasn't going to be easy.

"Is there a reason you're breaking into a federal office?" Emily asked.

I glanced over my shoulder. Emily. JJ. Luke. Even Tara was hovering like someone had pulled the fire alarm.

"Did you really think no one would notice?" JJ asked gently.

"I was hoping you'd be out solving a murder or something."

Emily crossed her arms. "We wrapped a case last night."

"Cool," I said. "Back to work so soon."

I shoved another file into my bag.

JJ stepped forward. "What are you looking for?"

"Reid's notes. Scratch files. Anything that got shoved aside while he was being dragged through hell."

Emily furrowed her brow. "Quinn..."

That's when it actually sunk in.

The bullpen wasn't quiet.

It was busy.

Chatter. Movement. Phones. Files. Whiteboards full of names I didn't recognize.

"You're all... working another case," I said, slowly.

Emily hesitated. "Yes."

"You're—" I blinked. "So no one's working his case? At all?"

Silence.

"No one's looking into Scratch?"

"Quinn—" JJ started.

"No one's looking for the guy who set Spencer up?"

Emily stepped forward. "It's not that we don't care—"

"Then what is it?"

I was still holding the file. My knuckles were white around the edge.

"What exactly is so important," I said, quieter now, "that the man who's saved all of you—repeatedly—is rotting in a cell and you're acting like he took a vacation?"

"That's not fair," Luke said.

"Isn't it?" I snapped. Because I saw him yesterday. And I gotta say prisons not agreeing with him.”

My throat burned.

"I asked if anyone was working it. And you all just... blinked at me."

Penelope moved like she wanted to hug me. I stepped back.

"No. Don't."

"Quinny, we thought—"

"You didn't think," I cut in. "You moved on."

"No one's moving on... but these things take time..." Emily tried to reassure me.

But I ignored her, just shoved the rest of the files into my bag, hoisted it over my shoulder.

JJ reached out. "Where are you going?"

"Home," I said. "To figure out how to catch a man the FBI apparently can't be bothered to look for."

And I left. No one moved.

~*~
The floorboards were probably tired of me by now.

Back and forth. Kitchen. Window. Bookshelf. Repeat.
And Garfield, curled up on the couch like none of this was his problem.

I didn't even realize I was muttering to myself until I heard it out loud.

"No one's doing anything. He's sitting in a cell and they're just... clocking in. Solving murders. Pretending he's not one of theirs."

Garfield blinked at me. Yawned.

I dragged a hand through my hair. Started pacing again.

"I'm not a profiler. I don't know the first thing about tracking someone like Scratch. But I could file another motion—civil rights angle, maybe. Push harder. Dig through precedent. I'll find something. I always do."

Garfield meowed.

I stopped.

Looked at him.

"Don't start with me... yes I know I was probably a tad over dramatic with the team..."

He blinked again. Judgy.

"You're right... there's only one person who can help me."

Another meow.

I stared at the wall. At the pile of files on my table. At the cup of coffee I hadn't touched since 10 p.m.
And then—

"Fuck it."

I grabbed my phone. No hesitation. No second-guessing. If this backfires, I'll owe him an apology and a bottle of whiskey. But if it works—

I hit call.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Then—

"Hotchner."

Chapter 16: What the silence measures

Time (n.) — A continuous, measurable quantity in which events occur in sequence.
Irregular in confinement. Cruel, when left alone with it.
📚 Spencer 📚

There were forty-three bricks in the wall across from my bunk. I counted them every morning, like clockwork. Recounted them on bad days. Verified them after lights-out when sleep wouldn't come, which was often. Three chipped. One greenish, like it had mold or algae growing through the mortar.

The longer I stared, the more it stopped looking like brick.

I didn't count to pass the time. I counted because it gave me something fixed. In here, time doesn't stop, it just drags slow enough to feel every second of it.

Wilkins passed by at 9:13 a.m., radio crackling low static. Visiting hours started in two minutes.

I defaulted to the periodic table—ordered, reliable, something that made sense.
I needed that. Just for a second. Just long enough to picture her.

Because lately, she's the only thing that cuts through the noise. Quinn.

She dropped everything. Her work. Her routine. Her life.

For me.

I kept waiting for someone to say she couldn't come back. That it was a one-time visit. Formal. Obligatory.

But she kept showing up.

She's brilliant. Stubborn. Impossible to reroute once she's in motion. I don't always understand her. But I need her. God, I need her.

And sometimes, when it's quiet, when the bricks stop helping, I let myself imagine a different version of this.

A version where I didn't go to Mexico. Where I told her the truth the moment I should have. Where none of this happened, and she's still mine in a way I don't have to ration.

"Reid. You've got a visitor."

Wilkins didn't wait for a response. The block doors buzzed again, loud and jarring. It snapped whatever projection I'd been lost in.

I sat up before I could stop myself. That was new. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just routine for me now.

I stood. Waited for the cuffs. Walked the familiar path.

And then that feeling again, tight and stupid, right under my ribs. Like seeing her resets everything I've been trying to shut off.

No blazer. No briefcase. Just a folder and that expression—the one that always meant someone was about to lose an argument they didn't know they were having. I'd seen it in courtrooms, in conference rooms, once on a barista who spelled her name wrong.

Her hair was pulled back, but not neatly. Like she hadn't looked in a mirror. Like she'd been moving too fast to care. She looked tired in a way I recognized, frayed around the edges, operating on caffeine and sheer willpower. Like she'd been prioritizing everyone but herself.

And still....she was the most beautiful thing I'd seen in weeks. Not just her face. Not just the way she carried herself. But her eyes. That ridiculous, impossible blue. Somewhere between cobalt and cornflower. I'd looked it up once—hex code #4A90E2, not that it helped. Because the exact color didn't capture it. Nothing did.

Like proof that color still existed. That she did.

Even here.

And everyone saw it. Not just me.

She slid into the seat across from me and dropped the folder between us. "Still forty-three?"

I nodded. "Bricks don't move."

"Unlike your legal situation."

That got the smallest twitch of a smile out of me. "Good news or bad?"

"Neutral." She opened the folder, tapped a line. "Toxicology came back. Twice. No trace of scopolamine. Not in the blood, not in the hair."

My throat tightened. "He's going to get away with it."

"Not necessarily. We've got motive and opportunity. But nothing that links Scratch to you directly. No chemical markers. No trail."

"So nothing."

She didn't argue. Just leaned back, studied me like she was solving a particularly stubborn logic problem.

"I didn't hallucinate."

"I know."

"He was there."

"I believe you." Quiet now. "That doesn't mean it's going to be enough."

She's trying so hard to save me. And I don't know how to carry that—how to be someone worth saving.

A voice called something crude from two tables over. About Quinn's legs. Her mouth. How she was too good for a guy like me.

She didn't blink.

But I did.

She caught my expression and didn't even bother to look innocent. "Relax. I've worn shorter skirts in worse rooms."

"I don't like it," I said. "Them. Looking at you like that."

She glanced toward them, unimpressed. "If I needed a fan club, I'd aim higher."

"It's not funny."

Her voice lowered. "No. It's not. But I'm your f—friend, so if I want to see you, this is our only option."

"You shouldn't be here so much."

Her eyes found mine again. Still unreadable.

"Hey. Where you are, I am."

"You should've just walked away by now."

She frowned, "What?"

"Nothing." I looked down. "Forget it."

I only said it so she wouldn't have to. But she stayed anyway. She always stays.
I don't know what we are. But I know what she is to me.
She's the future I build in my head at 3 a.m., brick by brick, like it's a safe place.

A tiny house. A dog I'd probably be allergic to. Her shoes kicked off by the door. Her voice in the kitchen, yelling something sarcastic over the hum of a radio. Books on every surface.

It's not much. But it's something.

She frowned, eyes flicking past me.

I turned and saw Wilkins, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, still watching.

"What's his deal?" she muttered.

"He's never liked me." I shrugged. "Started the day I got here. Nothing specific. Just... didn't like the way I talked. Or breathed."

"Yeah. I got that vibe."

I turned back to her, but I could feel his eyes. Still on me.

"If he's waiting for me to be intimidated, he's gonna be here a while."

I smiled, "How's my mom?"

"She's okay. Holding steady. I've been checking in when I can. Groceries. Laundry. She still insists on vacuuming, which is... terrifying."

I let out a breath, "Thank you."

She kept going like I hadn't said anything.

"She's been reading a lot. Old journals, mostly. Helps her stay grounded. Keeps the loops from looping too hard."

She flipped open the folder again. "The night nurse seems fine."

We talked more after that. Nothing big. Just small things. Things that made it easier to pretend we weren't where we were.

Eventually, Wilkins gave the warning. Visiting hours were over.

She didn't stand.

Instead, she reached into the folder and slid out a folded note. "Don't read it now."

I took it. Slipped it into the waistband of my pants. Out of sight.

She rose, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Then paused.

"I might be gone a few days."

"Why?"

She hesitated. "Because I'm going to do something useful. And possibly stupid. Which, historically, is my niche."

"That's not an answer."

"Do you trust me?"

"More than I should."

She smiled. "Good."

She leaned in. Just a little. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone, when in doubt just say WWQD."

"WWQD?"

"What would Quinn do?" She answered like it was obvious.

I waved goodbye as she turned... staring at the space she'd been in for a long time after.

I would keep counting bricks. Holding on where I could. Letting myself imagine the kind of future I was probably never supposed to have.

But the second I was back in my cell, I had the note out.

Reid—
"You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
—J.A.

Okay, that was dramatic. Ignore it.
(Or don't. Whatever.)

You already know.
(If you don't, I'm not spelling it out here.)

—Q

P.S. Please don't ever quote this back to me. Ever.

~*~

Time (n.) — A measurable progression of events.

Slippery, when you're chasing it.
Unforgiving, when it stops moving.
Weaponized, in places like this.

~~📖Quinn📖~~

He'd been sitting in my passenger seat for just over three hours and only just started playing the questions game. Honestly, longer than I expected.

"I retired from this shit," He muttered, not looking at me.

"And I'm respecting that," I said, eyes on the road. "You're not technically doing anything. You're just... present."

"Against my will."

"No one forced you to get in the car."

"You did. You called and said, and I quote, 'If you care about him, meet me outside in five.'"

I sipped my coffee. "Still not hearing 'forced.'"

He gave me a long, heavy look. One of those 'you've got to be kidding me' expressions that made it clear he hadn't missed me even a little.

"You haven't said where we're going," he added eventually.

"Yeah, that was intentional."

"You do realize I could call someone. Tell them you're driving like a maniac with a questionable plan and a caffeine addiction."

"Go ahead. They'll believe you. I'm a known menace."

He exhaled, leaned back, and muttered something about regretting everything. I ignored it.

Another few minutes of silence passed before he said, "Does Hotch even know we're coming?"

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"I mean... I called."

"Christ."

"Relax. He loves surprise visitors."

"That's a lie."

"Sure is."

By the time we pulled up, my passenger looked like he'd aged ten years.

The house was plain—beige siding, neutral landscaping, aggressively boring. Like a real estate listing titled "Do Not Perceive Me."

"You broke into a federal system to find this place, didn't you."

"Nope. I asked. Like a professional. Hotch and I talk." I shrugged.

He raised an eyebrow. "Since when?"

"Secret Keeper dude."

I knocked once before pushing the door open, I didn't have time to wait for him. Hotch was already in the kitchen.

"You're early," he said, not looking up.

I dropped my bag on the table. "You're welcome."

He finally looked over, gave me a quick once-over, then shifted his gaze behind me.

Derek Morgan stepped inside.

Hotch's brow twitched. "Wasn't expecting company."

I shrugged. "Yeah, well. Desperate times."

There was a pause—a silent moment where the three of us stood in a kitchen. Just the three of us... and all I could think was, what an odd combination.

I followed him to the dining table. He'd already laid out the files I sent. Everything was organized—red pen notes, tabs, timelines. The man might've vanished from the Bureau, but he hadn't lost his touch.

I added two more folders, a thumb drive, and a dog-eared stack of court motions. "That's the latest. I'm working on appealing the motion to deny bail again, but honestly, the judge already made up their mind. The tox screen came back clean. No scopolamine. Nothing linking to Scratch. Which makes this harder."

Hotch nodded slowly. "How's he holding up?"

I hesitated. "He's... there. But barely. You know Spencer. He won't show it, not to me. But he's not okay."

Neither of them said anything. Morgan crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. I didn't need him to speak to know he was thinking the same thing I was—Spencer Reid wouldn't last three months in a place like that.

I sat, just needing the second. “I've been going through everything I can legally—and a few things I can't. But I'm not a profiler. I'm not a field agent. I don't know how to find someone like Scratch. He's not showing up in court filings or arrest records. No known associates, no bank trail, no sightings. It's like he doesn't exist."

Hotch didn't look surprised. "He knows how to disappear. He's done it before."

"Right," I said dryly. "Overachiever."

I glanced between them. "And that's the problem. I don't have anything. Just dead ends and a lot of very expensive printouts."

Morgan crossed his arms. "You think he's still around?"

I shook my head. "I don't know. That's what keeps me up. He could be two states over or in the same zip code, and I'd have no way to prove it."

Hotch leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you want from us?"

I looked at both of them, I was trying so hard to keep it together.

"I want to keep Spencer alive," I said. "And I'm running out of ways to do that on my own. I'm not saying this is or isn't him, but from everything we know about the guy we think we're chasing... This doesn't exactly scream textbook serial killer. If it's him, he's changed his style—or we're chasing the wrong freak."

I exhaled, who knew running off caffeine and no sleep would catch up.

"I'm not ruling anything out. But I think we'd be smart to look at every angle. Bigger picture. Patterns. People we might be missing. Because waiting for a trail that might never resurface? That's not a plan. That's a prayer."

Morgan shifted slightly. Still unreadable.

"I know the BAU has cases. I know they want to help but, but they've got their hands full. And this is Spencer. We all know if the roles were reversed, he'd already be here. Probably with a dozen charts and a weirdly relevant quote."

That pulled the smallest of smiles from Hotch. But he didn't argue.

No one did.

"I'm not trying to drag anyone out of retirement," I added, glancing at Morgan. "But I don't know what else to do. Everything's stacked against him. Every legal route is blocked. And I'm not going to let him rot because I was too proud to ask for help."

There was a long silence.

Finally Hotch said, "We'll help."

I exhaled. Looked at the mess of paper between us. Then back at Hotch.

This was it. The line in the sand.

"Okay," I said. "Let's find this bastard."

~*~

I knew something was wrong the second I saw his face.

Bruises under both eyes. One darker than the other. He looked like he hadn't slept in days—and like someone had made sure he wouldn't.

He was already in the private legal room, legs crossed, posture straight, pretending nothing hurt. Like this didn't mean anything.

"Hey," he said, too casual.

I stopped just inside the doorway.

"Hey?"

He hesitated. “I’m fine.”

“No, you look—wait, sorry, I just blacked out from the sheer volume of suppressed rage.”

He exhaled. "It looks worse than it is."

"Oh, does it?" I crossed to the table and dropped my bag harder than necessary. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like someone played Whack-a-Mole with your face."

"It's prison, Quinn."

"Right, and you're not supposed to blend in—you're supposed to stay alive. What happened to WWQD?"

He blinked at that. Like the concept was revolutionary.

"You want to tell me who did this?" I asked, arms crossed.

He didn't answer.

That was enough of one.

"Spencer."

"It doesn't matter."

I leaned forward, hands flat on the table. "It matters to me."

He looked away, jaw tight. "It was just... some guys."

"That narrows it down."

"They're not going to try again."

"Oh? You had a nice little sit-down? Settled it over orange juice and a handshake?"

His mouth twitched.

I stared him down. "What did you do?"

"Nothing."

"Spencer."

He swallowed. "They were going after an inmate. A friend. I might've... passed it along."

I blinked.

"You snitched?"

"I protected someone," he said quickly. "A kid who doesn't have anyone. Who wouldn't last another week—"

"So you thought you'd what, reason with them?"

He sighed. Fingers clenching on the edge of the table.

"God Spencer," I snapped. "Do you really think I'm fighting this hard to get you out just so you can go full martyr in the meantime?"

"It wasn't like that."

"Yes, it was. You saw someone in trouble and you did the thing you always do—you jumped in without thinking about what it would cost you."

His voice dropped. "I couldn't just let it happen."

He looked like hell. Not in the dramatic, "you should lie down" way. In the "you've stopped noticing" kind of way.

"You're not built for this," I said. "You can sit there and pretend this is fine, but it's not. You're going to get yourself killed, and you won't even see it coming."

He looked at me, jaw set. "So don't come back."

"What?"

"If it's too hard, Quinn. If it hurts too much—"

"You’re being dramatic." I was already moving before I knew it. "You think I'm going to stop coming because I can't handle a few bruises? You think I care about my own feelings right now?"

"I just don't want you to get hurt—"

"Too late." My voice cracked. "You think this is easy? Showing up, seeing you like this, and knowing I still can't get you out?"

He stood. Slowly. Like he thought I might break if he moved too fast. He was a foot away, just standing there. Looking at me like I was the only thing that made sense and the one thing he couldn't hold on to.

"I hate this," I muttered. "I hate that you're in here. I hate that you won't let me help. And I really fucking hate that you're still trying to play hero when you probably can't lift your arm without wincing."

He looked down. Didn't argue.

"I don't know how else to be," he said.

Of course he didn't. The most him answer possible.

And I should've let it go. Should've just nodded and left it there.

Instead, I stepped closer. Just enough to lift my hand an inch…and he flinched.

Not on purpose. Just... instinct.

And yeah, that hurt.

Not because he didn't trust me. Because this place had rewired him to brace for impact when someone got too close.

I pulled my hand back. Almost turned away. Almost said something snide and safe.

Instead, I just stared at him.

"You could be selfish for once," I said. "Just once. For me."

He didn’t answer.

Just silence. That kind that stretches. Where you suddenly notice how close someone is. How fast your heart’s going. How stupid this all is.

And then, because I'm apparently allergic to boundaries—

"Fuck it."

And I kissed him.

It wasn't graceful. My teeth caught on his bottom lip. His nose bumped mine. For a second, we didn't line up at all.

But then we did.

His mouth was warm. A little stunned. Soft in a way I hadn't expected—but he didn't pull away.

I leaned in harder.

His hand hesitated at my waist before settling like it belonged. Mine was already curled in his collar, tugging like I didn't trust him to stay.

I'd imagined this moment a hundred times. Always with sunlight. Coffee. A dumb movie in the background.

Not like this. Not under flickering fluorescents, with a guard two doors down and "major ethical breach" echoing in my head.

But it was perfect.

And it was completely, infuriatingly wrong.

Why now? Why did it have to feel exactly like I'd imagined it—only worse, because I knew I couldn't keep it?

It wasn't soft. Or slow.

It was rushed. Uneven. Like we were too tired to be careful, too wrecked to pretend we didn't want it.

It was weeks of watching him unravel. My own frustration. Guilt. Hunger. Everything we hadn't said, pressed into a kiss.

It was us.

When we finally stopped, he didn't speak. Just stayed close, eyes still shut—like he didn't trust himself to open them.

"You shouldn't have done that," he murmured.

“Yeah, well, you don’t get to be the reckless one all the time.”

I stepped back. Let my hand fall like it hadn't just been clinging to him.

"I'll be back soon."

He nodded. Barely.

I turned to leave—then glanced back once more.

"You don't get to play hero anymore. Okay?"

And then I walked out.

I didn't make it far before the anger caught up.

I'd barely gotten through the first checkpoint before I turned around and asked to speak with Shaw.

The guard on duty gave me a look like I was asking to borrow his gun.

"Legal rep," I said coolly. "Client request."

He buzzed me in.

They brought him into a caged-off interview room. Not private like the one I'd just come from. No table. Just two chairs and a whole lot of tension.

Shaw looked confused to see me. That didn't last.

"You've got five minutes," the guard said, and then stepped back out.

I sat. Crossed my legs. Didn't bother with pleasantries.

"You let him get hurt," I said.

Shaw blinked. "What?"

"You said you'd look out for him. Heard you were giving him books and playing chess. And now he's walking around covered in bruises."

Shaw leaned back. "He stuck his neck out."

"For who?"

He didn't answer. Just shrugged.

If someone doesn't give me a goddamn name soon...

I didn't move. "You know, I had some friends dig into your background. Old case files. Transfer records. That sealed incident with your confidential informant caught my eye."

That got him.

"Tragic stuff," I added. "Timing especially. And the fact that the report never mentioned the ultrasound."

Shaw froze.

I gave him a slow, deliberate look. "There are things I don't say out loud, Shaw. Not unless I need to."

He said nothing. Didn't need to.

"I'm not here to play. I don't need a badge or a uniform or a field file. All I need is motive, access, and a very patient paralegal."

He swallowed hard.

"You said you'd have his back. That still true?"

Shaw nodded once, stiff. "It is now."

"Good," I said, standing. "Because if anything else happens to him. I won't waste time filing a motion."

And then I turned and walked out, calm, composed, and already ten steps ahead.

 

~*~

I reread the email three times before I let myself breathe.

Then I basically ran through the facility like a lunatic, flashed my I.D at a guy who definitely didn't care, and stormed into the interview room before they even called him up.

Spencer was already waiting.

He looked up when I entered, gave me that soft, beat-up kind of smile that still somehow landed like a punch to the chest. The bruises were still there—fading, but not enough. And yet his eyes lit up like he could feel what I was bringing with me.

I didn't sit. Just dropped my bag and went straight in.

"I have a good news, bad news type of situation."

"Good news first, please," he said immediately, like he was bracing for the rest.

"I got your case moved to Alexandria federal court."

His eyebrows lifted. "The rocket docket?"

I nodded, grinning. "Exactly. They don't mess around, which means we might be able to get you in front of a jury as early as next month."

He blinked once, then let out a shaky breath. "That's—wow. Quinn, that's huge."

"Yeah, well. I have my moments."

He leaned forward slightly, hopeful. "So what's the bad news?"

I sighed. "As much as I've threatened, argued, even attempted bribery—I cannot get you moved to protective custody. The Bureau of Prisons has full control over inmate housing, and if I want to keep showing up and representing you, my recommendations have to stay just that. Suggestions."

His expression fell, just a fraction.

"But," I added, "I may have... spoken to Shaw."

His eyebrows pulled together. "About what?"

"He's going to be keeping a closer eye on you."

"No."

"Spencer—"

"No. You can't—Quinn, I don't want you making deals on my behalf."

"Too late."

"I mean it."

"So do I."

He stared at me, jaw clenched. "You can't keep putting yourself on the line like this."

"Well, I am. Welcome to my bad decision era."

He shook his head. "He's dangerous. You don't know what kind of things he expects in return."

"I didn't promise him anything."

"Quinn."

I leaned in. "I made it very clear that if you ended up with so much as a papercut on his watch again, I'd find out exactly where the Department of Justice draws the line on attorney violence."

Spencer looked torn between horrified and impressed. "That's not funny."

"I'm not joking."

He exhaled. "You can't keep doing this."

"Doing what? Helping you? Caring whether or not you survive the week?"

"Putting yourself in danger."

I stood up, crossed my arms. "Newsflash, Reid. I don't need your permission to throw myself into danger. I've been doing it since the moment I walked into this mess."

He looked up at me, something unreadable in his expression.

"I don't care if it scares you," I said, softer now. "It scares me too. But I'm not going to stop just because it's hard. You matter. And I'm not going to sit back and watch you get torn apart from a safe distance."

Silence.

"You really talked to Shaw?"

"I told him I'd burn this whole place to the ground."

Spencer shook his head again, lips twitching slightly despite himself. "Of course you did."

"Don't pretend you're not a little flattered."

He gave a tiny smile. "Maybe a little."

"Good. Because I'm not done yet."

Then I leaned in, just enough that the guards wouldn't hear it.

"This is it, Spence," I told him. "I can feel it. We're close. You're getting out of here."

His eyes searched mine like he wanted to believe it—like he almost did. But not quite.

So I said it again, slower this time. "We'll get you out of here."

Because we would.

Even if I had to take the system apart piece by piece to do it.

Chapter 17: The boy on the tightrope

n.) Exhibit A in the case against blind faith: one child, one broomstick, and the unshakable belief that logic could keep him upright. Turns out, life doesn't care about your equations.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

I stood outside the door way too long.

Not because I was nervous, obviously.
I just... didn't feel like unlocking it. Or walking in. Or dealing with whatever version of "normal" Diana had decided to cosplay today.

Eventually I stopped being dramatic and unlocked the door.

Still looked like Spencer's place. Still smelled like books, coffee, and whatever soap brand he's been using since 2007. And yeah my chest did something ugly about it, but I'm ignoring it.

I didn't say anything. Just walked in, dropped the groceries on the counter, and tried not to overthink the fact that I was basically squatting in my not-boyfriend's apartment with his mother.

Then I saw her.

Diana was at the table, flipping through that scrapbook.

The one Uncle Gordon sent. The one Spencer unpacked like it was going to fix something.

He told her she made it in high school.

She didn't remember.

I haven't touched it since. Didn't really plan to.

But now here it was. Open in front of her. And for the first time, I actually let myself look.

Baby Spencer in a bucket hat. Toddler Spencer mid-tantrum. That truly criminal bowl cut all parents think looks adorable.

It was weird, seeing him this small. This care-free. I couldn't stop looking, but I was definitely pretending like I wasn't looking.

She didn't glance up. Just kept flipping pages and narrating like it was all perfectly normal.

"Albuquerque... the museum. He loved the telescope there."

Another photo.

"Oh, this one... he said the haircut made him look like a fungus."

I crossed my arms. "He wasn't wrong."

She looked up.

And for one brutal second, I braced for it, the wrong name, the empty stare, the polite nothingness.

But her face lit up.

"Quinn."

No pause. No confusion. Just Quinn.

I exhaled. Quietly.

"Glad I made the rotation today," I said.

She waved me over, fast. "Come here. You have to see this one."

I walked over, and she held up the photo. It wasn't a picture of Spencer. Not really. It was some old circus performer—tightrope walker, mid-stride, arms stretched for balance.

But taped over the face?

A tiny, slightly crooked cutout of Spencer's face.

I blinked. "Uh. Did he... glue his head on someone else's body?"

Diana laughed. "Oh, yes. This was his dream job, you know."

"Wait, I thought he wanted to be a magician?"

"Oh, that came later," she said, fond. "The tightrope came first."

Of course it did. And why was this most adorable thing on the planet?

"He was maybe three or four? I took him to the circus and after that, it was all he talked about. How he was going to master the tightrope. He made this himself, took one of my old magazines, found this performer, and made this like he was manifesting it."

I looked closer. His head was too big for the photo. The scissor work was shaky at best. But the confidence? Unmatched.

She flipped the photo over and traced a small tear in the corner with her thumb. "He used to practice in the backyard. Tried to balance across the fence behind the house. There's a scar on his wrist—that's from when he fell."

I knew that scar. I'd seen it a hundred times. Remember the feel of it in my hand... I just never knew where it came from.

"He was so determined to make it the whole way across," she said, voice soft. "He even made a balancing pole out of an old broomstick. Measured it. Calculated the weight distribution. Adjusted it with duct tape and pennies."

He should be here. Next to me. Looking like he wants the floor to swallow him while his mom talks about his weird childhood hobbies. And I should be giving him shit for it. Not sitting here alone playing memory keeper.

I keep thinking about that kiss. How fast it was. How wrecked we both were. And how badly I want to do it again—without all the bruises and panic in the way.

"Did he ever make it?" I asked.

Diana shook her head. "No. And he was heartbroken. He really believed, because he was so smart, so brilliant, that he could figure it out if he just thought hard enough. Like there was an equation he hadn't cracked yet."

She smiled faintly.

"But some things don't work like that. And eventually, he let it go. He was meant for bigger things."

I looked down at the photo again—at that ridiculous, determined little face pasted over a tightrope walker's body and honestly, I think this was the exact moment I died a little inside.

He really thought he could do it.

Not for attention. Not even because it looked fun.
Just because he believed he could outsmart gravity with enough math and a broomstick.

And honestly? He probably still does.

But that's not what sticks.

It's not the math. Not the story.

It's the look on his face the last time I saw him.

He didn't cry.

That's what messed me up...

He was just... empty.

Spencer sat across from me in the visitation room like someone had scooped him out. Shoulders slack. Hands clenched tight. Eyes so vacant it took me a second to even realize he'd looked up.

"He's dead," he said.

Wait...What? "Who?"

"Delgado. My... friend....They slit his throat. In the laundry room."

I blinked. "Jesus, Spencer."

"They said it was random." He gave a short, bitter huff. "It wasn't. It was a message. I said no to moving the drugs..."

That was the first crack. Just a flicker.

His hands shook, not from fear. From the kind of rage that doesn't announce itself, just shows up, hot and shaking.

"I'm starting to think like them, Quinn."His voice broke but he forced it steady.

"I'm starting to survive like them. That's what scares me. It's not just the violence, it's how fast it makes sense."

My pulse spiked.

"I'm here because I made a choice. And maybe that choice means I don't get out alive."

He didn't look at me. Didn't look at anything.

And that scared the hell out of me.

This wasn't a bad day. Wasn't even a bad month.
This was him circling the drain, and pretending it was fine.

Because if he was giving up...then what the hell was I supposed to do?

This wasn't some crush I could outgrow.
He was it. The plan. The only version of the future that didn't make me want to bolt.

And now? Now I was just supposed to sit here and watch it fall apart?

Absolutely not.

"There's a helplessness in here. It warps everything. Makes people do things they never would've considered. No one in here's honest."

I didn't think. I just reached across the table, grabbed his hands, and held on like it might actually do something.

"Then don't be honest," I said.

He blinked at me.

"I don't care what it takes. I don't care if it breaks every weird moral rule in that overachiever brain of yours. Do whatever it takes to stay alive."

He stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

"You want permission?" I asked. "Fine. You have it. Lie. Cheat. Make deals. Play dumb. Hell, run the product if you have to."

"That's not who I am."

"It is now," I snapped.

His jaw tightened. "I thought that kind of thinking was the problem."

"It is," I said. "But I'd rather have you pissed off and breathing than noble and dead."

That shut him up. He looked at me like he couldn't believe I meant it, that I'd actually go that far. Like I'd crossed some invisible line he didn't think I was capable of touching. Please, that line was a dot in my rearview.

"Quinn—"

"No. I'm not doing this. I'm not gonna sit back while you unravel one layer at a time, acting like your ethics are gonna shield you from a shiv. They're not. They'll bury you. And I—"

I bit the rest back. Jaw locked.

"I'm not losing you."

Silence.

"So yeah. Be someone else if that's what it takes. Fake it. Survive it. And when you get out? We'll put you back together. I'll put you back together."

He didn't say a word. Held onto my hand.
I didn't let go. Because what the hell else was I supposed to do?

I come back into the room like someone flipped a switch.

Diana's still next to me. Still sorting through photos like I haven't been gone, mentally, emotionally, completely, for the past five minutes.

She slid a photo toward me, excited to show me more of the past.

It wasn't Spencer. It was Elvis. Full rhinestones. Big hair. Mid pelvic thrust.

I blinked. "You went to an Elvis concert?"

"Vegas. '68. Front row." Her voice was dreamy. "He was wearing leather. Very tight."

"Okay," I said. "That's enough out of you."

She smiled to herself. "I had go-go boots."

"Jesus Christ."

Then the front door opened like it was part of a stage cue.

"Afternoon, ladies!"

Carol.

Fantastic.

She walked in like she owned the place. Lavender scrubs. Oat milk in one hand, smug energy in the other.

"I brought the one Diana likes," she announced. "Blue label. Organic. Hard to find, but I know how picky she gets."

I glanced up. "Hi, Carol."

Flat. Unapologetic.

She turned her smile to me, big and chirpy, like she either didn't notice or refused to.

"I also grabbed chamomile. Thought it might help after... well, everything. Might be good for both of you, actually, cut back on the coffee a bit."

This bitch.

Diana hummed. "That's thoughtful, dear."

Carol beamed like she just earned a gold star and then turned back to me.

"So—how's Spencer doing in—"

"Dr. Reid is doing great," I cut in. "Loves the beach."

Carol blinked. Recovered. "Oh... that's nice. I didn't realize he was away."

"Mmhmm," I said. "Big fan of ocean air. Vitamin D."

She started toward the kitchen. "I thought Cassie was covering today?" I asked.

"Oh—we swapped, last-minute. She had something come up, and I figured it was easier if I stepped in. I mean, I am the one Diana seems most comfortable with."

Diana gave her a blank look. I nearly applauded.

"Right, I'm just curious what would've happened if Diana decided to wander off. Or take a nap in the neighbor's driveway."

Carol laughed, high-pitched, brittle. Kind of made me want to stab something. "Well... she didn't."

"No. But Cassie would've texted. Which, bare minimum, is kind of the job."

Carol opened the fridge, but I saw it. The fake facade dropping for a second before her smile was back in place. "Well, it's lucky you're here. Must be hard juggling work and... whatever you and Dr Reid are."

I blinked. "Sorry?"

"You know. You're always around. It's sweet, makes sense you'd be exhausted. Playing house with a federal agent, even unofficially, sounds intense."

I tilted my head. "That's not really your business. Or your job. Is it?"

She laughed like I was kidding.

I wasn't. If this was her undermining my relationship-

She turned away, but I kept watching her. Not because I thought she was dangerous.

Because I'd dealt with enough liars, manipulators, and con artists to know when someone was trying too hard to seem harmless.

Carol wanted to be liked. Wanted to be needed. The kind of person who rehearsed her smile in the rearview mirror.

And maybe that worked on normal people.

But not me.

Something about her just set me off.

And I trusted that instinct a hell of a lot more than I trusted anything out of her mouth.

~*~

The only thing worse than a cold coffee was the fourth cold coffee.

I had a pen between my teeth, a stack of dead-end court memos in my lap, and Garfield draped across a pile of pointless files like he was emotionally exhausted on my behalf.

My phone buzzed.
Incoming call: Derek Morgan + Aaron Hotchner

I answered without looking. Already bracing.

Derek was in a parked SUV while Hotch sat in his makeshift office. I'd never been more excited to see both of them.

"If you're calling to tell me to be patient," I said, "try again."

"We've got something," Hotch said.

"Scratch?"

"A man matching Lewis's description was flagged by Interpol in Honduras. Boat manifest. Fake name, forged papers."

Derek nodded. "Alias links back to a case Interpol flagged years ago. No clean image, but the height and build matched. Enough to raise hell."

I sat up straighter. "Do we know where he was headed?"

"Disappeared before they could confirm," Hotch said. "He boarded, didn't disembark. They're checking island docks and ports now, but it's thin."

"Of course it is," I muttered. "Every time he shows his face, it's just long enough to make sure we still care."

Derek shifted. "We're pulling everything we can. Coordinating with foreign intel teams."

"And what's that doing for Spencer?" I asked. "Is it getting him out? Is it proving he was set up? Or is it just another dot on a whiteboard that won't hold up on cross?"

They didn't answer. Because they couldn't.

I leaned forward, voice low. "You know what this feels like? Like he's laughing at us. Like we're all spinning in circles while he plays tourist in Central America."

"We're going to find him," Hotch said. "And we're going to get Reid home."

I wanted to believe that. I really did.

But it had been days. And I still had nothing that could survive a courtroom. No footage. No confession. No trace evidence tying anyone but Spencer to the scene.

"I need more than red strings and guesswork," I said. "I need something I can use. Something solid. Not just 'oh he could've stopped by Mexico and quickly framed a Federal Agent.'"

Derek met my eyes through the screen. "Can you get Garcia on the full archive? If we get access to Reid's older cases, we'll start backtracking."

I shook my head. "I don't want to hang everything on Lewis. That's what everyone keeps doing, what they've been doing. And if it turns out we're wrong? That it wasn't him?"

Hotch didn't say anything.

So I finished it for them. "Then we're just letting the real Unsub walk while we chase the wrong guy."

Derek nodded. "We'll cover both."

"Good," I said. "Because if Lewis left even one breadcrumb behind, I want it in my hand before the prosecution twists it into motive."

I almost ended the call right there—but something stuck.

"We're making a mistake," I added. "Putting it all on Lewis. You two profiled him. You know how he works. Why would he disappear off the grid? Scratch doesn't vanish. He lingers. He wants people to know he was there. He watches. This whole Honduras thing—it doesn't feel like him. It feels like someone else trying to make it look like him."

Neither of them argued.

I ended the call.

And I just sat there, surrounded by cold coffee, a sleeping cat, and a mountain of paper that still didn't add up to proof.

And somewhere out there, maybe on an island, maybe not, Lewis or Scratch or whatever he wanted to
Call himself, was watching this train wreck unfold...

~*~

I didn't sit.

Three days back-to-back in this building and not a single damn update. If someone handed me another sympathy smile I didn't ask for, bitch Quinn was making an appearance.

Emily finally motioned me into a side room. Stephen Walker was already there, flipping through a file like this was just another Wednesday.

I leaned against the edge of the table. "If this is another 'we're working on it,' save it. I want answers."

Walker opened the folder anyway. "Interpol flagged one of Lewis's aliases. Passport scan, Honduras."

I didn't blink. "Yeah. I know."

Emily stilled. "From where?"

I shrugged. "Don't worry. He's retired. Mostly."

She didn't push, which meant she knew damn well it was Hotch.

"We're expanding the search net," Walker added. "Nothing confirmed yet, but it's a lead."

"Right. A 'lead.' Like the dozen others that all disappear the second someone blinks too hard."

Emily exhaled. "We are trying, Quinn."

I turned to her. "I know. But trying doesn't stop a trial date."

There was a pause, and then—

"Tara's heading to the prison today."

I froze. "What?"

"She's going in under a medical exemption," Emily said. "Technically it's an evaluation—but I signed off on it. It got her access."

I laughed once. Unbelievable. "So we're doing loopholes now?"

"She's a clinical psychiatrist. It was the only way in."

"Then write me one," I snapped. "Call it emotional triage. I'll wear scrubs if it helps."

Emily's jaw tightened. "Quinn—"

"No. I've been trying to get in for a week and no one will even return my calls. He's been in locked down and I'm supposed to just wait while someone else goes in and checks if he's still in one piece?"

Walker spoke up. "The exemption was the only way past the lockdown. It's not personal."

I ignored him. "He looked like a stranger the last time I saw him," I said. "I'm not going to sit around while you all tiptoe through protocol."

Emily's voice dropped. "I miss him too."

That stopped me.

Her voice didn't have that usual snap to it. Just... grief. Plain and awful.

"He should be here," she said. "Making coffee and quoting Einstein at us until we all beg him to stop."

I swallowed hard. Goddamn, I will not cry here...

"Yeah," I murmured. "I know."

I sat down, not because I meant to. Just because my knees stopped pretending they were fine.

"I never thought I'd miss getting my ass kicked at chess, but here we are. I even miss the way he over-explains things. Like the one time I said I liked his cologne and he gave me a twenty five-minute lecture on olfactory memory."

Emily gave the smallest smile. Just enough to feel like we might not both fall apart.

I looked down. "It's like there's this space beside me that still thinks he should be there. Rambling. Fidgeting. Existing....And I'd give anything to see that again."

No one spoke... just silence as I tried to pull my shit together.

"I know you all think it's Lewis. And maybe it is. I've read the files. I've heard the stories. But I didn't live through it the way you did. I don't have trauma-colored glasses when it comes to Scratch. All I see are inconsistencies."

Emily didn't argue.

"Which is why I need Garcia," I said. "I need you to get her access cleared. Full archive. I want every case Spencer ever touched. Every file. Every footnote. If someone else had a reason to come after him, I want to know who. I want to be sure."

Emily nodded once, steady. "She already offered."

I gave a slight nod back. That was it.

Because if I said thank you, I might lose it.

And I didn't have time for that. Not yet.

As I turned to go, Emily said quietly, "I'll see what I can do to get you in."

~*~
I spotted her the second she stepped out.

Tara was barely halfway down the prison steps before I was already moving. No subtlety, no pretense, I'd been parked across the street for forty minutes, and I wasn't pretending I just happened to be in the neighborhood.

She didn't look surprised to see me. Just... tired. That kind of worn-out that says this went to hell.

"How'd it go?" I asked. "Start with how he looks. End with whether or not I need to start screaming."

Tara hesitated. Not a long pause. But it was enough.

"He's... not good," she said. "He's not sleeping. His memory's fractured. And—"

My heart was already racing. "And?"

She met my eyes. "He's convinced he stabbed Nadia Ramos."

I blinked. "Come again?"

"He told me he remembers picking up the knife. Said he stabbed her. Just... matter-of-fact. Like it already happened and there's no point arguing."

I stared at her. "That's not a memory, Tara. That's him trying to rewrite what happened."

She didn't answer.

"You know that's not a confession," I snapped. "You know he wouldn't. And even if he said those words, he's sleep-deprived, mentally unstable, how exactly is that admissible, let alone believable?"

"I'm not saying I believe it," she said softly. "But he does."

My fists were clenched at my sides. "So what, you just left him there thinking he killed someone?"

"I didn't push him, I got what I could. I'm going back tomorrow."

"Good, because I'm going with you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Quinn—"

"I'm not asking."

She sighed. "It's a medical exemption. You can't just—"

"Then get creative," I snapped. "He's my client. He... needs me. And if I'm not in that room, he's going to say something they'll use against him, true or not. You want that on file?"

She didn't argue.

But then, softly, she said, "He asked for you."

I stopped. Just for a second.

"Don't tell me that," I said quietly. "Not unless you're letting me in that room tomorrow."

"I'm not arguing with you," Tara said. "If the warden lets you in, it's fine with me."

She turned toward her car.

"He better," I muttered.

And I followed. Already dialing the number for Emily.

~*~

The room smelled like cheap disinfectant and dread.

Mine, mostly.

I'd been pacing for ten minutes before Tara told me to sit down. So now I was sitting. On my hands. Bouncing one leg under the table like a metronome stuck on absolutely not fine.

I hadn't seen him in six days. Which doesn't sound long until you remember he's in prison. Or that every second he's in here is another second someone could decide he's expendable.

The door opened.

And I looked up.

Spencer walked in like he didn't even recognize the concept of walking anymore. Just shuffled forward, eyes dull, body folded in on itself like someone had vacuum-sealed the life out of him.

I stood up before I could stop myself. Like if I was upright, I could maybe hold him together with sheer will power.

He didn't see me. Not right away.

Which—okay. Fine. Normal. Great. Nothing like watching the love of your life walk into a room and not register your existence. My stomach twisted.

Then he finally registered I was here.

Not a smile. Not a wince. Just... something cracked behind his eyes. Like he'd forgotten what I looked like and suddenly remembered why that hurt.

He sat down.

I followed suit, slower.

"I cannot do this anymore, alright?" he snapped. "I told you it was better if you all just stayed away. You're making it worse."

Cool. Good. Off to a great start.

Tara didn't flinch. Of course she didn't. She's a professional.

"No, Spencer," she said gently. "Your brain is playing tricks on you. You realize that, don't you?"

"Why?" he demanded. "Why? Because the cognitive gave you an answer you'd rather not have?"

"No," I said, before Tara could try the clinical approach again. "Because Spencer Reid is literally incapable of murdering an innocent woman in cold blood."

He flinched.

Barely, but I saw it.

Then he leaned in. Voice low.

"You have no idea," he whispered, "what I'm capable of."

And that was it. That was the moment my brain just... gave up.

Because he looked feral. Half-sane.
And unfortunately, apparently, that's my type.

My stomach dropped. My dignity threw itself out the window.

Cinnamon, dark circles, and a line like that? Yeah, cool, let me just misplace all my clothes and self-respect real quick.

I forced my jaw to lock. Forced myself not to blink or breathe weird or spontaneously combust.

Because Jesus Christ, now was not the time to be feral.

Tara, thank God, kept going.

"Look, prison is a difficult place. You've probably had to do things in here to survive that you would never think of doing in the outside world. Things that make you feel guilty or ashamed. But the brain has to handle that guilt, has to process it. And sometimes it spreads that guilt around into places it doesn't belong."

"I can see the knife in my hand," he said.

My fingers dug into my knee.
I hated that image. I hated that he could even say that out loud without shattering.

"We know Scratch uses drugs to change our perception of what's real and what's not," Tara said.

"What do we do now?" Spencer asked quietly.

I leaned forward. Just a little.

"Do you want to go back into that hotel room and find out what really happened?"

"Yes."

"Then say it," I told him. "Not to me. Say it to yourself."

"I want to go back," he whispered, eyes closing.

There he was. For a second. That version of him that trusts me. Still alive in there.

Tara picked it back up.

"What's in your right hand?"

"Nothing."

"Where's the knife?"

"I moved it so I could get to her... and that's probably how I cut my hand."

"What happened next?"

"I hear a noise, like a spraying sound, and I feel a mist over my shoulder, so I turn."

He was still speaking like it was happening in real-time. Like he was in it again. Every line coming out flat and too fast.

"Do you recognize who it is?"

"No," he whispered.

"Look hard, Spencer," Tara said. "Concentrate. Let the image come into focus."

"It's him. It's him. I see him. I see Scratch. It's Scratch. It's Scratch. And he's drugging me..."

He jolted forward slightly in his seat. Eyes still closed. Hands flexing like his body was trying to fight off something long gone.

"And I hear him say something. He says something. He says..."

"What?" I asked quietly. "What does he say?"

"Time to go," he said. "Says 'time to go.' Time to go. Then she just walked out of there like she didn't have a care in the world."

...
She?

I blinked. "Wait. Wait, Spencer—"

"Like she wanted me to chase her," he cut in.

"Spencer, stop. You keep saying 'her.'"

"Because it wasn't Scratch who framed me," he said, eyes opening.

"It was a woman."

My blood ran cold.

And there it was, the twist I didn't want, but absolutely saw coming, because nothing about this gets to be simple.

Chapter 18: Time to go

Continuance (n.) — A court-approved delay of proceedings.
Six weeks of breathing room.
And just enough time to lose everything.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

There are a few moments in my life I can point to and say—yeah. That was it. That's where you fucked up.

This was one of them.

No warning. No big flashing sign that said, hey, maybe don't make that call.

Just me. Thinking I had it handled. Thinking I was right.

I wasn't.

And I should've known better.

But whatever. That's not where we start.

If you really want to know how bad this got...
You need the before.

 

~*~

72 Hours Earlier

"A woman?" JJ repeated.

Yes. Jesus. Is there an echo in here?

We were back in the bullpen, pretending this was just another case and not the slow-motion disaster it clearly was.

Tara stepped in. "Yeah, he was very clear about it. He remembered her hair, her painted fingernails."

"So she killed Nadine Ramos?" Luke asked.

"He says she did. But that's not enough. There's no proof. It's his word against nobody's." I didn't bother softening it.

"Okay. But what about Scratch?" Garcia asked.

Tara didn't hesitate. "He says he remembers her spraying some kind of fine mist in his face—"

"Which is consistent with Scratch's M.O." Emily added.

"He never saw his face," I cut in. "Not once. Doesn't even know if he was actually there."

"And you're sure this memory is accurate?" Rossi questioned. "You said he manufactured a false memory in the cognitive."

"And he is sleep-deprived, which can interfere with memory," JJ added.

Tara nodded. "That's true, but the false memory was directly related to the stress he's currently experiencing. This was different. He wasn't projecting. In my opinion, this is a credible recollection."

Cool. Maybe we can present that opinion in closing arguments and hope the jury claps.

"Okay. So that could mean that Scratch is manipulating another victim suffering from dissociative identity disorder," JJ offered.

"Or he's working with a full-fledged accomplice for the first time," Walker said.

"Or... hear me out, maybe this has nothing to do with Scratch."

And suddenly, I'm back in that first conversation. First argument, really. The first time I'd met Spencer.

"Patterns, huh? You really think that's enough to decide someone's fate? What about facts? Evidence?"

He didn't flinch. Just looked at me, calm as ever.
"Facts and evidence are important," he said, quick. "But understanding the 'why' can help you see things others miss. You think anyone can just walk into a courtroom and make the law work for them without considering the bigger picture?"

I'd scoffed at him. Said it was a stretch.
Now I'm the one making the call — and everyone's looking at me like I've lost it.
Like suggesting it's not Scratch is somehow more insane than everything else we've dealt with.

"What woman would willingly associate herself with Scratch?" Garcia asked.

"And why would Scratch risk taking on a partner?" Luke added.

Right. Sure. That's the priority.
I dig my nails into my palm to keep from flipping the damn table.

"That's what we need to find out," Emily said. "We'll start by checking all of the women in the database we compiled of D.I.D. patients."

But Garcia hesitated, calling out, "Wait... how was he?"

Tara glanced at me, clearly debating how honest she wanted to be. "He's, um... having a hard time."

Which didn't even begin to cover it.

Pen shook her head. "We gotta get him out of there, you guys."

I blink. The comeback's right there...What do you think I've been doing for the past two months, sitting on my ass? But then I see it. The worry. The guilt. The part of her that actually means it. So I swallow it down.

Emily nodded, "We will. But right now it's late, and we're no good to him running on fumes. Clear your heads, get some rest." Then to me: "If you can. We'll start fresh in the morning."

Nope. Not happening.

"A word?" I said, already following her.

I felt her sigh from across the room. "Sure."

The second the door shut behind us, I didn't wait.

"This is bullshit."

"Quinn—"

"No. Don't. You finally get something solid — an actual detail, something new — and we're still stuck on Scratch like he's the only explanation that counts."

Emily crossed her arms. I didn't let up.

"Spencer's falling apart, and you're all still treating this like a maybe."

"We're not ignoring it—"

"You're dragging your feet. There's a difference."

That same look she gets when she's decided and doesn't care who disagrees.

I stepped in closer. "You think I'm being emotional? Fine. I am. He's not your client. He's mine. I see what this is doing to him."

Emily didn't move. "Client?"

"For this moment, yes. My client."

"I know you don't want to hear this... Quinn... but I think you're letting your feelings cloud your perspective—"

I cut her off. "One — you don't know my perspective. Two — I might be the only one actually seeing straight. But hey, let's humor the theory crowd. You dig into Scratch. D.I.D. profiles, whatever. My team's going to look at his past. Because this? It reeks of a revenge setup."

I see her mouth twitch. "Your team, huh."

"Yes. My team."

She nodded. "Very well. Let's do this together. Let me know if you find anything promising and vice versa."

"Done."

A knock at the door.

"Yeah?" Emily called.

Rossi leaned in. "Everything okay in here?"

I was already halfway to the door. "Fine."

He looked between us, didn't bother pushing. Smart.

In the hallway, I pulled out my phone. Opened the voice memo, the one I started back when JJ repeated "A woman?" and hit share.

Selected: Morgan. Hotchner.

Typed the message: Start at the beginning. We're looking for a female suspect in Spencer's past.

Sent.

I trust my gut. We're on the right track now.

~*~

36 Hours Earlier

"A continuance? How long?" Spencer practically choked the words out.

I didn't want to say it. Didn't even want to hear it. Nearly threw my phone at the wall when the call came in.

"Six weeks."

"I don't understand. The Alexandria District Court is the rocket docket."

"I know. I reminded them of that. Repeatedly. I told them about your situation, but apparently the arresting officer's availability was limited."

"Because they have to travel from Mexico to Virginia?"

"And because they're tied up testifying in other domestic cases." I exhaled. "This is the price we're paying for getting the venue moved back to the States. It was the right call...but it came with a delay."

He didn't respond. Just stared at the table, looking wrecked.

I pressed my palms flat against the edge of the table. "I'm negotiating with the warden to get you extra visiting privileges."

He barely nodded. His voice dropped. "I don't know if I can..."

"No. Stop. We're not doing that You don't get to spiral. Not today. There's a strategic upside here, okay? We have time now. Time to follow up on the woman you remembered."

"Have they made any progress?"

They were chasing a Scratch connection harder than they were chasing her. But that wasn't his problem right now.

"They're working it. Full force. But the real win is that you're starting to remember."

"I might remember more," he said quietly.

I nodded. "Exactly. That's the point." I reached across the table and tapped my fingers against his, nothing dramatic, just a reminder that I was still here.

"I know this sucks. All of it. But this is movement. We can use it. We might even be able to exonerate you before this even hits a verdict."

He still didn't look at me.

"I'll be here," I said. "Every day. I promise."

He nodded, but it felt automatic. Like he didn't buy it yet.

So I tried something else.

"Hey."

He looked up, slow and tired. And I got it, he was so done.

"Think about the first thing we're gonna do when you get out."

"What?"

"When this ends," I said. "When you walk out of here, what's the first thing you want?"

Spencer paused. His eyes dropped again, but this time he looked like he was actually thinking.

"I don't know," he said, quiet.

"Sure you do," I told him. "Books? Pancakes? Movies? You name it."

He spoke softly. "Can we go somewhere quiet? Somewhere with real coffee and no walls."

"Absolutely. Let's just hope we don't get caught in a storm again."

He gave this small, lopsided smile, then glanced over at me. "I've been thinking about that night. Probably more than I should...If I could go back to that moment... I think I would've kissed you. And I don't think I would've stopped."

Oh.

Oh, come on.

My heart actually stuttered. Then tried to climb up my throat and panic-scream its way out.

I opened my mouth, probably to say something deeply intelligent like 'kiss me now!' But what came out was,

"My grandmother has land out in Virginia."

Cool. We're running with this. He just blinked as I continued my ramble.

"Wide open fields. Cows. Horses. I know you're probably not an animal person, but... maybe you'd like it."

He just stared. Then nodded, awkwardly. "I think I would."

I swallowed. "Good. Because when you feel like everything's falling apart, just remember, there's a cow waiting for you on the other side."

And because I couldn't help myself, "Also... totally unrelated... but out of professional curiosity?"

He glanced at me.

"Walk me through all the female UnSubs you've had over the years."

~*~
24 hours earlier

I adjusted the collar of Diana's coat and took a step back, trying not to let my nerves show.

"You remember what we talked about?" I asked.

She nodded, purse already tucked under one arm like we were heading to Sunday brunch and not a federal prison. "We're going to see Spencer."

"That's right." I offered the faintest smile. "And I'll be with you the whole time, okay? If something doesn't make sense, I'll handle it."

She smiled at me, soft and sincere. "You're very sweet."

I cleared my throat. "Don't go spreading that around."

She laughed just as the front door creaked open.

"Afternoon, ladies!"

Carol. Fucking Carol. I couldn't even explain the level of irrational hatred I had for her.
Except—no, actually, it felt pretty rational.

She breezed in with her usual overcompensating energy, wearing a soft purple cardigan and jeans. At least she wasn't in those scrubs.

I didn't answer. Just helped Diana get ready.

Carol hovered by the entryway, all smiles. "Everything all set? Paperwork's in the folder?"

"Yep," I said, double-checking the ID and medical notes before handing them off. "All in there."

She took them like she'd personally arranged the visit. I resisted the urge to say something petty.

Diana glanced between us, sensing the tension but choosing not to comment. She looked at me instead. "You think he'll be surprised?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I think he misses you more than he knows how to say."

That wasn't the part I was nervous about.

What I didn't say, couldn't say, was that I didn't know how he'd look at me afterward. If he'd be happy. Hurt. Furious.

I know he needs this.

He needed her. A reminder that the world outside still had some good left in it.

And if this helped him hang on, then that was enough for me.

The car ride over had been quiet, and sign-in went smoother than expected. No questions. No sideways glances.

I held the door open and let Diana step inside first.

"This might feel a little... institutional," I warned, trying not to make it sound like we were about to walk into Arkham Asylum. "But you're safe. Okay? I'll be right here the whole time."

She looked up at me, brow wrinkling, hands tightening slightly on her purse strap.

I leaned in. "There's going to be a door that locks behind us. It's normal. Just part of the security."

Her eyes flicked to the steel door ahead, then to Carol—still hovering like a third wheel who'd only been invited out of necessity, because Cassie didn't show up. Again.

I turned. "You can wait outside."

Carol blinked. "Oh. Of course. I just thought—"

"You thought wrong," I said, flat. "We've got it."

She stepped back, smiling like it didn't bother her. Which meant it absolutely did.

I led Diana through. The door shut behind us with a mechanical click loud enough to make me jump. She flinched hard.

"Hey." I touched her elbow. "I know. It's jarring. But it's okay. You're okay. You're not in trouble. No one here's going to hurt you."

She nodded, once, but her eyes were still scanning the walls, the cameras, the heavy bolted door behind us.

I took her hand. "Last stop. He's just through there."

We stood in the middle of the room, quiet.

Then, the far door buzzed open, and a guard pulled it aside.

Spencer was standing there.

And the second his eyes landed on her.

"Mom?"

"Spencer." She whispered back.

I saw it in his eyes, relief, shock, maybe a second of disbelief. Then he looked at me. I readied myself for it, the anger, confusion, something. But it never came. Just this... quiet, weirdly grateful look. Like I'd done something right.

I could finally breathe again. Or at least fake it well enough to pass. Spencer took a seat across from his mom, and for a second, it felt almost normal.

Diana tilted her head, gentle and confused. "What is this place?"

Yeah... okay. Maybe I could've warned her. 'Hey, we're off to prison, dress casual.' But I figured if she saw Spencer, that would be all that mattered.

Spencer kept his voice soft. "It's okay, Mom. You're just here to visit me. I'm sure Quinn and Cassie told you—"

"Cassie?" she cut in, eyes narrowing. "I sent that girl packing. Rotten little thief. She was stealing from me."

And there it is.

Spencer looked over at me, a little wide-eyed. I gave the slightest shake of my head, not worth the energy.

"She's not a thief, Mom," he said carefully. "She takes really good care of you."

"She stole my underwear. And the good china. And I will not tolerate that behavior."

God, we were doing so well.

"She's not doing any of that," I said, jumping in before Spencer could start spiraling. "But Carol..." I winced. "...Carol's been looking after her. Mostly well."

Diana turned to me, eyes soft. "Not as well as you, Quinn. Such a sweetheart."

I swallowed whatever that did to me.

But then she glanced around, frowning. "We've got to get out of here. I saw a back staircase..."

I watched as Diana tugged at the door, starting to panic. Spencer reached out, stopping her before she could completely panic.

"You're not locked in," he told her. "You're not locked in. I am."

Her eyes went wide. "You? No. No—not you."

"It's a misunderstanding," he said gently. "And it's going to be okay."

And maybe it would be. Maybe this would help. Because even locked up, even exhausted, he was still holding it together for her.

A knock on the door made all of us jump. A guard leaned in. I recognized him as the one that had an issue with Spencer. "Miss Bennett? The Warden would like a word."

Of course he would.

I gave Diana a small smile. "I'll be back in a bit, alright? Carol's right outside if you need anything."

Then I looked at Spencer.

And he looked at me.

One of those long, unreadable looks that made my chest go stupid for a second. Like there was something he wanted to say, but didn't.

"Back in a minute."

I followed the guard without a word. He didn't bother explaining where we were going—didn't need to. It was the same walk I'd done three times this month, and somehow every time the hallway felt longer.

The Warden's door was open when we got there. He didn't look up.

I stepped inside. "This gonna be quick? Or should I start emotionally detaching now?"

He finally glanced at me. "Have a seat."

"I'd rather not."

He started flipping through a file like I wasn't even there. I waited, mostly to see which version of him showed up today: smug or spiteful.

He wasn’t looking at me like he wanted a fight. Which was new. And not better.

"Relax. I didn't call you up here to talk about protective custody."

"Believe it or not, I've accepted you're immovable. Like the DMV."

He sighed.

"This won't take long."

"Then don't drag it out."

He looked at me like he was trying to sugarcoat whatever was coming. It wasn't working.

I frowned. "So this isn't about Reid's housing?"

"No."

"Or his visitation log?"

"No."

"Or the complaints I filed against your guards last week."

Still no.

"I thought maybe," he started, trying way too hard to sound casual, "if you had time... we could get a drink sometime."

I stared at him. What? What the fuck?

It didn't register at first. Like someone had spoken in a completely different language, one I didn't want to learn.

"I'm sorry—what?"

"A drink," he repeated, like that was helping. "Outside of work."

"You brought me up here," I said slowly, "to ask me out?"

"I know it's unorthodox."

"Unorthodox," I repeated. "Sure. That's one word for it. There are others."

"I just think you're passionate. Smart. And—"

"Don't," I cut in. "Please don't finish that sentence. I promise, whatever's at the end of it won't help."

He cleared his throat. Looked back down at the folder like it might save him.

"If you change your mind—"

"I won't."

I turned to leave.

"And Warden?" I added, hand on the door. "Let's never speak of this again. Like... ever."

I let out a full-body groan as I made the walk back to Spencer, shaking it off, literally. Getting asked out had felt weird enough, but it wasn't just the timing. It was the fact that it didn't even register as a possibility. Like some part of me had already filed that whole category under "Not an Option"—and not because of him.

Because of Spencer.

It hadn't even been fifteen minutes. Maybe ten. But the second I turned the corner, I knew something was wrong.

Spencer was at the door, pounding on the glass, yelling—"Mom!"

I didn't even think. Just bolted toward the door.

"Hey!" I shouted, waving down the nearest guard. "I'm his lawyer—open the damn door!"

He hesitated for half a second too long, so I turned on him.

"Now."

That did it.

The lock buzzed. I shoved the door open, and Spencer was already there, hair disheveled, eyes wild.

"She's gone," he said before I could even get a word out. "Quinn, she's gone, Carol isn't Carol."

"What?" My stomach flipped. "What are you talking about?"

He was pacing, manic. "She said you were staying back. She said you needed a minute, and I believed her—I let her take my mother."

"Spencer—slow down," I said, even though I already knew that wasn't happening. "What do you mean she's not Carol? Who is she?"

He stopped cold. Looked right at me.

"Lindsey Vaughn."

I blinked. "Who the hell is Lindsey Vaughn?"

He looked like he might throw up. "Someone I thought I saved. Years ago. She was supposed to be in witness protection. She—she was just a kid. And now she's here, pretending to be Carol, and she took my mother."

I stared at him, every word landed like a hit I didn't see coming.

"She said I was staying back?"

He nodded. "Said you were tired. Said you told her to come get us. And I—I didn't even think, I just—she looked me in the eye and smiled, Quinn—like everything was fine. And then she said it."

"Said what?"

"'Time to go.'" His voice cracked. "Just like in Mexico."

Panic spiked in my ribs. He was coming apart — and if I cracked too, it was over.

I took a breath. "Okay. Okay."

He looked at me, desperate.

"I'll go to the BAU," I said carefully. "I'll sort this. It's going to be okay. I promise she'll be okay. I'll do everything I can to make sure that happens."

~*~

4 hours earlier

Emily's office door clicked shut behind me. I didn't bother sitting all the way down.

"She's not Carol. She's not a nurse. Spencer said her name is Lindsey Vaughn—and she took his mother."

They didn't even flinch. Just traded one of those calm, quiet glances like this was all part of the plan. I hated that look.

"I knew something was off about her," I went on. "Always smiling, always helpful, always showing up with the exact oat milk Diana likes. Like she was auditioning for nurse of the year while low-key planning a kidnapping."

Emily shifted forward slightly. "Lindsey Vaughn?"

"You know her?"

"She and another girl were abducted. Father had Irish Mob connections. We put them in witness protection."

"Well, guess who's out. And walking around with my name in her mouth."

Rossi folded his arms. "You've been pretty firm that Scratch isn't involved."

"Because he's not."

"But given Reid's state—"

"Oh, don't," I snapped. "Do not do that. You think he imagined someone walking in, saying I told her to come, and then just, what? Disappearing with his mother like a magic trick?"

Emily didn't say anything. Which was worse than saying the wrong thing.

"And Cassie," I added. "She's gone too."

Rossi looked up. "Gone how?"

"I haven't heard from her in weeks. No calls. No texts. And before you ask, yeah—I've tried. Repeatedly."

Emily nodded slowly. "I'll send JJ and Stephen over to check her apartment.... Spencer's been through a lot Quinn, are you sure he recognized Lindsey correctly?"

I breathed out through my nose. "Spencer wasn't confused. He wasn't melting down. He looked her in the eye and knew."

My phone buzzed.

I glanced down. Hotch and Derek. Case files. Old photos. It was all there.

At the top: You're not crazy. She is who he says she is.

I turned the screen around. "Unless this chick has a twin, that's Carol."

Emily leaned in. Rossi didn't move.

"That's who walked out with Diana," I said.

Emily's voice dropped. "That's Lindsey Vaughn."

"Yep. Also known as fake nurse Carol Atkinson."

Rossi sighed. "Why him? Why now?"

Emily looked at me. "How does this tie to Mexico?"

I blinked. "I don't know. That's not my lane."

"Quinn—"

"No," I said. "You wanted confirmation? There it is. Lindsey Vaughn's real. She took his mother. I'm not here to draw a mind map. You're the profilers. So go profile."

Emily stood. "We will."

"Great," I said. "Because I'm not going back in there and telling him we lost her."

She paused, then added, quieter, "Given where he's at mentally... I don't think Reid's going to make it to trial."

I froze. That wasn't something you just said unless you meant it.

"What?"

She met my eyes. "He's unraveling. If this keeps going—"

"He's not unraveling," I cut in. "He's pissed off. He's scared. He's not broken."

No one argued.

I shook my head. "Whatever. Doesn't matter. We found our actual murderer. So let's track her down."

I turned to leave. Muttering under my breath, "Fucking Carol."

~*~

The key stuck. Again.

Because of course it did.

I had a coffee in one hand, my phone wedged between two fingers, and if one more thing jammed, the bag was going airborne.

Where are we on Lindsey.
Send.
Can we place her in Mexico yet.
Send.
If anyone tells me to be patient I will loose it.
Send.

I shouldered the door open harder than necessary and stepped inside, elbowing it shut behind me.

"Garfield?" I called, not even looking up. "You've got five seconds to come out here and act like you missed me, or I'm giving your toys to a cat who deserves them."

Nothing.

Weird. Not immediately alarming, just... off. He usually sprinted to the door like I was smuggling tuna in my boot.

I headed to the kitchen, dropped my keys too hard on the counter.

Popped the lid. Let it sit.

Still no Garfield.

I wandered toward the living room. "Alright, look. I know I've been busy. But I need snuggles. Don't do this to me."

No meow. No thump of paws hitting the ground. No dramatic entrance like he'd been emotionally betrayed.

I checked behind the couch. Under the chair. In the closet.

Nothing.

That was when the silence stopped feeling normal.

I turned toward the hallway. My bedroom door was open.

Which was strange. I remembered closing it. I always closed it—mostly so Garfield could knock it open and feel powerful.

I took a step closer. My phone was still in my hand, but I wasn't looking at it anymore.

Then I smelled it.

Perfume.

Not mine.

It wasn't strong. Just enough to raise every hair on my neck. Something sweet that didn't belong.

And I hated that I noticed.

I walked to the doorway.

I didn't know what I was expecting.

But it wasn't her.

I flinched. Shoulder locked. I rolled it like that would change what I was seeing.

She was standing near the window. Calm. Still. Like she'd been waiting.

I stared at her.

Then I said the only thing I could:

"What the fuck did you do with my cat."

She didn't answer.

I stepped in further, slower this time. "I'm serious. Where is he."

"He ran off when I came in," she said eventually. Like this was normal..

I exhaled through my nose. “So this is the plan? Steal his mom and shoot his lawyer? That’s the big masterstroke?”

She didn't react. Just watched me. Calm. Too calm.

I scanned the rest of the room. No Garfield. No Diana.

And she was standing between me and the door.

My whole body went cold.

"Where is Diana?" I asked. "What did you do with her?"

Her mouth twitched. Just slightly. Then, "She's fine."

I didn't believe her.

She pulled the gun out like she'd been holding it all along.

"You're coming with me," she said.

"To what?" I asked. "What is this, hostage improv? You didn't even bring a plan."

She didn't move.

"You realize how dumb this is, right?" I said. "Two hostages. One of you. This isn't a strategy, it's a meltdown."

Still nothing.

Her stance didn't change. Her grip didn't shift.

I looked down at the can still in my hand.

And then I did the only thing I could think of.

I threw it at her.

Fast. Hard. Aimed somewhere between her shoulder and her face.

She flinched back—

—and fired.

The bullet ripped through my shoulder. Fast, hot, stupid.
I hit the ground before I knew I’d fallen.

I landed hard, half-twisted, shoulder screaming. My ears were ringing.

She stepped forward. Calm. Not even breathing hard.

"I don't think you'll put up much of a fight now," she said.

I laughed. Or tried to. It came out choked and ugly.

"If he's dead," I muttered, "I swear to God-."

Then everything slipped sideways.

So yeah... welcome to the moment I fucked up...

Chapter 19: Green Light

Notes:

This chapter broke me.
Not in a poetic way. Just in a “writing Spencer Reid’s POV is an extreme sport I did not train for” kind of way.
Hope you all like it…

Promise to Appear (n.) — A signed agreement stating that a person will return to court on a scheduled date.

She promised.
Not in writing. Not under oath.
Just to me.

📚Spencer📚

The toothbrush wasn't sharp enough.
Not yet.

I dragged it across the bed frame again, slow, steady pressure, watching the plastic wear down into something vaguely pointed. The rhythm helped. Kept my hands busy. Kept my thoughts from going somewhere worse.

I could still hear her voice. “Do whatever you have to. Just stay alive. I'll put you back together when it's over."

So that's what I was doing. Doing whatever I had to.

They knew I was a Fed. They knew I poisoned them. Shaw wanted me dead. If I got cornered, I had to be ready.

I didn't want to hurt anyone.
But what I wanted didn't matter in here. Not anymore.

The door clanked open. That familiar, metallic echo I'd come to hate.

"Reid. You've got a visitor."

I thought of Quinn. Immediately.

I stood, tucked the toothbrush up my sleeve.

The hallway felt longer than usual. My mind was already sprinting ahead—things I needed to ask her, things I needed to hear. Was my mother safe? Did you find Lindsey? How close were we to getting me out of here?

But—

She wasn't there.

It took me half a second to process who sat in the chair. Not Quinn. Emily.

I stopped walking.

She looked calm, completely composed. That meant nothing. Emily could deliver a death sentence with that expression.

I sat down across from her, slower now. Trying to understand what this meant.

She didn't say hello.

She just looked at me and said, "I'm so sorry, Spencer. We will find her, I promise, we will find her."

My mother.

Quinn must've told them everything. So where the hell was she?
Talking to a judge? Filing paperwork? Burning down a police department?

I didn't say anything. I couldn't. I was too busy trying to make sense of it—what it meant that someone I'd tried to save nearly ten years ago now wanted to hurt me.

Emily went on. "Ballistics came back on the gun that was used on Cassie. It's the exact weapon Jack Vaughn used when he was a mob enforcer in Boston."

Cassie.

I hadn't even realized she was involved. I should've known something was wrong. Quinn mentioned she'd stopped showing up, bailed on shifts without warning. I thought it was stress, or burnout—something explainable... Not this.

"Lindsey must have taken it from her father. Maybe she wanted his reputation, or maybe she wanted him to know what she was doing."

I didn't interrupt. Just stared past her. Trying to keep my breathing even. Trying not to shake.

"The reasons are unimportant," she said. "What's important is, you were right. And I should've believed you. You and Quinn. From the start. And I didn't."

"It's because she's a daddy's girl." I thought back to that case—how she begged him to kill the boy who took her. "The gun is an odd touch of sentimentality for an otherwise logistical killer. She took the gun because she's a daddy's girl. Because they were inseparable."

"Yes, we can use that. We're already trying to track him down in WITSEC," Emily said.

That made sense. Quinn was probably working it from that angle—cutting through whatever delays WITSEC was throwing up. That's why Emily was here. Not her.

"You need to find him. He's the key."

"We know."

"And hurry. Find my mom. Promise me you'll find my mom."

Her mouth twitched. Just for a second. Most people wouldn't have noticed, but I did.

I thought about asking what it was. But I didn't. There was probably a lot of things Emily hadn't told me.

"Yes, I promise. I know you're scared. Try to isolate yourself—"

I stood before she could finish. Walked to the door. Knocked once for the guard.

I couldn't stay in that room. Not like this. Not with her watching me like she was profiling it. Like she'd go back and report it.

Quinn didn't need that image. She needed to focus.
So I kept my back to Emily. Waited for the door to open. And didn't say a word.

I went back to my cell and kept working the toothbrush against the frame, over and over, until my hands ached and the edge started to bite skin.

She had promised to put me back together... I was holding her to it.

~*~
It's poker, not chess.

No real rules. No guaranteed outcomes. Just luck, nerve, and the ability to lie with your face.

I keep mine blank.

Hands stay under the table. Wrapped tight around the toothbrush handle I finished shaving down last night.

Shaw's across the room, pretending not to watch me. He's not very good at pretending. I noticed everyone in his group eyeing me.

I tighten my grip.

Then don't be honest, Quinn told me.

She didn't mean it as a suggestion. It was a command. Like she already knew what it would take—and hated saying it out loud.

And yeah, I hated hearing it. But I got it. I still do.

This place isn't built for ideals. It's built to break them.

Across the room, Shaw shifts in his seat. His eyes never leave me.

The deal was: he protects me. Another thing Quinn forced through, using that voice she saves for when she's tired of hearing no.

He didn't like that I pushed back. That I said no to moving the product.

He laughed—like he'd seen this movie before and already knew the ending.

But he doesn't know me. He doesn't know Quinn.

She needs me alive. That's the whole point.

So I kept my eyes steady. Kept my hand wrapped around the shiv.

I waited. Watched as Shaw crossed the room—slow, deliberate. He wanted an audience.

"You're going to need to grow eyes in the back of your head," he said, sitting down across from me.

I tightened my grip.

"Because you'll never see it coming."

I swallowed once. Leaned forward, just enough to make it look like fear. "I have a better idea."

He raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

I moved.

Fast enough to throw him off balance, slow enough to make it look messy. I grabbed his wrist, twisted, drove the shiv into my own arm—and made sure it was his hand wrapped around it when it landed.

It hurt. Of course it did. But that wasn't the point.
The point was blood. Enough of it. In the right place.
Enough to make it look real.

"I didn't do this!" Shaw shouted. "Look—look, I didn't—!"

But I was already going down.

And in the blur of motion, alarms, shouting, bodies closing in, I could almost see Quinn, arms crossed, shaking her head at me.

Not surprised....Maybe a little impressed.

"Seriously?" she said, not real, not there but then, when had my mind ever really been normal. "That was your plan?"

I didn't answer. Just let the corner of my mouth pull up. No one else would get it. But she would.

Solitary.

Exactly where I needed to be.

They treated the wound quickly.

There were no questions, no accusations. Shaw did the screaming for both of us, and the footage backed him into a corner he couldn't explain.

I refused the painkillers.

The nurse frowned but didn't push. She wrapped the bandage too tight and told me to keep it clean.
Right, because infections my biggest problem right now.

My arm throbbed with every breath. The pain was pulsing with every move.

The guards didn't speak as they walked me down the corridor. One ahead. One behind.

The door opened.

I stepped into the cell without hesitation.

Everything about it was stripped down, bare walls, cold air, and a silence that made me almost cry in relief.

The door slammed shut behind me.

And I exhaled.

For the first time in days, I let my shoulders drop. Let the pain settle, let myself just relax. I sat on the narrow bench, leaned back against the wall, and stretched my legs out in front of me. Closed my eyes.

And then I brought her with me.

Quinn.

Because imagining her was better than sitting with my thoughts.

I pictured her standing just inside the cell, arms crossed, weight on one hip, that look on her face like I was the most infuriating person she'd ever loved.

"Was that necessary?" she asked, arms crossed, eyebrow already halfway to her hairline.

"I couldn't take another day out there."

"You stabbed yourself, Spencer."

"Semantics, the arm was collateral damage."

She rolled her eyes. "You're the most exhausting genius I've ever loved."

I let my head tip back against the wall.

"You're not real," I muttered. "It doesn't count when you haven't actually said it."

"Yeah, well. You hallucinate like a pro." She stepped closer. "You know you're bleeding through that, right?"

"I know."

She didn't move. Just watched me. That Quinn-specific
look I knew too well—equal parts fury and love, like she wanted to scream at me and stitch me up at the same time.

"I should be here."

I opened my eyes. The ceiling blurred, then cleared.

"You're busy." I told her. "You're helping. You're finding my mom. You're getting me out of here."

She didn't answer, but that didn't stop me from continuing to picture her.

"I know you are."

And maybe I was saying it to her. Maybe I was saying it to myself but it helped distract me from the pain, and made time go faster.

~*~
The cuffs go on.

Familiar tight grip. Metal cold against bruised skin, already sore from last time.

But something's off.

No instructions. No "you've got a visitor," no "step to the left."

Just, "Stand up." And "Turn around."

I do. Automatically. Because what's the point in arguing?

But Shaw's letter hasn't left my mind since the moment I read it. Even after I scrunched it up and threw it away.

'You won't see it coming. I own this place. I can get you, anywhere. Anytime.'

What he wrote was real...and right.

He has control. Time. Eyes everywhere. A long reach and no rules. And I have, what? A toothbrush. Paranoia. The hope Quinn's still out there working to get me out.

But in here? I've got nothing.

They walked me down the corridor. I knew every turn—the flickering light overhead, that one door that never quite shut right. Today, it was too empty. No voices, no stray words; just the steady thump of boots.

Something was off.

This didn't feel like a visit... or being moved back to my cell...

We stop at a visitor room. The guard on my right typed in a code like he's done it a thousand times.

The door opened.

Empty room. No table. No chair. No glass. No cameras. No one.

I don't need someone to explain it to me.

This was it.

They shove me inside and un-cuff me.

Wilkins doesn't look at me, just steps back out and closes the door.

And now I'm alone.

I don't move. Don't even breathe. This is what Shaw promised. And I walked straight into it.

Didn't see it coming. Exactly like he said.

This is the part where something happens to me, and no one asks questions.

Sweaty palms. Blurry vision. Adrenaline eating holes in my chest. I didn't know what to do with it.

So I start counting, tiles on the floor, cracks in the wall, breaths in and out, but nothing slows down.

Someone's coming. And I'm not sure I'm getting out of here alive this time.

The door opened.

And for a second, I thought—I thought it was her.

But it wasn't.

It was JJ.

She looked relieved. Excited, a grin starting to form on her face and she said something I didn't believe was possible. "We're taking you home."

We.

I blinked, looked past her.

And...Waited.

Quinn would come around the corner any second. Maybe she was talking to a guard. Maybe she was arguing with the warden. This wasn't the kind of thing she'd miss.

Quinn would be here...

But she didn't appear.

JJ's smile had flickered. She followed my gaze and gave a small shake of her head. "She's not coming."

My brain flatlined. That wasn't right.

"She was supposed to be here." I heard myself say it before I could stop.

JJ sighed, her mouth opened and closed, trying to figure out what to say.

"She told me she would be. Every time." I shook my head. "She promised."

She didn't respond.

My chest tightened. My hands went cold.

"Where is she?"

Silence.

I took a step forward. "JJ—where the hell is she?"

She winced at the edge in my voice. "Spence—"

"No. Don't 'Spence' me. Just say it."

"She's missing....With your mom. We think Lindsey—"

"-She what?"

"Took them both."

I blinked. Like it would somehow rearrange the words, or change the order, or make it less insane.

Gone....Quinn and my mother. Both...missing...

"When?"

"When she didn't show up to the BAU. We went to her apartment, and..."JJ swallowed hard. "There was blood. Signs of a struggle...."

I stared at her. "When?"

"We were going to tell you—"

"When?" My voice cracked but I didn't care.

"Two days..."

Two. Days. Two fucking days. "You should've told me the second you knew."

Her eyes started to shine. "We didn't know how to tell you. We thought—I thought you needed something good first. I thought she'd be here too."

I took a step back. Then forward again. Couldn't stop moving. Couldn't stop thinking.

"She said we'd try," I managed. "That we wouldn't wait anymore. That this... that this was the start."

The words came too fast, I couldn't stop. The second I did, I'd have to feel it.

"She was supposed to be the one standing here. Not—"

I choked on it.

"She's been taken and it's my fault... because Lindsey knew how important she was to me..."

JJ nodded. Once. Twice. Slower.

"We're going to find them."

She stepped toward me and opened her arms. I didn't stop her. But it wasn't right.

JJ wasn't who I needed in this moment.

But I let her hold me anyway.

Because Quinn wasn't here. And everything about this felt wrong.

~*~
The bullpen looked the same. Phones ringing. Agents filtering in and out. Files stacked. My desk still covered in books and medical magazines like nothing had changed.

But I froze.

Because there were two very different things that weren't the same.

Hotch. And Derek.

They looked up at the same time. Morgan's mouth dropped open just slightly before he smiled.

"Reid," he said, already walking toward me.

He didn't wait. Just pulled me into a hug. I hesitated. Then gripped the back of his shirt and held on.

"Took you long enough, kid." His voice was steady, familiar, but it didn't make me feel steady. Not even close.

"I—what are you guys doing here?"

He stepped back but kept a hand on my arm.

Hotch came next. No hug. Just a hand on my shoulder.

"When Quinn Bennett requests your help, you don't question it. I'm glad you're safe."

I stared at both of them.

They were here because of her. Even gone, she still made things happen.

JJ touched my arm. "Come on. We've got a briefing set up."

The conference room was full. Files, maps, case photos. My case file. Closed.

I just took in the room. Feeling almost like I was in a dream... I mean it was all surreal, Hotch, Derek, and I was free....

Emily gestured to the stack in front of her. "We were able to tie Lindsey to everything in Mexico. The partial prints from Nadia's crime scene matched her WITSEC records. That gave us the forensic link we needed."

She flipped a page.

"Once we had that, and Quinn's filings—the timeline, appeal motions, all of it—I just had to get it in front of the right judge."

She slid a document toward me.

I looked down. Court language. My name. The order for my release.

At the bottom: Signed, Judge V. Bennett

My eyes snagged on the name. Curiosity got the better of me as I noticed the surname... I'd have to come back to it later though. When I got her back. When she was safe.

Hotch looked over the case file, then at me.

"Quinn put the pieces together. We just made sure it didn't go to waste."

JJ nodded toward the paperwork, "That's all her."

I didn't say anything. Her handwriting  stared up at me like it missed me too.

Luke cleared his throat, then pointed to the board. "So—we know Lindsey convinced Scratch to run drugs across the border—"

"And that she's been operating out of two locations," Rossi said. "An apartment next to yours, and a house in Southeast D.C."

"That house is our best lead," Stephen added. "We think that's where she's keeping your mom and Quinn."

"Scratch doesn't do anything simple," Emily said. "I want a full breakdown of that house before we set one foot inside."

She looked at me. "Spencer, you can't officially go until you're reinstated."

"But Quinn—"

"We'll get her. I promise."

I stayed silent. Just nodded, because I was afraid if I opened my mouth, I'd say something like it's my fault she's not here...

Emily walked off.

JJ and Hotch were at my side again. Morgan was still leaning in the doorway. Watching the board. Watching me.

"If this is Scratch," he said, "you know I'm not leaving until it's done."

Hotch nodded, "Neither am I."

That should've made me feel better. It didn't. Because I couldn't stop thinking, what if she's already gone?

We moved toward the door at the front of the room. Deciding my apartment was the best next step.

But...I stopped.

My body froze. Reflexive. Like muscle memory from a place I never wanted to remember. I waited for the buzz. The click. That mechanical acknowledgment that I was allowed to move.

I stared at the door, not moving.

It took JJ a second to notice.

"You okay?" she asked.

No.

I shook my head. Just looked at the handle.

"It's open, Reid," Hotch said behind me.

I nodded once. "Of course." And reached for it myself.

~*~

Metro P.D. was already stationed at the door when we arrived.

JJ stepped forward, flipped her badge. "He's the resident. Just grabbing some things."

The officer looked at me, then back at her, nodded, and stepped aside.

Hotch didn't say anything. Just stayed back, watching.

The apartment door opened with a quiet creak.

It was home. Technically. Same smell. Same books, same furniture.

But it didn't feel exactly like mine.

Not anymore. I saw signs of her everywhere.

Her mug—Harvard Law, chipped on the handle—sat on the counter, half a ring of dried coffee inside.

Her jumper was draped over the back of my desk chair.

A textbook lay open on the coffee table. Federal Evidence. Dog-eared. Pen stuck between chapters like a flag.

The normalness of it made me want to scream.

Then I saw the scrapbook.

It was open. Not unusual. But the page was wrong.

The photo stood out. My face, cut and pasted on a cartoon tightrope walker—arms out, one leg raised, balancing over a circus tent.

Not where it was supposed to be. The paper wasn't bent. Just... shifted. Moved deliberately. I flipped back through a few pages.

JJ came to stand beside me. "What is it?"

"This picture was on a different page."

I turned it over. Red ink on the back. XX–XY.

Hotch stepped closer. "Does that mean something to you?"

I frowned. "Aside from the obvious, Male and female chromosomes."

"Lindsey's way of telling us she's with Scratch?" Hotch offered.

"Or..." I hesitated. "Quinn and me." Because that's the game now.

~*~

The walls were clean. Newer than Millburn. Less rust. Better lighting. But it still smelled like bleach and steel and sweat.

Still a prison.

The guard buzzed us through the first gate.

I kept walking.

One foot, then the next. Don't think about it.

My hands were steady. Clenched and the nails digging into my palm, but they weren't shaking.

Apart of me always knew it wasn't Scratch. Quinn had said it from the beginning.

"This feels personal," she told me. "Not calculated. Not like him."

She was right.

My case had nothing to do with psychological warfare or memory tricks or gaslighting.

It reeked of revenge.

Messy. Angry. Obsessive.

Cat Adams.

The woman I put away. The woman who tried to dismantle me piece by piece and nearly won.

Now she had my mother. An Quinn.

And I was back in a facility, walking toward a door I swore I'd never sit behind again.

The final hallway buzzed open. The sound sent my blood pressure skyrocketing.

JJ walked beside me. A small nod when our eyes met. "We'll be right here. The whole time."

Hotch didn't say anything, but he was there.

He didn't have to be.

That mattered more than I could say.

I rounded the corner.

She was already sitting.

Waiting.

Cat looked up—and smiled like it had only been a week since we saw each other.

"Spencie." She said it like it was still funny. Like she still thought she was winning.

I didn't sit.

I didn't blink.

I thought about Quinn. Her voice. Her promise. The fact that this woman is why she's not standing beside me. And if Quinn's hurt—if she's gone—then I stop pretending to be the version of me that plays by the rules

"You wanted me? Here I am. Now tell me where Quinn is."

Chapter 20: Proof of Life

Point of No Return (n.) — An irreversible moment in a legal case, negotiation, or... armed hostage situation.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

The trunk opens, and the sun slams into my face like it's trying to blind me on purpose.

I hiss. Like a vampire mid-nap.

"Oh, great. Cool. Burn my retinas, why don't you," I said, blinking furiously.

Fresh air rushes in, and I gulp it down like I've been drowning. Which, yeah I've been suffocating in the back of a car for god knows how long.

I tried to sit up, but my body literally just went 'nope'. My shoulder was on fire. My back was bent in a way that felt medically inadvisable. My wrists were zip-tied and useless. I was a human pretzel.

And there she was. Lindsey. Standing like this was some spontaneous road trip and not a goddamn felony.

"You're awake," she said.

I squinted up at her. "Sharp. That going on your fake nursing résumé?"

She didn't laugh. Fine. I wasn't trying to be funny—I was trying to piss her off.

She grabbed under my arms to haul me out, and yep. That was the shoulder. The one she shot, thank you very much.

I bit down on a scream. It came out anyway, ragged and half-choked, as she dropped me straight into the dirt like I wasn't actively leaking from my arm.

"Fuck," I breathed. "Fuck. Fuck. Fuck you."

She ignored me. Such a bitch.

Everything spun—blinding light, hot air, dirt crunching under me. I tried to see if we were still in D.C. when she decided to go full delusion.

"We need to have a conversation."

I laughed. There was no way she was being serious.

"Oh, sweetie. No, we don't. You gave up the right to conversations the second you shot me, you unhinged psychopath."

Something flickered in her face. Uncertainty. Like she didn't know what to do when I wasn't crying or begging or calling her "Mommy."

Good.

You kidnapped the wrong woman.

"Fine, I guess I can go have a chat with Di—"

I cut her off. "Where is she?"

Lindsey rolled her eyes and jerked her chin toward the front seat, lifting her gun for emphasis. "Sitting comfortably in the passenger seat."

Thank god. If Diana was safe and breathing, I'd happily take the trunk. Hell, I'd gift-wrap myself back in it.

"But that can change if you don't do as I say," she added—like she was reading off the back of a 'How To Kidnap' pamphlet.

I didn't sigh, but it was close. Christ. She really was a walking cliche.

Lindsey lingered there, just staring at me.

And for a second, I thought, oh boy. This is it. This is when she kills me and dumps my body in a ditch like some shitty thrillers you watch at 2 a.m. because the remote is gone.

She didn't raise the gun.

Instead, she crouched down and grabbed my arm again.

"Jesus—what now?"

She yanked my sleeve up and pressed her fingers into the bandage. I hissed through my teeth.

"Still bleeding," she muttered. "But it's not infected."

"Oh, good. I'm not gonna die from a bullet wound infection. I can totally relax now."

She let go, wiped her hand on her jeans like I was something she scraped off her shoe. "Keep being sarcastic—it's going to get you killed."

"Oooh, the scary fake nurse is threatening my life again. I'll be so good now."

She glared, but I could tell she was distracted. Antsy about something. Fidgety in a way she wasn't before.

Now might be the only chance I had to get something out of her. I hated myself for it before the words even came out, but I asked anyway. "Why are you doing this?"

She didn't answer.

"I mean—ten years is a long time to hold a grudge," I added. "Even for you. So what is this really? Revenge? Jealousy? Boredom?"

She didn't move just hesitated, almost like she was trying to figure out how much to tell me.

Then she asked, casual as anything, "Do you love him?"

My stomach did this horrible little twist. "What?"

"Reid. Do you love him?"

I let out a laugh, you know the one, it's awkward as hell. "You already know I do."

"Then say it."

"Why?"

"Because once you say it, you can't take it back."

I blinked. "Why would I want to take it back?"

She didn't answer. Just looked at me. Waiting.

"You've seen what I've done for him," I muttered. "You seriously need me to say it out loud?"

"Yeah," she said. "I do."

"That's not going to change anything."

She lifted the gun slightly. Not aiming it at me, it wasn't even threatening. Just a reminder that she had it.

"Say it."

I gritted my teeth. "Fine. Yes. I love him."

She didn't even gloat. Just stood there, looking... sad. Like I'd punched her in the throat instead of said three stupid words.

"Then maybe you get it, because there's nothing you wouldn't do for him."

And that's when it clicked. This wasn't about proving a point. Or settling a score.

Lindsey wasn't doing this for herself.

She was doing it for someone else.

I just didn't know who.

Yet.

Lindsey's eyes flicked down to her phone. Whatever she saw made her frown.

Then she looked at me. "Get back in the trunk."

"No."

Her expression didn't change.

I shook my head, "Sure, let me just crawl back into the oven and baste in my own blood. Sounds like a dream."

"Bennett."

"I'm serious," I said, shifting stiffly. "I already lost feeling in my left leg once today. Pretty sure I'm entitled to at least one upright moment before I get stuffed back into your mobile coffin."

She stared me down, waiting for me to back off. I didn't.

"Can I see Diana first?"

Lindsey raised a brow. "No. Get in the trunk."

I raised my hands, "Let's make a deal. I'll willingly suffocate without complaint if you let me talk to her."

She hesitated, then finally said, "Two minutes."

"That's not long enough."

"It's not a negotiation."

Of course it wasn't.

But I nodded anyway, forcing myself to walk calmly behind her, even though every instinct in me wanted to run.

Lindsey circled around to the front and opened the passenger door.

A second later, Diana twisted in her seat, eyes scanning behind her until she found me, and lit up.

"Quinn! Oh, sweetheart, you're here!"

I nearly lost it right there.

"Hey," I said, dragging myself toward the open door, leaning against the frame like I wasn't seconds from collapsing. "Of course I'm here."

She reached for me instinctively, and her hand hovered just shy of my shoulder before her gaze dropped, landing on the dark, spreading stain on my shirt.

Her smile faltered. "You're—oh no. Oh no, you're hurt."

"It looks worse than it is," I lied, because that's what you say to, hopefully your future mother in law... if I didn't die first.

Diana's hands fluttered, unsure where to land. "Did someone—did someone do this to you?"

"No. Yes. It doesn't matter," I said quickly. "I'm okay. I'm going to be okay. How are you?"

She glanced behind her, like someone might be listening. Or watching. "You should tell Carol. She's taking care of us, but—if something happened, she should know."

I nodded, throat tight. "I will. I'll talk to her."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

She exhaled, visibly relieved. "She's a very good friend, you know. Always looking out for us. You'll see."

I glanced past her—Lindsey, or "Carol," posted up by the front of the car, gaze still focused on her phone.

"I'll be back soon," I told Diana, brushing her hand. "Try to rest, okay?"

She gave me a little nod, still frowning at the blood. "Just...be careful."

"I always am."

Biggest lie I'd told all day.

~*~

Fuck this.

Seriously. Fuck all of it.

My shoulder's screaming, my leg's dead weight, and I'm folded into some IKEA-nightmare version of a human shape. Pretty sure my spine just quit mid-shift.

I try to shift. Something stabs into my kidney and I immediately regret it. Cool. Love internal damage.
There's something wet on my cheek—probably blood, possibly brain fluid, maybe just sweat. Honestly, it's a mystery.

I am not dying in the trunk of a stolen car. Not after everything, not like this.

Get it together, Quinn. Think. Breathe.

...Nope. Still can't.

Okay. Fine. Panic a little.

You went home alone. Idiot. You didn't tell anyone. Stupid. I mean seriously I was practically asking to get kidnapped.

And now Lindsey has me zip-tied in the back of a moving car and I don't even know where we're going. Or if we're stopping. Or if anyone even realizes I'm not answering my phone.

And Spencer's still in that cell, probably thinking I've got everything under control.

I told him I'd fix this.

I promised.

And now he probably thinks I ghosted. Got bored. Got scared. Changed my mind.

He won't even know I'm gone unless someone tells him. And no one's going to—not now. Not with Diana missing and Cassie MIA.

Jesus.

He's in there alone.

And I'm out here... what? Passing the time bleeding into someone's trunk carpet?

Yeah, no. Absolutely not.

This is not how I go out. This is not my final scene. I've watched enough bad action movies to know the taillight trick never works and I am not about to try yoga just to fail at it in a confined space.

I don't know how long it's been but it's dark now.

Which means we've been driving for hours. Love a long-haul hostage situation. No stops. No bathroom breaks. No engine-off moments where I could scream for help or kick the backseat or do literally anything except stew in my own panic.

I'd kill for a drink of water. Or a painkiller. Or a goddamn toilet.

I'm about to try the taillight trick just for something to do, when the car starts to slow.

Not much. Just enough to notice. Tires crunched over gravel, and a flicker of light cut through the seam in the trunk—cold, fluorescent, definitely not the sun.

Then I heard it.

That shrill, half-dead beep of a gas pump.

Holy shit.

We'd stopped.

Voices drifted through the still-running engine—muffled, distant. A door chimed. The buzz of a vending machine kicked on. Someone cleared their throat. Maybe country music, maybe a dying speaker.

A gas station.

There were people. Out there.

I pressed my head back against the trunk and forced a breath through my teeth.

This might be my only shot.

Do I do something?

If I stayed quiet, maybe I bought myself time. Maybe Lindsey drove off, and I got another hour to think of something smart. Or maybe I ended up in a ditch.

But if I screamed—if someone heard—maybe this ended now.

Or maybe she'd hurt Diana?

I clenched my jaw. Heart hammering. Muscles screaming.

No.

No way.

I was not dying in the trunk of a stolen car. I was not losing Spencer to this—to prison, to her, to anything—not before I got the chance to tell him how much I fucking loved him.

I shifted and slammed my heel into the wall.

Once. Twice. It was weak. Pathetic. Just like me.

"Hey!" I shouted. My voice cracked. I swallowed, tried again. "I'm in the trunk! Help!"

Footsteps. A door creaked.

Nothing.

I kicked harder, threw my whole weight into it. "I'm in the trunk! Please, help me!"

Another sound. A voice. Raised.

And then... a gunshot. I froze.

Then came the crunch of gravel. Footsteps. Closer.

The trunk popped open.

I flinched. Light poured in, harsh and dizzying. I blinked up at her.

Lindsey....Smiling.

Wearing a blonde wig, and yes I get I was in a life or death situation but there was no way I was letting this wig not get a comment.

"Oh my God, what is that. Did you scalp a Barbie?"

She glared at me, "That was stupid. I told you not to do something dumb."

"Oh, right," I said, blinking at her under the glare of the overhead lights. "Because getting kidnapped, shot, and stuffed in a trunk is the height of intellectual achievement."

She sighed. Actually sighed. Like I was being difficult on purpose.

"Don't flatter yourself," she said. "Nobody heard you."

"No," I said, voice tight, "but something happened... someone recognized you... maybe they BAU sent out a APB..."

That made her smile disappear.

"Because you don't shoot people who don't see anything," I added, pushing up on my elbow.

Her jaw clenched.

"Guy was probably just trying to buy some gas," I said. "Now he's dead because you can't handle someone spotting you. Honestly, I'm starting to think you're not cut out for the whole kidnapping profession."

Lindsey stepped forward.

I didn't stop.

"You gonna shoot me too?" I asked. "Because I don't think you will, whoever you're doing this for clearly doesn't want you to kill me-."

The back of the gun slammed into the side of my head.

White-hot pain exploded behind my eye. I collapsed back into the trunk with a choked gasp.

Everything spun.

Distantly, I felt her grab my arm and haul me out like a sack of laundry. My feet hit gravel, knees buckled, balance gone.

She shoved me forward.

"Walk," she said.

I staggered, head pounding, ears ringing. My left leg barely worked. Pain screamed down my arm, my mouth always seemed to get me in trouble. I blame the no filter.

We reached a truck.

Big. Red. Running already. Different plates.

A clean switch.

She opened the door and shoved me toward it.

And that's when I saw him.

The guy.

Early twenties, maybe. Striped shirt. Wallet still half-hanging out of his pocket.

Lying in the gravel. Eyes wide. Chest not moving.

I stopped breathing. He was just... dead.

Because of me. Because I screamed.

Lindsey shoved me again.

"Get in."

I couldn't move. Couldn't speak. My brain was still rattling from the hit, but the guilt was louder.

He's dead.

He's dead because you yelled.

You made noise. You tried to fight. And someone else paid for it.

"Quinn," Lindsey snapped.

I climbed in.

Because what the hell else was I supposed to do?

I'm totally disassociating until I see Lindsey pouring gasoline on the car.

I blinked once. Then again. Blinking, trying to clear the haze from my eyes.

Same sloshing sound. Same gas can tilted in her hands. Same calm, practiced sweep of her arm as she doused the back seat like she was prepping a grill and not, you know, eliminating evidence of a federal felony.

The car she was torching?

Yeah. The one I'd just been in.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered.

Diana stirred beside me. "Did you say something, dear?"

I glanced at her.

She was sitting next to me in the new vehicle—the truck. Seatbelt on.

Her expression was serene. Calm. Like none of this registered as out of the ordinary. Of course it didn't. Not for her. Not with the way she'd been manipulated.

My head throbbed so hard I saw stars. I pressed my wrist, still zip-tied, to my temple and tried not to throw up.

Outside, Lindsey circled to the front of the car, still drenching it.

And I thought: now might be a good time to bail.

She was distracted. Focused. The keys were probably in her pocket, but the woods were right there—dark, dense, maybe thick enough to disappear into if I could just get the door open.

If I could just move.

But I couldn't. My head was a jackhammer. And if I stood up too fast, I'd probably just fall on my face and puke in the dirt for good measure.

Diana reached over and gently patted my arm. "You're shaking."

"Yeah," I said, voice thin. "Little bit."

She offered a sympathetic smile. "Carol said you weren't feeling well."

I didn't respond.

Because what the hell do you say to that? That "Carol" pistol-whipped me and murdered someone ten minutes ago?

That we were sitting here while she prepped the crime scene for a nice little bonfire?

I watched as she walked toward us—slow, unbothered. Like this was just a routine check-in. Nothing to see here, folks. Just arson and hostage-taking and maybe a touch of murder.

My heart kicked up so fast I thought it might explode. My pulse thudded in my ears, sharp and panicked.

She reached the driver's side, yanked the door open, and leaned down.

I stiffened.

"Relax," Lindsey said, like she was giving directions to a stray cat. "It's just a phone call."

She held out her phone toward me. Screen lit. Call in progress.

"Proof of life," she said smoothly. "Guess who's on the other end."

My blood turned to ice. My breath caught.

And then I said it. "Sp–Spencer?"

"Quinn."

Oh.

Okay.

Yeah, that was my heart. Just shattering clean in two.

It's him....It's really him.

"Are you and my mother okay?" he asked—steady, but rushed, like he's trying to hold it together for me, and it makes it worse somehow. Because if he's talking on the phone, that means he's not in a cell. He's out. Free.

And I missed it.

I missed walking him out. I missed it... I missed it... I missed it!

I stare at Lindsey, half-expecting her to rip the phone away, but she doesn't. Just keeps holding it out like this is a goddamn gift she's graciously bestowing.

My hands shake as I take it. Raise it to my ear. Still waiting for the catch.

"We're... okay," I managed. My voice sounds weird. "Your mom is okay. She's—she's okay."

A pause.

"How did you get out?" I asked. "When did you—"

"It doesn't matter," he said quickly. "Don't worry about that, just—can you tell me where—"

But I don't hear the rest.

Because Lindsey's just fired her gun.

The whoomph of ignition is instant—louder than I expect, hotter than it should be. The fire rolls over the wreck of the car. I flinch, grunt, drop the phone.

Lindsey steps forward and snatches it from the gravel.

I can still hear him.

"Quinn?! Quinn!"

She hung up.

"Let's go," she said.

And I can't even look at her. Because I'm trying to remember how to breathe.

~*~

We drove in silence.

I stared out the window, not really seeing anything. Just... trees. Darkness. The occasional blur of a mailbox or mile marker that might've been useful if I could, you know, escape and use a phone.

My head still throbbed. My shoulder just felt numb. My throat was raw not from smoke, or smoking but trying not to cry.

Spencer was out.

Spencer was out, and I wasn't there.

I missed it. I missed him.

Because of her. Everything that's happened is because of her and this mysterious lover.

Lindsey glanced over once. Then again. Finally, she scoffed.

"What, now you're quiet?"

I didn't answer.

Because if I opened my mouth, I'd start yelling. Or sobbing. Or both.

So I said nothing. Just clenched my jaw and watched the trees roll by, I wanted out of this car so badly.

We drove for what felt like hours.

Eventually the trees broke. The road narrowed. Gravel kicked up beneath us.

A cabin came into view.

One of those middle-of-nowhere, Amazon-won't-deliver-out-here situations. Shutters crooked. Porch light flickering. Definitely the kind of place you bring someone to die.

I stared out at it, dry-mouthed.

"Oh," I said flatly. "So you did have a destination in mind. And here I thought you were just winging it."

Lindsey shook her head like I was exhausting.

And then....Movement.

The cabin door flew open, and someone came jogging down the steps toward us.

My stomach turned.

"Is that—" I started. Then blinked. "No. No fucking way. Fuck off."

It was Wilkins.

Prison guard. Asshole. The one Spencer told me about. The one who made his life miserable.

And he was here.

I closed my eyes.

"I should've known you were in on this," I said under my breath.

Lindsey rushed out to meet him, I glanced back to see Diana still asleep. They seemed to have a quick chat before walking back to the truck.

Wilkins didn't say a word.

Just opened the passenger door and scooped Diana into his arms.

She didn't wake.

She wouldn't either. Lindsey had convinced her to take her 'medicine'  she would be out for hours.

Kind of wished she had given me some...

Until I felt the barrel of the gun press into my back.

"Walk," Lindsey said.

"Oh, I'm walking," I hissed. "God forbid I interrupt whatever the fuck this is."

Gravel crunched under my boots. My shoulder throbbed. My head still felt like it had its own heartbeat.

Wilkins disappeared into the cabin with Diana like this was normal.

"Just casually committing felonies with your prison buddies," I muttered. "Totally stable behavior."

Lindsey said nothing. Just nudged me forward with the gun.

We walked through the cabin.

It was okay. Quiet. Weirdly clean. A couch. A coffee table. Some generic lamp that probably came from a yard sale. Cute, if I wasn't seconds from passing out.

I couldn't help myself.

"Can I finally use a bathroom now?" I muttered. "Or is that still too much to ask?"

No answer.

Wilkins carried Diana into the bedroom and laid her down. He turned back toward us, wiping his hands on his pants like that somehow cleared his conscience.

"I've done everything you two asked," he said. "Can I go—"

Lindsey shot him.

No warning. No hesitation.

One shot. Straight to the chest.

He hit the floor hard. I flinched. Took a step back without meaning to.

"What the fuck," I said, too quiet.

Lindsey didn't even look at me. "Bathroom's down the hall."

She then crossed the room, crouched by the coffee table, and flipped open a briefcase.

I didn't move. Couldn't, really. Still frozen in the middle of the room, eyes on Wilkins' body, trying to wrap my head around the fact that she'd just shot him.

Then I looked down.

And saw what was in the case.

Explosives.

Wired. Stacked. Clean. Military-level precision. Enough firepower to make whatever came next a smoking crater.

My stomach turned.

I stared at it, then at her, and thought. I knew this bitch was crazy.

Not "unwell." Not "dangerously unstable." Just straight-up, no-denying-it, full-send crazy.

"Lindsey," I said slowly, "I feel like I shouldn't have to say this out loud, but maybe—just maybe—you don't need to blow up the cabin."

She didn't respond. Just peeled off another block of C4 and pressed it against the wall like she was hanging a picture frame.

I blinked. "Seriously. What's the plan here? Kill us all and... hope that solves your abandonment issues?"

Nothing.

She moved to the far corner, crouched down, and stuck another charge beneath the table.

"Get in the chair," she said, sticking one last charge right beside it.

Oh boy. That's unsettling.

"Can I pass?" I asked.

She didn't bother answering.

Just lined up the gun and fired.

Right next to my foot.

The sound shattered through the cabin. Wood splintered. My heart damn near exploded.

I didn't wait for a second round—I practically threw myself into the chair, breath catching somewhere between fuck and are you kidding me.

"Okay," I said, hands raised. "Message received."

She didn't even look at me.

Just went back to wiring the detonator.

I sat there, wrists burning against the zip ties, shoulder screaming, heart still trying to claw its way out of my chest.

Lindsey kept fiddling with wires like she was setting the mood lighting, not rigging a cabin to explode.

I watched her in silence for a moment. Then said, "So, while we wait this out—care to share who's actually behind all this?"

No answer.

"Because I know it's not you," I went on. "You're the grunt. The ground team. The girl with the gun and the mommy issues."

Still nothing.

I leaned back—or tried to. The chair creaked under me. "Come on, Lindsey. Who's the great love of your life that's made you do all the legwork? Who am I really here for?"

She paused, just for a second.

Then sighed. "Her name's Cat."

That was it....Cat.

Didn't ring any bells. Nothing immediate, anyway. But the way she said it, she clearly loved her.

So some Unsub from Spencer's past teamed up with someone he once saved. Figures.
Who else would've put two and two together?

"You know... it's not too late to stop," I said.

Lindsey whirled around, eyes blazing. "Please. I think we're well past that now."

Yeah. I know.

We're way past the point of no return.

Then, a flicker of light out the window. The low, rhythmic thump of helicopter blades slicing the air.

Is this seriously happening right now?

I looked back at her. "You don't want to change your mind?"

She didn't answer.

Just grabbed one of the detonators and sat down next to me.

Right... Guess that's my answer.

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears. Sweat ran down my back. Every breath felt like it might trigger something.

Then...movement.

A flash outside the window. The front door slammed open.

"FBI!"

Boots. Shouting. Emily. Rossi. Tara Luke. Even Walker made an appearance.

They rushed in like it was a textbook raid—clearing corners, guns up, no idea how wired this place was.

They found me.

Great timing.

Too bad we were all about to explode.

Lindsey didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Just shifted a little in her seat, thumb still hovering over the detonator like she was flipping through TV channels.

"I'm waiting for a phone call," Lindsey said, lifting the phone in her other hand like that explained everything.

Emily took a step forward, hands raised, calm as ever. "So are we, Lindsey."

And right on cue—Emily's phone rang.

"Whoa, whoa. It's okay. There it is," she said gently.

"If this is a trick, I'm going to kill all of us," Lindsey snapped.

"I swear to you, it's not a trick. And you'll want to hear what the person on the other end of this line has to say," Emily replied.

My heart kicked hard in my chest again, because of course. Of course now is when we get mysterious phone calls mid-hostage meltdown.

Then I heard his voice.

Spencer.

"At first I was furious, because the secret had to be the baby inside you. How could it be anything else?"

Um. Okay.

Not the weirdest conversation I've ever walked in on, but it's definitely ranking.

My eyes locked onto Emily's phone, where Spencer was talking. To some woman. Prison jumpsuit. Dark hair.

Was this Cat?

What the actual fuck is going on?

"But then I realized that somehow you knew I liked hurting those men. Now I know it's both things," Spencer said, calm and chilling all at once.

"So which one is it, Spence? Come on. Don't fumble it now. You're at the one-yard line," the woman replied, and yeah—she called him Spence.

I hated her immediately. Somewhere deep in my soul, a new level of irrational rage just hatched.

Then Spencer leaned in. His voice softened.

"You're not pregnant with my child. You got pregnant with Wilkins to put me in as compromised a position as possible. But it should be mine. I wish it were mine. Because you and I... we deserve each other. That is the real secret."

I blinked.

Nope. Brain's gone. That's it. This is the moment people talk about when they say their mind imploded. Full system crash. Nothing but static and Spencer Reid monologuing about paternity to a psychopath while I sit here pretending I'm not two seconds away from crying.

Still trying to wrap my around all of this, I see Lindsey raise her own phone to her ear.

On Emily's screen, I saw the woman—Cat, I guess—lean forward.

"Kill her."

Cool.

No rush. I'm kind of dying inside anyway.

But Lindsey just stared at the phone, eyes wide, and whispered, "You bitch. You're pregnant?"

Oh.

Excellent.

So we're both being betrayed by our loved ones... nice to know we have something in common.

"Playing a game with Reid was more important than being faithful to you. And if you do this? She wins. Don't let her win." Emily's voice didn't waver.

Honestly? Put her on retainer. She could probably talk a cult leader off a cliff.

And apparently Lindsey agreed, because she let out this soft, wounded sigh... and set the detonator down.

No big fight. No final monologue.

Just... down.

My lungs finally remembered how to work.

And yeah, I was still actively spiraling over the fact that the guy I'm in love with just casually wished a child on himself with a literal criminal—

But also?

Luke was rushing toward me. Someone was cutting through the zip ties. My arms felt like they were mine again. For the first time in hours, I wasn't bleeding in a trunk or tied to a chair or next to a bomb.

So sure. Existential baby crisis pending.
But the sweet, sweet freedom of not being held hostage anymore?

Yeah. That felt pretty fucking good.

~*~
The door opened quietly.

I didn't look up. Figured it was a nurse. Or Garcia. Or someone else coming to check vitals or tell me I'm lucky to be alive.

But then I heard him cough. And I knew.

Spencer.

Standing in the doorway like he wasn't sure I'd want to see him. Like he thought maybe I'd turn him away.

His hair was a mess. His jacket looked like he put it on wrong the first time and didn't bother fixing it. He was pale, exhausted, and somehow still the best goddamn thing I'd laid eyes on in a week of literal hell.

"So," I said, voice rough, "I hear you and Cat are registered at Baby Gap."

He flinched. "Quinn—"

"Don't," I said. "I've had a really shit day and that was the only joke I had left."

He crossed the room slowly, eyes scanning me like he didn't know where to look first.

"It wasn't real," he said. "Everything I said to her. It was all a lie."

I didn't say anything.

"I wasn't thinking about her," he went on. "Not once. It was always you. Every word, I was thinking about you and how to get back to you and how pissed off you were going to be."

"That's a safe bet."

"I'll tell you everything," he said. "Everything that happened. I promise. Just... not right now."

His hand hovered just over mine, not quite touching.

"Right now you're hurt," he said softly. "And I'm free. And the only thing I want—"

He swallowed.

"The only thing I want is to kiss you."

I stared at him. Something inside me cracked.

"You don't get it," I whispered. "You got released and I wasn't there."

He opened his mouth but I shook my head, eyes stinging.

"I promised, Spencer. I told you you'd see me first. I told you I'd be there when they opened that door. I played it out in my head a thousand times—exactly what I'd say, how I'd stand, what I'd wear, whether you'd cry or not—and I missed it."

My voice broke.

"You walked out of that hell and I wasn't there. And I hate that. I hate that I didn't get to be the one to see your face when you were finally free."

His eyes were glassy now too.

"You were the first person I looked for," he said. "You always are."

We just sat in that silence for a moment, hearts breaking all over again. Not because we weren't okay—because we were. But because the world had stolen so much from us and we were still here anyway.

His hand reached for mine again, and this time I let him.

And then I moved. Slowly. Carefully. Pulled him in by the collar of that crooked jacket.

The kiss wasn't gentle.

It was everything we had been holding in for months.

It was teeth. Breath. The kind of kiss you give someone after almost dying—messy, all-in, a little reckless, a lot overdue.

His mouth was warm and a little unsteady. My fingers fisted in his shirt like I was afraid he'd disappear if I let go. His hand slid up to my face, careful, shaking.

He kissed me like he needed it.

I kissed him like I didn't care if I bled through the bedsheets as long as he didn't stop.

And if my lip trembled a little when we finally broke apart, he didn't mention it.

He just leaned his forehead to mine and said, "You were always the end of it, Quinn. It was always you."

Chapter 21: Aftershock

Legal Concept — Emotional Distress:
A legally recognized psychological injury caused by exposure to traumatic or extreme emotional events.
Symptoms may be immediate or delayed, and effects are often internal, invisible, and long-lasting.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

Who would've guessed my first real makeout with Spencer Reid would happen in a hospital bed. Hooked up to an IV. Covered in bruises. Looking like roadkill in a gown that didn't even close properly.

Not exactly the dramatic, slow-motion reunion I'd pictured. . But hey—I took what I could get. Preferably with tongue and minimal interruption from the heart monitor.

The rational move would've been to take a breath. Maybe debrief the whole near-death situation. Talk about our feelings like emotionally competent adults. But then he looked at me with that hair, those eyes, and suddenly I had no self-control and even less interest in rational decisions.

I'd waited a ridiculously long time to kiss this man. So screw common sense. If the universe didn't want me to act unhinged, maybe it shouldn't have made him look like that.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. His eyes flicked over my face, checking, of course he was checking.

"Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Ugh. Sweet, considerate, infuriating man.

"I have a mild concussion, a bullet wound, and someone definitely stepped on my foot during the hostage rescue, but yes. You may resume."

His lips twitched. "Quinn—"

"Spencer," I cut in, already yanking him back down by the collar. "Shhh. Less talking, more kissing."

 

He didn't need telling twice. The next kiss was deeper—hot, focused, stupidly precise. Like everything else with him. Of course he'd be a goddamn overachiever about kissing.

And then he paused. Again.

"I just—are you sure this is a good time?"

I blinked at him. "We're in a hospital. You've literally been interrogating a psychopath for the last twenty-four hours. Of course it's not a good time."

He hesitated, and I rolled my eyes, grabbing the front of his shirt again.

"But I'm not really thinking logically right now, and I'd really like to make out with my possibly-traumatized, definitely-too-hot-for-his-own-good FBI boyfriend before the morphine wears off."

That did it.

He laughed, a blush creeping up his neck as I said those words I'd been lowkey terrified to say out loud.

I didn't know if it was adrenaline or just him, but kissing Spencer Reid felt inevitable. Weirdly natural. Which, honestly, was a little terrifying.

At some point, I remembered I needed to breathe. And also that I had questions. Very, very important questions.

I pulled back just barely, pressing my forehead to his.

"Wait. Hold on."

He froze. "What? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I muttered, catching my breath. "But if we're about to go full Grey's Anatomy, I need to ask you something first."

He blinked. "Isn't that a medical text—"

"TV show. Focus. How the hell did you get out of prison?"

He nodded, clearing his throat. "Emily had all the paperwork from you. Then the partial prints from Lindsey's gun... all she needed was a judge to listen."

"I'd love to know which judge would sign off on that."

He reached for my hand. "I saw the paperwork. The judge had the same surname as you..." He trailed off.

"What?"

His voice dropped a little. "V. Bennett."

Rage. Pure, white-hot, visceral rage filled me.

"Son of a bitch. That motherfu—"

"Quinn," he cut in gently. "I take it you know who it is."

I stared at him.

Oh boy. That name. That whole mess. Definitely not getting into it now. Not when I was wearing a hospital gown and barely holding it together.

"I'm not going into it right now," I muttered.

Spencer nodded. Didn't push. Didn't even tilt his head. Even though I could see the questions burning behind his eyes. Which somehow made me love him just that little bit more.

I cleared my throat. Needed something else to latch onto—something I could actually fix.

"I want to make sure everything's in order. I don't want some last-minute screw-up getting in the way of you being reinstated. Not after everything."

"Hotch and Derek—"

I cut him off again. "They came?"

He gave me a small smile. "You're very loud. And persuasive. They got worried when you weren't blowing up their phones every ten minutes."

I flushed. "I was doing everything I could to get you out."

His eyes softened. That look. The one that always turned my brain to absolute mush and made my heart do something deeply inconvenient.

"I know you did," he said quietly. "I, um—I read everything. The motions, the transcripts... even the post-it notes you left in the margins."
He hesitated. "I don't think I've ever been someone people fight for like that."

Then he leaned in and kissed me—soft at first, then again, and again, like he didn't know how else to say it. Like he couldn't stop. A thank-you pressed into my cheek. My jaw. The corner of my mouth.

By the time he got back to my lips, I was already a goner.

And yeah—if that didn't earn him another makeout session, I didn't know what did.

This time, it wasn't tentative. It was full-on, no-holds-barred, making-up-for-lost-time kissing. Hands everywhere. Heat blooming under my skin like wildfire. I tugged at his shirt—why was he still wearing this many layers?—and his hand slid beneath the edge of my gown like he forgot there were security cameras, nurses, and at least three machines beeping next to us.

Yeah apparently so had I.

"You sure you're okay?" he murmured against my mouth, his breath shaky.

"Yes! Stop asking," I smiled, pressing even closer to him.

I felt him shudder, then his hand trailed down my waist and dipped lower—and holy shit, apparently Spencer Reid had been storing up a year's worth of sexual tension because he was not being shy right now.

My legs? Useless. Traitors. Not even pretending to resist.
His fingers brushed the top of my thigh, his mouth hot at my jaw, and I swear to God I would've let him do literally anything if—

Riiiiiing.

We both froze. His forehead dropped to my shoulder.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned.

He sighed, already reaching for the phone. I watched the expression on his face change, casual curiosity to tension to something colder.

"Hey," he said, voice clipped now. "What happened?"

Pause.

His entire body went still.

"When?"

Another pause. Longer this time.

"I'm still here."

He ended the call and didn't move. Just sat there staring off into space as he tried to understand what just happened.

My heart slammed back into my chest. "Spence? What is it?"

His eyes met mine, and all the warmth from two minutes ago was gone.

"There's been an accident. The teams being rushed to the hospital."

"What kind of accident?" I asked. My voice didn't even sound like mine. "Spence, what happened?"

He blinked. Swallowed. Like the words physically hurt to say.

"Scratch set a trap."

I went still.

"They were closing in on him—Rossi, JJ, Tara, Stephen... Scratch knew. He was waiting." His jaw clenched. "Then came at them with a semi."

Well. Shit.

~*~
Spencer argued I should've stayed in my room.
I told him he was being an idiot.

Threw on the world's ugliest pair of hospital sweats, yanked the IV out myself (sorry, nurse whose name I never got), and followed him down to the ER. No way in hell was I staying behind while we waited for his team to be rushed in.

He didn't fight me after that. Just walked fast and silent, jaw clenched so tight I thought he'd crack a molar. But he didn't forget me. Halfway down the hallway, he realized I wasn't behind him and doubled back—hands on my waist, eyes scanning my face for any hint of pain.

"I'm okay," I told him. "Let's go."

He didn't look convinced, just held onto my hand as we walked through the hospital hallways.

The ER was busy—just normal hospital busy. Phones ringing, someone coughing behind a curtain, nurses trying to sound calm when they weren't. No one told us anything. Just wheeled past like we weren't even there.

Spencer didn't say a word.

He stood with both hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight. At one point he rubbed at his temple—hard, fast, like he was trying to reset his brain. I didn't say anything.

Not yet.

I'd keep an eye on him. I always do.

Then the doors swung open. The gurneys came flying in.

Spencer rushed to JJ's side the second they wheeled her in, and before he even got there, his hand shot back to make sure I was still with him.

I was. Obviously.

"You okay?" he asked JJ, crouching beside the gurney.

She nodded, barely. "Yeah. Think so."

I hovered close, trying to stay out of the way, but not willing to leave. Not when they kept coming in.

Rossi. Then Tara.

Jesus. They were lucky to be alive after getting hit by a fucking truck.

They wheeled JJ into a room, and we followed. She was sitting up now, kind of. Blood dried down the side of her face, gauze slapped over her temple. She was pale. Blinking slow.

She kept muttering about needing to talk to Will.

"Already called him," Spencer said. Quiet. Steady.

I cleared my throat. "You doing okay, JJ?"

She nodded, still holding the ice pack to her head. "Yeah. Yeah. Just... Monica. Someone needs to call her and tell them..."

My stomach dropped.

Monica was Stephen's wife.....Shit.

So not everyone made it.

Spencer's hand found mine again. Then Luke stepped into the room a second later.

"Rossi's refusing treatment," he said. "Not until he talks to both of us."

Spencer glanced back at JJ, giving her one last look before he tugged on my hand again. "Come with me?"

"Obviously."

Like I was gonna stay behind and twiddle my thumbs. I wasn't letting him out of arm's reach, not after everything. He moved, I moved. That was the deal.

"What's going on?" Spencer asked the second we entered Rossi's room. Even he didn't get through unscathed.

"Shut up and listen," Rossi started.

Well. Shutting the hell up.

"Alright. First, you." He glanced at Luke. "Go through my pants pocket. And find my keys."
He glanced at Spencer. "Second, you. You're back on the team."

"I'm not sure I should be," Spencer replied.

I cleared my throat. "Yeah, gonna have to agree with him on that one. The legalities alone—"

"I'm making the calls now," Rossi cut me off. "I'll take the heat. You're back on the team."

Luke lifted the keys. "I've got them."

"There's a little one there. To a file cabinet in my office. You following me?" Rossi said.

Not especially, but sure.

"Yeah. Following you," Luke answered.

"Inside, there's Chicago Bears season tickets..."

I glanced at Spencer. He was already looking at me.
Okay. So we agree David was concussed, right?

"When you get them, you call Matt Simmons. I promised him those tickets."

He exhaled in pain. Luke looked back at us. "They must have given him something in the ambulance to make him loopy."

"You don't say," I muttered.

"I'll get the doctor. We'll get him into surgery," Spencer offered.

"Just shut up and listen. Now Emily is missing. Stephen is dead. As for you two ass clowns, you'll do me the courtesy of following my orders," Rossi ordered.

"Just gonna throw it out there that your orders aren't exactly tracking," I said, raising a brow.

He just gave me a look before sighing, "Follow my orders. And then I'll go into surgery."

The two men nodded, then turned to walk out of the room, Spencer's hand already in mine, tugging me along.

"This has got nothing to do with season tickets," Luke muttered.

Spencer was frowning. "Ass clowns?"

"I like it," I said. "Definitely stealing it."

He glanced at me, then squeezed my hand gently. "You should stay here. Rest. Recover."

I gave him a look. "Yeah, that's adorable. Not happening."

"Quinn—"

"I get that I'm not an agent, but I'm not useless. I can still help." I crossed my arms, half daring him to argue. "Besides, Hotch is still around, right?"

He hesitated. "Yeah."

"Then I need to talk to him," I said. "Preferably before he ghosts us again and leaves behind a cryptic note."

I noticed the corner of his lips twitch. "Fine but if you feel worse you're coming back here."

"Yes, Sir."

~*~

I kept pace with Luke and Spencer as we rushed through Quantico and pushed into the BAU. The second we hit the floor, I knew Spencer was seconds away from either snapping or imploding. Maybe both. His jaw was tight. His hands were fists.

That little thread holding him together? Yeah, it was fraying fast.

"I can't arrest him," he said, turning back to us.

"What?" Luke asked.

I sighed. "He's talking about Scratch."

"The second I see his face, I am going to kill him," Spencer muttered.

Okay. And now I was both alarmed and wildly attracted. Was he trying to make me jump him in the bullpen? Because that voice, that fury, that hair—unfair. I had a brain injury and zero self-control.

"I tried to tell Rossi not to put me back on the team. You both heard me," he added.

"We did," Luke said.

Before I could say anything else, Spencer rubbed his hand over his eyes again—just like in the hospital.

Shit.

I was already moving, already at his side.

"What's wrong with me?" he whispered.

I kept my voice level. "Nothing's wrong with you... it's just stress. Trauma hitting back."

Luke jumped in. "Because that's what they're calling it now. Post-traumatic stress syndrome. Because it's not a disorder. It's an injury."

Spencer shook his head, frustrated. "Well what do I do? We're in crisis mode. I don't have time to process my emotional state."

I blinked at him. "Okay, one: that's not optional. Two: I'm not asking for a full breakdown, just... less twitchy murder energy at the office."

He ran a hand through his hair, clearly trying not to unravel.

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "Look, no one's asking you to sit down and journal your feelings. But terrible things happened to you, and it's not just gonna... wait politely until the case is over."

His shoulders dropped a fraction.

"And Spencer?" I added, softer. "You're allowed to be a little wrecked right now. I've seen you hold the world together. It's okay if this one cracks a little."

He exhaled hard. Not quite relief, but something.

"Thanks," he said quietly. "Just... thank you for being here."

I squeezed his hand. "Wouldn't be anywhere else. Now—" I turned to Luke. "Where did you last see Hotch?"

Luke didn't hesitate. "Conference room. He was setting up when we left. Said he wanted to be here until the end. With Scratch."

I nodded and turned to go, only to be stopped by Spencer pulling me back just enough to kiss me.

Quick, soft, ridiculously melt worthy.

I stared at him. "Seriously?"

He just blinked, like what?

"Oh, cool. We kiss goodbye now. Awesome. Great."

I turned and walked off before I could do something embarrassing like kiss him again. Or crawl into his stupidly nice arms and stay there forever.

Nope. Conference room. Mission. Focus.

...But like, holy shit.

I found Hotch exactly where Luke said he'd be, posted up at the end of the conference room table, tie loose, shirt sleeves rolled, and about fifteen crime scene photos spread out in front of him.

He looked up the second I walked in. And for a moment—just a second—his whole face shifted. That almost-smile he does when he's relieved but trying not to show it.

"You look like hell," he said, standing.

"Thanks. You're not exactly giving off 'spa day' either," I replied.

He didn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched. Close enough.

Then, before I could say anything else, he stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. No warning. Just solid arms wrapping around me.

I stood there, weirdly stunned, and let him.

"I would've come to the hospital," he said, voice low. "But with Scratch... everything moving so fast. They convinced me to stay."

"I know," I said. "You don't have to explain."

"I wanted to be there."

"I know," I repeated, quieter this time.

We pulled apart. He didn't step back far.

"You scared the hell out of all of us."

"Yeah, well," I muttered, trying to rein in whatever was happening in my chest. "I've got a gift."

He shook his head like he didn't find that funny at all.

I cleared my throat. "I mean it, though. Thank you. For everything. You helped get Spencer out. I'll... I'll never forget that."

"You two don't owe me anything."

"Maybe not," I said. "But I'm still grateful. Even if I'm bad at saying it."

He gave the barest nod, Hotch's version of you're welcome.

I crossed my arms bringing up the reason I wanted to see him. "So. The judge who signed off on Spencer's release."

Hotch didn't say anything, but the shift in his expression said enough. That quiet I knew this was coming look.

I stared at him. "V. Bennett. Cute. Really subtle."

"I figured you wouldn't be happy."

"Oh, don't worry. I'm thrilled you went behind my back and dragged my father into this," I snapped. "Really warms the heart."

Hotch didn't flinch. "I knew he wouldn't say no."

"Yeah, of course he wouldn't. He gets to swoop in and be the hero without actually showing up for anything that matters." I shook my head. "If I thought for one second he was worth having back in my life, I would've called him myself."

There was a moment of silence. Hotch didn't argue. He knew better than to try and defend him. We both did.

He turned to look at me and asked, "Are you glad Spencer's out?"

I swallowed. "Yes."

"Then we'll deal with your father when we have to.”

I exhaled through my nose, jaw tight. "So you're sticking around then? When they finally catch this psycho? Are you coming back?"

For the first time in my life I saw Aaron look... unsure. "Let's just catch him, and go from there."

I wanted to argue. To tell him that the BAU needed him, that Spencer needed him, that I fucking needed him, back in my life.

"Sure. Can I have all of Spencer's paperwork? I want to make sure there's no loopholes."

Hotch handed me the file. "I checked it myself. He's safe."

I laughed. "Remind me—how many years has it been since you practiced law?"

"Who's the one that taught you everything, again?"

"True…come on it's like stupid o'clock, let's get some coffee and see where we're at with your psycho serial killer?"

Hotch didn't say anything else, just turned and walked out of the conference room. I followed.

We rounded the corner into the bullpen, and I immediately spotted Penelope mid-sentence, gesturing wildly at a guy I didn't recognize.

Penelope spotted me the second we entered.

"Quinn!"

She was on me in three seconds flat, arms wrapped around my shoulders like I hadn't just had multiple near-death experiences.

"Hi," I muttered, wincing. "Still a little bruised."

She pulled back, clutching my face like a worried aunt. "I swear to god, you give me one more heart attack this month and I'm going to put a tracker in your shoe."

"Only if it's sparkly."

"Done."

She took a breath, then waved toward the new guy. "This is Matt Simmons. He's helping us track Scratch."

Matt nodded once. "Nice to meet you."

"You too," I said. "Sorry I look like shit. Literally just escaped getting kidnapped."

He glanced briefly at Hotch like, Should I respond to that? Then wisely chose not to.

Penelope looped her arm through mine like we were on a field trip. "We're all set up over here. Come sit before you collapse in a dramatic fashion. Which, by the way, I would fully support."

We crossed to the table. Spencer was buried in something—maps, photos, timeline, maybe an existential crisis. Hard to tell.

I leaned down next to him. "Want a hand with whatever this is? Or are you in full Einstein mode?"

He didn't look up. "I'm good."

"Cool. I'll just... sit here and be silently supportive. Possibly decorative."

"You should rest."

"I'll be fine....Hotch is getting coffee..."I dropped into the seat next to him and let the noise settle around me. My head hit the back of the chair. My eyes heavy. I told myself I was just resting them.

Apparently, I lied.

~*~

BANG.

The sound cracked through the room, straight into my skull. I bolted upright, heart pounding, hands gripping the sides of the chair. Whatever that was scared the absolute shit out of me.

"What—what the hell? Where—"

"You're fine," Hotch said calmly from across the room.

I blinked. Tried to focus. Right, still in the BAU bullpen. Still in the world's ugliest hospital sweats. And—

"Did something explode?"

Hotch exhaled. "No. Reid threw a book at the glass."

Oh. Okay. We're throwing books now. Got it.

I rubbed my eyes. "Of course he did. I leave you people alone for twenty minutes and suddenly we're hurling hardcovers at federal property."

Hotch didn't blink. "He's trying to decode the message Emily sent."

"Wait—message?"

He nodded. "Emily and Stephen sent a text, pretending to be me. They used it to draw Scratch out. We think that's why she's missing. He's using her to find me."

My stomach clenched. "So she baited him."

"Looks that way."

I groaned, subtly wiping drool from the corner of my mouth. "God, that's ballsy. And so Emily."

"Reid's been trying to figure out the meaning behind the text ever since he found out."

"What did it say?"

"Something about Honduras. And B-CAP," Hotch said.

I frowned. "That's it?"

"That's it."

"And Spencer's trying to find a code in that?"

"We all are."

I pushed myself to my feet, still shaking off the sleep. "So why is he working up there alone?"

Garcia called out from behind me, "He... basically pushed us out the door."

Cool. So he's spiraling. Definitely should not have fallen asleep.

I headed for the stairs, Hotch and the others following like we were about to stage a very nerdy, very emotionally repressed intervention. I would've liked a one-on-one for this, but sure. Group field trip to Reid's breakdown—why not.

I pushed the door open cautiously, half-expecting another book to come flying at my face.

"B-CAP is short for Banisteriopsis Caapi," Spencer said the second we walked in. "It's a plant, specifically a hallucinogen that's found in a tea called Ayahuasca."

"That's... great... Spence..." I said, because what else was I supposed to say to that?

Matt cleared his throat. "We worked a couple of those cases, I think. If I remember, it's like peyote."

"Yeah, in multiple ways," Spencer continued, rubbing at his temple. "They're similar legally in that taking them is considered a religious practice, and pharmacologically, they're similar in that both drugs cause you to hallucinate, intense, geometric patterns and vomit a lot."

"Okay, but what does this have to do with Scratch?" Garcia asked.

"...and the throwing of the book," I muttered under my breath. Because seriously, what was the connection between ayahuasca and federal glass repair?

He didn't hear me. Or ignored me.

Spencer kept going. "Scratch has a cocktail of dissociative drugs to induce delusions, but a mathematical mind like his would always be looking for ways to tweak and improve the formula."

God, I've never been more grateful I went into law.

"So he went to Honduras to look for it, then brought it back to D.C. to experiment with it," Hotch said. "Stephen and Emily must have come to the same conclusion and tried to pretend they were close to catching him."

"We need to track down all practitioners of the ceremony in the district," Spencer added. "Shamans, gurus, overnight religions that just hung their first shingle. He could be using one of their volunteers as a partner—witting or unwitting."

I just stared at him. Hearing him like this, watching the gears grind full-speed while the emotional part of him barely held was difficult.

He noticed.

Sighed. "What?"

"You threw a book at a window," I said. Because yeah. He needed to register that.

Garcia nodded beside me. "It was jarring."

Spencer scratched the back of his neck, eyes drifting. "It took me 60 minutes to deduce what should have taken me 60 seconds. And if Emily dies because I was too slow, I'll be throwing a lot more books."

Then he turned and walked out.

I followed. Of course I did. I Threw a quick look at Hotch like I've got him, then kept going.

He didn't go far. Just into the hallway, pacing like his body didn't know how to be still. Jacket sleeves, hair, jaw, his hands kept moving. Everything in him too on edge.

"Spence," I said.

He didn't answer. Just kept walking. Breathing sharp. Shoulders locked.

"Hey." I stepped in, just enough to make him stop.

He did. Looked at me.

And that was all it took—his face shifted, like something cracked just beneath the surface.

I stepped forward and put my hands on either side of his face.

"Look at me."

He did.

"You're not alone in this," I said. "Okay? You don't have to handle it yourself."

His breath hitched, but he didn't say anything.

"Emily's going to be okay. You know why? Because we're going to find her. And Scratch?" I scoffed. "He's not some untouchable genius. He's desperate. Sloppy. You guys are going to take him down."

Spencer closed his eyes, like he needed the rest of the world to shut up just to hold onto that.

I didn't move.

"I can't breathe when this happens," he said, voice quiet. "It's like I'm back there again. Mexico. The cell. Every time I can't fix something—"

"It piles up," I said. "Yeah. I know."

Then he stepped in and wrapped his arms around me. Tight. Head low. Like he didn't know what else to do with himself.

I held him. "I've got you. I'm here."

He didn't answer. Just held on. And I let him.

After a while, he pulled back just far enough to look at me. Eyes red, there was just so much sadness and uncertainty.

"I can't lose her," he said.

"You won't," I told him. "She's Emily Prentiss. The BAU's badass. Even I know that."

He gave a short nod, biting his lip like he was trying not to laugh.

"Now take a second," I said. "Because this isn't going to be easy. None of it is. But I'm not going anywhere. I'm in, Spencer. All in. You hear me?"

He nodded, voice barely above a whisper. "Okay."

Then, after a second, "Then I'm in too."

~*~
"He left. He fucking left."

I muttered it to myself as I paced the conference room, jaw tight, hands clenched, absolutely vibrating with rage. This wasn't me being dramatic or throwing a tantrum. This was me trying not to throw a chair through the glass.

"Unbelievable. Except no—it's not. It's exactly the kind of shit he does."

I turned, sharp, nearly knocked over a chair. Kicked it over anyway because why the fuck not. Then sighed, and picked it back up.

"Oh, I'm not reinstated, and I'm one bad thought away from a breakdown? No problem. Let's just sneak out while Quinn's in the bathroom and chase a known psychopath. Brilliant."

I dragged a hand through my hair and kept walking.

"God, I knew it. I saw it. That look—his 'I'm fine' face. Which, by the way, is never true. It always means 'I'm about to do something reckless and emotionally self-destructive, hope no one tries to stop me.' The idiot."

Behind me, Hotch said, "You know he's not an idiot."

"Shut up, Hotch," I snapped.

I kept pacing. Faster now.

"He's not even back on the team. And the second I turn my back, he just vanishes. No heads-up, no goodbye—like I wouldn't notice. Like I haven't been watching him for months..."

I stopped moving. Hands on the back of a chair, gripping like it might keep me from loosing it...

"If he dies out there..."

Aaron said quietly, "The rest of the team was only a few minutes behind him. He'll be okay."

I whirled on him. "Why do I get the feeling you two cooked this up together? You, playing stoic field dad, and him, all twitchy guilt and martyr complex—'Hey, you know what sounds great? You go find Scratch. What could possibly go wrong?'"

Hotch just shrugged. "It's what I would do."

"Figures."

I kept walking. Tight little laps like I could keep the anger moving so it didn't boil over.

Hotch hadn't said a word in at least twenty minutes. Just sat nearby, arms crossed, letting me wear a path into the floor.

Then the door opened. I didn't bother looking.

"Look who finally decided to show up. What, ran out of self-destructive ideas?"

Silence. Then...

"I deserved that." His voice was rough.

I stopped walking. Not because I was ready, but because if I took one more step, I was going to fling myself into his arms.

"Yeah," I said, turning slowly to face him. "You do."

And there he was. Breathing. Barely. Idiot.

I crossed my arms. "You look like shit."

Spencer huffed something that might've been a laugh, or maybe just his soul escaping. "Yeah. I feel it."

Hotch stood from where he'd been leaning against the table. Didn't say anything, just stared at him, taking inventory, confirming it with his own eyes.

"Emily's okay," Spencer said, quiet. "She's safe."

I exhaled. At least something positive came out of him vanishing. "And you?"

He nodded. "In one piece."

Then he looked at Hotch.

"You're safe too. It's done. Scratch is gone. You and Jack can come out of WITSEC and back—"

He cut himself off. Like saying it out loud made it real. Or maybe made it worse.

Hotch stepped forward. Said nothing. Just reached out and squeezed Spencer's shoulder... like a goodbye...

"I'll give you two a moment."

He turned to go.

"You better not disappear again," I called after him.

He didn't stop.

"Hotch."

That got him. He paused. Looked back at me.

"I'm not coming back to the BAU."

"I figured," I said. "Still not a great excuse to go silent on everyone."

He gave the faintest shrug. "I'll be around. Something tells me you're going to need me."

I stepped toward him, deadpan. "If you vanish again, I will find you."

Hotch nodded once. "You usually do."

Then he was gone.

I turned back to Spencer. Yep. He was already ramping up.

Let the ramble commence.

"I know I shouldn't have left without telling you. I just... I had to. I knew it wasn't smart, and I know I should've waited, and I hate that I made you worry, but—"

I tilted my head. Let him keep going. He clocked it a few seconds later.

"You're not going to stop me?"

"Nope."

He blinked. "You're just going to let me...?"

"Spence," I said. "You left me mid-panic spiral to go after Scratch. You can stand there and sweat a little."

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

I let it hang a second longer, just until I saw his shoulders start to drop.

God, he made staying mad so hard... "You know what sounds amazing right now?"

"...What?"

"Pancakes. Bacon. A shower. Maybe a nap that doesn't end with federal crimes."

His mouth quirked. "I could eat."

"Good. Because you officially owe me, like, a ridiculous number of dates."

I looped my arm through his and rested my head on his shoulder. "How's your mom? And has someone been feeding Garfield?"

Priorities.

Chapter 22: Cause and Effect

Employment, at-will (n.)
A working relationship that can be ended by either party, for any reason—or no reason at all.
Turns out "no reason at all" still feels like shit.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~
3 weeks later

 

I was mid-sprint between the couch and the bedroom when the buzzer went off.

I skidded to a stop, nearly tripping over my own foot, and slammed the intercom button. "Yeah, hi—hang on, I'm not ready for human contact yet!"

I hit the door release and immediately sprinted back to the kitchen, shoving two mugs into the sink and pretending the coffee table didn't look like it had just survived a minor domestic war crime.

It wasn’t dirty, exactly. Just… cluttered. A throw blanket, a half-eaten bag of popcorn, one sports bra I’d clearly abandoned in the middle of the night.
Which made sense, considering I’d been living in it full-time—still waiting to hear when I was officially allowed to start working again.

Still, I moved fast—tossed a hoodie over the arm of the couch, adjusted a cushion, kicked something (possibly clean) under the chair.

The door opened just as I was trying to pry a rogue sock off the bottom of my foot.

Spencer stepped inside, takeout in one hand, iced coffee in the other, hair doing that stupid floppy thing that makes me want to throw him against a wall... but, you know, romantically.

"Hi."

"You're early."

Spencer glanced at his watch. "Only by four minutes."

I raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, and how long have you known me? You should know I use every one of those minutes for last-minute panic cleaning."

He held out the iced coffee. "Want me to come back in four minutes and knock again?"

I took it."No. But next time, maybe fake a delay. Pretend you forgot your keys or had to rescue a cat or something."

He stepped further inside, toeing off his shoes as if he'd done it a hundred times. Which, to be fair, he basically had.

"Noted. Emergency cat. Got it."

I watched him set the food on the coffee table, same as he had the last twenty nights in a row.

"You know you don't have to clean up for me," he said.

"Sure," I said, kicking some of Garfields toys out of the way. "But after three straight weeks of you showing up here, I figured I should at least pretend I'm not a complete slob."

He raised an eyebrow. "Is that what this is? Pretending?"

"Yes, yes very funny. We can't all be OCD clean freaks with alphabetical bookshelves and spices can we?"

He just smiled, annoyingly pleased with himself. "Actually they're sorted by authors surname."

I rolled my eyes. "I'm just saying, you've still got, what, three weeks of leave left? You ever think about going somewhere else?"

He tilted his head. "Like where?"

"I don't know. Europe. Somewhere warm and exotic. Most people don't spend their recovery holed up in their girlfriend's apartment."

His answer was simple. "Most people don't have you."

Then he leaned down and kissed me. I'm sorry, but how are his lips that soft? And that thing he does with his tongue...

By the time he pulled back, I was already melting.

"Hi," I said, because my brain had apparently left the building.

Spencer grinned, quiet, a little smug. and cleared his throat. "So. What cinematic milestone are you planning to subject me to tonight?"

"You say that like last week's Bring It On marathon didn't spiritually awaken you. Don't lie to me, Reid."

"It involved a surprising number of concussions."

"And spirit fingers," I said, kicking my feet up on the coffee table. "Don't forget the spirit fingers."

Spencer stared at me. "I'm still not convinced that wasn't some form of psychological warfare."

I grinned. "Please. You were riveted."

He blinked, completely serious. "I wanted to gouge my own eyes out."

"Yet... you still watched all five."

"Because you wouldn't turn it off."

I waved a hand. "Details."

He sighed, already resigned. "So what are we watching tonight?"

I grinned. "You, my tragically deprived genius, have never seen The Office. And that's something I've been meaning to fix."

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head like he wasn't sure if I was serious or just being dramatic for effect. "That was a while ago."

"Yes...well... you were a little busy getting wrongfully imprisoned, so it got bumped."

He gave me a look. "How many times are you going to bring that up?"

I shrugged. "Until I die."

He rolled his eyes, more reflex than anything. “Even so. I didn't think you'd remember."

"Please. Like I forget the stuff that actually matters?" I reached over to grab the controller, already cueing up the pilot.

He leaned back against the cushions, legs stretching out beside mine. His knee knocked into mine and didn't move. Which was fine. Totally fine. My libido just had to lie down for a second.

"You good with eating on the couch?" I asked, even though we always eat on the couch.

"I think at this point, I'd be confused if we didn't."

"Routine is comforting."

He looked over at me. "So is being here."

Yep. Pretty sure my ovaries just did a polite little bow.

I looked down, trying to hide the blush creeping up my neck, then pressed play.

As the theme song started, I felt his arm brush mine again, just enough to make my brain do deeply irresponsible things. Spencer however, just settled into his spot. Even Garfield popped up to join us. Like we were a little family.

Unfortunately, I was very aware of every inch of space between us. And how much I wanted it to be zero.

But I wouldn't push. Wouldn't be the one to rush.
Not after what he told me a few weeks ago, about Cat. About Lindsey. About her using my likeness.

He hadn't gone into detail—just mentioned it quietly, like he was still trying to file it away in a part of his brain he wouldn't touch. But it stuck with me. The implication. The violation of it. That she used my face.

So no...I wouldn't ask. Not until he told me he was ready.

I could wait longer....Even if his stupid thigh was warm and his fingers were right there and—

"Quinn," he said quietly.

I looked over.

He leaned in and kissed me. Soft, quick, stupidly sweet.

When he pulled back, I blinked. "Was that... because of The Office theme song? Or..."

He smirked. "You looked like you needed to get out of your head."

I nodded. "You're not wrong."

He kissed me again. Longer this time. God help me, he really was the best kisser.

I snuggled into his side and muttered, "You keep doing that and we are not making it through season one."

"I don't mind skipping ahead," he said, casually... almost flirting... it was adorable.

His hand brushed my leg. My brain lit up like goddamn Christmas tree.

But I just smirked, curled closer, and said, "That's what she said."

He raised a brow at me, "What?"

"You'll see." I grinned. "Welcome to Dunder Mifflin, babe. It only gets more cringey from here."

 

~*~

I was already halfway through my first coffee when the email came in.

The subject line was aggressive in its vagueness—"Status of Employment." Which was corporate for brace yourself.

I opened it anyway, because I was a grown-up.
A grown-up who walked out of a courtroom mid-trial four months ago and never went back.

'After extensive consideration, we've decided not to continue our working relationship...'

Honestly? I got it. I knew there was a very strong possibility that they wouldn't want me back... I just cared more about losing him at the time.

But... it still stung.

I hit archive, took another sip, and sat there for a second. Not moving. Somewhat thinking. Just letting the silence grow increasingly louder....

Then I stood up. Grabbed my keys. And drove.

Because if anyone could break me out of this mood, it was him.

I barely remember the drive—just caffeine, red lights, and my brain running in circles the whole way there.

I stopped for coffee. Not because I needed it, but because showing up empty-handed felt weird.

He opened the door in pajama pants and that ancient Caltech sweatshirt, hair a mess, eyes still squinty with sleep. Then he gave me that stupid, lopsided smile—like I was right on schedule.

"Hey," I said, handing over the coffee.

I leaned in, kissed his cheek. He tilted his head into it just a little.

He took the cup, already turning toward the kitchen. "You timed this weirdly well. I was about to make some."

"Yeah, well. I'm psychic."

He snorted and waved me in. Door clicked shut behind me.

"What's going on?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Nothing."

I dropped my bag by the couch. Took a sip of my own coffee.

He just waited.

"Okay..." I muttered. "I got fired."

His brow furrowed. "What? When?"

"This morning. Email came through around seven." I shrugged. "It wasn't a surprise. Just a really shitty way to start the day."

He stepped closer, his hand reaching out to hold onto mine. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. Not really."

He didn't push but I could see how guilty he felt about the whole situation.

I exhaled. "I just... didn't want to sit in my apartment pretending it didn't bother me. So I came here."

His eyes softened. "Okay."

"And now I'm stealing you," I added, before the moment got too emotional. "So. Pack a bag."

"What?"

"We're going on a spontaneous trip. It's very irresponsible. Possibly life-changing."

He blinked. "Quinn."

"Come on Spence, Don't overthink it. You've got all this time off and all we've done is watch movies and make out... which I'm not complaining about... but let's do something fun! Spontaneous!"

He paused. Staring at me like the words spontaneous didn't compute. Until a small grin creeped onto his face.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise."

"Should I be worried?"

I tilted my head. "Probably."

He looked down at the coffee still in his hand, then back at me. "You sure this isn't you on the verge of a meltdown?"

"It's definitely meltdown adjacent," I said. "But I plan to thoroughly ignore it."

He huffed a laugh.

"You're doing that thing where you pretend there's a plan."

I shrugged. "Look. Do you trust me?"

He took another slow sip. "Not even a little when you get like this."

I smiled. "Perfect. You've got an hour."

~*~
Garcia opened the door wearing a sequined robe and fuzzy pink slippers like it was the most natural thing in the world, which—honestly? For her, it was.

"Garfield!" she squealed, scooping him up like he was a royal baby and not a grumpy orange tyrant who shed like a bitch. "Did you miss Auntie Penelope? I brought the good treats. The salmon ones, not the weird meat kind."

"Sounds like you're in good hands, Gar." I said, handing over his travel carrier.

She shot me a look over her glasses. "You know I'd die for him. Or kill. Whichever comes first."

"Thanks again for watching him. I'll owe you one."

"You already owe me five," she said, stepping aside so I could come in. "But I'll accept repayment in the form of girls' night. You, me, Zoe, Grace, fruity cocktails with obnoxious names. Deal?"

I laughed. "Deal. Let's even invite the BAU girls. I definitely owe Emily a drink after the shit I pulled with her."

"We all understand. You were just doing everything you could for Spencer...." She reached to squeeze my hand. "So. Where are you going?"

I blinked, playing dumb. "What do you mean?"

"Don't give me that lawyer face, you just dropped off your emotional support cat. Where. Are. You. Taking. Reid."

I paused for dramatic effect. "I can't tell you."

She gasped. "Why not?"

"Because you will one thousand percent tell him."

Her hand shot to her heart. "I would not!"

I just stared at her.

"At least give me a hint. Is it nerdy? Romantic? Dangerously unplanned?" She pouted.

"Yes."

"Quinn."

I grinned. "He'll have fun. That's all I'm saying."

Penelope stared at me for a second, then softened. "Good. He deserves fun. So do you. You guys are just so perfect together!"

My throat did that annoying tight thing. You know, the one I blame on dust or cat hair or literally anything that isn’t ugh feelings."Thanks, Pen."

"Text me when you get there. And if you elope without us, I will kill you."

I nodded. She was without a doubt one hundred percent serious. "There will be no eloping."

Garfield let out a low meow from his new throne on Penelope's couch.

"Okay, he's ready for his spa weekend. Go have fun."

I waved goodbye as I rushed down Penelope's staircase, eager to jump back into the car where Spencer was waiting.

The drive was... actually kind of nice. Just us, cutting through back roads and stretches of Virginia countryside, heat blasting, coffee in the cup holders, snacks everywhere.

Spencer spent most of it rambling—something about abandoned rail lines, migratory bird patterns, and the history of peanut farming. Not a single sentence connected to the next.

I didn't interrupt once.

I just drove. And listened. And tried not to think too hard about how much I liked the sound of his voice.

We turned onto the long gravel driveway, and Spencer leaned forward a little in his seat like it might help him process what he was seeing.

Pasture on either side. Horses grazing like lawn ornaments. A cow or two lurking near the fence line. Same white fence that wrapped around the property. And then, after the curve in the drive...there it is.

The house.

Three stories if you count the attic. Old stone, thick ivy, a wraparound porch with columns so tall they look like they're holding up the sky. The roof's that blackish metal that rattles when it rains, and the whole place smells like hydrangeas and generational wealth.

There's a hedge maze in the front lawn. Not huge. Just enough to make a five-year-old think they're going to die in there.

She calls it the vacation house.

Spencer turned to me, eyes wide, smile slow and mildly incredulous.

"Your grandmother's house."

I nodded. "It's the vacation house."

He glanced out the window again, clearly impressed but trying not to overdo it. "Did you grow up coming here?"

"Summers. Holidays. The occasional deeply inconvenient charity event."

His eyes tracked something across the lawn. "So... there are cows."

I shut off the engine. "They're basically family. Don't say anything rude or they'll stop making eye contact."

He looked at me, then back at the house. "I think this qualifies as... what Garcia would call 'rich-rich.'"

I blinked at him, and then burst out laughing. Like full-body, hand-over-my-mouth laughing. His eyebrows lifted in that concerned, are-you-malfunctioning? way he did, which only made it worse.

"Sorry," I gasped. "It's just—hearing you say that? You didn't even sound convinced you were using it right."

He flushed, just barely. "I wasn't. I panicked halfway through."

I shook my head. “Technically, my parents and grandmother are rich-rich. I do my best to disown that part without actually giving up the good sheets.”
I waved a hand toward the house. "But that doesn't mean I don't come stay here when I need to disappear for a while."

He glanced at me, smiling softly. "So this is your escape hatch."

"Exactly." I put the car in park. "Come on. You've got to see the inside. We should be alone, except for the handyman and his wife. They live onsite in the guest cottage. Mostly keep to themselves."

I climbed the small set of steps and grabbed the spare key from under the frog statue, same place it's been since forever, and let us in.

"Watch your step," I said as we crossed the threshold. "This rug tried to kill me once."

He paused in the foyer, taking it all in. "This is..."

"Wait," I said, grabbing his sleeve before he could wander toward the stairs. "I'm showing you the best room first."

His eyes flicked to mine. "Which is?"

I grinned. "What do you think? The library."

I led him past the sitting room, down the hallway with the lopsided portrait of some dead relative no one liked, and stopped at the double doors.

"This," I said, hand on the knob, "is the only reason I came here as a teenager without being bribed."

I pushed the doors open.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves. Actual rolling ladder. A fireplace that worked. Two armchairs by the windows that somehow managed to be both stiff and cozy. And books. Everywhere.

Spencer didn't say anything right away, which was a win in itself.

"Our library," I added, because I'm pretty sure his brain just had a full-blown literary orgasm.

He finally turned to me, wide-eyed, almost stunned. "This might be the most perfect room I've ever seen."

"I know," I said, smug. "Try not to propose."

He gave me a look, half amused, half don’t test me, and stepped inside like he was trying not to mess it up just by looking at it.
His eyes moved slow, cataloguing every shelf in his head.

"Wait. Hang on," I said, already crossing the room. "Don't start deciding which one to read first."

He turned, confused. "Why not?"

"Because I've got something better," I said, dragging the ladder over a few feet. "Stay there. No peeking."

I climbed halfway up, ran my fingers along the top row, and pulled the one I was looking for. Dark green spine. Gold lettering. Heavy.

I held it out over my shoulder as I came back down. "First edition A Study in Scarlet."

He actually stopped moving.

"You're serious."

"Completely."

He took it from me like it might break. Turned it over, opened the cover, checked the print page. I tried not to stare as his long fingers traced the words.

"This is real."

"Yeah," I said. "I had a feeling you would fangirl over this."

He looked up at me, still not quite believing it. "Do you know how rare this is?"

I shrugged. "Rare enough that I knew exactly which shelf it was on."

He dropped into one of the armchairs like he was fully prepared to stay there for the rest of the trip.

"You planning on sleeping in here?" I asked, eyebrow raised.

He looked up. "I mean... I could."

I shrugged. "If you really want to, I'm not gonna stop you. But how about we find an actual bed first? Just in case your spine wants to be functional tomorrow."

He stood without argument, still holding the book.

"Right," I said, turning toward the hallway. "This way."

Upstairs was the same as always. Wooden floors. Too many rugs. Way too many antiques.

I stopped at the door to one of the bedrooms and pushed it open.

"This is one of the guest rooms," I said. "Fresh sheets. Uh... windows. Bed. Very bed-like."

Just... wow. Okay. Why am I suddenly auditioning for "World's Most Awkward Airbnb Host"?

Spencer stepped inside. His eyes did that slow scan of the space, mattress, pillows, lighting, me. Which was fine. Great. Definitely not giving me a complex or something.

"There are other rooms, if you want," I added, because I'm physically incapable of shutting up. "This one's just... the best. Not best-best, just—comfort-wise. I didn't mean that in a weird way. It's not a seduction room. Just good lighting. And pillows. Normal human pillow stuff."
Kill me.

He looked at me, soft and non-judgy in the most infuriating way. "I can take another room if that makes you more comfortable."

And there it was. The opening. The responsible, emotionally mature answer.

I could've said, Actually, I want to stay. I want to be the little spoon.

But instead I rushed out,  "No, you should stay in here. I'm taking the one I usually use. It's fine."

Because as much as I wanted to use him like a human pillow, we needed to take this at his pace. Not mine.

 

“Cool. Great. Awesome. I’ll just go scream into a throw pillow now.”

He didn't say anything, just kept looking at me. Which felt mildly unfair—he was a profiler. He probably knew exactly how inappropriate my thoughts were getting, and was choosing to let me suffer.

I forced a breath, then gestured vaguely down the hall. "Did you want to go see the horses?"

Because if I didn't pivot immediately, I was going to end up climbing into that bed with him and making some extremely questionable decisions about boundaries.

~*~

We did the horses. Ate dinner. Talked. Argued briefly over whether ducks were better than geese. (They are. Obviously.)

The rest of the day was good. Simple. No pressure. Just easy in a way that felt so natural.

Later, we ended up back in the library. He was re-reading Doyle at lightning speed. I was fake-reading and real-staring. Zero shame. Ten out of ten jaw line.

Eventually, he stood up, kissed me on the forehead, and told me to go warm up before I started trying to steal his sweater again.

Which was rich, considering I'd already decided that cardigan was coming home with me. He was just delaying the inevitable.

That was... hours ago, I think.

Now I was wide awake. Not in the normal brain won't shut up way. In the something's wrong way.

Then I heard it.

I didn’t move. Just stared at the ceiling, waiting for it to come again.

"If this is ghost shit," I muttered, swinging my legs out of bed, "I swear to God, I'm burning this place down. Sorry, Grams."

The hallway was cold. Stupidly cold. Like old-house, too-many-rooms, bad-insulation rich people cold. I padded down it barefoot, squinting into the dark.

There it was again. Not a voice. Or typical old house creaks. Just this low, ragged sound, barely there, but enough to make my stomach knot.

I followed it, heart practically lodged in my throat. Spencer's door was cracked just slightly.

I nudged it open.

He was tangled in the sheets, jaw tight, breathing uneven. His hands were clenched in the blanket like he didn't know he was doing it. Eyes shut, but whatever he was seeing—it wasn't sleep.

I stepped inside. The door creaked. Of course.

"Spence," I said, soft.

Nothing.

"Spencer." One step closer. "Hey. It's me."

He flinched hard, like his body caught the signal before his brain did. A sharp breath escaped, shaky and thin and all wrong.

His eyes were a little glassy. Like he'd been crying, or close to it.

And then he saw me. And whatever he'd been holding in broke.

He reached for me like he didn't even think about it—just grabbed on, fists in my shirt, face buried in my shoulder. Shaking so hard it made my chest hurt.

I didn't say anything. Just held him. One arm around his back. One hand in his hair. Not really sure what else to do...just sure as hell I wasn't letting go.

I could feel him trying to breathe through it. Trying to pull himself back together like I wasn't already seeing all of it.

After a while, he mumbled, voice rough, "Sorry I woke you."

"You didn't." Automatic. True.

He let out a breath, trying to calm his racing heart. "You should go back to bed."

Nope. Not a chance.

I didn't even look at him. Just glanced vaguely around the room.

"So... slight problem. I think this place might be haunted."

He stilled. "What?"

"I'm just saying, if this place isn't haunted, it's missing a huge opportunity."

He looked at me like I'd grown a second head. Which, to be fair, I probably deserved.

"...There's no scientific basis for that."

I met his gaze. "Okay, sure. Let's ignore the ghosts and focus on the part where you're trying to make your terrified girlfriend sleep alone."

He didn't answer. But he didn't let go either.

I shuffled into the bed, tugged blanket up over both of us and shifted just slightly closer.

"I'm just gonna hang here for a bit."

He shifted slightly, not letting go. "Probably safer that way."

So I stayed.

After a while, I asked, quieter, "Does this happen a lot?"

He hesitated. Until I eventually heard a soft, "Yeah. Every night."

I nodded, my arms still wrapped around him. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

He shook his head. But if possible he held me even tighter.

"Okay," I said. "Then we don't have to."

I didn't say it out loud, but I meant it: there was no way I was walking out of this room right now. We can just stay like this... for as long as he needs.

My eyes drifted to the nightstand.

The green leather cover was still there. A Study in Scarlet. The corner folded over like he'd planned to keep re-reading and never got to it.

I glanced at him. "Would you like me to read it to you?"

He eyed me wearily.

"I'll do the voices and everything," I added.

He blinked. Gave me this barely-there laugh like he couldn't believe I was serious. "Yeah. I'd like that."

I shifted carefully, leaning back against the headboard. He moved with me, still holding on like whatever nightmare he'd clawed out of hadn't fully let go.

Then he looked and kissed me.

It was gentle. Sweet. Just his lips brushing mine like he thought kissing me would fix it.

Then he dropped his head into my lap.

Great. Now I'm even more in love with him. That's going to be wildly helpful.

I grabbed the blanket and pulled it up around us. His hand stayed curled at my hip. I reached for the book.

He kept his eyes closed, and I could feel it—the way his body started to let go, one knot at a time. Like his brain had finally decided to shut up.

I flipped to the page he'd marked.

"In the year 1878, I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London..."

My fingers moved through his hair, slow and steady. Half comfort, half excuse. I just didn't want to stop.

By the end of the first page, his breathing had evened out, but I kept reading anyway.

Just in case.

Chapter 23: The things we don’t say

Assumption of Risk (n.):
A legal doctrine in tort law, holding that a person who knowingly and voluntarily engages in a risky activity cannot later claim damages if injury occurs as a result.

Which, apparently, also applies to letting Spencer Reid anywhere near a horse.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

"Come on, Reid. It's just a horse."

Said horse chose that exact moment to snort, and I swear I'd never seen Spencer jerk back that fast in my life. Like full-body, cartoon-character recoil.

I raise a brow. "Seriously?"

"They're unpredictable. Do you know how many equestrian accidents happen every year?"

"You're not about to hit me with horse death statistics, are you?"

The look on his face said everything.

"You've chased armed killers through the woods, but this—this is what breaks you? A horse?"

He just stared at me, like those big puppy-dog eyes were going to get him out of this. Cute try, Bambi, but no.

I stroked the horse's neck, "See? Totally fine. He likes me. Which means he'll like you."

"That's not how horses work."

"Spence. Don't ruin this. My gran would be so disappointed if I couldn't get you on a saddle. You're not backing out."

He muttered something about ER visits. I ignored him.

"Worst case," I said, "you fall, break something, and I get to act all heroic. I'm not seeing a downside to this."

That got the tiniest twitch at his mouth.

"There it is," I said. "The Reid almost-smile. Progress."

The horse sneezed again, and he gave me the eyes. The same ones he'd already tried. Still a no.

"Progress might be generous." Still, he braced a foot in the stirrup, rambling on about weight distribution and physics.

"You're not defusing a bomb," I said. "Just swing your leg—"

For a second it looked like he had it. Then—nope. Down he went. Straight into the dirt.

"Spence!" I gasped, clutching the reins. "Are you alive? Blink twice if you can hear me!"

He groaned, sat up, totally fine.

I couldn't hold the laughter back anymore. "Well... at least you look pretty falling off a horse."

He stood, brushing hay off himself. "I could've broken my arm. Or my neck."

I rolled my eyes, "I can see the headline now- Doctor Spencer Reid, killed by horse that wasn't even moving. Nation mourns."

His lip twitched, "You're going to feel terrible if that actually happens."

"Okay," I chuckled, trying to pull it together, "new plan. We ride together. Safer."

Naturally, my brain instantly pictured it—him right behind me, arms around my waist, too close, smelling like cinnamon and old books.

Nope. Brain, stop, I beg you.

"For balance," I added quickly. "And to protect you from hurting yourself."

He raised an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that," I warned, face heating. "This is practical. Not whatever you're thinking."

Even the horse flicked its tail like it knew I was lying.

Getting him up there was clumsy at best—his knee bumped mine, his elbow dug into my side, and then he somehow managed to half-snag his cardigan on the saddle. By the time he got himself settled, he was basically plastered against me.

Not that I'm complaining, but—Jesus. Somewhere, a thousand tiny alarm bells went off and none of them knew what to do.

And then the horse lurches forward and his arms lock around my waist. Tight. Full contact. Chest, thighs, everything.

Oh God. Nope. Bad idea. Abort mission. Especially when my brain clearly wants to test-drive what his hands would feel like without the layers.

I try to breathe, fail. Spectacularly. My body's already made up its mind, and my brain's just standing there waving a sad little protest sign.

Focus, Quinn. It's a horse ride. That's it. Nothing else. Definitely not me getting turned on in broad daylight like an idiot.

"Comfortable?" I asked, voice higher than intended.

"Not really," he said quietly, adjusting behind me.

"Yeah. Me neither," I said quickly, though probably not for the same reason.

Once the horse found its pace, Spencer actually relaxed a little. Not much, but enough to unclench his death grip on me.

"That's Quercus alba," he said suddenly, nodding at a tree we passed. "White oak. They can live for centuries."

"Uh-huh." I tried not sound breathless but honestly? His voice was warm against my ear and it was doing things...

'Let's share a horse' you're an idiot Quinn.

"And those yellow flowers—Solidago canadensis. Goldenrod. It gets unfairly labeled as a weed, but it's really important for pollinators."

I bit back a smile. "Spence, you realize you've been on a horse for all of five minutes and you've already turned this into a field lecture, right?"

His chin almost brushed my shoulder when he leaned forward. "Would you rather I didn't?"

Shit if he keeps talking in my ear like that I'm gonna throw myself off this horse. Instead I cleared my throat. "No, I mean—it's interesting."

He kept rattling them off — Latin, English, back again — and I was busy pretending I didn't find the whole thing unfairly hot.

"This one's Carya tomentosa—mockernut hickory. The wood is used for tool handles."

I grinned. "God, you're such a nerd."

"Accurate information is important."

"Sure. And definitely not weirdly attractive at all."

"What?"

"Nothing." I pressed my heels into the horse and kept us moving, praying the wind would hide how red my face was.

After a bit it got... weirdly comfortable. Him talking, me throwing in dumb jokes, the horse just doing its thing.

And then, out of nowhere: "What do you think you'll do now?"

I frowned. "Now like... after the horse? Or...?"

"Without your job," he said. Straight to the point.

Of course. Leave it to Spencer Reid to turn a trail ride into a life crisis.

"Honestly? No clue. Probably binge terrible daytime TV. Maybe sell ugly candles on Etsy."

He snorted behind me — yeah, full-on snorted —it was adorable.

"Etsy?"

"Don't mock me. People would buy them. Out of pity if nothing else."

He shifted a little against me, which did not help. I would love it if my hormones would just chill.

"You'd make it work."

I rolled my eyes at the trees. "Yeah, maybe. Either way I'll sort something out. I'm nothing if not resourceful."

Before he could say anything else, I added, "What about you? You ready to go back to the BAU after... everything?"

He was quiet for a second. "I don't know, but I can't imagine doing anything else. So..."

I nodded. "Yeah. I get that." My throat went a little tight, but I forced the words out anyway. "I'll, um... I'll miss hanging out every night, though. When you're off saving the world cross-country again."

I didn't look back to see his reaction. I was a big fat chicken.

He went quiet long enough I started regretting even opening my mouth, he said softly, "I'll miss it too."

Before I could decide what to do with that, he leaned in and kissed my temple. Just a quick press, nothing dramatic, but breathing felt... optional.

And then the sky growled. Low, heavy thunder rolling over us.

I groaned. "Oh, come on. Really?"

Because as you'd expect it was about to rain.

"Figures. We're finally getting the hang of this and now we're just begging to get struck by lightning."

Spencer shifted behind me...really wish he would stop doing that. "You know just as well as I do freak storms always seem to happen when we're—" he hesitated, then added, "—having fun."

I snorted. "Oh yeah. Like our non-date."

He huffed out a laugh at that, "Statistically rare, but apparently consistent for us."

By the time we got the horse back under the stable roof, the clouds opened up for real. Sheets of rain hammered down, deafening against the tin. We barely got the saddle off before it turned into a full-on flood.

I shoved damp hair out of my face and leaned against a post. "Well. Guess we're stuck."

Spencer was already at the doorway, staring out at the storm, rain dripping from his hair, cardigan plastered to him in all the wrong-right places.

And all I could think was, he should not be allowed to look like that while wet.

The rain kept pounding the roof, loud enough to shake the whole place. I yanked my hair up into a knot so it would stop sticking to my neck and tried not to think about how gross I probably looked next to him.

He shoved the cardigan off and tossed it over the stall door, and his shirt underneath was sticking in ways that made it impossible not to stare. And yeah, I stared. Like a total creep, already picturing myself dragging it off him and licking my way down until he couldn't remember his own name, let alone Latin.

Get it together, Quinn. He's wet... not naked... but hey...I'm his girlfriend. I'm allowed to stare a little. Right??

He caught me looking, and instead of saying anything, he just leaned against the stall. "This isn't so bad," he said, almost testing it out. "Kind of... quiet."

I raised an eyebrow. "We're trapped in a barn during a thunderstorm. That's your idea of quiet?"

He shrugged. "Could be worse. At least I'm here with you."

Okay. So...I'm literally a big puddle of goo now.

Which is probably why the next thing out of my mouth was, "You know this is the part in every movie where the couple dances in the rain."

Spencer turned his head, frowning slightly, like he was actually running the calculations. "That's... not very practical. The ground's slick. You could fall. And hypothermia's a real risk."

I barked a laugh. "You sound like an eighty-year-old man. Just say it's romantic and move on."

He went quiet for a second, then said, "Do you want to?"

My mouth went dry. "Wait. You mean—you're actually suggesting...?"

He shifted, almost a shrug. "I've never done it before." His voice dropped, softer now. "I'd like to."

Of course. My genius FBI boyfriend wanted the Nicholas Sparks experience while I looked like a drowned raccoon. Perfect. Exactly how I wanted this outing to go.

"Well," I muttered, "guess we're doing it."

He stepped closer, slow, like he was giving me an out. Then he held out his hand, palm open.

There was no way I was passing up hand holding, so I slid mine into his.

The rain hit us instantly. Cold, soaking, running down the back of my neck in about two seconds flat. Spencer blinked through it, hair plastering to his forehead, but he didn't complain. He just looked at me like this was beyond ridiculous, but loving every second.

"Okay," I said, shivering. "Ground rules. No judging my technique. I took exactly one semester of ballet at age six and I quit because the tutu was itchy."

His mouth twitched. "I wasn't going to judge."

"Spence, you're a judger. Don't deny it."

He lifted my hand, placed his other one lightly at my waist, and murmured, "Not you."

...And now I was goo again.

We started moving — well, "moving" was generous. It was basically swaying in a circle, my boots slipping in the mud, his shoulders stiff like he was trying to remember where arms were supposed to go. I laughed, head tipping back.

"This is ridiculous," I said.

"Yes," he agreed, completely serious.

I looked up at him through dripping lashes. "But... kind of good ridiculous, right?"

His eyes softened, even as water ran down his face. "Yeah."

I grinned, pressing closer, his grip firmed, steadying me.

This. Right here. The stupid movie moment everyone swears you'll "just know." Except I already knew. And now the words are basically chewing their way out of my throat.

"This is it," I murmur, my throat tight. "You know when people say you'll just... feel it? This has to be it. The moment." My ribs ache like they're about to crack open with the force of it.

Spencer blinked at me through the rain, rain dripping from his hair, and gives this crooked little smile that absolutely melts me. "Yeah. I think so too."

The words are right there, right on the tip of my tongue. "Spencer, I lo—."

Headlights sweep across the driveway, cutting sharp through the slats of the stable. My mouth snapped shut before the rest can escape.

The lights sliced across the stable again, slow this time, like whoever was driving wanted to make an entrance. My stomach twisted. Seriously—who the hell was even here? It was a thunderstorm, not open house night at the barn.

I grabbed Spencer's hand before he could ask, tugging him toward the house. He stumbled after me, still damp and cardigan-less, and I could feel him looking over his shoulder at the vehicle creeping down the drive.

"Come on," I mumbled, hauling him faster.

By the time we were up on the porch, I could make out the shape of the car. Of course it's some giant, over-polished beast. But I recognized it, after all subtlety had never been his thing.

I shoved Spencer gently toward the door. "Why don't you go get some towels and warm up?"

He hesitated, brow furrowed. "Quinn—"

"I'll deal with this," I muttered. My voice came out sharper than I intended, but I couldn't help it. My pulse was going haywire. "Please. Just... inside."

He looked like he wanted to argue, but then he nodded—slowly—and disappeared into the house.

I stayed put, dripping rain, arms crossed, watching as the car finally stopped at the base of the steps.

Was I surprised? Not really. A part of me had been waiting for this exact brand of nightmare to show up on the doorstep.

The door swung open, and out stepped... my goddamn father.

 

~*~

By the time I got upstairs, my clothes were plastered to me like a second skin. I peeled out of them, yanked on a sweatshirt and dry leggings, and tried to convince myself the storm hadn't just turned my whole night upside down.

Spencer was in the library when I passed by, a towel around his shoulders, hair sticking up in a dozen directions as he flipped through one of Gran's old books. He looked up when I stopped in the doorway.

"Stay put," I told him. "I'll be back in a minute ok?"

He didn't argue, just gave me the same look, the one that said he wanted to follow but trusted me enough not to. I shut the door behind me before I could change my mind.

The house was quiet, rain beating against the windows. For a second, I actually thought maybe slamming the door in his face had worked. Maybe my dad had taken the hint for once and left.

Then I reached the bottom of the stairs and saw the glow from the living room. The fire was lit.

Because of course he hadn't.

I walked in, and there he was — sitting in Gran's chair like it belonged to him, scotch in hand, the picture of entitlement.

"You know when I slammed the door in your face?" I said. "That was me saying fuck off. Not 'come in, make yourself at home, raid the good liquor.'"

He swirled the glass, eyes on the fire. "Still the same mouth."

"Still the same ego," I tilted my head at him. "How did you even know I'd be here?"

"I know you," he said smoothly. "Better than you think."

"Bullshit," I said. "We haven't spoken in years. So why are you here, exactly? Why now?"

That smirk spread slow and smug. "Because people talk. Because my colleagues told me what happened. Do you have any idea how humiliating that is? A Bennett's name dragged through the mud for everyone to whisper about? You think I could ignore that?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "Did I lose my job, or did you? Because last I checked, the one crying into a scotch wasn't me."

He shook his head, "You may be an adult, Quinn, but you will treat me with respect. Don't forget who helped get your friend out of prison."

That was it. Red. Full-body, see-nothing-else rage.

"Don't you talk about him," I snapped. "You didn't get him out. I did. That was me. Every late night, every motion, every appeal—me. You don't get to swoop in and play the hero because you signed off a piece of paper, Judge Bennett."

He sat back, eyes cold, like he enjoyed watching me lose my temper.

"There it is," he said. "That temper. That self-righteous streak. You think you're so much smarter than everyone else, don't you?"

"I don't think," I said. "I know."

He chuckled, but it was all taunt. "And yet here you are. Fired. Hiding out. No firm. No reputation. Just a girl playing lawyer until the real world caught up with her."

I clenched my fists at my sides. "You have no idea what I've done—"

"I know exactly what you've done," he cut in. "You've dragged this family name through every courtroom in D.C. with your bleeding heart and your arrogance. Do you have any idea how much cleaning up I've had to do after you?"

"You mean how much ass-kissing you've done to make yourself look better?" I shot back.

His eyes narrowed, but the smirk never faltered. "Watch yourself, Quinn. You may despise me, but you don't get to forget what I've done for you. For your... friend. My signature mattered. And that means you owe me."

I felt my stomach turn. "I don't owe you a damn thing."

"You do," he said, voice eerily calm. "And you'll start by coming to dinner tonight. You and this Dr. Reid. No excuses."

I actually laughed. Loud enough to make his smirk twitch. "You're out of your goddamn mind if you think I'm going to dinner with you and Mom."

His eyes narrowed. "Careful, Quinn."

"No," I said, shaking my head. "You don't get to sit there, belittle me, take credit for my work, and then act like I'm going to sit across a table from you smiling like we're some happy family. Not happening."

His eyes narrowed, the scotch glass rolling lazily in his hand. "You think you're untouchable, but this industry is smaller than you think. Judges talk, prosecutors talk, and one motion in the right court is all it would take to drag your friend back under review."

For a second I honestly thought the whole house tilted — or maybe that was just my stomach trying to crawl out through my shoes.

"Don't," I said, my voice breaking. "Don't you dare threaten me or him."

He stood, draining the last of his drink. "Seven o'clock. Don't be late."

~*~

We stopped at the end of the walkway. The porch light buzzed overhead, and my insides lurched hard enough I had to stop moving.

Spencer slowed with me, eyes on the house, then back to me. His voice was careful. "I'm just... a little confused. You've told me how much you hate them. And now we're here for dinner?"

I rubbed my palms against my jeans, buying time. "Yeah. Believe me, I don't exactly have a craving for family bonding. But my father made it very clear this wasn't optional."

He didn't say anything right away, just kept watching me too hard, like he could see every twitch I couldn't get rid of.

"God, I feel sick. I used to bolt out that door any chance I could and now look at me—volunteering to walk back in."

Spencer's brow furrowed. "Quinn—"

"Don't," I cut in quickly. "If you ask me to explain, I'll just lose it. And I need to hold it together long enough to get through one dinner without flipping the table. Or punching someone."

He hesitated. "So... what's our plan here?"

I forced a grin that probably showed way too much teeth. "We go in, we nod, we eat their overpriced roast chicken. Then we get out, swing by the store, and demolish a tub of ice cream on my couch. That's the plan....possibly make out a little..."

His mouth twitched. "Ice cream and kissing. That's your strategy?"

"Exactly. I'm bribing myself with a reward." And because I couldn't help myself, "Just... don't break up with me after this, okay?"

The second it was in the air I wanted to snatch it back. Heat punched its way up my collar, "Forget it. I don't know why I opened my mouth. Just—ignore me."

"Quinn." He gripped my hand, holding it tightly. "I'm not going anywhere."

I nodded too fast, biting the inside of my cheek, I wanted to believe him, but the family dinners never ended well.

My hand still shook when I reached for the door, but it swung open before I could even knock.

And there she was. My mother. Pearls, pressed dress, hair sprayed into place like time hadn't touched her.

"Quinn!" She pulled me into a hug that smelled like roses and money. My arms just dangled there. What was I supposed to do—hug her back like the last five years hadn't happened?

She stepped back, holding me out at arm's length so she could really look. "You look... relaxed. Unemployment must suit you."

Didn't even make it ten seconds before she got her dig in. Typical Mom—say it with a smile so you can't call it what it is.

"Hi, Mom." It came out flat, but flat was safer than screaming.

As we stepped inside her eyes drifted past me to Spencer, her face lighting up like Christmas morning. "And you must be Dr. Reid."

Spencer straightened automatically, polite as ever. "Yes, ma'am, but you can just call me Spencer."

Her smile went pure feline. "Well. Aren't you unexpected. I'm Eleanor."

I didn't even get a chance to figure out what the hell that meant, before my dad made his presence known. He was already at the table, wine glass in hand, giving Godfather vibes the second he saw us. He rose halfway, just enough to stick a hand out toward Spencer. "Victor Bennett."

I cut in before Spencer could move. "He doesn't do handshakes."

Dad's eyes flicked to me, then back to Spencer. "Why am I not surprised..."

Spencer only gave a small quiet wave. He was way calmer than me. Not that it was hard—I was basically vibrating out of my skin.

Welcome back to hell.

The dining room looked exactly the same as I remembered, polished wood table, candles burning like this was Versailles instead of a family dinner, china plates I still wasn't supposed to touch. My mom hovered at the head of the table, fussing with napkins that didn't need fussing.

"Sit, sit," she chirped, gesturing like a hostess on autopilot. "I made roast chicken. Your favorite, Quinn."

It wasn't, hadn't been since I was 12....

I dropped into the chair closest to Spencer, because if I had to run interference tonight, I wanted him in range. He sat neatly, hands folded, the picture of ease. My father didn't even glance at me — his attention locked straight on him.

"So.. Spencer," my mom said, spooning vegetables onto his plate, "I've read about your work. Fascinating. Though I imagine it doesn't leave much room for... well, anything else. Hobbies. Friends. Relationships." Her smile was sugar on the surface, acid underneath. "Quinn must've thought you'd understand each other."

There it was. Not even subtle.

I speared a green bean and chewed it loudly. "Right. Because nothing screams compatibility like mutual misery, huh, Mom?"

Spencer, though? Perfect poker face. "The work is demanding, but I find time."

"Mm." My dad finally chimed in, sipping his wine. "Time well spent, I'm sure." The way he said it made it sound like a joke.

My fork scraped a little too hard against the plate.

"Wow," I shook my head, dropping my fork onto the plate a little too hard. "Not even two minutes. That's got to be some kind of record."

My mom's smile went tight. "Quinn."

"What? I'm just impressed. Usually you at least wait until the salad course."

Spencer's knee brushed mine under the table, trying to subtly remind me we were supposed to survive this dinner, not start a war in the opening round.

"Your mother went to the trouble of cooking. The least you can do is show some gratitude."

"Gratitude," I echoed with a dry laugh. "Yeah. Nothing says gratitude like a backhanded interrogation before the roast chicken hits the table."

"Don't be dramatic," Mom cut in, her voice sugary and sharp at once. "We're simply trying to get to know the man you've... chosen."

"Chosen," I repeated, my jaw tight. "You're saying it like I picked him out of a catalog."

Spencer glanced at me, a small, warning look, please don't.

But Victor leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes fixed on me. "We're entitled to be curious, Quinn. After all, we've had no say in the matter. And considering the company you've kept in the past..."

His insinuation was about to get him throat punched.
I gripped my fork so tight the metal squeaked against porcelain.

My dad leaned back in his chair, eyes cutting straight to Spencer. "And Mexico? You threw away your career to run after a drug addict. That's not noble, Quinn — it's pathetic."

"Shut your mouth. Spencer is not a drug addict, and you know damn well he was framed." I snapped, the words out before I could stop them. My fork clattered against the plate.

Spencer shifted beside me, his hand moving to rest grab my thigh.

"You walked out of a high-profile trial, Quinn." My asshole father continued, voice dropped into that cutting courtroom register, the one meant to humiliate. "Do you have any idea what kind of spectacle that made? What people said? What people still say?"

I opened my mouth, but he barrelled on, louder now. "Do you think judges and clerks and prosecutors forget? Do you think you can just storm out in the middle of proceedings like some—some emotional little girl—without consequences?"

The word "girl" hit like a slap.

Spencer sat up straighter, hands tightening in his lap, and I could feel it—his instinct to step in, to defend me—but I was already on fire, shaking with the urge to throw something.

"Funny," I bit out, voice shaking. "Last I checked, walking away from a sham trial was the smartest thing I ever did. But thanks, Dad, for the reminder that I'm still just a stupid girl in your book."

My mom hissed my name, taking his side like she always did.

"Don't mistake walking out for bravery. It was reckless. It was humiliating. You embarrassed yourself, and you embarrassed this family. Acting like—"

"Enough."

The word cracked through the air like a gunshot.

For a second, I thought maybe I'd imagined it. My dad's eyebrows lifted, stunned silent, and then I realized it hadn't come from me.

Spencer.

His chair scraped against the polished floor as he pushed back just enough to level my father with a look that could've frozen fire. "You don't get to talk to her like that."

My mom's hand shot to her pearls, scandalized. My dad actually let out a short, laugh. "Excuse me?"

Spencer didn't waver. "She didn't walk out. She chose to fight for me. You call that reckless—but I call it the reason I'm standing here. That isn't weakness. That's the only kind of strength that matters."

Silence. The chandelier hummed above us, the only sound.

My fork was still clutched in my hand, useless, trembling. I'd been braced for this fight for years, for every barb, every dismissal—but to hear someone actually fight for me? Defend me? I could feel tears pricking in my eyes.

My dad blinked, slow, recovering his composure. His voice was quieter this time, dangerous. "She doesn't need you to defend her, Dr. Reid."

Spencer didn't back down. "You're right, she doesn't need me to defend her. But I can't sit here while you tear her down and act like it's justified. Because it's not—" his voice caught, words tumbling faster than he meant, "—not when I love her. She's extraordinary, and I won't let you act like she's not."

Spencer's words hit and I freeze.
Did he just—?

I don't think—I just shove back from the table and get to my feet, body moving before my brain can catch up. Fork clattering, chair skidding, whatever. I don't care.

Spencer's already standing too, slipping my coat into my hands like this is the most natural thing in the world. "Thank you for the invitation," he said, voice polite to the point of lethal. "We'll be leaving now."

I don't look back. Can't. Just follow him out, my pulse loud in my ears. He said he loves me. Out loud. To my parents. Like that's normal. My legs keep moving, coat in my hands, but my brain's stuck on those three words, repeating them until I don't know if I'm walking or about to pass out.

~*~

I sat cross-legged in front of the fire, drink in hand, letting the heat soak into my face. My shoulders had just started to ease when a blanket dropped over them. I jumped, nearly spilling red across the rug.

"Sorry," Spencer said quickly, crouching down beside me.

I shook my head, giving a breathless little laugh. "Don't apologize. You just scared the hell out of me. Which, considering tonight, doesn't take much."

He settled onto the couch next to me, close enough the blanket brushed his knee.

"God." I tipped the glass toward the flames. "Sorry my parents are assholes."

His brow furrowed, eyes flicking over to me. "That wasn't your fault."

"Still," I muttered, taking another sip. "Lucky we bailed before dinner. Probably for the best—I was about two seconds from weaponizing a fork."

The corner of his mouth twitched. "You didn't."

"Barely." I set the glass down on the floor and leaned back against the couch. "You know, most people ease into the whole 'meet the parents' thing. Coffee. A phone call. Not... that."

He glanced at me, eyes softening. "I don't think there's a handbook."

"Maybe there should be," I said, tugging the blanket tighter.

The fire snapped, sharp enough to make me jump again. Spencer immediately grabbed my hand, threading our fingers together.

"So..." My throat felt dry. "You love me..."

He didn't even flinch. Just gave the smallest shake of his head. "I thought that was obvious."

I let out a chuckle that was more nerves than anything. "Obvious? Spencer, nothing is obvious to me. Especially not that."

He didn't answer, and suddenly sitting across from him felt impossible. I set my glass down hard, then crossed the space before I could think better of it, climbing into his lap and locking my arms around his shoulders. He froze under me, breath caught, like he couldn't believe I'd actually done it.

"I need you to hear this," I said, low and firm. "I don't regret it. Not for one second. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat." My chest tightened, but I pushed through anyway. "Because, Spencer Walter Reid—" my mouth curved into a shaky smile— "I love you too."

I hadn't even finished saying it before he kissed me, all that control he clings to snapping in one second flat.

The blanket hit the floor. His hands grabbed my ass, holding me tight, and yep—he was hard. My whole body lit up, nerves sparking everywhere. I tugged his hair, sharp and quick, and he stilled—just for a second—pulling back enough that our eyes caught. Hazel on mine. And it hit me, all of it, like every what-if and almost had been leading here. Finally.

"Quinn," he breathed against my lips, voice rough, almost warning. But his hands didn't stop. They slid under my sweater, fingers pressing into bare skin like he was trying to memorize it.

I fisted his shirt, dragging it up, and when he shifted just enough, my nails skimmed his stomach. He shuddered, and yeah—add that noise to the ever-growing list of things messing with my self-control.

The kiss went messy fast, all teeth and gasps, like we'd both forgotten how to breathe. My hips rolled against his without me even thinking, and he broke from my mouth just long enough to mutter, breathless against my jaw,
"Quinn... you keep that up and I'm not stopping."

Thank fuck. Because if he stopped now, I was going to die mad and horny, and honestly, what a way to go.

Chapter 24: For the first time, what’s past is past

Prima facie (adj.)
Evidence that, at first glance, is strong enough to stand as truth.
Like the way he looked at me — no further argument required.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

Holy shit—this was actually happening.

I was about to have sex for the first time in... an embarrassingly long time. And not with just anyone—no. With Spencer. Spencer fucking Reid.

My cardigan-wearing, statistic-reciting genius of a boyfriend had just told my parents he loved me, and now I was half-naked in front of a fireplace. Honestly, that was too much cosmic good luck for one person. I kept waiting for lightning to strike or the floor to cave in.

And my brain? Not focusing on how hot this was, of course not. No, it went barreling straight into panic mode over whether I'd shaved my legs. Apparently stubble was going to be my last conscious thought before sex. Wonderful.

His shirt finally came off—about damn time—and I got one glorious second to stare. Lean muscle, pale skin, just enough definition to make me do a double take. Unfairly hot for someone who lives on coffee and chess, but I was definitely circling back to lick every inch of it later.

Then he had me flat on my back, the rug biting into my shoulders. Figures—the first time I get laid in ages and I'm going to come out of it with carpet burn... totally worth it.

But all that vanished the second his mouth hit my chest and—holy hell—that tongue.

"Spence—" It came out half a plea. I hooked my legs around him, dragging him closer. Patience? That word expired hours ago.

Instead of fumbling, he slid lower. Past my stomach, maddeningly slow. I nearly screamed at him to hurry the hell up, but then—

Oh fuck. He latched onto me and—yep, obituary's writing itself: death by genius boyfriend's mouth. Worth it.

My head snapped back against the rug, a sound tearing out of me way too loud for how early we were into this. His tongue flicked over my clit, careful at first, like he was testing me. Then he actually pulled back just far enough to mumble, "This okay?"

Leave it to Spencer Reid to be polite while he was literally wrecking me.

"Urgh—seriously—" was all I managed, but he got the point. He went right back in, harder.

"Oh my god," I gasped, yanking his hair because I needed something, anything, to hold onto. He didn't stop. He never stopped.

Until every muscle locked, like my body was trying to decide between melting into a puddle or spontaneously combusting. Months of foreplay had wound me so tight I was beyond ready.

"Shit, I'm—" The warning ripped out of me and then I broke, grinding against his mouth like I'd completely lost it.

He didn't stop there either—oh no. He just kept me going, dragging me through every bonus round, until I was twitching, gasping, clinging to his hair like gravity depended on it. Pretty sure the only part of me still functional was my toes.

"Jesus Christ," I panted, dragging the blanket half over my face. "That mouth has way more talent than rattling off Latin, Reid. Use it for this instead."

He smiled, proud as hell, and kissed my inner thigh, looking like man who knew he'd just rewired me.

I hauled him up. "Okay, Reid...your turn."

But he didn't move right away. Just hovered, eyes locked on mine, his hand pressed flat against my chest, right over where my heart hammered under his palm.

"Spence?" I whispered, brushing his hair back. "What is it?"

He shook his head like he wasn't sure if he should say it.

I gave him the tiniest smile, even though my pulse was still tripping over itself. "It's okay. Tell me."

"Quinn—" his voice cracked, and he dropped his forehead to mine. "I've wanted this... you... for so long. And after everything—prison, my mom, all of it—I didn't think I'd ever get here. I'm just... I'm grateful. That you stayed. That you didn't give up on me. On us. Because if you had—I don't think I'd still be me."

Cool cool... yeah, I definitely wasn't about to cry or anything. Not because it was perfect—God, it was all clumsy and rushed, but because it was him. My awkward, brilliant, slightly broken Spencer—who could calculate the speed of light but never manage feelings, so he handed them over rough and unedited, hoping I'd understand anyway.

I wanted to tell him I'd never stop choosing him. That walking away was never on the table. That he didn't have to thank me for loving him because I couldn't not.

My stupid throat went tight, and instead of words I gave him this awkward half-laugh-half-sob thing. Sexy.

So I kissed him instead. Hard. Because words weren't going to cut it. Only Spencer Reid could make me cry and cum in the same five minutes.

For a second, he just stayed there — forehead resting against mine, like he needed one more pause before the inevitable.His hand slid from my chest to my cheek, thumb brushing my jaw, and I felt him hesitate again.

I cupped his face, whispering against his mouth, "Spence. I'm here. I want this."

That was all it took. His shoulders dropped, like he finally believed me, and he kissed me — all in, too much and somehow exactly what I wanted, until I was lightheaded.

By the time he pushed into me, it was slow, careful, like he honestly thought I might break under him.

"Sorry—" he blurted immediately, eyes wide like he'd ruined everything.

"Don't stop," I gasped, nails dragging down his back. His hips stuttered, clumsy for a second, then adjusted — deeper — and my lungs forgot their job.

His breath caught against my neck, ragged, and I couldn't hold back anymore.

"Yeah, right there," I panted, thighs tightening around him.

Fireplace, rug burns, all of it disappeared. Just him, heavy and desperate, pushing me past dignity. I didn't even know I could make half the noises spilling out of me.

I realized I was babbling too—curses, broken words, anything to keep from unraveling completely.

"Spence—god—" I cried, clutching him so hard my nails left marks. "I'm not—gonna last—"

And then I shattered. Everything locked at once—thoughts gone, his name spilling out like it was the only word I remembered.

He followed almost instantly, hips stuttering, mumbling into my neck—my name, maybe nonsense—before he shuddered hard against me.

For a while it was just our uneven breathing and the fireplace popping like it was laughing at us for being dumb enough to do this on the floor.

He shifted like he was about to apologize again, but I cut him off with a shaky laugh.

"Next time," I rasped, "we do this on a bed. My ass cannot take another round with that rug."

He smirked, kissed me slow, and I suddenly wasn’t so sure the rug was done with me yet.

~*~

I woke up slow, every ache making me grin into the pillow before I'd even opened my eyes. Spencer was wrapped around me like he'd decided I wasn't allowed to leave — arm heavy across my stomach, his face buried in my hair, his legs a knot around mine.

When I shifted, he stirred. Eyes blinking open, hazy at first, then finding me. His mouth tugged into that crooked little shape I could never resist. Oh yeah, I could get used to this.

"Hey," he muttered, voice rough.

"Hey," I whispered back.

He leaned in and kissed me, clumsy and half-asleep, and I laughed when our noses bumped.

"What?" he asked, his mouth twitching.

"Nothing. Just you."

He kissed me again, longer this time, before propping himself up on an elbow. His hair fell right into my face, and I tugged at it, pouting because of course he had the nerve to look that good after a night of multiple orgasms.

"Your hair's a disaster," I lied. Easily the sexiest thing I've ever seen.

"So's yours," he shot back, brushing strands out of my eyes. No shit — my hair looked like it had been used as a handhold all night. Which... it had.

We kissed again, until it dissolved into snorts and nose bumps, laughing so hard we were gasping more than kissing., until he rolled half on top of me, pinning me into the sheets.

"Spence!" I squeaked, still laughing. Definitely not a protest, but he froze like it was.

"Sorry—I'm crushing you."

God, only he would apologize right now. "You are," I shot back, smirking. "And I like it. Don't move."

Before he could answer, I twisted and slid on top of him. His eyes went wide, and the look on his face—worth it. Like I'd just broken some law of physics.

"But this position has its benefits," I said, pretending to catch my breath, mostly just to gloat.

We were both still laughing, kissing in between, until it finally slowed. My heartbeat did not. I caught myself staring—his hair a wreck, lips red, still smiling like he couldn't believe this was real. And me? Yeah, I was gone.

He shifted closer, bracing on his elbow, his hand tracing across my ribs—light, tentative, like he was testing the line. His mouth grazed my neck, then hovered at the corner of my lips, dragging it out like he enjoyed making me wait.

"I love you," I blurted, still laughing under my breath, because apparently timing is not my strong suit.

"I love you too," he said immediately, before I even finished, like he'd been waiting to say it again.

I tugged him down for another kiss, his tongue brushing mine before he nipped at my already swollen lip. Straddling Spencer Reid, being kissed into oblivion. Truly, thoughts and prayers for me in this difficult time.

When we broke apart, I brushed his jaw with my thumb, unable to wipe the stupid look off my face. "You know you're glowing, right?"

He groaned, face going red instantly. "Quinn."

"What? You are. It's unfair." I laughed, tugging him back up to me again.

We were still giggling into each other's mouths, tangled in the sheets, when—

Naturally, that's the exact moment the universe decided to humiliate me.

A throat cleared.

We froze.

Charlotte Bennett — aka Gran — stood in the doorway, arms crossed, satisfaction written all over her face.

"Well," she said, "that's one way to break in a set of Egyptian cotton sheets."

I squeaked and yanked the blanket over my head. Spencer scrambled too, trying to cover both of us, eyes wide with horror.

Flat on his back beneath me, curls a mess, he just stared like dying on the spot would've been preferable.

And then Gran's voice, smooth as ever, floated in from the doorway.

"I'm Charlotte Bennett," she said. "I'm assuming this is the infamous Dr. Reid."

I groaned into his chest. What was wrong with my family? Why did they always have to show up at the worst possible time.

I met his eyes in the dark, both of us frozen. All I could do was mouth, sorry.

Then I yelled, "Could we get a minute, please?"

"Of course," Gran said, smooth as anything. "Tea's in the conservatory. I'll expect you there shortly..."

Reluctantly crawling off his lap, I dropped back against the mattress. "Kill me."

Spencer cleared his throat, awkward even in a whisper. "She... seemed polite?"

That almost made me laugh, which only made the situation worse. We untangled ourselves in record time, dragging clothes on without looking at each other too much. I tried to smooth my hair into something less sex just happened, but judging by Spencer's ears still flaming red, we weren't fooling anyone.

By the time we made it down the hall, I could already smell the tea brewing. Of course she was ready. Gran probably had a whole tray waiting, like this was Sunday brunch and not my personal humiliation parade.

We stepped into the conservatory, sunlight stabbing through all that glass like even God wanted front-row seats. And there she was, not a hair out of place, acting like she hadn't just cockblocked me into next week.

"So what brings you here Gran?" I blurted before I could stop myself.

She arched one perfectly drawn eyebrow. "Really, Quinn. You didn't think your mother would call me in hysterics? Such a drama queen, that one." She waved it off like it was the most tedious thing in the world. "I told her to breathe, pour herself a martini, and leave this to me."

I dropped into the chair opposite her, half glaring, half resigned. "So you just what? Decided to drive down to supervise?"

Gran sipped her tea, eyes cutting to Spencer with open approval. "I wasn't going to be the only one who hadn't met this fine young gentleman."

Spencer flushed scarlet. "Oh—uh—Spencer. Spencer Reid," he stammered, half rising from his chair before awkwardly sitting back down again. "It's—it's very nice to meet you, Ms. Bennett."

Her smile widened. “Dr. Reid,” she corrected gently. Of course she’d knight him on the spot. Meanwhile, I was two seconds from sliding under the table and pretending I didn’t exist. “The pleasure is mine.”

Then, with absolutely no restraint, she leaned back in her chair and gave him a once-over like she was appraising a piece of art.

"My word," she said. "You're even more handsome than I expected. Quinn, darling, I see exactly what had you so smitten all those months ago."

I choked on my tea. "Gran."

Spencer looked like he might actually combust as he fumbled for something polite to say.

"Oh, don't blush, dear," Gran said breezily, patting his hand again. "It's meant as a compliment. Though I do hope you've got some backbone, because my granddaughter is hardly a shrinking violet."

I dropped my head into my hands. "Please stop talking."

Gran set her teacup down and leaned forward, eyes locked on Spencer. "Now then, Dr. Reid, tell me all about yourself. Don't leave anything out. I want the full picture."

Spencer straightened so fast he nearly knocked his knee on the table. "Oh—uh—well, I... I'm a Supervisory Special Agent with the FBI. Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Gran's expression lit up like Christmas. "Fascinating. And where did you study?"

"Caltech. Then MIT. Then I, uh, completed three doctorates—"

Her brows shot up in delight. "Three?"

"Technically four," he admitted, ears pink.

Gran laughed, low and pleased, "Good heavens. A genius at the table. Quinn, why didn't you warn me?"

I don't know how long she sat there, positively hitting on him with every question. She basically put him through speed dating with a résumé attached. She even slid in little digs about our family's long, illustrious lineage of lawyers, just to see if he'd be impressed.

And bless him, Spencer just answered. Every single one. Patient, polite, blushing now and then, but never hesitating. He even asked her questions back — about the family history, about her career, about our traditions. Like he actually wanted to know.

By the time she finally set her teacup down, I was pretty sure she adored him more than she adored me.

Spencer eventually cleared his throat. "Excuse me — I just need a moment," he said, rising with that polite little half-smile that meant he was dying for air.

He squeezed my shoulder as he passed, giving him a grin before I turned back around to Gran.

Her eyes were already on me. "Well?"

"Well what?" I muttered, sinking lower in my chair.

"Darling, that man is in love with you," she said simply, as if she'd just announced the weather. "I'd put money on a ring before long."

I nearly choked on my tea... again. "Gran. You literally walked in right after the first time. A ring is not on the table."

Her lips twitched, fighting a smile. "Mm. Perhaps not tonight. But don't be naïve, Quinn. Men like that — men who look at you the way he does — they don't come around often. And you need to be careful who sees it."

She let that hang for a moment, then added, quieter,  "Your father never understood love. He mistook control for it. Resentment. That's why he can't stand to see you happy. Don't ever measure Dr. Reid against him, because they are not the same breed of man."

No universe exists where I'm dumb enough to compare the two. but she wasn't done.

"The way he looks at you—it's a tell. And tells get exploited, Quinn. Always." Great. Nothing like turning my love life into a poker game.

"Jesus Gran, this is supposed to be tea. Not therapy."
I swallowed hard, staring down at my tea instead of meeting her eyes.

~*~
My inbox pinged. Another rejection.

"After careful review, we've decided not to move forward..." Blah blah blah. I'd read this email twelve times in twelve different fonts. I slammed the laptop shut, but the rejection still stuck anyway—gross, like gum on my shoe I couldn't scrape off.

I slumped back, staring at the ceiling, debating whether coffee or sulking came first. Probably both.

Then warmth brushed my neck, a kiss, quick and sweet but my whole body went oh, right, happiness does exists. Spencer.

I tilted toward him automatically, smiling, but froze when I actually looked.

He was dressed. Suit jacket. Tie. Messenger bag.

"Wait." My voice cracked. "You're leaving? Already?"

"It's been six weeks, Quinn."

I narrowed my eyes. "I know that, I just—" I waved helplessly at him. "Do you have to? Right now? I'm unemployed, you're my only source of entertainment, and you're just gonna abandon me to... daytime television? That's cruel."

That earned me one of his small half-smiles, that always made me want to kick him and kiss him at the same time.

"I'll call you tonight," he said gently.

"Yeah, but tonight is hours away," I muttered. "Do you know how long hours are when you've got nothing but rejection emails and Judge Judy reruns?"

He just shook his head, amused, while I sulked harder in the chair.

"Fine. Go be a sexy FBI profiler. I'll just..." I waved at my laptop. "Rot."

That pulled another smile out of him. He bent down, kissed me quickly then without a word, he reached into his pocket and slid something across the table toward me.

A key....

My head snapped up. "You're kidding."

"Stay and rot for as long as you want."

I blinked at the key, then at him. "You... you get this isn't casual, right? This is toothbrush-level big."

He didn't answer, just watched me with that maddening calm.

Words tumbled out before I could stop them. "Because once I leave one here, that's it. His-and-hers territory. Drawers. Arguments about cereal brands. Me reorganizing your books—"

"Quinn." His mouth twitched.

I bit back a smile, heat rushing up my neck. "I'm just saying... this is you saying you want me here. Not visiting. Not temporary. Here."

He leaned in, kissed me again, stupidly gentle for someone who'd just blown up my whole morning. When he pulled back, his eyes stayed on mine."Then we're officially in his-and-hers territory. Pick a drawer. Or a toothbrush. Whatever you want."

I blinked at him, heart thudding like an idiot, while he straightened his jacket and shouldered his bag.

"Okay," he said softly. "I should go."

"Wait." I shot out of the chair before he made it to the door. "You forgot something."

He stopped, eyebrows lifted. "What?"

"Love you." God it felt good to say that, then caught his tie and yanked him down for a kiss.

When I very reluctantly let go, he just shook his head. Not annoyed, not even close. Just that look, the one that said he was just as crazy about me. "And I love you."

"Go," I muttered, giving his jacket a lame shove. "Before I trap you here."

He left smiling.

And me? I flopped back into the chair, staring at the ceiling like it might throw me a bone.

So... Spencer was gone.

Which left... me. With my own thoughts. A nightmare combo. My brain doesn't do "quiet." It does spirals. It does: how are you going to survive unemployment, pay rent, keep Garfield alive, and not completely implode?

And once you start spiraling about responsibility, apparently the next logical stop is... Hotch.

Oh, for god's sake. Really? Out of all the people my brain could land on.

But then a grin tugged at my mouth. After everything we'd been through, he owed me. At the very least, he could keep me company until Spencer came back.

"Perfect," I muttered. "Emotional support Hotchner. Just what I needed."

Sure, he could be terrifying and broody, but what was he going to do — glare me into silence? Please. I could outlast him. And if he thought he was getting a quiet afternoon? He was about to be very, very disappointed.

~*~
Several hours later, I was cross-legged on Hotch's living room floor with Jack, a pile of crayons scattered across the rug between us. Jack sprawled on his stomach, sketching a knight with a sword that bent clear off the page.

"Boys like swords," he said without looking up.

"Noted." I shaded in a wolf on my page, adding a few teeth for good measure. "Dinosaurs still hold up? Or is that outdated intel?"

"Dinosaurs are awesome, but I'm into Marvel at the moment." he muttered, smirking as he reached for the red crayon.

"Dude. We are so watching Thor after this." Because if I couldn't have my pretty hazel eye boyfriend to look at then Chris and Tom will just have to do.

From the armchair, Hotch lowered the book he hadn't turned a page of in at least an hour. He'd been watching me off and on all afternoon, like he still hadn't figured out how I'd managed to worm my way into his house.

Jack glanced over at my wolf. "That looks so real."

"Perks of unemployment," I said dryly, tapping the paper. "Too much time on my hands. And I'm already terrible at it. I've been bored out of my mind for days."

That finally drew Hotch in. He closed the book and set it on the table. "What are you going to do now?"

I groaned, tossing the crayon back into the box. "Why does everyone need to know? Why can't I just... wallow I n peace?"

He just stared. Which was somehow worse than a lecture — at least those come with bullet points.

To distract myself, I pulled out my sketchbook and started flipping through. Garfield. Faces. Random doodles. Then I landed on one I hadn't meant for anyone to see: Spencer. His profile bent over a chessboard, his hair falling in his eyes, mouth caught mid-thought. The second I saw it, I was grinning like an idiot. Him, exactly the way he'd looked that first time in the park — brow furrowed, lost in it, like the rest of the world didn't exist.

Hotch leaned forward before I could turn the page. His eyes lingered on it. "You could go into art."

I let out a harsh laugh. "Oh, yeah. That'll go over great with Victor. 'Surprise, Dad, I'm broke and sketching for a living.' He'd probably frame my rejection emails before he'd ever hang one of these."

Hotch didn't smile. He leaned back in the chair, studying me, and the whole room felt heavier. Then again, my father always did have a talent for draining the life out of everything.

I stared at the drawing, throat tight, and before I could stop myself, I said, "Last week, Spencer had the unfortunate mishap of meeting my family... Victor was a grade A asshole. No surprises there. But the whole time it felt like he was working an angle. It always does with him."

Hotch's gaze sharpened. "It's not like him to let an opportunity slip. Did you ever find out what he was after?"

I shook my head, snapping the sketchbook shut. My eyes flicked to the laptop on the table, screen glowing with another inbox notification. "No. He didn't get the chance. But with the way these emails keep piling up, I think this is exactly what he wanted."

Jack hummed quietly to himself, still coloring, oblivious.

Hotch didn't move. But the look in eyes said it all. "Quinn, you know what he's capable of. Don't make the mistake of underestimating him now."

Please. Underestimating my father wasn't the problem. Surviving him was.

Chapter 25: By Name Only

Notes:

Okay, so from here on out we’re not exactly sticking to canon anymore 👀. Think of it as canon-adjacent with some creative detours (aka: me gleefully messing with timelines and adding my own mayhem).

Legal Representation
This is the most common usage, where a legal professional, such as a lawyer, provides legal services to a client. This includes appearing in court, negotiating settlements, and advising on legal documents

 

                                ~~📖Quinn📖~~
  
I'd reached that dangerous level of boredom where normal people might take up a hobby like Yoga, or you know bake banana bread. Me? I was building my own Dewey Decimal system out of Spencer's book shelves.

Even I was judging me at this point.

Darwin was hanging out with astronomy because I decided evolution and stars deserved each other. Emerson got shoved next to physics for balance. Aristotle? Babysitting medical journals, obviously.

It made perfect sense in my head. And sure, it would probably make his eye twitch when he saw it, but hey, it killed the last twenty minutes.

Garfield sat on top of the Shakespeare pile like a disapproving librarian, tail flicking every time I moved another book.

"Don't look at me like that," I muttered at him. "You try finding hobbies you like when you're unemployed."

But then, my phone rang across the carpet. I lunged for it, nearly face-planting into Dickens.

"Reid," I said, already grinning. "Please tell me you're calling to save me from my own genius."

A pause. The wary kind. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing incriminating," I said quickly. "Just... reorganizing."

He groaned. "Quinn—"

"Relax. Your books are fine. They're just making new friends. Medical journals and Aristotle are bonding. It's very wholesome."

"Wholesome?" His voice did little high pitch at the end, which was a whole other level of adorable.

"Yes... it's been... a productive afternoon, actually. Did you know Dickens makes a surprisingly sturdy bookend for particle physics?"

Silence. Then the tiniest sigh, like he was already regretting giving me a key.

"You know I'll have to fix all of that when I get home."

"That's the point," I shot back.

Another pause. And yeah, that was a laugh, which is a win in my opinion.

I smirked. "I think you'll enjoy my reorganization."

"Well," he said slowly, "I won't have to wait long to see it."

I sat up straighter. "Define how long."

"The university reached out," he explained, sliding into that ramble. "They've been short on lecturers this semester, and apparently someone remembered I'd done guest teaching before. They asked if I could take a slot while I'm on my mandatory leave. The Bureau thought it might be... a good use of my time off."

My jaw dropped. "So let me get this straight. You're about to be Professor Reid. With ties and chalkboards and terrified undergrads."

He hesitated. "Yes?"

"Oh my God." I pressed a hand to my chest. "I'm not missing that for anything. You, in a classroom, talking for three hours straight, doing those ridiculous hand gestures? That's my Oscars, my World Cup, whatever. I'll be there with popcorn."

"Quinn—"

"Nope. Don't you dare take this from me."

I could practically see him—shaking his head, ears pink, trying not to smile.

"You'd actually sit through my lectures?" he asked softly.

"Spence, I live for your tangents. You think I'd miss the chance to watch you traumatize freshmen with your brilliance?"

That earned me another quiet chuckle.

Before I could milk it, my laptop chimed. Subject line: Inmate Representation Request.

"Huh."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Spam, probably," I muttered, already clicking. "Some inmate filing a request for me as counsel. Which is hilarious, since I'm not practicing right now." The form was boilerplate, nothing flashy. I deleted it, not even bothering to read the name, and shut the screen. "Anyway—more important—do I need to buy you elbow patches, or do they issue those along with the syllabus?"

He didn't answer.

"Spence?" I frowned.

Then the sound of keys rattled in the front door. Garfield's ears perked. My heart lodged into my throat.

I grabbed the nearest book like it was a weapon. "That better be you," I called, "or I'm about to beat someone's ass with Great Expectations."

The door opened, and there he was—curls damp from the rain, messenger bag sliding off his shoulder, crooked tie and that crooked smile.

"Oh, shit," I blurted. "You're actually here?"

His smile widened. "Surprise."

"I didn't even finish wrecking your books—" I started, then gave up, laughing, because none of it mattered... and I could always go back to it. "You're here."

I crossed the room in a rush and practically launched myself at him. He caught me, arms tight around my waist, mouth already finding mine. The kiss was messy, hot, absolutely uncoordinated but perfect.

His curls were damp against my fingers, Garfield weaving figure-eights around our feet like he'd been in on the whole plan. My phone hit the carpet somewhere behind us, forgotten.

There was nothing but his mouth, his tie damp against my sweater, the rough scrape of stubble when I leaned in too far. He tasted like rain and Spencer, and it was criminal how fast my brain went from finally he's home to yeah, I'm dragging him to the bedroom in about thirty seconds.

He pulled back just far enough to breathe, lips still brushing mine, "You know, I could really get used to coming home like this."

"Good," I grinned, grabbing his tie and steering him down the hall, I had zero intention of letting go. His bag hit the floor, Garfield was probably hiding under a couch, and a second later I had Spencer flat on his back on the bed.

I straddled him, tugging the knot tight against my fist. "Tie stays on, Professor," I whispered. "That's non-negotiable."

 

~*~

Two days later I'd sunk to new lows.

Case in point: I was in the kitchen with a sleeve of Oreos, conducting a very serious experiment on how many I could fit in my mouth without dying. Current record: four. Respectable, but I believed in progress.

Garfield sat on the counter, tail flicking, watching like he was about to inherit the lease.

"Five's doable," I told him, peeling another cookie open. "This is science."

That's when my phone buzzed across the table.

I dove for it, almost choking on Oreo dust, and grabbed it. Caller ID: Emily.

Half a cookie went flying into the sink as I scrambled to swallow the rest. "Emily? What happened? Is it Spencer? Tell me it's not Spencer."

Her voice came quick, still not reassuring though. "He's fine."

My knees actually wobbled. "Okay, first of all—don't ever pause like that again if he's fine. My heart stopped. Oreos almost finished the job."

She didn't laugh. Which meant this was bad.

"I need you to come in."

My stomach dropped. "Why? What's going on?"

There was a pause. Jesus could she stop with the suspense here.

"Emily...You're scaring me. What is it?"

"Quinn," she eventually said. "I need you to come in. Please."

The please felt wrong. Emily didn't use it unless something catastrophic had happened. I gripped the counter, heart hammering again. "Come in for what?"

She couldn't say. Which told me more than any answer would.

I didn't even wait for her to hang up — just promised I'd be there shortly and was already grabbing my keys.

Quantico blurred past in record time, panic clamped tighter on the wheel than I did. By the time I killed the engine, my hands were still locked white-knuckle, like letting go meant the worst would happen.

At security, the guard gave me a look like I'd sprinted the whole way here. Which... fair.

Then I shoved through the glass doors, still breathless. "Okay, I'm here," I called, way too loud. "Somebody want to explain why Emily Prentiss just used the word please on me? Because that's basically code for the apocalypse."

Every head turned. Rossi on the stairs with his coffee. JJ in the hall, already frowning. Tara and Luke pausing mid-conversation. Even Garcia popped up from literally out of no where.

So I wasn't surprised when she got to me first, practically throwing her arms around my shoulders. "It's okay, Quinn. We're all here for you."

I froze. "...Why do I suddenly sound like I'm at an intervention?"

Garcia just hugged tighter. Which was not helping.

Then Emily stepped out of the conference room, all cool and calm, unlike myself. "Quinn. Thanks for coming so quickly."

I crossed my arms, heart still hammering. "Yeah, well, you say please and I start picturing morgues. So? Where's Spencer?"

"He's fine," Emily said. Then, moved to stand in front of me. "A few days ago you received an email from an inmate requesting you as their representative. Today, they filed the same request formally, but because of the inmates history with the BAU we were looped in."

I blinked. "Hold on. That was nothing. I thought that was like junk, an old request. I didn't even read it."

Silence. Rossi sipped his coffee. JJ's and practically everyone else's eyes actively avoided looking at me.

And then it clicked.

"...Wait," I said slowly. "What history?"

Before Emily could answer, a door slammed down the hall.

Spencer stormed out of an office, jacket half-off, hair sticking up in about eight different directions, tie crooked like he'd been yanking at it for hours. His whole expression was furious, and yes I'm aware how inappropriate it is to be thinking how hot he looked.

"Unbelievable," he muttered, voice low. "This is bullshit."

The quiet was instant. Because... Spencer just swore? Mr. "Golly Gee," Mr. "Statistics Say"—actually dropped a curse. If I wasn't panicking, I'd be framing the moment.

"Spence?" I asked carefully.

He barely looked at me. "She asked for you. Of all people, she doesn't want us, she doesn't want me...she wants you."

Emily didn't blink as she cotninued. "Which is why you're here."

My stomach lurched. "Okay, can someone stop being cryptic and actually tell me who the hell she is?"

Spencer's head snapped up, eyes burning. "Cat Adams."

The name rattled around in my head. Cat Adams. Cat. Adams. That bitch. My mouth opened, closed—because what the hell was I supposed to do with that?

I laughed. Way too loud, way too much, completely inappropriate. "No. Come on. This is a joke, right? Some sick prank? Because there is no universe where she asks for me?"

Spencer didn't laugh. Nobody did. Emily just stood there, patiently, waiting for me to catch up.

I kept laughing, almost doubled over now. "Her? Out of everyone in the entire justice system, she picks me? That's insane. That's—" I waved a hand, still half-laughing. "No. Absolutely not. Try again."

Spencer's jaw clenched. "She filed the request herself. Wrote your name. Said she won't talk to anyone else."

I looked between them, waiting for them to tell me you're right we're kidding! But it never came.

"Jesus Christ," I muttered, rubbing at my temple. "Unbelievable. Out of everyone in the world, Cat Adams is sitting in a cell thinking, you know who I need in my corner? Quinn Bennett."

I let out another laugh, this one thinner, closer to hysteria. "Nope. Sorry. Not happening."

Emily's voice cut through, "You think I'd drag you in here for fun? She claims she has information we can't afford to ignore."

I just shook my head. "It's bullshit. You know it's bullshit. This isn't about me, it's just her way of throwing Spencer off his game and ruining my week in the process."

Spencer's jaw flexed, hands shoved into his pockets like he needed to hold himself still.

Emily nodded. "That's exactly why we need you in the room. She asked for you. If she thinks it gives her leverage, fine — let her believe it. But she's more likely to slip if you're the one across from her."

I started pacing a tight line. "Oh, great plan. Sit me down with a serial killer who basically kidnapped me and framed my boyfriend? What am I supposed to do let her monologue me to death?"

"Just until we get answers," Emily said evenly.

I stopped, staring between the two of them. "This is insane. You know she has nothing."

"Maybe... or maybe she does." Emily didn't bother waiting for my reply, just walked off to brief the others, leaving me and Spencer by the glass wall of the conference room.

He hadn't stopped fidgeting since I got here, tie still undone curls wild from his hands running through them.

He finally stopped in front of me, eyes locked on mine. "You don't have to do this."

"Spence—"

"I mean it," he cut in, voice low but firm. "You don't owe them. Or her. She's manipulating the situation, and Emily knows it. If you walk away, nobody can blame you."

I leaned back against the wall, crossing my arms. "Yeah, but if I walk away, she clams up. And then what? We miss whatever information she's dangling just because I didn't want to put up with her crazy ass."

"You shouldn't have to," he said, frustrated. His hands moved to cup my face. "She's dangerous, Quinn. She'll use every word, every look, every silence to get inside your head."

I huffed out placing my hands on top of his. "Please. I've been in a room with my father. Cat Adams doesn't scare me.... Not compared to losing you."

His mouth twitched like he didn't know whether to argue or kiss me.

I softened, dropping my voice. "Look, I get it. You want me safe. I want me safe too. But it doesn't really look like I have a choice here, does it? She asked for me. And unless you've got a better idea, this is it."

Spencer finally reached for my hand, gripping it tight. "Just... promise me you won't let her get to you."

I squeezed back, giving him a crooked smile I didn't feel. "Please. I'm Quinn Bennett. Getting under my skin is practically impossible."

He didn't look convinced.

 

~*~

I thought I was done with prisons. Steel doors, bad lighting, bleach that never covered the smell — I'd had my fill. Yet here I was again, apparently a glutton for punishment. My reward? Front-row seating to Cat Adams' one-woman freak show.

Behind me, Spencer shifted, pacing the floor so much I was convinced he was wearing out the linoleum.

"It's not too late," he muttered, low enough only I could hear. "Let's just leave. Emily will understand."

I glanced over my shoulder. He looked seconds away from throwing me over his shoulder and carrying me out. Which was hot. Annoyingly, stupidly hot.

Ok...Note to self I want to be thrown over Spencer's shoulders. Preferably naked.

"Spence," I said gently snapping out of the fantasy, "It's fine. I'll listen to her bullshit, tell her she's crazy, and then we'll go get lunch. Easy day."

His eyes snapped to mine, incredulous. "Seriously? You're thinking about food?"

I shrugged, smirking. "What? A little light verbal sparring with a psychopath before sandwiches? That's Tuesday, babe."

He didn't laugh. Not even a twitch.

Instead, he stepped in, cupped my face and kissed me far too quickly but I could feel him trying to pour every insecurity and fear into it.

"You don't have to do this," he whispered again.

"I know," I said. "I'm going to."

He lingered, then eventually forced himself to the door. One last look, and he was gone — behind the glass now, probably still pacing, not to mention his curls would be peak mess right now.

I pulled out the chair on my side of the table and sat down, ready to get this over with.

The door groaned open. In she walked, shackled at the wrists but smiling like the freaking joker.

Cat Adams.

I'd seen the pictures, the transcripts, Spencer's file notes, but it really wasn't the same seeing her in person. She was smaller than I expected. Sharper. Definitely had the crazy eyes.

She sat. Didn't speak. Just looked at me for a long moment, like she was cataloguing flaws.

Finally, her smile curved. "They actually sent you. Guess I'm more charming than I thought."

I leaned back, arms crossed. "Or everyone else said no. You're not charming, you're transparent."

She didn't reply right away. Just kept staring, like she was waiting for me to squirm. Then, she leant across the table,  "I can see why he likes you. You're very pretty."

Ah yes, every girl's dream, validation from a hitwoman who once tried to frame your boyfriend. Truly a milestone.

I gave her a flat look. "Wow. My self-esteem just peaked. Thanks, that was healing."

Her laugh was low, pleased, like I'd just played into her hands. She leaned back, still smiling. I hated that smile. Hated that she thought I'd give her anything.

"He's so protective isn't he?" she said finally, voice almost casual. "I bet he's out there pacing, all wound tight. One wrong move from me and he'd be through that glass."

I didn't look over my shoulder. Just flicked my eyes at her cuffs. "Good. Would save me the effort."

That laugh again. Great. Gotham called, they want their villain back.

"You really don't scare easily, do you?"

"Not when the so-called criminal mastermind across from me has to ask permission to pee."

Her smile sharpened. "Oh, I like you."

"Don't."

Her smile sent goosebumps up my arm. "This is going to be such fun."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes, "Fun? I'd call it more of a waste of time."

Cat's smile widened. "Waste of time, yet here you are."

I leaned back, arms crossed. "Yeah, well, you dangled information, and it's hard to say no to free comedy."

Her brow ticked. "Comedy?"

"Sure," I said. "Every time you open your mouth, I get a new laugh."

Her smile tightened, the first real moment of seeing the true Cat appearing. "Careful, Quinn. You laugh now, but we both know who's really paying attention." Her eyes slid past me, toward the glass where Spencer stood with Emily and Rossi.

My jaw tightened. "No."

Her brows lifted. "No?"

"You don't get to look at him," I snapped. "Not now, not ever. You so much as twitch in his direction and this ends with me across this table."

If she tried it again, I'd happily take the assault charge.

Her smirk faltered for the briefest second. Good.

"Here's what you keep forgetting," I added. "You're the one in the cage. I get to walk out, go grab some lunch, and go home with the man you couldn't break. Tell me again who's supposed to be intimidated."

Newsflash, sweetheart—I'm not the one in shackles

For once, Cat didn't have an immediate jab. She studied me, eyes narrowing like she tried to come up with another insult.

Then she laughed softly. "Oh, I get it now. You're his little guard dog. That's cute."

I leaned forward, voice low. "Careful. I don't just bark."

Her grin widened. "Shall we just cut to the chase then"

"About damn time."

She chuckled again, pausing long enough so she had that whole dramatic flair going.  "You're going to represent me."

Wow. She really is delusional.

I blinked, then barked out a laugh that was way too loud for the room. "Represent you? Are you serious? You're not walking out of here. You're a one-woman crime anthology. They'd need a forklift to haul your record into court."

"This isn't about walking," she said smoothly. "It's about living. Death row's on the table, Quinn. Unless I've got a lawyer. Unless I've got a judge who knows how to stall."

My eyes narrowed. "What judge would be stupid enough to help you?"

She tilted her head, that smug little think about it look. And damn it, the pieces lined up. Because who else would be egotistical enough to play games with a serial killer?

I arched a brow. "Let me guess....Victor Bennett? That's your big plan? If you're banking on my dad, you're already screwed."

She didn't flinch. "He doesn't have to save me. Just drag it out. Appeals, delays, mistrials. Long enough for me to keep breathing.... To keep playing."

I folded my arms. "And you think I'd go along with that because... what, I woke up this morning craving career suicide?"

Her smile sharpened. "No. You're going to go along because if I start talking, or not getting what I want your father's cases get dragged under the microscope. Every signature. Every ruling. And some of those rulings? They've got Reid's name attached. Imagine that on the evening news."

I forced the words to come out. "So that's the grand plan? Blackmailing a federal judge? Adorable. I'll send flowers to your execution date."

Her grin didn't waver though. "He says you're predictable. All temper, no restraint. But I don't think so. I think you've got more bite than you let people see."

I arched a brow. "So you two have been chatting. How sweet. Takes a real talent to find another asshole on your wavelength."

Her smile sharpened. "Call it what you want. The point is, I've got leverage. And leverage doesn't vanish just because you decide you're done listening."

My stomach twisted, but I didn't blink. She wanted the panic. Not happening bitch.

Her smile thinned. "One word from me, and Reid's name gets dragged straight through the mud. Hearings. Reporters. You think he survives that again?"

That did it. I shoved back my chair and stood. "You know what? Enjoy rotting."

Either I walked now, or I'd claw her eyes out. And I didn't trust Emily to stop me in time.

I turned for the door, getting so far as to reach for the handle before her next words hit me.

"You really think Spencie's untouchable?"

My hand froze on the door. Did she seriously just threaten Spencer? Would I risk his career—his life—just to spite her? My stomach flipped, pulse spiking. No. Not a chance. She didn't get to breathe his name.

That's when I crossed the room again, and dropped back into my chair.

"Keep his name out of your mouth," I snapped, leaning in close enough to bite. Then I matched her smile with one of my own. "Now. Start talking."

Cat's grin sharpened, but for the first time she looked almost... pleased. And that was the part that scared me most—that I might have just given her exactly what she wanted.

Chapter 26: The Irony Isn’t Lost On Me

Defense counsel (n.)
A licensed attorney appointed or retained to represent the accused in a criminal proceeding.
Their duty: to protect the client's constitutional rights, ensure due process, and argue zealously — even when the client is a monster.

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

The drive back was quiet in that tense, stupid way where even breathing felt like asking for a fight.
The wipers squealed across the glass, the turn signal clicked too loud, and Spencer's jaw looked like it could crack under the pressure.

He hadn't looked at me once since we left the prison. I told myself he was just concentrating on the road, but the steering wheel didn't require that much emotional investment.

Every nerve in my body was screaming say something, but also—don't. Which was just peak emotional limbo.
I stared out the window for maybe thirty seconds before deciding spontaneous combustion would hurt less than this silence.

"You know," I said, leaning back, "statistically speaking, this is the quietest you've ever been in a moving vehicle."

Nothing. Not even a twitch. Just more jaw tension and rain pounding the windshield.

Fantastic. Truly. I love this new version of us—silent, traumatized, marinating in bad decisions.
I was seconds away from flinging myself out of the car just to break the tension. Maybe tuck and roll onto the median, go out dramatically. Honestly, that sounded less awkward than another ten minutes of this.

"Come on. Not even a fun fact about tire friction or hydroplaning? Throw me a bone, Doctor."

He exhaled hard through his nose. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Make jokes."

"I'm not joking." I paused. "Okay, I'm joking a little."

"You're deflecting," he said. "Like always."

I turned to the window. Rain and headlights blurred together into nothing.

"First of all, rude. Second, I thought I said you're not allowed to profile me anymore."

"I wasn't profiling. I was stating a fact."

"Either way, you're being rude."

His knuckles went white on the wheel. "You shouldn't have been in there at all."

"I'm sorry—when did this suddenly become my fault?" I shot back. "It's not like I volunteered for the job."

"She asked for you."

"She demanded me. There's a difference. Welcome to criminal defense—you don't really get to pick your clients."

He finally looked at me. "She's using you," he said, voice cracking. "To get to me. I know it."

"Wow, look at you profiling. What gave it away—the sociopath part or the ruining-your-life part?"

"Stop."

"Stop what? Accurately describe her?"

"Don't talk about her like she's harmless."

"She is harmless, Spencer. She's in prison. You're not. End of story."

He pulled into his building's lot too fast, tires hissing over wet pavement. The brakes hit hard enough that my seatbelt dug into my collarbone.

"She's not harmless," he said again, quieter this time. "Not to me. Not to you."

I unbuckled slowly. "You know you're doing exactly what she wants right now."

Something in him snapped. He stared straight ahead, voice low, like he was talking to himself more than to me. I'd seen that look once before—when prison had nearly broken him.

"You think I can just turn it off? After what she did? You think I can just stop hearing her voice, stop seeing the way she was looking at you, talking to you?"

I sighed. "No. But you could stop acting like she still owns part of you."

"She doesn't." He shoved the door open. "That's the problem. She's trying to own you now."

The walk inside wasn't any better. Spencer was halfway to the door before I'd even locked the car. Apparently we were power-walking our way through our emotions now, which was new. Not effective. But new.

Nothing says "healthy relationship" like fighting in damp socks outside a condo complex.

I followed, slower. Not because I was sulking—okay, maybe a little—but mostly because I wasn't about to have another round of "Reid versus Reality" in the hallway where Mrs. Klein from 2B would definitely pretend to water her ferns while collecting gossip for her bridge group.

By the time I got in, he'd dumped his keys on the counter, flung the satchel over his shoulder, and was mid-fight with his tie. Garfield took one look at Spencer, hissed in judgment, and climbed onto the fridge.

I'd have joined him if physics allowed.

Spencer was soaked, furious, every muscle in his jaw doing its own little protest march. Objectively not the time to notice, but furious looks weirdly good on him. Like, unfairly good.

"You're not going to represent her," he said finally.

I looked up from wringing rain out of my sleeve. "Oh, okay, great, I'll just tell the federal court my boyfriend said no. I'm sure that'll go over well."

He didn't even blink. "I'm serious."

"Yeah, so am I. This is my job, Spencer. You think I enjoy it? You think I want to sit across from her again? Defend her? When she deserves to be on death row?"

He didn't answer, just stared like he could will me into changing my mind.

"You don't get it," he said. "You don't know what it's like to be inside her head."

"No... and thank fuck I never will. But we know there's a reason she wanted me. She wants to get to you, so if I play her little games, I can stop her from hurting you."

He stepped in closer, rain still dripping from his hair, eyes doing that full-on puppy-dog thing he pulls when he knows I'm about to crack. "She could still hurt me... just by hurting you."

Oh, great. The eyes. The sad, wet, emotionally-compromised genius routine.

"She won't."

"She will. She always does." His voice cracked again. "And I can't—" He stopped.

I didn't push. I knew the rest; I'd heard it in every nightmare we both pretended he didn't have.

When he spoke again, it was quiet. "I can't lose you."

For a second, neither of us moved. It felt like one of those moments that could either change nothing or absolutely everything, and you don't realize which until it's too late.

I stepped closer until our feet were practically touching. "You're not going to."

"You can't promise that."

"I just did."

He looked at me for a long time, searching for something I couldn't give him. Then his hand came up, fingers trembling against my jaw.

And that was it. I don't even know how we got here. One minute we're fighting, the next I'm thinking about how he's the only person who can piss me off like this and I still love him for it.

The kiss wasn't pretty. It wasn't soft or careful or any of that stuff they write about in books or shoot in movies. It was rough and fast, like both of us had decided words weren't going to work anymore.

He was wet, still shaking, and apparently past the point of caring. So I grabbed him. Problem solved.

He kissed me like he was terrified I'd disappear.
And I kissed him like I wasn't going anywhere. He tasted annoyingly good. Figures.

We stumbled back until my hip hit the counter. He caught himself, barely, one hand still in my hair, the other somewhere near the sink like that was going to help. Something crashed to the floor — maybe a mug, maybe our last shred of self-control — and neither of us even looked.

He laughed against my mouth, which made me laugh, which somehow made it worse. His tie caught on my button, my shoe slipped, and I thought, perfect, we're about to concuss ourselves mid-make-up.

He pulled back just enough to breathe, and I should probably have said something clever or rational, but my brain was busy obsessing over how he smelled like the rain and coffee. Then he kissed me again, deeper, and I stopped pretending I had any kind of plan — or the fact we were literally arguing not even a second ago.

He lifted me onto the counter, his hands still damp, everything else burning, and I made a sound I really hoped never left that apartment.

I practically ripped his belt off, his hands flying to my pants, but we didn't break apart. I jumped a little at the touch of his fingers as they pressed against me, and my whole body caught fire when he gently pushed in.

I rocked against his hand as he kissed down my neck, mumbling incoherent things while I wrapped my legs around him. He was the perfect height for this, his fingers moving in and out, hitting that spot each time while his thumb swirled around me.

It was so good that I jolted with every thrust. Until I couldn't take it anymore. I was so goddamn wound tight that I pushed his hand away, undid his pants, and grabbed him.

I was done with the teasing. I wanted him. Now. Great. Turns out anger is a turn-on. That feels healthy.

He got the message as he pushed inside me. We both moaned at the feeling, the fullness. Who knew sex on a counter could be this hot? My lips attacked his neck as we moved with each other, his hands gripping my hips to keep the rhythm.

It wasn't slow or sweet—just hot, fast, and completely us. I'm 90% sure we're about to break the counter. Fine. Worth it.

One of his hands slid between us, pulling me over the edge in no time. Everything went white and I bit down on his neck, trying not to scream.

Not even a second later he was right there with me, panting my name as his whole body went taut with his own release.

We stayed there for a while, just breathing, both of us too wiped out to speak. He looked completely undone—hair everywhere, shirt half-off, eyes still glazed. I should’ve been embarrassed by how proud that made me. I wasn’t.

The kitchen was a mess, and somewhere in the middle of catching my breath I realized I couldn't even remember what we'd been fighting about.

"We should fight more often," I managed between breaths as he kissed my face like an apology.

He laughed, half-groan, half-relief. Dumbest way to make up? Absolutely. But also, the most us thing imaginable.

~*~

It had been a month.

Thirty-one days of coffee that tasted like stress. Seven days of Spencer flinching every time I said hearing. Seven days of motions, counters, addendums, and one very polite email from a federal clerk reminding me that "counsel is expected to appear in person when named on the record."

Translation: Cat said jump, and the whole building asked how high.

I wasn't being dramatic. I was just tired. And pissed. And trying not to throw a chair while I protected the man I loved from a woman who should've been muzzled years ago.

Security lines snaked across the marble, every inch crammed with people who looked as tired as I felt. The second I cleared the metal detector, the press pounced.

"Ms. Bennett, how do you feel defending a serial killer?" someone shouted.

"Are you and your father coordinating her appeal?" another called out.

"Did the Bureau push you into this case because of Dr. Reid?"

"Back off," I said—not loud, just with no room to argue. "You can yell questions without touching me."

Flash. Flash. Flash.

"Are you hoping this will make your career?" a woman asked, flinging the recording device in my face.

They kept shouting. I kept moving. In, out, in, out. The deputy at the courtroom nodded me through with as much enthusiasm as you can imagine given the circumstances.

And then I saw him.

My... father... stood just outside chambers, already in robes, posture perfect, expression unreadable. He didn't wave. He never did. But he saw me. And that was enough to make my stomach twist.

I walked over anyway, heels echoing too loud on the tile. "Morning," I said.

He gave me that small nod judges use when they're pretending to be impartial. "You're cutting it close."

"I stopped for coffee," I said. "Figured I'd need something to get through whatever circus this turns into."

"I need you to be serious, for once in your life." he said softly.

That wasn't a warning, or a lecture. It was worry. Which somehow made the coffee in my stomach feel like making a reappearance.

"You okay?" I asked.

He didn't answer right away—just adjusted his cuffs and kept his eyes on the clerk down the hall. "You know this isn't going to end well."

"Yeah," I said. "For her."

He sighed. "You can still file a withdrawal."

"Too late," I said. "Besides, if I bail, she wins."

"She already thinks she's winning."

It stung—mostly because he had a point, and I hated that he was right.

I folded my arms. "What has she got on you that would make you agree to this?"

His jaw tightened. "Quinn—"

"Don't 'Quinn' me. You're the judge on this, and you've been twitchy and a grade A asshole since the day you popped back into my life. So what is it? What does she have?"

"Nothing I could prove," he said finally. His voice dropped low. "And that's the problem."

For a second, neither of us spoke. He just looked at me like he wanted to tell me something and couldn't.

"Whatever she's doing, I'll handle it," I said quietly.

"You always think you can," he murmured.

"Maybe because I usually do."

He almost smiled at that, but his eyes didn't soften. "Be careful," he said.

I nodded, straightened my jacket, and pushed through the doors before he could say anything else.

Inside wasn't better. It just looked like it should be — polished, organized, pretending this was just another hearing and not a setup waiting to happen. Reporters filled the gallery, typing like caffeinated vultures. The prosecutor sat at one table. Cat's team at the other — not just Lang, but two senior defense attorneys I recognized from high-profile federal cases. Big names. Expensive ones.

My first thought: why the hell were there three of them?

My second: what the fuck had I just walked into?

Cat was already at her table, shackled but still managing to look like this was her idea. She spotted me the second I walked in—same psycho eyes, same smug little half-smile. Great. We were off to a stellar start.

Dad had somehow made it to the bench in record time, poker face ready.

"Why am I even here if Lang's arguing?" I muttered.

Lang didn't look at me. "Because she said she wouldn't speak unless you were in the chair, those were her terms."

"She," I repeated.

"You know who."

Yeah. I did. Great. So I wasn't counsel — I was entertainment.

Cat tilted her head in that slow, creepy way that made me think she practiced in the mirror.

And then I felt him before I saw him. Spencer was in the back row, elbows on his knees, watching me like he was waiting for the floor to disappear. One nod. Mine back. Our version of a plan: survive, tell the truth, don't give Cat the satisfaction.

The bailiff called the room to order. Everyone stood, sat, exhaled. Victor went through the motions — case caption, procedural notes, narrow scope of today's hearing.

This was supposed to be simple — a procedural review. Cat's team had filed to reassess her death-row sentence, arguing there were "mitigating circumstances" that should move her to life without parole. Basically, they were trying to swap the needle for a cell. A long shot, but not impossible.

My job was just to make sure the process looked clean — sign the paperwork, sit through a few hours of legal theater, and go home. That was the deal. No surprises.

Lang stood. "Your Honor, the defense has two preliminary matters."

Of course he did.

"First, to reaffirm Ms. Bennett's appearance as counsel of record per the court's notice."

"All set," I said quickly. Box checked. Let's move on.

He flipped a page. "Second, we move to enter supplemental discovery relevant to counsel's conduct and the integrity of these proceedings."

I blinked. Counsel's conduct? That was lawyer-speak for someone's about to accuse someone of something big.

The prosecutor was already on her feet. "Objection. The government hasn't been given time—"

"It's a single exhibit," Lang said, the guy was giving off snake vibes.

What exhibit? What the fuck was this?

Victor hesitated. His gaze flicked to Cat. She didn't even look at him — just smoothed her sleeve.

"Admitted for identification," Victor said finally.

Supplemental discovery my ass. You don’t spring evidence like this in open court unless you’re fishing for headlines.

And that was the moment I should've known everything was about to go sideways.

The clerk handed out slim binders — one to the bench, one to the prosecutor, one to me. Mine landed with a soft thunk. Tabs, neat labels. Nothing too sinister so far.

Until I opened it.

From: Quinn Bennett
To: Cat Adams
Date: Feb 8
Subject: Re: Requests
Keep your mouth shut and I can stall the warrant.

My stomach just... dropped. Then I laughed — loud enough that a few heads turned. Because sure, why not laugh when the universe decides to implode right in front of you.

Page two.
Feb 14 — Reid won't be a problem.
Page three.
Dad's drafting the delay.

My name. My signature block. The footer from my old firm — the one that fired me right before the merger. Which, for the record, looked fantastic now. Every timestamp, every header lined up so neatly it almost dared me to argue.

If someone forged this, they'd done their homework.

"These are fabricated," I said. Not for show — just because it was the only sentence that made sense.

Lang didn't look at me. His attention firmly on Victor, "Server logs trace to Ms. Bennett's home network and prior firm. Forensic declaration under seal."

Server logs. Translation: the email looked like it had come from my house and my old office. Timestamps, IPs, the whole digital receipt that said this came from here.

The gallery erupted in whispers. Cameras clicked.

I could literally hear my pulse.

The prosecutor said, "The government requests a recess and protective order—if these are forgeries, we'll pursue it. If not—"

Lang cut her off. "If not, we request a stay due to apparent misconduct."

In other words: Pause everything while we ruin her life.

Victor's gavel hit wood, trying to pull the room back under control.

I lifted the binder, flipping pages just to keep my hands moving. "Your Honor, those emails are not mine. I never contacted the defendant before the summons. I never promised anything. I never—"

"Then how do you explain the headers?" Lang interrupted, voice dripping with fake sympathy.

I shot him a look. "Your Honor, the point of this hearing was to reassess Ms. Adams's death-row sentence—not turn it into a sideshow about me. If opposing counsel wanted a defamation case, he picked the wrong courtroom."

Victor opened his mouth, probably to warn me, but I didn't stop. "Digital forgery exists," I said. "So do compromised accounts. So do sociopaths with Wi-Fi and too much free time."

A few reporters actually laughed. Great — glad someone was enjoying this shit show.

Something shifted in the back — a chair, maybe. I glanced over and there he was, standing like he was about to throw himself between me and the table. He didn't say a word — the look on his face did all the yelling for him.

"Sir, you need to sit down," the deputy warned him.

He didn't. Just shook his head once like I don't like where this is going. Dude. Same here.

Then Cat moved — just a tilt of her head. "Counselor," she said, voice syrupy. "You should really read page six."

I shouldn't have. I did.

It wasn't just my name this time. There was a full email chain — fake, but detailed — between me, my old firm, and the court. Stuff about "stalling the warrant," "talking to my dad," even "getting Reid clear before evidence drops."

It looked like I'd been pulling strings behind the scenes — using my dad's position, my firm, and Spencer — to buy Cat more time. Basically, the kind of thing that would get a lawyer disbarred and arrested in the same afternoon.

I stared at it so long my brain lagged. The dates lined up. The addresses looked real.

"Counsel?" Victor said, meaning me. His tone was tight, like he was choking on it.

"I'll be filing my own forensic declaration," I think I said. It could all be in my head at the moment "And sanctions for introducing forged evidence."

Lang smiled. "We welcome the truth."

"Then stop lying," I snapped.

"Ms. Bennett," Victor warned. The Ms. hit harder than the tone.

I bit my tongue, instantly tasting metallic.

Before the prosecutor could speak, one of the other defense lawyers — gray suit, background noise — stood. "Your Honor, I'm here on behalf of a related matter. The Department of Justice issued a supplemental warrant at 8:45 this morning."

A warrant.

For what? Surely not-

I glanced around. Nobody moved. Then the clerk leaned in, whispered something to Victor, and slid a folded paper across the bench. He opened it. His face drained.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

He looked at me like he didn't know me. "Ms. Bennett," he said quietly, "you need to remain seated."

Remain seated? What? Dad, what are you—

Lang's voice cut in, honeyed. "Per Title 18, obstruction of justice and tampering with federal evidence."

I tried to swallow the bile rising. "You're kidding. You're actually—"

The bailiff moved toward me like he was two seconds away from tackling me to the ground.

Cat was smiling now, teeth and all. "Told you she'd look surprised.”

"Your Honor," the prosecutor tried, but Victor's gavel cracked against the bench. "Order!"

No one listened. The room was dissolving — reporters standing, cameras flashing, murmurs turning into noise.

The bailiff stopped at my shoulder, voice low. "Ma'am, I'm sorry. There's a warrant."

"For me?" My voice sounded far away. "What the fuck—"

He hesitated. "I need you to stand."

I didn't. For a second, I just sat there, staring at my hands like they might start typing a rebuttal. Then I stood, because fighting it wouldn't help.

For half a second, I actually thought I might throw up — not from guilt, just from how fast my world was tilting.

Obstruction of justice. Tampering with evidence.
Federal crimes. Prison time.

My brain kept spiraling, trying to find one charge that didn't sound completely fucking insane. There wasn't one.

Spencer's voice cut through everything. "She didn't do this!"

It echoed. Then silence.

The cuffs were cold. The metal slapping against my wrist, as I tried not to complete meltdown.

Cat's laugh slid through the quiet. I kept my chin up, eyes forward. If she wanted a show, she could choke on it.

The cameras kept flashing, the cuffs kept biting, and somewhere behind all that noise, Spencer was still saying my name like that could fix it.

But the only thing I could think was—this was exactly what she wanted.

And I'd just given her the front-row seat.

Chapter 27: The Worst-Case Scenario

Federal Custody (n.)
The detention of a person by federal authorities under charges involving violations of federal law.
Unlike local or state custody, federal defendants are held without the possibility of bail until arraignment or judicial review.

(Bureau of Prisons Policy Statement, Title 18 U.S.C.)

Because once you're in, you're not getting out. Not without proof.

 

                                       📚Spencer 📚

I don't understand what's happening right now.
Me—the genius with the IQ of 186—couldn't seem to comprehend the situation in front of me.

I mean, I understood the U.S. Marshals taking her into custody. The part that didn't make sense was that I'd walked right into it.

Cat's manipulation. Again.

There weren't many moments in my life when I'd felt genuinely... unintelligent. This was one. Mexico was another. Both, unfortunately, courtesy of the same psychopath currently watching this play out.

My brain kept trying to organize the scene — charges, procedure, probable cause — like any of that could make sense. I kept running the same path in my head, over and over, and it always ended the same — her in cuffs.

I should've done something. Argued, objected, something. No, not something. Anything. Anything except just standing there, cataloguing details like it was a crime scene.

She met my eyes as the cuffs went on. Something in my chest just—stopped. For a second, I thought I'd imagined it, like my brain decided to run the worst-case scenario simulation just for fun.

That's when I saw her. Cat. Still in her seat, looking right at me like this was all part of the show.

I don't say this lightly, but I'd never hated anyone more in my life. Not Tobias Hankel. Not Diane Turner.

None of them came close to her.

I hated Cat Adams in a way that didn't fit any psychological profile I'd ever read. It wasn't grief or anger, it was just something I couldn't even name. She figured people out-what they cared about, what they feared—and then she twisted it. No, not twisted. Weaponized it.

And the worst part was that I'd seen it coming, but I still ran straight into it like an idiot, but this time Quinn was the one who lost.

I felt my hands curl, nails biting into my palms, and it took everything I had not to cross the room and—No. That was what she wanted.

So I stood still, but standing still felt wrong. Like failure. Like giving her up before I'd even tried.

She looked back once before they led her out. Just once. Like she knew I'd spend the rest of my life replaying it.

It wasn't fear on her face. Or maybe it was. No—no, it was trust. She was trusting me, to fix this.

That was what made me move.

The Marshals pushed through the crowd while the cameras went off in bursts, and Cat just kept smiling — like the deranged psycho she is.

And Quinn's father—the Honorable Judge Bennett—just stood there watching it happen like it wasn't his daughter at all.

I went straight to him.

"Where are you going?" he asked, horrified I breached the sanctity of his bench.

"To talk to you," I said. "Because I can't talk to her right now."

He adjusted his tie. There was a pause, like he was rehearsing his excuse.

"There's nothing to be done," he said finally. "It would look worse if I stepped in. I'm already being branded a corrupt judge. The last thing she needs is me making it worse."

I stared at him. "That's pathetic."

His head came up fast. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." I took a step closer before I realized I'd moved. "It's your daughter, and what? The optics suddenly matter more?"

He tried to speak, but I didn't let him. "You're not protecting her—you're protecting yourself. From headlines, from scrutiny, from having to stand in front of people and admit you don't control a damn thing."

He didn't answer. He didn't even look at me.

"I think it's best you leave now, Dr. Reid."

I nodded once. "You're right. I should. Someone around here has to actually do something for your daughter."

He blinked, and the look he gave me said it all.

I turned away before I did something I couldn't take back. I was walking, but in the wrong direction. Every step this way took me one step further from her.

And then I saw the guards escorting Cat.

They stood near the transport vans, Cat practically glowing with satisfaction. She looked euphoric—like she'd finally gotten everything she wanted.

Something in me snapped into motion. I didn't think about protocol or repercussions. I just moved toward her.

Her lawyer intercepted me. "You can't speak to her, sir." he said. "No contact while she's in custody. Interfering with due process is a crime."

I drew my badge and held it up. "You think that's going to stop me?" I said, then spoke louder so she could hear me. "You can play all you want. It doesn't work anymore."

The lawyer still stood between us, which was probably a blessing with how furious I was.

"You play the same game every time. Different rules, same ending. I see through it, I always do. And when I do, you lose — that part never changes."

Cat tilted her head, smiling as she studied me.

"Only difference this time," I said, eyes on her, "is that you went after the wrong person. You went after her."

The lawyer's face went tight. "Sir—"

"You don't get to win this one. I'll stop you. My team will stop you. And this time you won't get to sit behind bars—you'll be out of our lives forever."

"You can't threaten-."

"It isn't a threat. It's a statement of fact." I snapped, locking my eyes on Cat once more. "This isn't over."

"You're right. It's just beginning, Spencie."

A marshal stepped forward and took my elbow. I watched as they loaded Cat in, the van doors closed and my mind went straight to the list—subpoenas, payment records, timestamps, because that was the only thing left I still knew how to do.
                                              ~*~

I don't even remember the drive back to Quantico. My hands did the things they were supposed to, signal, shift, stop, but my head was still in that courtroom, replaying it like maybe it'd make sense if I just watched it one more time.

By the time I got to Penelope's lab, she was surrounded by glowing monitors and at least three coffee mugs that all claimed to be "the world's best tech goddess."

"Garcia," I said, stepping inside. "I need you and everyone else in the briefing room. Now."

She turned, already smiling. "Now as in right—wait. Wasn't today Quinny's—"

I didn't have to say a word. She just looked at me, and whatever color she had drained out fast.

"Okay! Round room! Let's go, team!" she called, grabbing her tablet. "Emergency meeting! Let's go Nerd Herd!"

By the time I got upstairs, the team was already trickling in. Emily stood near the screen, still trying to read my expression. JJ had a notepad but hadn't written anything yet. Rossi hovered by the coffee machine like he was bracing for bad news. Luke and Matt sat across from each other, both watching me instead of talking. Tara slipped in quietly, and Penelope burst in last, nearly tripping over a chair as she sat down.

Emily looked at me. "What's going on?"

"We have a problem," I said. My voice came out too steady for how much my hands were shaking. "Cat Adams."

Rossi's expression darkened. "She's back in play?"

"She never stopped, she—she forged an entire email chain. It looks like Quinn was helping her stall a warrant—like she was... part of it somehow. Obstruction, tampering—everything Cat needed to literally blow her life up."

Emily frowned. "Please tell me this isn't what it sounds like."

Rossi straightened. "Wait, slow down. Are you saying the emails were used in court?"

I nodded. "At her hearing this morning. Cat's lawyer produced them mid-session. The warrant was already waiting. Judge Bennett had no choice but to let the Marshals take her."

JJ blinked. "Hold on—Quinn was arrested?"

"Yes," I said quietly. "In open court. Exactly how Cat wanted it."

Emily swore softly. "Jesus."

"Yeah," I said. "So now we have to prove it's a forgery."

Penelope was already typing, eyes darting between screens. "Tell me where to start, boy wonder."

"I need everything that touched the court's review system in the last two weeks," I said. "Emails, uploads, file edits. Anything connected to Cat Adams or her defense team."

When I finally ran out of words, Emily just said, quiet but firm, "Spencer. Can I talk to you outside for a second?"

The rest of the team glanced between us as she stepped toward the door, I couldn't stop the annoyance building. Why were we wasting time chatting when we needed to get started?

We stopped just outside the round room, the hum
of voices and Penelope's typing muffled behind glass.

Emily folded her arms. "You know what you're asking us to do, you're talking about breaching federal systems. Barnes is already circling like a vulture, waiting for a reason to shut us down."

"I don't care what Barnes is doing," I said. "I care that Quinn's sitting in a cell for something she didn't do and we're standing here debating legalities?"

"Spencer—"

"No." I tried to sound calm, but it came out shaking. "I won't abandon her. Not now. Not after everything she's already done for me—everything she's lost because of me."

The words were out before I could stop them, and I hated how scared I sounded.

Emily's eyes softened but her words didn't. "Did you think maybe that's exactly what Cat wants? You getting reckless, getting yourself thrown back in a cell? That could very well be her endgame, Spencer."

"I don't care." My hands were shaking now. "You either help me...or I'll walk. Because I'm not standing here while Cat wins again. I'm done. I'm done being a psychopaths plaything and destroy the one good thing I have."

For a long second, Emily just stared at me like she was trying to find the right line between friend and boss and realized there wasn't one.

"Alright," she said quietly. "We'll do it my way. I'll handle Barnes. You handle Cat."

I nodded back. "Deal."

When we walked back in, Penelope looked up. "So... does this mean I'm allowed to hack the Department of Justice or not?"

Emily rubbed a hand over her face. "God help me... yes."

Penelope nodded, diving straight in to whatever illegal activity she was planning.

Tara looked from me to Emily. "Where do we even start with something like this?"

"Metadata," I said. "Every message leaves a trail — even a fake one. If Cat's team fabricated the emails, they would've had to spoof Quinn's old work servers. Penelope can trace that back to its real source."

Rossi leaned forward. "And if they used her home network?"

"They did," I said. "That's what made it believable. Someone on Cat's side spoofed the IP trail so everything pointed to Quinn's devices. It's clean enough to pass a surface check, but it won't hold up once we pull the server logs."

Emily exhaled, shaking her head. "Alright. Then let's get to work."

"Already on it, sugarplum. I'll find your smoking gun — and make it glitter," Penelope said, eyes still glued to the screen.

I didn't move. The room was already in motion, but I couldn't shake the thought that kept looping in my head. "I'm going to go see her."

Emily paused in the doorway, "Spencer—"

"I know what you're going to say," I cut in, softer this time. "But I can't just sit here. Not again."

My hands wouldn't stop moving, twitching, like I couldn't convince them to stay still. "When it was me in a cell, she didn't—she didn't stop. She pushed until I was home. I can't just... sit here and wait while she's the one behind bars."

For a moment, no one said anything. Then Emily nodded once, quietly. "We'll find a way then."

Luke spoke up from the far side of the table. "If she's still in local holding, I know people on the Marshal's rotation. I can make a call...get you in."

I met his eyes. "Do it."

Matt lingered a second longer, stepping up beside me. "We'll get her, Spencer," he said quietly. "Whatever it takes."

I nodded, forcing myself to breathe. "I know."

I didn't leave Penelope's lab after the meeting. I mean, I couldn't. Everyone else scattered to chase leads; I just stayed there, because what else was I supposed to do—go home? Pretend this wasn't happening?

She was hunched over her desk, fingers flying across three keyboards at once. Lines of code and email headers flickered across the screens faster than I could track. I'd been watching for at least twenty minutes, maybe longer.

Finally, she stopped and swiveled in her chair. "Sweet genius, please stop staring at me. This is stressful enough without you breathing down my neck."

"I can't do any of this," I said. "Not the code, not the access. You and the team are my only hope right now."
I mean, theoretically, I could learn it. It's not beyond me. Just... not fast enough to help her.

Her mouth dropped open. "No pressure, then! Just the emotional weight of your love life and a full-blown conspiracy. Got it."

I didn't answer. I just stared at the string of digital evidence, every pixel of it a reminder of how deeply Cat had buried Quinn.

Penelope's voice softened. "I'll find her trail, Spencer. I promise."

I nodded, jaw tight. "When it was me, she tore the world apart until I was home."

Penelope looked at me, glitter and bravado dimmed but not gone. "She loves you."

"And I love her," my voice cracked before I could stop it. "I can't— I can't lose her again."

She held my gaze for a second, eyes wider than usual, like she wasn't sure what to do with what she'd just heard. Then she swallowed, straightened, and said, "Okay, lover boy, then stop staring at me and let me work before I start crying or hacking into the wrong mainframe."

Before I could answer, Luke's voice came from the doorway. "I found her, she's at Alexandria holding facility."

And I was already moving before he even finished his sentence.

 

~*~

The guard at reception checked my ID three times before he even buzzed the door.

"Five minutes," he said. "You'll get a warning before I pull you out."

I nodded, even though the words barely registered.

A second guard motioned for me to follow.
The hallway was narrow and quiet enough that every step came back at me. My shoes hit harder than I meant them to. I started counting doors without thinking—seven of them before we stopped.

He opened the last one and stood aside.

It had only been eight hours and forty-two minutes since they took her, but it felt longer.

Time moves weird when you can't do anything. Slow enough that you start counting seconds just to stay sane.

The room itself was nothing — blank walls, a humming vent, the faint echo of door closing from somewhere down the hall. It was quiet enough that I could hear my own pulse.

And then she was there. Across the table. Hands folded, shoulders straight, like she'd spent this whole time practicing how to look calm.

I stood there longer than I should've, just looking at her.

"It's been eight hours," I said quietly. "Eight hours and forty-two minutes."

Her eyes lifted to meet mine. "I know, I was counting too."

For a second, everything in me stopped — the questions, the what ifs, the thousand things I'd rehearsed in the car. None of it mattered. I just sat down before I could think better of it. The chair legs squeaked against the floor.

"We're going to get you out," I said. "I'll post bail, I'll call the legal department, I'll—"

She laughed, a coping mechanism I know she often used. "Spencer. A bail hearing isn't going to be in the cards for me."

"Yes, there will, I'll find a way. Garcia's already working through the system, she's proving it's fake—"

"Spencer." She used that tone — the one she saves for when she's about to drop the truth I don't want to hear. "Federal custody doesn't come with bail hearings. Not for cases like this."

I frowned. "I got a bail hearing. Why can't you?"

"Because you were lucky," she said quietly. "I'm being held under a federal warrant. There isn't a hearing to argue yet."

A small, humorless smile tugged at her mouth. "The irony's not lost on me, by the way — a defense attorney who can't even argue her own bail."

That word made something in my chest twist. "Then we'll make a motion. Challenge it. There's always—"

"There's not," she said. "Not until the arraignment. Maybe longer, depending on what sort of case they're building."

I pushed back from the table, pacing. "Building? You didn't do anything!"

Her mouth lifted, just a little. "That's not really the point, is it?"

"Don't," I said. "Don't start sounding like you've already given up."

"I haven't," she replied. "I just know how this works."

I looked at her. I've studied that face more times than I can count — every version of it. Angry. Stubborn. Exhausted. Laughing so hard she couldn't breathe.
But this calm wasn't peace. It was armor, and I could see what it was costing her. She'd worn that same expression when it was me behind glass, pretending she wasn't scared so I wouldn't fall apart. Now she was doing it again, and somehow that hurt worse.

"I'm going to fix this," I said. "Because I can't watch you sit there and pretend you're fine."

Her jaw tightened. "I know you will. But don't let her drag you down with me."

"I don't want to talk about her," I said, turning back to her. "I want to talk about you."

Her eyes flicked away. "There's nothing to talk about."

Something in the way she said it made me stop — not the words themselves, but how even they sounded, how far away she already seemed. And it terrified me.

"You don't think you're getting out of here," I whispered.

She didn't answer right away. She just shrugged, eyes flicking down to her hands. "There's a reason she framed me, Spencer. She's separating us. It's punishment — her version of a timeout. The woman's a sociopath with the emotional range of a toddler."

I shook my head. "That's not going to happen."

Quinn met my eyes again, and there it was — the half-smile that wasn't a smile at all. "Or maybe it's simpler than that. Maybe she's going to try to kill me."

"Don't—"

"Either way," she added cutting me off, "my options don't sound great."

For a second, I couldn't even breathe. My brain kept trying to line it all up — motive, method, next step — but it was just static. Nothing made sense. Nothing helped.

"She wouldn't touch you," I said, because if I kept repeating it, maybe it would start to sound like a fact. "I'd find a way to stop her. I always do."

She let out a short, uneven laugh. "Yeah, I know. That's the problem."

The intercom buzzed. "Two minutes."

The sound sent my heart into overdrive.

Two minutes? That couldn't be right. I hadn't even started—hadn't said anything that mattered yet.

I leaned forward, trying to catch her hands through the gap on the table. "Listen to me, okay? I'm going to fix this. I'm not leaving you in here. I'll talk to the Marshals, I'll talk to the DOJ, I'll—I'll do whatever it takes, Quinn."

She was shaking her head, slow, that same quiet frown she got when she thought I was about to cross a line.
"Spencer, please don't do that," she whispered. "Don't make it worse."

I didn't know how to tell her worse was already happening.

"No," I said, words tumbling faster than I could stop them. "You don't get to tell me to calm down. You don't get to look at me like that. You're not—you're not staying in here. Do you hear me? I love you, okay? I love you. I'll burn down every file, every lie, every piece of this case until there's nothing left for her to use against you. I can't—"

The words caught. I couldn't even finish the sentence. "You just—you have to hold on, okay? Promise me. Please."

The guard's boots echoed closer.

She stood slowly, the chain between her wrists rattling as she was turned toward the door.

"Quinn," I said, my voice cracking. "Please—just—"

She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes shining, voice quiet enough that I almost didn't hear it.

"I'll hold on."

Then the guard pushed her forward, and she was gone before I could even get to my feet.

Chapter 28: Hands on My Face, Chains on My Wrists

Pro Se (adj.)
A Latin term meaning "for oneself."
In criminal proceedings, a defendant who chooses to waive counsel and argue their own case assumes full responsibility for strategy, filings, and consequences...

 

~~📖Quinn📖~~

 

The thing no one tells you about holding cells was how stupidly normal they looked. Like someone threw together four walls and said, "Yeah, this seems like a great place to emotionally destroy someone."

I sat because there was nowhere else to be, and apparently life decided I needed one more test tonight. The bench itself was freezing and dug into my back no matter how I moved, like it was engineered to make sure no one got comfortable. My hands stayed in my lap, fingerprint ink still wedged deep in the creases. Patchy little stains like I'd lost a fight with a leaking pen. Which, honestly, figures. Today has been one long let's kick Quinn while she's down theme.

I scrubbed at it, but it didn’t budge. Because of course it didn’t. Everything else tonight was sticking to me whether I wanted it to or not.

None of this should have had my name attached to it. None of this should have been real.

Yet there I was. Officially processed like a fucking cautionary tale. Truly the career arc every lawyer dreams of. Really making the profession proud over here.

A heavy pressure settled in my chest, like there was an elephant sitting on me for the hell of it. My leg wouldn't stop bouncing. Every few seconds some muscle decided it was its turn to freak out.

And underneath all of it was the part that kept shouting the loudest. Spencer.

That look on his face... Jesus. It kept blindsiding me. I wanted to shake it off, erase it, shove it somewhere deep and deal with it later, but my brain wasn't offering that option tonight.

One second he was confused, the next he was full-on panicking. No mask at all. Just fear. And then I heard it again—that cracked, desperate "just hold on" looping in my head like my brain wanted to torture me with the one thing that hurt and helped at the same time.

I just kept replaying it. Every time my thoughts drifted, there it was again. Every time I blinked, there it was again. Panic. Blink again—perfect. Now it's practically yelling.

I leaned back, which was a huge mistake. The wall was freezing, and the cold shot straight through me, making everything clench even tighter. Fantastic. Loved that this was my goddamn life right now.

I tried breathing slowly, because that's what Spencer would've told me to do. It accomplished absolutely fucking nothing, unless the goal was to make me hyper-aware of how messed up everything felt.

Nothing about this felt real. It felt like I had stepped sideways into some alternate universe where Cat got to win and I was too exhausted to stop her.

I knew the system. I knew the procedure. I knew how this should go. This was not how it went. Not for someone like me. Not for someone who actually knew the goddamn system inside out. But it's pretty fucking hard to fight the system when you're being framed by a psychopath who treats felonies like party tricks.

Then everything went weirdly quiet, like the room had decided to take a break too. Not in a "soothing quiet." Or "center yourself" quiet.

Just that useless quiet that makes every awful thought crank the volume up...because there's nothing else competing for attention. Honestly, a dripping tap would've been a blessing at that point.

I pulled my knees up and rested my forehead on them.
No, I wasn't crying. Absolutely not. I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of my tears.

My throat burned like my body disagreed though.

And because apparently I hadn't humiliated myself enough, I tried counting my breaths too. As if switching techniques would magically fix my entire life. It didn't.

If anything, it made me even more aware of how tense everything felt. So that was great. Ten out of ten coping strategy. Would absolutely recommend to my worst enemy. But it did give my brain a job that wasn't "replay the worst moment of your life on a loop."

I didn't even make it past a handful before I lost the numbers completely and drifted right back into the anxiety soup I'd been sitting in since the Marshals grabbed me.

That's when the reality of the whole thing finally caught up to me. And for a second, all I wanted to do was fold in on myself and stay like that until... I don't know. Until the universe got its shit together, maybe.

Everything else—the fear, the confusion, the whole "this should not be my life" thing—just clumped together into one awful lump sitting exactly where my breathing was supposed to happen. Just a constant pressure sitting under my ribs, reminding me exactly how screwed I was.

Eventually I drifted. Not asleep. Not even close.
Just stuck in that horrible half-place where time stretched and my brain refused to shut up.

And through all of it, one thought sat there, irritating and miserable. I was on the wrong side of this door. And Spencer had to watch it happen.

                                  ~*~
I woke up because something in my neck gave a sharp, unfriendly crack, the sort that tells you you've slept in a position no human spine was designed for. My whole back felt stiff and useless, and for one stupid second I actually hoped—truly hoped—that maybe I'd dreamed all of this.

Nope. Still in a cell. Still wearing the same clothes. Still smelling faintly like fear, sweat, and whatever despair smells like. So that was great start to the day.

My throat felt dry, my legs were half-numb, and the left side of my face had that flattened, humiliating imprint you get from sleeping upright against a wall. I rolled my shoulders, trying to unkink something—anything—and a sharp ache shot down my arm. This is truly going well.

Somewhere down the hallway, a metal door slammed. Footsteps followed. A guard stopped in front of the bars and tapped once, loud enough to make me jolt.

"Bennett. Visitor."

For a moment—an embarrassingly hopeful one—I thought, Spencer. He probably didn't leave. He probably sat out there all night like some frantic, sleep-deprived lunatic.

So I pushed myself up, trying to claw up some dignity. My hair was a mess, my clothes were wrinkled, my neck still hated me, but fine. Whatever. Spencer had seen worse.

They walked me down the hall, and my stomach kept doing that slow, anxious roll that reminded me everything was still a disaster. There was no reprieve. No reset button. Just more fluorescent lighting and more dread.

I stepped into the visitation room, already half rehearsing something reassuring for him—something like hey, I'm holding it together, please don't have a nervous breakdown—

And then I froze.

It wasn't Spencer.

It was Hotch.

For a second my brain didn't even process it. Like it had to flip through a mental Rolodex of people-who-should-not-be-here-before-coffee. But there he was. arms crossed, shoulders set, the infamous Hotchner frown in place.

I stopped in the doorway because my body wouldn't move any farther. So I'm guessing I'm adding "malfunctioning legs" to the list of things going well for me.

"Quinny," he said, and that was it. The floor might as well have dropped out from under me.

It wasn't the name itself — plenty of people still used it — but the fact that it came out of his mouth. Hotch showing up here, now, felt like someone pulling the last brick out from under whatever was left of my composure.

I hadn't expected him. Of all people, I hadn't expected him to walk through that door.

I swallowed, my throat tightening like an absolute traitor.

Spencer I could bluff. The Marshals I could stare down.
But Hotch? Hotch saw through me when I was nineteen and had better posture. I didn't stand a chance today.

I forced myself into the room because turning around and walking back to the cell felt pathetic even for me.

"I, uh... didn't expect you," I said, trying for casual and landing somewhere between hoarse and vaguely unhinged.

He studied my face, and I hated how I'd managed to shove myself into the lives of profilers. What I hated even more was how fast my eyes burned. Not tears. Absolutely not tears. Just... humidity. Emotional humidity.

He stepped a little closer, voice low. "Reid called me."

Ah. Right. Of course Spencer called him. I'm not even surprised. Which meant Spencer was out there panicking. Probably pacing holes in the floor. Probably blaming himself for something ridiculous like the weather and the economy and the trajectory of the moon. Because that's exactly what he does when he spirals.

I exhaled, shaky, trying to pull myself back into something that resembled a functioning adult.

"So," I said, "how bad does it look? And please don't lie. I've already had that quota filled for the evening."

Hotch didn't look away. "It's bad."

And there it was. The punch. The one sentence that snapped whatever thin thread I'd been balancing on.

"Oh," I murmured, because apparently my brain couldn't come up with anything clever. "Cool, cool, cool."

He didn't smile, which again not surprising— but something in his expression softened. Not pity. Hotch never wasted time on pity. More like... recognition. Like he remembered exactly who he'd trained and exactly how much I hated being this exposed.

"You're not alone in this," he said quietly.

I looked at him then, and my chest pulled tight in a way I was not emotionally equipped to handle.

"I had to keep it together for Spencer," I admitted, voice low. "He looked at me like the world was ending. I couldn't add to it."

Hotch nodded once. "You don't have to pretend with me."

Which was the worst thing he could've said, because my eyes immediately tried to burn again. Fantastic timing.

I took a slow breath, grounding myself, refusing to crack in front of him even though he'd probably already clocked every single thing I was feeling.

"Tell me you can help," I whispered. Refusing to lift my head. I felt pathetic enough without him seeing how utterly desperate I needed him.

There was a pause before his hand settled between my shoulder blades. Just a small touch, but it held me together more than I wanted to admit.

"I'm not FBI anymore," he said. "But I'm still your friend. And I was a damn good lawyer before that."

My stomach twisted. "So that's a yes?"

"That's a 'we're getting you out of here,'" he said. "I promise, Quinny."

For the first time since the cuffs went on, something inside me eased. Just a fraction. Barely noticeable. But it was there.

I nodded, swallowing around the panic lodged in my throat.

"Okay," I said. "Okay."

~*~
Courtrooms were supposed to feel familiar to me. Comforting, even, in that messed-up way people find comfort in the things they're good at. But walking into one as the defendant? Yeah. That hit different.

The Marshal uncuffed my wrists once I sat down at the defense table, which was thoughtful, considering I needed my hands to argue for my own freedom. My ankles were still shackled under the table — a fun little detail I chose to ignore because focusing on it would've sent me spiraling.

I smoothed the stack of papers in front of me, mostly for show. I'd been named one of the best defense attorneys in the state for a reason. I knew bail hearings like muscle memory. I knew exactly what I needed to say. I just... didn't love the part where I was saying it for myself.

The outfit also didn't help.

Spencer had brought me clothes, bless him, but they absolutely did not match. The blouse was too stiff, the pants were too soft, and the shoes looked like he grabbed the first pair his hand hit while his brain was practically in over-drive.... God I hoped he remembered to feed Garfield.

I tugged at the cuff of the sleeve, trying to pretend I wasn't seconds from crawling out of my own skin.

You've got this, I told myself. You've done a hundred of these. You are very good at this.

Didn't matter how I felt — what mattered was that I could still walk into a room, lift my chin, and sound like someone who had her shit together.

The judge entered. Everyone stood. Everyone sat.

I inhaled slowly, kept my spine straight, and fixed my gaze forward.

Time to be Quinn Bennett again...Or at least a believable imitation of her.

The judge wasn't even seated for a full ten seconds before his gaze drifted past me and up toward the gallery. His eyebrows lifted — not impressed, just... perplexed. Which, honestly, was fair.

Most bail hearings got maybe two spectators. Three if someone brought a nosy aunt.

Mine didn't have a crowd so much as... a situation.

Spencer was in the front row looking like if he blinked wrong the whole place would collapse. Garcia sat beside him, already armed with tissues and emotional conviction.

JJ and Luke were behind them, both doing that quiet lean-forward thing that screamed supportive but also ready to tackle someone if necessary. Rossi and Emily flanked the end of the bench — one radiating judgment, the other radiating calm. Classic.

And then Hotch, Tara and Matt showed up, which honestly felt like overkill.

The judge cleared his throat like his brain was trying to recalibrate.

"Ms. Bennett," he said slowly, "is there a reason you have... such an unusually large turnout for a bail proceeding?"

I didn't even turn around. I could feel them back there. A whole lineup of people trying very, very hard not to throw themselves over the railing on my behalf.

"Yes, Your Honour," I said, folding my hands neatly. "I'm well liked."

Spencer made a tiny noise behind me, it was the noise people made right before they burst into tears. Or proposed. Hard to say with him.

The judge blinked again, clearly trying to make sense of whatever the hell he walked into.

"Well," he said, adjusting his glasses, "this is... certainly unexpected."

I straightened a little. Not because I felt confident — I didn't — but because if Hotch was here, and Emily was here, and Spencer was visibly holding himself together with dental floss and hope... then I could at least pretend I had this under control.

If I was going down today, I wasn't going alone.

The judge adjusted his glasses and shuffled through the paperwork in front of him — my paperwork — with the weariness of a man who knew lunch was getting cold while we all ruined his day.

"Ms. Bennett," he said, "you've waived counsel and chosen to represent yourself for this hearing. Is that correct?"

"Yes, Your Honour," I said. "Given the circumstances, I'd prefer to argue my own bail."

Behind me, Garcia whispered, "Icon," and Emily added a quiet, "Please let the prosecutor cry."

Spencer remained silent, which meant he was dangerously close to passing out.

The judge nodded, resigned. "For the record, today's proceeding concerns the federal charges of obstruction of justice, tampering with federal evidence, and aiding and abetting a convicted felon."

There it was. My stomach twisted but I kept my expression flat. No way I'd let the prosecutor see me flinch.

Speaking of—he stood like a man who practiced speeches in the mirror.

"Your Honour, the government maintains Ms. Bennett poses a significant flight risk. She is an experienced defense attorney with extensive procedural knowledge and demonstrated familiarity with federal investigations."

Translation: she knows things, which is scary for us.

The judge nodded for him to continue.

"Ms. Bennett's alleged misconduct—"
(Alleged. Nice of him to pretend.) "-involves falsified communications, coordinated interference with federal warrants, and misuse of professional position. These actions indicate sophistication and premeditation."

I stood. "Your Honour, the government is giving you adjectives, not evidence."

"Ms. Bennett, you'll have your turn."

"Apologies," I said sweetly. "I get excited when people lie about me in public."

Rossi coughed. Pretty sure it was a laugh.

The prosecutor straightened his tie, offended at the existence of humor.

"The government believes no combination of conditions — electronic monitoring, supervision, surrender of passport — would ensure the defendant's appearance."

I lifted my binder. "Your Honour, I cooperated at every step. I didn't flee. I didn't resist. I didn't even raise my voice when they took my shoelaces."

Garcia whispered, "Bravery comes in many forms."

"Moreover," I continued, "every piece of evidence against me is under dispute. These emails have not been authenticated. The so-called server logs were produced under questionable conditions. And the person claiming I helped her delay warrants is"—I gestured very slightly—"Cat Adams."

A ripple of discomfort went through the gallery.

"She is a manipulative, highly intelligent sociopath who has already confessed to multiple murders. Meanwhile, I return library books early and cry when my shirts don't match."

Emily snorted.

The prosecutor's jaw flexed. "Your Honour—"

"No, let's stay on this," I said. "The government is arguing I pose the same risk profile as a serial contract killer because... I know how to file motions on time?"

The judge raised a hand, worn down already. "Ms. Bennett, while your... commentary is noted, the charges remain serious."

"I'm aware, Your Honour," I said, pulse hammering. "But seriousness does not negate my constitutional right to reasonable bail."

The judge leaned back. I knew that posture.
That was the oh no, he's about to ruin everything posture.

"Given the severity of the allegations, the potential sentence, and the defendant's professional knowledge, the court is not persuaded release on recognizance is appropriate."

My stomach sank.

Here it comes.

"Bail is denied."

I heard someone gasp behind me. Garcia. Definitely Garcia.

Then Spencer whispered, "Please...no..."

The judge wasn't done.

"Ms. Bennett is remanded to the custody of the Bureau of Prisons pending trial and will be transferred to the D.C. Women's Correctional Facility."

Everything in me went still.

That wasn't a holding cell. That wasn't county.
That was Cat Adams's facility.

Cat, whose fingerprints were all over this frame job.
Cat, who had been waiting for this exact outcome.

I didn't say anything aloud.

But inside, the realization landed like a slap to the face. He just sent me straight to Cat. Exactly where she wanted me.

My brain stalled for a full second, like someone pulled the plug on every functioning thought I had left.

Then every emotion I tried to contain spilled out at once. "Objection," I said, way too fast and definitely too loud. "With all due respect, Your Honour—what the hell?"

A few people in the gallery turned. Whatever. Add it to the list of today's problems.

"D.C. Women's Correctional Facility houses violent offenders, federal transfers, and people who make shanks out of toothbrushes," I said, hands flying because apparently my body was trying to assist my argument. "You’re sending a defense attorney there before indictment. You know that’s not how this works."

The judge didn't blink. "It is my ruling, Ms. Bennett."

Of course it was. Of course today still had room to get worse.

I didn't have to turn around to know what was happening behind me.

Hotch would already be in strategy mode, Garcia was probably crying or seconds from it.

And Spencer... yeah. If he felt even half of what I'd felt when he was denied bail, then he wasn't coping. Not even close.

I kept my eyes on the bench, because looking at any of them would've been the end of me.

That was when reality hit.

I wasn't going home.

The cuffs clicked shut and something in my spine just... folded. I didn't show it, but I felt it. Everyone did.

The bailiff tugged at my arm. "Ma'am, we need to go."

"Quinn—wait—" Spencer's voice.

I didn't want to turn around. I knew the second I did, I'd lose whatever thin thread I had left holding me upright. But apparently my body didn't care what I wanted, because I stopped. The guard's hand tightened on my arm.

"Keep moving," he said.

Spencer didn't listen. He never did when it came to me.

He closed the distance fast enough that the guard swore under his breath, and suddenly his hands were on my face—unsteady and too gentle. His thumbs skimmed my cheeks like he needed proof I was actually there. Then his forehead met mine, and whatever was left holding me together just... folded.

"Quinn," he whispered, breath shaky. "I'm not— I'm not letting this happen. I'm going to fix it. I swear. I'm not stopping until—"

"I know," I said, even though my voice felt like it belonged to someone else. "I know."

The guard yanked lightly at the chain between the cuffs. "Sir, step back."

Spencer didn't move.

If anything he held me tighter, like he could keep me in the building with sheer determination.

"You're going to be okay," he said, voice cracking right through the middle. "You won't be in there long. I promise. I promise, okay?"

I closed my eyes for half a second, just enough to breathe him in. Cinnamon and coffee. The smell of home, punching me right in the ribs.

"Please don't make this worse," I whispered. My throat burned. "I can't handle you getting in trouble too."

"Just—just one second," Spencer snapped at the guard, not even looking at him. His fingers slid from my jaw to the back of my neck like he didn't want to let go.

I felt his breath stutter. Mine wasn't much better.

"Spencer," I said softly, "you have to let go."

He pulled back just far enough to look at me. His eyes were red. Too wide, too full off desperation.

"No," he said, shaking his head like a stubborn kid. "No, I can't—"

"Spencer," I repeated. "I need you to."

The guard tugged again. Harder this time. "We're done. Move."

Spencer kissed me.

It wasn't soft or graceful. More like a slightly misaligned collision of mouths because the guard was already pulling at me. Messy and rushed and nowhere near romantic, but I never wanted it to end.

And then the guard wedged an arm between us and physically pulled me back.

Spencer reached for me even then, fingers twitching like he was still trying to catch my hand.

"I'll get you out," he said, voice breaking. "Quinn, look at me— I'll get you out. I love you!”

My legs moved. Not because I felt steady — because stopping would’ve dropped me to the floor. I kept my eyes forward. If I looked back, that would be it. They’d have to carry me out.

But the last thing I heard, before the door slammed between us, was Spencer saying my name.

Chapter 29: Closer Than You Think

Intake (n.)
The formal process by which an inmate is searched, photographed, fingerprinted, documented, and stripped of property, privacy, and autonomy.
Often the most dehumanizing stage of incarceration.

 

                               ~~📖Quinn📖~~

The second the cuffs clicked shut again, my brain decided we were doing denial. Full, committed, professional-grade denial. Because there is simply no universe — not even the multiverses Marvel won't shut up about — where I was actually being marched out of a courtroom and shipped off to prison.

Actual prison. With bars. And people who stab each other over toothpaste.

Nope. Absolutely not. Return to sender, the whole alt/edit undo.

The guard's hand tightened on my arm like he could tell my brain was already halfway out the door. Every sound felt louder, heavier — shoes squeaking, radios crackling, someone somewhere clearing their throat like this was just another day. Seriously why is everyone's breathing so obnoxious??

Holy shit. This is...real. That was the problem.
This wasn't some nightmare or stress-dream where Spencer woke me up with tea and panic-eyes. This was happening. To me. Right now.

My legs kept moving, which honestly, felt like betrayal. They should've staged a walkout. Instead they carried me forward, step after humiliating step, while every Marshal in the hallway got an eyeful of me — Quinn Bennett, formerly respected attorney, now apparently the star of "public meltdown at 10 a.m."

I caught movement in the courthouse windows as we turned the corner — just enough to make my stomach twist, because I knew that shape. I told myself not to look again, which of course meant I immediately did.

And it was Spencer.

He was right up against the glass like he'd gotten there fast and hadn't figured out what to do after. His hands were in his hair, someone was holding his arm, and he wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was just watching me, like if he looked away for a second I'd disappear.

It felt like my stomach tried to exit through my spine. I mis-stepped, the guard tightened his grip like I was the one being dramatic.

I knew I should've looked forward and kept moving, but I turned again anyway — because apparently I'm a goddamn masochist— and we locked eyes.

And something in me just...gave way. Right there, mid-step. My knees, my lungs, all of it just... stuttered.

Because he didn't look angry. He didn't look disappointed. He didn't even look like Spencer, not the version I know, at least.

He looked shattered in a way I’d never seen, like the ground dropped and he hadn’t figured out how to stand back up yet.

And that look was all my fault.

Because I should've listened to him. Not because he was "right," but because he was scared. He told me Cat would reach for us any way she could, and I didn't believe she had the resources, or the access, or the sheer unhinged dedication to pull something like this off.

But clearly she did. I should've never agreed to be anywhere near her, period.

I wanted to tell him I was sorry. I wanted to tell him I never thought it would get this far. I wanted to tell him I'd fix it, somehow, even if I had no idea how.

But before I could even process the hundred things I wanted to say, he lifted his hand and pressed it to the glass, his hand shaking, like he was trying to reach me through it.

And that was somehow worse than if he'd yelled.

I wished he yelled.

I forced myself forward, because the alternative was collapsing on the pavement. I looked away, chin up, pretending I wasn't actively coming apart.

And I kept walking.

"This way," the Marshal said, like I'd penciled this in between brunch and a manicure.

The van was parked right at the curb. Big. Grey. Miserable, it's very your life is over" chic. Subtle, but effective.

My throat tightened. No. Don't say it. Don't think it.
It's not happening. It cannot be happening.

The guard opened the van door, and the inside was just... metal. Bare metal. Bolts, corners, and a smell like someone hosed out a crime scene. Definitely not meant for someone whose biggest crime lately was forgetting to drink water.

This was insane. This was actually insane.

"I can explain," I said, because clearly the day could be saved by logic. "I'm— look, this is— this is a mistake. A very elaborate, extremely well-orchestrated mistake."

He didn't blink. "Watch your head."

And we're ignoring me. Wonderful.

I climbed in. Or tried to — with my ankles shackled, it was more of an undignified shuffle that murdered any last shred of grace I had left. The bench was metal. Freezing. Perfect. Truly loving that this is living up to every worst possible outcome ever.

The door slammed behind me. And for a second I just sat there, hands cuffed, breathing too fast, my heart trying to claw its way out of my chest. The van jolted, and that was it — denial bailed and panic slid right in like, "don't worry, I'll ruin this."

I was going.

I was actually going.

To prison.

Me. Quinn Bennett. The woman who once cried because Garfield sneezed twice in a row and I thought he was dying.

My head thumped the van as we took a turn and I whispered, quietly.

"Oh, fuck."

My chest tightened, breath catching, because the truth hit hard and ugly: She got me. And I am so unbelievably screwed.

                                        
                                        ~*~

They didn't give me a second to breathe.

The moment the van door opened, it was like stepping onto a conveyor belt made entirely of humiliation. A guard took my arm, not rough, just "you're property now" firm, and marched me inside.

Bright lights. Freezing tiles. And a smell that was trying to be "clean" but mostly just resembled mold.

"Name," a woman behind the desk said without even looking at me.

"Quinn Bennett," I answered, trying to sound like someone who absolutely did not want to dig a tunnel with a plastic spoon.

"Charges?"

Oh good. Let's rehash the worst day of my life out loud. Do I bother explaining that I'm being framed here too?

While she typed, another guard snapped a photo, the flash went off right in the face. Wonderful. I can't wait to see that cursed image later.

Fingerprinting was next. Again. Ink, scans, wrists moved around like I was an object with anxiety.

Then came the part I was dreading.

"Step into the room."

The door slammed behind me, leaving me in a concrete box with a female guard holding a clipboard and looking like today had already been too long. I feel you, truly. It feels like I've been awake for a month.

"Remove your clothes."

Humiliation hit so fast my lungs forgot their job description.

I wanted to argue. I wanted to humanize myself. I wanted to say Hey, hi, sorry, I'm not actually supposed to be here, this is all a deranged set up by one of our inmates actually.

But all I did was obey. So I took my clothes off. Put them in a pile, along with my dignity somewhere on the floor beside them.

"Turn. Lift your hair. Open your mouth. Squat."

With every turn, I felt smaller. Not physically — just... worn down. Like someone was going down a checklist: strip this, take that, stomp whatever confidence I had left.

But I kept thinking, If Spencer can survive this level of dehumanization, then I can too. He did it. We're a matched set. Couples with trauma stay together, right? Right?? Someone please lie to me.

And of course through all this humiliation my brain decided it wanted to keep thinking of that last moment. How he looked at me at the window, that shaking hand — and I promised myself I'd get back to him in one piece. Even if I had no idea how.

The guard tossed me a jumpsuit like she was feeding a zoo animal. Polyester. Orange. Definitely not my color but I don't think they'd appreciate me telling them I'm more of a navy girl.

"Put it on. Follow the line."

So I did. One foot after the other. Still breathing. Still pretending this wasn't the worst moment of my entire existence.

Every inmate in processing stared. Not the dramatic, movie kind of staring — just that slow, lazy once-over people give when they're trying to figure out if you're trouble, entertainment, or neither.

A few looked curious. A few looked like they'd happily bite someone. Most just looked bored out of their skulls.

I kept my eyes forward, doing my best impression of a "competent attorney" and not someone two seconds from crumpling onto this disgusting floor.

Head up. Shoulders back. Pretend you're still the person who once shredded a prosecutor in under eight minutes.

Not the person currently trying not to cry into a state-issued bra.

Keep walking. Just walk. Just get through this without falling apart in front of an audience.

If Spencer survived this, I can survive this. I have to.

I clung to that thought like an idiot but somehow, it kept me walking.

The guard pushed the door open with his hip and jerked his chin. "Cell fourteen."

"Great," I said. "Feels lucky already."

He didn't respond. Which I know shocking. Clearly my sense of humor isn't going to be a hit here.

The door clanged shut behind me, and the sound went straight through my spine. I stood there like an idiot for a solid three seconds, trying very, very hard not to look like someone who had absolutely no idea what the protocol was for... this.

What were the rules again?
Don't stare.
Don't act scared.
Don't act too confident.
Don't sit on someone else's bunk.
Don't breathe wrong.

God, I'd sat across from a hundred clients who told me all this and somehow none of it felt useful when I was the one in polyester-orange hell.

Okay. Just relax, but not too relaxed. You don't want to come across as cocky. But then I don't want to look too intimidated either... ok. I'm officially entering panic territory.

I forced myself to look around instead of folding into an anxiety ball.

Blank walls. A single toilet with no shame curtain. A thin bunk.

A second bunk already occupied... by someone staring straight at me.

Oh.
Good.

I stared at a blank stretch of wall, anything to keep my face steady while my mind tried to sort through every rule I'd ever heard and promptly forgot the moment I needed them.
In reality, my brain was spiraling: Do I nod? Say hi? Pretend I'm mute? Flight-or-flight, hello?? Are you working?? It does not feel like you're working.

She didn't say anything. Just watched me. Neutral. Assessing. Like she was taking inventory, and I was coming up short.

My stomach did a weird flip that definitely wasn't bravery. I couldn't tell if she was curious, annoyed, or quietly planning to judge my entire existence.

I cleared my throat, which sounded stupidly loud in the concrete box. "Hi," I said, because my brain panicked and picked the worst possible option. "I'm—"

She tilted her head. Then her brow furrowed. "Oh, no way," she said, sitting up. "Bennett?"

My heart practically crawled up my throat.
"Wait—"
Did Cat already have someone lined up to take me out?

"Holy shit. Quinn Bennett?"

I blinked, and her face finally clicked into place. The hair wasn't purple anymore, the piercings were gone, but the unimpressed stare was the same one that glared at me from a defense table ten years ago.

"Oh my god," I breathed. "Robinson?"

She grinned. "Damn right."

Internal panic: briefly paused. Because out of all the prisons, all the cells, all the atrocious luck I've racked up lately... karma finally handed me a microscopic break.

"Wow," I said, gesturing around the cell. "This is... not the reunion venue I pictured."

She actually laughed. "Well, you did lose my case. Where else were we gonna catch up?"

"Actually, I was a junior counselor at the time, so technically I didn't lose anything," I said. "If I were your lawyer now, there's no way you'd be here."

And huh. Even given my circumstances, apparently I'm still confident. So that's... something.

Another loud laugh. "So how the hell did you end up here?"

"Apparently just by existing," I said.

She lifted one eyebrow and stared. The universal sign for try again.

"It's... a long story."

She snorted. "Quinn, look around. Do I look like I have places to be?"

Fair point.

I let out a breath I'd been holding since — honestly, who knows — and sat on the lower bunk just to be sure it didn't belong to some unseen third roommate who'd stab me for touching their mattress.

And then I started talking.

Not the legal breakdown. Not the bullet-point version I'd give a judge.

The version that actually hurt to say out loud.

How Spencer and I kept "accidentally" spending time together until it stopped being accidental. How he'd call with a "quick legal question" that was absolutely not about work. How he'd show up at weird hours with coffee and start talking about something brilliant that went straight over my head, but I sat there anyway because it was him.

How he needed someone after Morgan left and pretended he didn't. How Scratch and Mexico wrecked him more than he ever admitted.

And somewhere in all of that, we ended up... us.

We just kept getting closer until one day I realized I wasn't "accidentally" in his life anymore — I was just... there. Like it had happened while I was busy convincing myself it wasn't happening.

And I love him. Not gradually, not politely — just all at once, in that awful, undeniable way where the the thought of a future without him didn't even make sense. It was like trying to imagine gravity stopping.

By the time I stopped talking, my throat felt scraped raw.

Robinson sat back, not smug, or judgmental — just taking it in.

"So Cat framed you," she said finally, "and greased whatever wheels she needed to land you in here. "Jesus. That's... commitment on a whole other level."

"Yes." My voice sounded smaller than I meant it to. "Yeah."

She watched me for a second, like she could see the thing I hadn't said yet.

"Okay," she said. "And what's the part you're avoiding?"

I stared at my hands. "It comes down to two things."

She nodded for me to go on.

"She did all this just to hurt Spencer..." I swallowed hard. "...or she put me exactly where she wants me. And I don't think she plans on me surviving this."

                                             ~*~
The door buzzed open at an hour that honestly hurt my soul, and here's Robinson swinging off her bunk like she'd done this routine a thousand times.

"Come on, Bennett. Breakfast."

My body protested on principle, but I followed her out into the corridor. Cold air. Blinding lights. And an overall vibe of "be miserable, please."

Robinson glanced at me, frowned, and nudged my arm. "Alright. Whatever you're doing with your face? Stop."

"My face is just EXISTING," I hissed.

"Yeah, and right now it's giving 'first day of school.' Tone it down."

I rolled my eyes. "I've been in prisons before."

"To visit. That doesn't count," she said. "Walking the halls as a lawyer is not the same as walking them in orange."

She's not wrong.

"I know the rules," I muttered. "Don't stare. Don't touch anything. Don't ask anything. Don't react unless it's life-or-death. Stay small but not too small. Confidence but not arrogance. And whatever happens, don't owe anyone shit."

Robinson side-eyed me.
"Okay, Bennett. Look at you actually knowing shit."

I shrugged. "Perks of representing half the population in here."

She huffed a laugh. "Yeah, well. Reading about fire and standing in it aren't the same thing."

We kept walking. Inmates milled around — some curious, some indifferent, a few who gave me that slow once-over that made every cell in my body straighten on instinct.

Someone's eyes lingered on me too long. I didn't react. At all.

Robinson clocked it. "Yep. That's why I'm not worried about you."
Then, deadpan, "Well. I'm a little worried."

I raised a brow. "Why?"

"You're pretty," she said. "And bored inmates are like sharks — they go where the shiny things are."

"Oh, great," I said. "I get framed for a federal crime and my face becomes a liability."

She barked a laugh. "Relax. You sit with me in the cafeteria. Nobody touches you if you're next to me."

"Oh wow, am I... under your protection?" I asked, dry.

"You're under my umbrella," she corrected. "The big, scary one."

We hit the corner where breakfast smell drifted out — a tragic mix of cabbage, salt, and egg. Delicious.

"Jesus," I whispered. "Is that food or something dying?"

"Both."

The cafeteria was loud, alive in a way that made my nerves prickle — not unfamiliar, but a hell of a lot more real when I was the one wearing the jumpsuit.

Eyes flicked up at us, then away. Assessing. Cataloguing. People were always watching.

Robinson tapped my elbow. "Just follow me. You know the rules. Now you just have to... live them."

I swallowed. "Yeah. Got it."

"Good." She smirked. "And Bennett?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to look like someone's breakfast."

And breakfast itself was... aggressively beige.

I poked the gray goop on my tray and immediately pulled my spoon back like it might suddenly remember it had a pulse. "I don't trust this not to come back up."

Robinson didn't even bother to look up. "Eat."

"I am," I said, stabbing the toast. "I'm engaging with the concept of food."

I forced one bite in, regretted it instantly, and tried very hard not to make the sound my throat desperately wanted to make.

That was when a small, folded piece of paper slid onto my tray.

I didn't catch who dropped it. I didn't even hear the footsteps or see a hand.

All I felt was that subtle, unmistakable shift, you know the one that prickles across the back of your neck and makes every instinct sit up.

My fingers went warm and damp around the edges before I even picked it up.

Robinson kept eating like nothing had happened, but her tone dipped low enough that it was clearly for me alone. "Don't freak out."

Which, as always, immediately cued my brain to freak out.

I slid the note under the table and opened it, even though my hands were shaking just enough to make the paper crinkle louder than it should have.

The handwriting was small, neat in the feminine way.

"Keep your eyes open.
I'm closer than you think."
—C

The bottom dropped out of my stomach so fast I had to press my knees together to keep the dizziness from showing. My chest tightened, and for one horrible second it felt like all the heat in my body just drained.

This wasn't a threat in the theatrical sense. It was a reminder of a truth I already knew but didn't want to sit with: Cat didn't need to be near me to make me feel trapped. She just needed to remind me she could reach me whenever she wanted.

Robinson finally murmured, "Bad one?"

I nodded once, because my voice wasn't entirely reliable yet.

"She's letting me know she can get to me," I said quietly. "Even in here."

Robinson let out a slow exhale. "Adams doesn't play around with promises. She follows through."

"I’m aware." I replied tucking it into my pocket.

My fingers kept twitching, but I made them settle. Straightened my shoulders. Pulled a breath into my chest that felt too big, too tight, but at least it stayed put.

Cat wanted to rattle me. And yeah, I won't lie, she did.

But she also did something else without meaning to: She reminded me I needed to be smarter than her now.
I couldn't afford one more mistake.

Not with her. Not in here. And definitely not when Spencer was out there trying to survive this right alongside me.

I sat there with the note burning a hole through my pocket and my pulse kicking like it wanted out of my body.

"Bennett," Robinson murmured, "eyes up. You're spiraling."

"I'm fine," I lied badly.

"You're sweating."

I definitely was.

My brain latched onto the one thing that might steady me.

"I need to talk to him," I whispered. "Please tell me there's some way."

Robinson stared at me for a moment, then sighed like she was making a decision she'd regret.

"Alright," she said. "Intake inmates sometimes get a supervised call before they're fully processed. It's not guaranteed. But... possible."

Hope punched me so hard in the chest my breath stuttered. "Okay. Okay—what do I do?"

"Eat two more bites," she said. "Then follow me and don't look terrified."

"Impossible." I was referring to the food.

"Do it anyway."

I choked down the world's saddest toast and stood when she did. We walked toward a side corridor, the one that only staff used when Robinson stopped and tapped the glass.

"Intake request," she said. "She hasn't had her call yet."

The guard looked me over like it would be easier just to give me the call than argue. "Who are you calling?"

"My—" I swallowed hard. "Spencer Reid. He's on my approved list."

The guard nodded once. "Two minutes. Supervised."

Two minutes...I could die and resurrect in two minutes.

She led me to a little booth with a plastic phone attached to a metal cord. I sat. Hands shaking. Heart doing parkour again.

"Dial," the guard said.

I punched in the number I knew by muscle memory. Each ring felt like a goddamn eternity until-

"Hello?" His voice. My god. Oxygen could never compete.

"Spence?" I barely got it out.

There was a sharp inhale, then a sound like he'd been punched and relieved in the same moment.

"Quinn—" his voice cracked hard, "are you okay? Did they touch you? Tell me right now."

"I'm... I'm alright." My voice wobbled. "I'm processed. I'm okay enough."

"That's not okay," he said immediately. "None of this is okay. I watched them take you. I—" He sucked in a breath. "I should've stopped it. I should've—"

"Spencer," I whispered. "You couldn't have."

"I don't care," he said, low and shaking. "I'm still going to fix it."

The guard tapped the glass: one minute.

"I need to tell you something," I breathed.

"Anything," he said instantly. "Tell me."

"Cat got a note to me."

Silence. Then a long, lethal exhale.

"What did it say?"

"That she can reach me anywhere."

I heard something shove back — probably his chair — fast enough to make me wince. Great. I'd officially hit the "Reid can't sit down anymore" level of crisis.

"Quinn," he said, voice tight, "listen to me."

The guard held up two fingers: thirty seconds.

"I'm listening."

"You stay alive," he said. "You keep breathing. You keep talking to me whenever you can. Don't shut down — don't disappear inside your head. Just... stay with me." His voice broke. "I need you here with me. Okay?"

"Yeah," I breathed. "Yeah, okay."

"Good." His exhale was shaky,  "Because I'm getting you out of there. I don't care how long it takes or who I have to go through — I'm getting you home."

The guard tapped the glass again — time's up.

"Spence—"

"I love you," he said. "I love you so much. And you-."

The line went dead.

I stayed there for a moment, staring at the dead receiver, breathing like someone had yanked out all my bones.

Robinson cracked the booth door open. Her tone—soft for the first time all day—wrapped around me.

"Come on, Bennett," she said. "Back we go."

My legs felt like paper.

But somehow... I stood.

Chapter 30: Actus Reus

Sealed Records
Sealing of Records (n.)
A legal process in which certain court documents are made confidential. Intended to protect. Often used to delay. In some cases, both.

 

📚Spencer📚

 

"Reid."

Something touched my shoulder.

I didn't move. I did, however, make a deeply inhuman noise into the sleeve over my face. "No, shh—Quinn. Sshh. Minute. Minute. One minute."

"Reid."

"Two. Minutes," I muttered, holding up two fingers but almost poking myself in the eye. "Please. Please. Chair nap. Just—mm."

"Spencer. Open your eyes."

I blink once, slow. Why are we yelling about my eyes? They're open. See? Eyes.

"You're not Quinn," I said, disappointed enough to deflate back into the chair again, my eyes closing on instinct.

"SPENCER."

I jerked awake too fast, pain sparking in my back as something pulled sharp and unforgiving, and hissed out a breath as the realization settled in—this wasn't home, this wasn't bed, and Quinn wasn't next to me.

Then the room swam into focus. Definitely the conference room. Definitely still at Quantico.

The table was buried in legal pads, printouts, evidentiary charts, Garcia’s laptop, two separate statute books open to two separate tabs. A ridiculous number of empty coffee cups that I definitely didn't remember drinking.

And Hotch and Emily.

He was standing next to my chair, hand still on my shoulder, expression somewhere between worried and that very specific "I'm not going to order you to go home yet, but I'm thinking about it" look.

I scrubbed my hands over my face. My eyes felt like someone replaced them with sandpaper. "I wasn't sleeping."

Hotch's eyebrows went up a millimeter. "You were snoring."

"Oh," I said. My voice came out rough. This was so embarrassing. "That wasn't snoring... it was just me thinking loudly."

He exhaled, somewhere in the realm of a laugh, “How long have you been here?"

I looked at the clock on the wall.

09:17.

"Uh," I blinked. "A while." As in close to two days now.

"Spencer," Emily said, disapproval radiating from her tone.

"I'm fine," I replied automatically, which was true if you widened the definition of "fine" to include "hasn't slept more than ninety consecutive minutes in a week."

I sat up straighter and immediately regretted it. My spine sounded like corn kernels popping. Notes and pages slid off my chest and onto the floor.

"Wait—don't—" I fumbled to grab the top sheet, because it was the draft motion I'd been rewriting for eight hours straight and if it got out of order I might actually cry.

Hotch sat across from me, holding the file between his fingers. He looked tired, but patient, like he always did when he needed the facts. "Walk me through what's holding this up."

I rubbed at my eyes once, gathering my notes.
"The judge denied bail because the tampering looked real. The DOJ sealed the logs that prove it wasn't. And since no judge has forced a deadline, the hold stays in place. So she's still inside."

Hotch nodded once, slow. "So she's held because the lie looked like fact, and the court never made them commit to a timeline."

"Yeah," I said. "The appeal can start moving, but she stays where she is until someone makes them put dates on anything."

Emily crossed the room, arms folded. "For the record, if you could repeat that without the legal dissertation for the one person in the room who didn't study law, that'd help."

I glanced up at her, nodded, then reworded it the only way it needed to be said to make sense.
"They're keeping her in because the bail judge believed Cat's fake evidence, the files that prove she was framed are sealed. DOJ won't say when they'll open them. Until a judge asks for dates, she stays exactly where she is."

Hotch tapped the file once. "So we wait for a judge to ask the questions no one's answering, and when he does, the stall ends."

I nodded once. "Exactly.”

"Then we find one, and keep pressing," he said. "Tomorrow we push. Tomorrow the court asks. Tomorrow we finally get a move that matters."

I stood when he did, the sharp pull in my back an annoying souvenir from waking up too fast. I took the file and fell into step beside him, irritated, awake, and moving again.

"Yeah," I said quietly. "Tomorrow."

The three of us turned to leave, but paused when ‌Section Chief Linda Barnes walked in, stopping dead at the table.

She stared at the books first, then at Hotch like she couldn't decide which problem annoyed her more.
"What the hell is all this? And why is a civilian in my unit? You should all be working."

"I'm consulting," Hotch said, not defensive, but not apologizing either.

Barnes exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "Which makes you a civilian, Hotchner," she said. "And Agents Reid and Prentiss should be working, not running a law library in an active unit."

But I didn't get a chance to explain, as she continued.
"What case requires this much textbook law, Reid? I didn't realize the BAU handled anything that involved this many appeals."

"It doesn't," I said. "This isn't a BAU case. It's Quinn's."

Barnes blinked. "Your girlfriend's case?"

"Yes. My girlfriend's case," I replied, jaw tightening. "I'm not briefing another case until she's out."

Barnes leaned in slightly, eyes narrowing. “That almost sounds like a threat.”

"It's not a threat," I shot back. "It's a boundary, and it's non-negotiable."

Emily ‌stepped forward then, hands raised like she was already regretting walking into work this morning.

"I gave him approval to do what he needed to," she said, placing herself directly in between us.

Barnes laughed once.

"You gave approval?" she echoed. "Emily, last I checked I was your Section Chief. You don't get to approve things I didn't approve first."

"I approved it as his immediate supervisor," Emily replied.

Barnes turned to her, face tightening. "Well, I didn't give you the approval to approve that.”

Hotch stepped in before anyone else could argue, palm flat on the table. "Let's not be unreasonable here."

Barnes turned toward him. "Oh, you want unreasonable? Bold choice of words for someone who bolted when an Unsub stopped feeling theoretical."

I scowled. "Hotch left to protect his family. Same thing I'm trying to do with Quinn. She's been falsely accused, and is stuck in prison with a who knows how many psychopaths."

Barnes raised a brow. "Right... don't you find it a touch coincidental you've both been falsely accused?"

"She is not a felon," I said sharply cutting the implication.

Barnes smirked. "Oh, she is. Technically. Until someone proves—"

I slammed the case file down on the table. "I'd stop if I were you."

"Oohh. Now that does sound like a threat."

"It's just a suggestion," I said. "Stop talking about things you don't understand."

"I know you're upset, Spencer," she said, like that made it rational. "But you don't get to rewrite facts just because someone you care about ended up on the wrong side of the law."

"She didn't."

"You sure about that?" she said. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks a lot like she played a risky game, lost, and dragged you down with her."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, I know exactly what I'm talking about. You let it get personal. You picked a side. And now you're trying to make it noble."

I shook my head. "You know what, I’m done.”

"Great," she said. "Now that's a smart decision. Leave the law work to your criminal girlfriend's attorney."

This was bullshit. It took everything in me not to throw my badge and book at her.

"No you don’t get it. I’m finished." I looked right at her. "With you. With this." I shook my head once. "With all of it."

"Spencer," Emily said quietly.

But I didn't stop.

Not anymore. Not when the one person who made this bearable is locked away like she's expendable—like she's not worth fighting for.

"I quit." I ripped the badge off and slammed it on the desk as I walked out.

It wasn't until I was halfway to the elevator that I noticed Hotch behind me—following, silent, with me every step of the way.

           ~*~

They made me sign three different forms before they even let me in the hallway. Hotch didn't say anything during any of it. Just handed things over and looked bored in that way he does when he's not actually bored, just pissed and saving it for later.

We didn't speak until they opened the door. Even then, all the guard said was, "Ten minutes. Don't waste them."

She was already in the room when we walked in.

It's exactly what you’d expect—plastic table, plastic chair, that stupid little camera in the top corner that makes every interrogation feel like you're being supervised by an unblinking robot. I try not to look at it. It doesn't work. It never works. I mean, the lens is right there.

And...Quinn looks like she hasn't slept.

She looks like someone who's been worn down by a war she didn't sign up for. Her hair is pulled back, not with intention, but out of necessity. The shadows under her eyes are darker in person. Her shoulders are tight, held straight out of reflex. She isn't unrecognizable. She's still Quinn. Still my Quinn... Just cracked around the edges.

Then her eyes hit mine.

Her expression changes the second she sees me. Like her brain wasn't expecting me to be real. Her eyes go wide, breath snagging. It's just shock and recognition stirring up at the same time—relief, disbelief, maybe a whisper of you idiot, you’re actually here?

"Spencer?" she says, quietly, like she's not convinced it's really me.

Which I can't blame her, I don't know how many times I imagined her during my own prison stint.

"Yeah," I say back. "It's me."

It doesn't get to be dramatic. Not here, with zero music, no reunion moment that lasts more than a blink. Just a room that isn't built for softness and never will be.

Which is a shame, because all I want to do is walk over, grab her, and crush her into a hug that lasts long enough to undo the last few weeks. The urge is loud and unshakable in my head. I don't have a plan for it. Just this pull in my chest that says I need her closer than the rules will allow.

But she's in a chair, and I'm in the doorway, and this stupid camera is staring down, watching us, so instead of lunging at her like a maniac, I cross the room at normal speed and sit.

The hug doesn't happen, but the wanting does.

Then finally, she said, "How is it I'm the one in prison, and you look terrible?"

I almost smiled. "That's because my girlfriend is the one in prison."

"Hmm. Girlfriend. Has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Of course she focused on that, and not on the fact we both look as bad as each other.

"How are you here?" She whispered, careful to not let anything too incriminating out, after all the reason we even got in was under the impression Hotch and I were her attorneys. Technically I wasn’t her lawyer. But Hotch knew a guy who knew a guy.

"For all intents and purposes, we are your lawyers." Hotch answered from the door.

She nodded, like, yeah, that made sense. Her arms were folded. She hadn't uncrossed them once, didn't allow herself to relax, or soften. "So... guess I'm not getting out of here any time soon."

I didn't answer right away. Just looked at her. She wasn't being dramatic, just real.

"We're working on it."

"Spencer, I love you. But you're not a lawyer and there's only so much an FBI agent can do."

"Actually…I quit. So I have all the time in the world now to focus on you and this."

Her mouth dropped open, then blinked several times like she was trying to process what I just said.

She glanced toward the camera. "You really think quitting your job helps me?"

"No," I said. "I think helping you helps you."

"We're not going to let this slide Quinny. Both Reid and I have a plan, the reason we're here now is because he won't stop worrying about you and this Adam threat." Hotch added.

She let out a breath, but her arms stayed crossed. "Yes, that's all very good in theory. But reassurance isn't going to stop a shiv going into my back is it?"

Her voice wasn't shaky. Just flat, like she was stating a fact.

"Has she tried?" I asked, barely containing the rage that simmered in me.

"Nothing yet," she said. "Which is worse than something."

I didn't say anything, couldn’t really with the bile creeping up my throat.

She looked at me, "So you've got a plan at least?"

"The DOJ have sealed your logs," I answered. "That means there's no timeline or dates set for an investigation. Not until a judge forces it. So that's where we'll start. We find a judge who demands the timeline gets opened. That's the only way this moves right now."

She blinked once. "And who's this judge that's going to be willing to help you?"

"Leave that to me and Hotch."

Her lip twitched. "That doesn't sound legal."

"It's probably not, but there's not a line we wouldn't both cross for you."

That earned the faintest exhale out of her nose. "I don't trust any of them. Finding a judge that's not going to either be paid off by Cat or willing to even look at my case is going to be an issue."

I nodded.

She leaned back again. "You know this won’t be easy."

"I don't care if it's easy," I said. "I care that there's a you at the end of this."

She stared at me for a long time. "Please don't do anything that's going to put you back in here."

"He won't." Hotch answered before I could.

"I'm serious. I don't want to get out only for you to be the one arrested by the end of this." She added.

I glanced at the camera, wondering if I could risk it, just one second. Just one quick touch of her hand. "I won't. I'm getting you out."

"Let's just hope it's before Cat decides to make her move." she said. Voice flat again.

"It will be before. She won't touch you."

She opened her mouth like she was about to say something else—

Knock.

I didn't turn toward the glass. I didn't have to. Time's up.

She didn't say anything as I stood. Just watched. Eyes wet from holding back her tears.

"Next time," I said quietly, "we bring a judge."

She nodded, blew me a kiss, "I love you." Then glanced at Hotch, "Both of you. Thank you."

And I didn't know what it was, maybe it was the look in her eyes, or the way she walked but something felt wrong with the goodbye. Almost like it was a final farewell and if that didn't make me want to move faster, harder than nothing else would.

~*~

I hadn't come here to be polite.

I'd had exactly three conversations with Judge Victor Bennett in my life. All of them ended in arguments. None of them ended in agreement. It was clear he didn't like me, and the feeling was mutual.

I didn't knock, I just walked in, because there was no reason to be polite when dealing with this asshole.

He looked up from behind his desk, eyes narrowing like he couldn't decide whether this was beneath him or just irritating. Surprise, it was both.

"Dr. Reid," he said. "You're brave to show up uninvited."

"And you're still pretending this isn't your problem," I replied.

He leaned back slowly, folding his hands like he had the moral high ground. Why did he always sit like that? Like he had to sit straight enough to carry that massive ego.

"I told you before—this is not something I can involve myself in directly. It would raise questions."

"It should," I said. "Your daughter is in prison for something she didn't do."

His jaw didn't twitch. He was trained for this. Decades of ruling without blinking.

"And what exactly would you like me to do? Break into a DOJ server? Rewrite the record?" He tilted his head.

"That would be a wonderful start." I replied, just as sarcastic.

He scoffed, "My hands are tied Dr Reid. I think it's best you-."

"Your hands are not tied, you're being a goddamn coward. You could literally get her records unsealed with one phone call."

There was a long pause.

He picked up a pen, turned it in his hand like he'd already moved on.

"You know," he said, "You remind me a lot of myself at this age. So self righteous in doing the right thing. Even when it's clear it's a dead end."

"Dead end? That's your daughter! Do you not care at all, that her life is on the line right now? That she could..." I paused, trying to swallow the lump rising in my throat. "She could die, Victor."

His brow twitched, which I guess was a better reaction than the blank stare I was getting.

"She needed you, and you made her feel like a disappointment."

He didn't answer.

"She's sitting in a prison cell right now trying to protect you, by the way. Because she knows Cat's holding something over your head and she'd rather take the hit than give that woman more leverage."

His fingers tightened slightly on the pen. Still not speaking. Which was how I knew I was right.

I dropped my voice. "She still protects you. Even now. Even after everything."

He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was exhausted by the implication of guilt.

"I am not the reason she's in custody."

"No," I said. "But you are the reason no one's helping her."

Another pause. Silence thick enough to become somewhat uncomfortable.

Then he said, "If I step in, I lose my seat. And if I lose my seat, there's nothing I can do for her long-term."

"You're not doing anything for her now!”

"Careful, Dr. Reid—"

"No," I said again, sharper. "You don't get to pull rank with me. I'm not here as a colleague or a friend. I'm here because I love your daughter, and you're the one person with power who's still doing nothing."

Something flickered in his expression. Just for a second. It might have been shame. Or fear. Or guilt under too many years of control.

"I'm not asking you to make a speech. I'm not asking you to hold a press conference. I'm telling you to use your name, your influence, your connections—something—to force a judge to demand a timeline. You know exactly how to do that. You've done it a hundred times."

He didn't deny it.

"You can hate me all you want," I said. "But you don't get to hate her. Not anymore. Not when it counts. Just be a father for once in your life. Don’t be the reason I loose her.”

Victor didn't answer right away. He just stared—past me, past the desk, past whatever excuse he was planning to spit out next.

Then, finally, almost reluctantly. “Give me a few days, I can't undo this. But I might be able to get her transferred. Out of that prison. Somewhere safer."

I didn't thank him. Just nodded once and turned to leave, because this wasn't generosity. This was obligation. And he was decades late.

The door shut behind me harder than I meant it to.

I made it halfway to the elevator before my phone buzzed in my pocket. Unknown number.

I didn't even hesitate.

"Reid."

A throat clears before a voice sounds through the speaker. “Dr. Reid? This is a courtesy call on behalf of inmate Quinn Bennett, you’ve been listed as her next of kin.”

The world dropped out from under me.

"I regret to inform you, that there's been an incident."

Chapter 31: The Beginning of the End

Vacatur (n.)
A court order nullifying a judgment when new evidence reveals fraud, misconduct, or a deliberate attempt to manipulate the system.
A legal way of saying:
The wrong person paid for someone else's obsession.

 

                                ~~📖Quinn📖~~

God, I was such an idiot. Could I have been any more obvious with that goodbye? I should've just handed Spencer my goddamn will and said, "Initial here, babe — right under the section where I dramatically perish."

Subtle? Yeah, no, that left the building the second my voice cracked and I blew him a kiss like some tragic extra in a prison drama, who absolutely dies before the second ad break.

Smooth, Quinn. Really smooth.

And now there I was, getting marched back toward the cafeteria like I hadn't just emotionally flung myself off a cliff fifteen minutes ago.

The guard shoved a tray at me. I stared at it.

Fantastic. The mystery beige again. Pretty sure this stuff violates the Geneva Conventions, but fine — add it to the growing list of human rights violations.

I dragged myself to Robinson's table and dropped into the seat. Not "sat." Dropped was a more accurate description. I'm talking the world's least graceful sit.

"I just—" I started, because if I didn't get this out, I was going full pressure-cooker. "What the hell was that? I finally get five minutes with Spencer and Hotch and I can't even hug them? I can't touch them, can't breathe near them, can't do anything except sit there like a polite little inmate while everything in me is screaming to grab Spencer by the shirt and refuse to let go."

I exhaled sharply. "And the goodbye? Horrific. I knew it was bad the second it left my mouth. I sounded like I was giving a eulogy. Why? Why am I like this? Hotch blinks too hard and suddenly I'm a weepy, pathetic mess."

I poked at the beige sludge. "This place has rewired my entire personality. Or maybe I snapped on day three and no one bothered to mention it."

Across from me, Robinson winced.

I didn't notice. Of course I didn't. Quinn Bennett doesn't read social cues mid-spiral.

"And Spencer looked like he aged seven years watching me leave. I swear to God I could see new wrinkles forming in real time. I feel like garbage for putting him through this eve—"

That was when it hit me that Robinson still hadn't said a word.

She wasn't smirking. Not even giving me the classic "Jesus, calm down" face. Just staring at her food like it was gourmet.

I finally stopped. "...Okay. What's going on?"

She swallowed and leaned forward a fraction — not dramatically, just cautious.

Her voice barely carried across the table. "Word's going around your boyfriend is FBI... and there are people here who don't love that."

My spine did that unpleasant ice-water thing, and for once I couldn't blame it on whatever this beige substance was pretending to be.

Sure. Why not. Let's add this to the ever growing shit show that is my life.

"Gee... I wonder who felt like spreading that around?" I whispered. Because it was beyond obvious who thought making me more of a target was a good idea.

Robinson just gave a small nod, eyes flicking toward the room.

So I looked too.

The stares were nothing like my first day here. Gone was the curious sizing-up. This was hatred. Pure, unfiltered, deeply bored prison rage.

Huh. Guess felons don't love law enforcement. Who knew...And somehow I doubted "Actually, I defended people like you for a living" would help my case.

"So what do I do?" I asked, trying not to sound like someone begging for a lifeline. God forbid Robinson think I was becoming a liability.

She took a bite of her food. I had to look away before I gagged. "You need to lay low," she said.

"No shit. Give me something that's actually actionable."

She shrugged. "Don't go off on your own."

I stared at her. "Seriously?"

"What do you want me to say? I can't tell you to make a weapon — you get caught with it, you're not walking out of here, you're going straight into solitary."

I perked up. "Actually? That's not the worst idea. I'd be isolated, no one can stab me, I get a break from humanity—"

I trailed off the second I saw her expression. The way her face shut down, her eyes not meeting mine.

"...Robinson?"

"Quinn... trust me. You don't want solitary." Her voice dropped. "People come out different after it."

I frowned, putting the words, the reaction together.
"How long were you in there?"

Her hand tightened around her fork. "A few weeks. But it feels like... months."

Oh. Ok. Well shit. Even my sarcasm tapped out.

"Okay, so... what do I do?"

"Lay low," she repeated. "And stick with me. Okay?"

My stomach twisted so hard I genuinely considered lying down on the table.

"Okay."

~*~
I felt like I was walking on eggshells. Actual, literal eggshells. Crunchy ones. You know the ones that cut your feet.

Every inmate who got even a hair too close made my shoulders jump like I was in a damn haunted house. I'd flinch at footsteps. At trays clattering. At the sound of a toilet flushing two cells down. Robinson breathed too sharply once and I almost karate chopped her throat. Was I skilled in the art of karate? Hell no, but it wasn't going to stop me from defending myself.

And sleep? Yeah, okay, it was a cute concept. I think I'd managed maybe three hours in the last two days, and even that was just my body shutting down out of pure exhaustion. I'd wake up convinced someone was standing over me with a shiv, or worse — Cat's smug little face leaning in like, surprise, bitch.

I hated how jumpy I was. I hated that this place had me looking over both shoulders like some feral cat. I felt like a walking panic attack in a body that used to yell at federal judges for a living.

And the worst part? This wasn't paranoia. This was me bracing for shit I knew was coming. Because after what Robinson told me...I wasn't imagining a damn thing.

Someone was going to make a move. I just didn't know when. Or who. Or if I'd be awake when it happened.

By morning, I was running on nerves and fumes. Everything felt too loud. My brain wouldn't shut up long enough to let my body rest, and apparently it showed, because Robinson shot me a sideways glance as we headed toward breakfast.

"You need to breathe," she muttered. "You look like you're about to chew through the walls."

"Yeah, well," I said, rubbing a hand over my face, "turns out jail really brings out my chill."

"You're a mess."

"You really just call it like you see it, don't you."

She didn't deny it.

We were ten feet from the cafeteria doors when a guard stepped in front of us. "Bennett. Visitor."

I blinked. "Now?"

Robinson frowned. "Visiting hours aren't till later."

He shrugged. "They said they're your lawyers."

Oh. Right. Hotch and Spencer must've worked another miracle.

Perfect, couldn't wait for Spencer to admire the new 'sleep deprivation' look I had going on.

"Okay," I said, adjusting my shirt like that would somehow fix my entire life. "Lead the way."

I followed him... for a few minutes before irritation started tapping on the back of my skull.

This was not the normal path. No left turn, no grim little security desk, no sad interview rooms. Just one long, empty hallway I'd never been down, which was exactly as comforting as it sounded.

I slowed. "Hey. This wasn't where my lawyers met me the other day."

He didn't answer. Didn't even glance over his shoulder. Just kept walking like I hadn't said a word. Which, one, was rude as hell.

Something inside me went nope. Loudly. Something was definitely off.

"Excuse me, guard." Nothing. He just kept going.

Alright. Two can play this game. Instead of following, I stopped. Like a full dead stop. If he wanted to be a silent asshole, I could be a stubborn bitch.

He finally noticed my footsteps vanish and whirled around. "Don't make this a problem, Bennett. Move."

"Not until you tell me where you're taking me."

The smile he gave me pulled every nerve between my shoulders tight. "To your lawyer."

"Bullshit."

I didn't even see him move before he was inches from me, baton sliding out like he'd been waiting for a reason.

"Don't make me use this."

Okay. I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid. He was winning this round, even though every fiber in me was screaming 'Do not go.'

This wasn't Spencer. It wasn't Hotch. And wherever he was taking me... it sure as hell wasn't to a lawyer.

My gut was losing its shit. This was it. The moment Cat had been waiting for.

I nodded, swallowed the lump in my throat, and followed, I didn't exactly want to take a baton to the ribs before my big showdown.

But that didn't mean I didn't keep trying to clock anything familiar, a doorway, a turn, even a stain on the floor I'd seen before, but nope. Nothing. It was just a blank slate.

And the moment I knew I was actually screwed? We hadn't passed a single guard. Not one inmate. Not even the usual guy half-asleep over fake paperwork.

Just empty hallway after empty hallway and this guy walking like he knew exactly where to dump a body. Yeah. The thought wasn't super comforting.

He stopped in front of a bathroom with an "OUT OF ORDER" sign slapped on the door like a joke.

"Inside," he ordered.

I didn't move fast enough.

He shoved me in, hard, and I caught myself on the sink before my face introduced itself to the porcelain. The door slammed. The lock turned. And my heartbeat went straight into sprint mode.

And of course the first thing my brain did wasn't plan an escape. No. Because why would it be helpful right now?

My brain went straight to Spencer, not in some sentimental montage, just the real stuff. Him grinning at me. His hands, always warm when he touched me. That dumb little laugh he tried to hide whenever I said something mildly inappropriate.

And it felt like someone knocked the air right out of lungs. I wasn't going to get any of it back.

I wasn't going to touch him again. Or listen to him ramble until he confused himself. All the stupid small stuff that made the day suck less.

And the thing that made me actually feel sick? He'd blame himself. Why wouldn't he. He'd fall apart, and I wouldn't be there to get him out of it.

Everything in my middle just free-fell so fast I had to grab the counter just to stay vertical. I forced a breath in. Then another. Because if Cat wanted me scared, shaking, falling apart?

She could go screw herself.

With my hands still on the sink, I tried to breathe past the adrenaline spike and tell myself to pull it together.
Freaking out wasn't going to help. Crying definitely wasn't going to help.

I needed my head on straight for whatever was about to happen.

Okay. Focus. Bathroom. Gross. Empty. Out of order. No windows. One door. Fantastic murder conditions. Really it was a very thoughtful setup.

But before I could take anything else in, I heard a tiny click at the door. Immediately, my mind went, oh great, this is the part where I die.

Then her voice echoed through the room. "Quinn... sweetheart...so good of you to join me."

I shut my eyes. You know, I really hate being right sometimes.

The door eased open like it had all the time in the world, and Cat stepped inside like this was a brunch date and not a bathroom with a half-working light.

She closed the door behind her slowly, like she was in a movie trailer. Irritation flared. God, did she have to be this fucking dramatic?

I pushed off the sink and stood up because if she was going to stab me today, she was at least going to stab me while I had decent posture. There was something deeply undignified about dying slouched.

"Well," I said, leaning hard into sarcasm because if I didn't, I'd be on the floor having a breakdown. "look who crawled out of whatever hellhole she calls home."

Cat smiled like she'd been waiting weeks just to be theatrical about it. "Oh, Quinn... be serious. You have to admit my plan was brilliant."

"Right, yes, absolutely stellar work paying off half the law community," I said, waving a hand. "Really next-level mastermind energy."

She started walking toward me, slow enough that it made my skin itch. She loved this — loved the performance of it, loved imagining she was the star of some psychological thriller instead of, you know, a deeply unstable woman with a crush.

"You have no idea how long I've waited for this," she said.

"Yeah, I picked up on that with your whole Disney-villain entrance." I gestured at the door. "All you were missing was thunder and a musical number."

Her mouth curled. "You really think you can joke your way through this?"

"Absolutely," I replied. "Because if I stop joking, then I have to accept you're actually in front of me."

That earned me the tiniest twitch in her cheek, microscopic, but I saw it. I clearly hit a nerve.

"So, enlighten me, what exactly does killing me accomplish? Because if you believe removing me somehow gets you closer to Spencer, I'm genuinely worried about the brain cell that suggested it."

Her fingers twitched, and that's when I spotted the knife. Not a prison craft project — a real blade. The sort that definitely came with "may puncture vital organs" as a warning label.

Cat stepped closer, the blade catching the light. "Killing you removes an obstacle."

I raised an eyebrow. "An obstacle to what? Your delusion? Spencer doesn't belong to you."

That stopped her. Not with some big dramatic flourish, just a tiny, chilling stillness. Her eyes went blank, and something deep in me braced. There it is. The actual unfiltered crazy I'd been waiting for.

"Don't say that," she said quietly. "You don't know what he and I have. We have a bond. We're more alike than he admits."

"Oh, I know exactly what you have. A very active imagination and way too much free time."

Her jaw twitched. The blade moved with it. "We belong together."

I actually laughed. Like out loud. Because if I didn't, I was probably going to start screaming. "Cat, Spencer would literally rather get a papercut on his cornea than be with you."

Her nostrils flared in this sharp little inhale that was honestly the most satisfying thing I'd seen all week.

"He and I have a connection," she snapped. "Something you could never understand."

"Oh, I understand it. You don't want him, Cat — you want the version of him you built in your head. Big difference."

Her hand twitched again, and for the first time I could see the exact second she imagined cutting me open.

And yeah, okay, that was when my pulse got loud. She stepped closer. I didn't back up.

If she wanted to end me, fine. But I wasn't going out letting her think Spencer Reid ever gave a shit about her.

So I leaned in, just enough.

"He doesn't love you," I whispered. "He never would. He'd rather lick a subway pole than touch you."

Her face tightened, all pretense gone, like I'd yanked the last thread holding her together.

Then she lunged.

I didn't even think, my body just threw itself sideways, the blade missing my ribs by inches and slamming into the sink instead with a horrible metal-on-porcelain shriek.

"Jesus—!" I scrambled back, hitting the wall harder than I meant to, but Cat was already on me again, like she'd been waiting for that exact opening.

She was fast. Too fast for someone who'd just been mocking me.

Her fingers tangled in my hair and yanked my head sideways so violently my vision went white. My skull rammed into the mirror with a crack, an actual smash, I could hear the glass spider-webbing around me.

A burst of pain ripped behind my eyes. I tasted blood, and was definitely feeling it sliding down my face.

Cat laughed like this was her kind of fucking foreplay.

"Aw, come on, Quinn," she hissed, shoving my face harder into the mirror. "Fight back. Make this fun."

Fun. Yeah. Sure. Because this definitely belonged in the 'fun' category.

I grabbed the only thing within reach, the metal soap dispenser, and swung it backward blindly. It hit something solid with a dull crunch, and Cat yelped, her grip slipping just enough.

Instinct took over. I shoved off the wall, colliding my shoulder into her to knock her back. We both staggered, feet skidding on the slick tile. The knife flashed past my arm, the sting was instant, luckily it missed a vein by the literal grace of God.

She came at me again, knife raised.

I ducked—not gracefully, more like my legs were giving up for a second.

She overshot, crashing into the sink instead, and the whole thing snapped clean off the wall with a crack so loud it felt unreal. Pipes burst, spraying water straight into the air like a busted fountain.

Cat sputtered, wiping water out of her eyes. Good. I'd take any advantage I could get.

I pushed her into the broken sink, ceramic exploding around us, shards skating across the floor.

The water turned everything into a slip-n-slide of death. We both went down, grabbing at anything, palms scraping over shattered glass. My hands were already slick with something—water, blood, I couldn't tell.

Cat recovered first. Which isn't surprising considering this was probably an average day for her. The psycho.

She hauled me in so close I could feel her breath on my cheek "You're ruining everything," she hissed, lifting the knife again.

"I ruin a lot of things," I gasped, kicking her knee as hard as I could.

She moved, but not fast enough, and the knife came down again—an ugly, furious swipe aimed right at my chest.

I twisted out of the way at the last second, a messy, panicked lurch that barely counted as rolling. The blade sliced through the top of my shirt instead of my heart.

Water sprayed everywhere. Glass crunched under my hands, biting into my skin, and my ears were ringing like whole room was shuddering around with me. I couldn't catch my breath — everything came in these stupid, choking gasps.

I tried crawling toward the door, but the floor was a disaster — my palms kept skidding out from under me, my knees slipping like I'd forgotten how to use my own body. Every muscle in me was shaking, this frantic, useless adrenaline overload.

Move, Quinn. Move. Now!

And somehow it just scrambled me more — thoughts slipping, lungs misfiring, limbs refusing to line up with what I needed them to do as I pulled myself toward the only exit I had.

My foot snagged on a chunk of mirror. I pitched forward, shoulder hitting the floor so hard it rattled through my teeth.

Cat was on me instantly.

Her weight crashed onto my back, knocking every bit of air straight out of me. My hands clawed at the floor, at her arm, at anything, trying to buck her off, trying to elbow her, trying to fight like I had the faintest idea what I was doing.

My grip kept giving out, my legs kept sliding, and the fear sitting in my ribs made every movement feel half a second too late.

She forced me onto my back and straddled my hips, hair plastered to her face from the water still spraying everywhere, eyes lit up with something awful.

"Spencer and I had something real — we were going to have a child together, and you ruined that."

My brain blanked. Then snapped back hard.

"It wasn't his, you psycho bitch—" That was all I got out.

Because Cat drove the knife down.

I jerked at the last minute but pain still exploded through my stomach as the blade sank in.

I screamed, this hurt worse than the fucking gunshot.  Cat just grinned like she'd just been waiting to hear the sound.

"Fuck. You," I spat, the words barely making it out before another scream ripped out of me as she yanked the knife free.

Cat laughed like this was her birthday and Christmas all rolled into one.

"You know," she said, lifting the knife again, "I really thought you'd last longer than—"

She stalled mid-lunge, body seizing up. A strangled breath mangled itself out of her chest.

My vision blurred, but I still saw it, the knife slipping from her hand, clattering to the floor beside my hip.

Her eyes flicked down, confused. Then she reached back, fingers trembling like she wasn't sure what she was touching.

I followed her movement...And my breath caught.

A huge chunk of mirror glass was jutting out of her back. Not a scratch — an actual piece of the mirror, buried so deep it looked wrong.

Cat's mouth opened like she wanted to scream, but all that came out was a wet gasp.

Before my brain could make sense of it, an arm clamped around her throat from behind, jerking her backward in one violent pull.

Holy— oh my God. Robinson.

She yanked Cat backward into a headlock so tight it forced Cat off me entirely, dragging her away in one quick motion.

Cat thrashed, hands clawing, legs kicking, but Robinson didn't budge — she had the grip of someone who'd been waiting for this moment.

And all I could do was lie there on the tile, vision swimming, stomach on fire, watching the woman who tried to kill me get hauled back like a rabid animal.

Robinson yanked her farther back, Cat choking out this guttural sound as she clawed at the arm crushing her windpipe. The shard in her back wobbled with every movement, blood pouring down in rivulets that mixed with the water flooding across the floor.

I tried to push myself upright.

Bad idea.

A brutal bolt of pain shot through my gut, hard enough to make the room stutter. My hand slapped over the wound on instinct and came away slick and red. Great. Internal organ roulette. Exactly what I needed today.

"Stay down!" Robinson barked, tightening her hold as Cat kicked wildly, boots slamming against tile.

Trust me, staying down was the ONE thing I was naturally excelling at.

Cat thrashed harder, a strangled snarl ripping out of her throat. She twisted toward me—unhinged right to the end—reaching out like she still had a chance to finish me off.

"No—NO—get back here!" Her voice shredding through the chokehold.

"Yeah, sweetheart," I wheezed, clutching my stomach, "we're done."

Cat lunged again, tried to drag Robinson with her, fingers stretching toward me like claws.

And then Robinson's face shifted, it wasn't panic, or hesitation. Just that hard look people get when they've made up their mind.

Her arm drew tighter around Cat's neck.

Not to restrain. But to kill.

"Robinson—" I croaked, not sure if I was warning her or encouraging her.

But... it was too late.

With one vicious twist, Robinson hauled upward, a movement so raw and practiced it made Cat's spine snap into a hard arch.

There was a horrible crack. Cat's body went rigid.
Her hands dropped instantly, the life snuffed out of her with terrifying speed. The broken shard in her back shifted as her body slumped forward.

But Robinson didn't let go until she was certain.

Then Cat collapsed onto the tile beside me, limp and absolutely, undeniably dead — eyes open, expression still frozen in that wild, delusional rage.

For a second, all I could do was stare at her.

One moment she was mid-monologue about Spencer.
The next, she was gone. Just... gone.

Water kept spraying. Blood kept spreading. Nothing changed, except my brain finally catching up enough to go, holy shit.

Robinson backed away, shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths, her hands unsteady now that the moment she committed to was actually over.

"She was going to kill you," she said, voice cracking. "She deserved to die."

I opened my mouth to respond, but another wave of pain hit and my whole body curled inward with it.

"Oh my God— Quinn—" She was at my side fast, dropping to her knees, pressing her hands to the wound again. "Stay with me— just stay awake— I'll get help—"

"Don't—" I gasped. "Don't leave—"

"I'm not," she said immediately. "I'm right here. Just look at me."

I tried...I really tried. But my vision blurred, black creeping inward like a curtain dropping.

"Spencer..." I whispered. "Tell him... It's not his fault. He's going to blame-."

"Quinn— hey— QUINN—!"

Her voice warped, stretching thin, fading at the edges.

I blinked once.

Twice.

And the world went dark.

                                               ~*~

It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Quinn Bennett, esteemed attorney, beloved by many, she leaves behind-

Pfft. No. I'm alive. I mean barely. But alive.

And based on the way my entire torso feels? Honestly debatable whether that's a blessing. Everything ached — my ribs, my throat, the general area where organs were supposed to live.

Then I noticed the IV taped to my arm. The beeping somewhere behind my head. The too-bright overhead lights.

Hospital. Great.

My fingers were locked in someone else's. It took me longer than I'm proud of to realise it wasn't a nurse.

I blinked until the room stopped doubling.

Spencer was hunched over the side of my hospital bed, forehead against my arm, shoulders shaking in these tiny, awful tremors he clearly didn't want anyone to see.

Oh.

Well. That somehow hurt worse than the stabbing.

"Hey," I croaked.

He shot upright so fast he nearly head-butted me. His eyes were red, wide, and absolutely terrified.

"Quinn," he breathed, like my name was the first real thing he'd said in hours.

I took in his face, exhausted, blotchy, that blank hollow look that told me he hadn't slept since... everything.

And because I was me, I said, "Relax. I'm fine. Well — hospital fine. Which is still an upgrade from... you know." I waved a hand weakly. "Whatever the hell that was."

His mouth tightened. The sound he let out wasn't a laugh, more like something cracking loose.

"You've been asleep for three days... You almost died," he said quietly.

"And yet here I am," I mumbled. "Annoying as ever."

"Don't do that again," he whispered.

"Yeah, that's not going on my repeat list."

Something like relief crossed his face. Or disbelief. Maybe both. His fingers hovered near mine, shaking like he didn't trust himself to touch me.

So I moved the tiniest bit and brushed my pinky against his. He sucked in a sharp breath.

"Spencer," I murmured, drugged and stupidly emotional, "you can... you know... kiss me."

His whole body went still.

"Quinn," he said, barely audible. "You've been— you almost— I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't," I slurred. "Kiss me, genius."

He closed his eyes like he was wrestling with a decision that physically hurt. "I thought you died, I thought— I thought that was it. I couldn't—"

"Oh my God, Spencer," I muttered, trying to pat his cheek and missing by a mile, "I get stabbed and survive, but a kiss is where we draw the line?"

His throat bobbed, but then he leaned closer until his forehead touched mine, breath shaky.

"I want to," he admitted. "More than you know. But you're hooked up to monitors and missing a spleen and you can barely lift your hand."

"Spencer," I said again, "I'm right here."

His hand cupped my jaw so freaking delicately I melted on impact. Or that might've been the drugs. Who could say at this point.

He kissed my forehead slowly, still so hesitant, but a warmth spread through my ribs anyway.

"Unfair," I whispered into his shoulder. "I wanted the real one."

"You'll get it," he promised, thumb brushing under my eye. "When you're less... stab-adjacent."

"Rude," I muttered. "I'm very kissable right now."

He choked on a laugh, shoulders shaking, but this time for a different reason entirely. He tucked himself against the side of my bed like he wasn't letting go of me ever again.

But before I could convince him a kiss would heal me, there was a soft knock on the door.

Spencer straightened, trying to look less like he had been crying on my arm.

Hotch stepped in first, and then Jack peeked around him, holding a bouquet of sunflowers that were basically bigger than his whole torso.

Oh wonderful. Feelings. Just what my stitched-together body needed.

Jack marched right up to the foot of the hospital bed and set the flowers down with both hands. "We brought these," he said. "Because you got hurt."

My throat immediately tried to close.

"Guys," I warned, pointing weakly in their direction, "don't make me cry. I am apparently missing parts, and crying seems... medically unwise."

Hotch actually smiled. Spencer squeezed my hand like he agreed with both of us.

"Glad to see you're okay, Quinny," Hotch said.

"Takes more than losing a spare organ to take me out," I muttered.

Spencer made a soft noise that was almost a laugh. Jack actually did laugh. Hotch... gave me what I assume was his version of one.

Jack stepped closer, holding something behind his back. "I made this for you."

I reached for the paper, missed by two inches because the room tilted, then tried again and managed to grab it. It was a drawing—me, apparently—as a superhero. Cape, boots, the whole dramatic ensemble.

"Dude. This is incredible." And it was. I looked like I punched meteors for fun. "This is so going on the fridge."

Jack's face lit up. "Really?"

"Really," I said. "Spencer! Look. I'm a freaking superhero."

I shoved the picture into his free hand. A smile creeping onto his face when he took in the image. "It's very good Jack."

But before anyone else comment on how badass I looked as a superhero another knock sounded.

But something about that knock felt wrong. The room just... tightened. Even I felt it before I understood it.

The door opened... and in walked my father.

Judge Bennett, in all his perfect-tie, perfect-posture glory. Except his eyes didn't match the rest of him. They landed on me, and for a second he looked kind of in shock, which was unsettling.

"Quinn," he said.

I blinked at him. "Dad." It came out weirdly small, which I hated immediately.

He stepped inside, slow, like the room might kick him out, which could still happen. His gaze went over the bandages, the wires, the fact that Spencer was basically welded to my hand. None of it seemed to surprise him, but it definitely rattled something.

"I, uh—" He cleared his throat, which was honestly the most alarming part of this whole day. "I received an email."

"Oh boy," I muttered. "That sentence has never ended well for me."

"From a Penelope Garcia," he added.

Spencer made a noise that might've been him choking if he didn't hide it with a cough.

My father kept going. "She sent... quite a lot. About Catherine Adams. Her manipulation of evidence. Her involvement in... what happened to you." His voice dipped for a second but he pushed on. "The charges are being dropped."

I didn't say anything at first because I wasn't entirely convinced I'd heard him correctly. The pain meds were doing wild things in my bloodstream, so honestly anything was possible.

"Dropped," I repeated eventually, like I needed to say it out loud to make it real.

"Yes."

The relief hit so suddenly my vision did a stupid little wobble.

"Oh thank God," I said. "Because if I had to eat one more beige thing pretending to be food, I was gonna set that place on fire with sheer willpower."

Spencer exhaled, finally, like his body had just remembered how. He pressed his forehead to my hand again, and I pretended not to notice because I'd absolutely cry if I did.

Jack smiled. Hotch gave me a single nod — the sort that said finally.

My father didn't say anything else. He just stood there, still tense, but his eyes stayed on me in a way that didn't feel like judgment. More like... relief. Or maybe shock. Or maybe he'd finally realized his daughter was not, in fact, bulletproof.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn't feel like the whole world was actively trying to kill me. Everything wasn't magically fixed — God no — but... the future looked promising.

                                                 ~*~

Six months after almost bleeding out on a prison bathroom floor, I was late.

Not metaphorically. Not "emotionally lagging behind." No. I was physically, actually late, in real time, on a Tuesday, sprint-speed walking down a D.C. sidewalk in heels that were actively trying to kill me.

So, you know. Growth.

I shoved my file bag higher on my shoulder and checked my phone again.

SPENCER: Don't rush. It's okay if you're a few minutes late.
ME: that sounds suspicious
SPENCER: It's not....but don't be an hour late again

Rude. Accurate, but rude.

I wove through a clump of tourists moving at half the speed of actual humans, muttering apologies that I did not mean even a little. Someone stopped dead in front of me to take a photo of a pigeon — a pigeon — and I nearly ate pavement.

Anyway.....

Now?

Now my life was...different.

Not normal. I don't think I'll ever qualify as normal.
But definitely not "own a jumpsuit in my size" anymore.

Robinson came to mind first. She usually does now. She'd had her hearing two months ago. They called it "mitigating circumstances" and "defensive force" and about twelve other phrases that made everything sound like a paperwork accident instead of what it was: a woman already serving time killing the psychopath who tried to gut me like a fish. I think she got more in trouble for attacking a guard, even though he was a corrupt asshole.

Unfortunately she didn't get out. I hadn't expected her to.

But the murder charge got knocked down. No death penalty, no extra decades. Just a transfer to a different facility. Which she was more than happy to go to.

But that didn't stop us from working on the appeal. Us being me and my new favorite co-worker.

Bennett & Hotchner.

Yup. That was a real thing now. There was even a logo. A very serious, minimalistic one that screamed we charge by the hour but were goddamn good.

"Alphabetical order, Quinn," Hotch had said when I'd complained his name should go first. "And it was your idea."

"It was my idea to drag you into the 'free innocent people' lifestyle," I reminded him. "You just made it weirdly official."

He'd given me one of his almost-smiles and said, "You'll live."

We worked on wrongful-conviction cases. Appeals, new-evidence petitions. I never would've gone near this field before everything that happened with Spencer and me. Now it just felt... obvious. Like the only move that made sense anymore.

Now I had my own letterhead. Hotch had his own office. And I even convinced Zoe to come be our receptionist. It felt weirdly full-circle.

I hopped down the last two steps into the Metro, then stopped, because my phone buzzed again.

This time it was my father.

DAD: Lunch Thursday? My chambers, 1pm. I'll even let you argue with me for an hour. Pro bono.

I snorted right there in the middle of the station.

Six months ago, that would have started a fight I'd sulk over for a week. Now it just made my chest squeeze in this weird, unfamiliar way I was still getting used to.

We were...trying.

Awkward coffees. The occasional "How is the firm?" text that sounded like it had deleted and rewrote it several times. He'd even stopped calling my clients "your little crusades."

It was progress.

I typed out a reply. ME: only an hour? coward. I'll bring the coffee.

He sent back a single thumbs up, which for Victor Bennett was basically a hug.

I shoved my phone away and kept moving.

Spencer had told me to meet him at "our spot," which was extremely unhelpful considering we had like four of those now. His professor office. That crappy coffee place with the good muffins. The bench near the reflecting pool where he'd once given me a thirty-minute rant about the misclassification of certain aquatic birds.

But his voice had gone soft in that way that basically screamed you know where.

So I headed for the museum.

It was warm out, but not "I hate the sun and want it dead" warm. A few people milled around the steps, couples, students, tourists.

Then I saw him.

Spencer. On the steps. Looking like a goddamn wet dream.

Cardigan over dress shirt, hair a little too long again, tie slightly crooked like he'd gotten distracted halfway through fixing it. Elbows on his knees. I even spotted his briefcase, meaning he was coming from a class.

Yeah, okay. Suddenly the speed-walking made sense.

"Sorry, sorry, I'm here," I said as I climbed the last few steps, slightly out of breath. "Blame the Metro, and these shoes, and the fundamental failures of D.C. infrastructure—"

He stood so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. Okay, someone's nervous.

"It's alright," he said automatically, but his voice was a little thin around the edges. Up close, I could see it, that familiar anxious energy, plus something twitchy underneath. "You're actually only eight minutes late."

"Wow. We should celebrate," I said.

I didn't think about it, I just hooked a hand in his collar and kissed him.

It landed a little off-center at first because he clearly wasn't expecting it, but then he adjusted, one hand finding my hip, and it turned into something slow and stupidly good. A kiss that had absolutely no business happening in public, but here we were.

His thumb brushed my jaw, heat sliding down my spine, and he kissed me back with this careful control that honestly made me want to pin him to the nearest surface.

I pulled back barely an inch but he was still focused on my mouth.

"Hi," I practically sighed.

"Hi," he echoed, and that alone had me smiling like an idiot.

"So..." I said, because if we didn't start talking I was absolutely going to drag him into a supply closet. "What's with the surprise meetup? You were being weirdly funny on the phone."

He huffed out a breath and looked down at his hands.

That's when I saw it. The little red box.

Oh.

My brain just... cut out. Total static.

"Spence?" I asked carefully. "Is... is that what I think it is."

He swallowed. "Your Grams finally gave it to me. It wasn't easy, there were a lot of things I had to prove to get it from her."

"Holy shit."

He laughed, but it came out more nervous than anything. Then he took a breath so deep I could see it push against his ribs and turned to face me properly.

"Okay," he said. "I had a whole speech."

"Oh God," I muttered. "Of course you did."

"I wrote it," he admitted. "And rewrote it. And tried to memorize it. And then I realized you would make fun of me for reciting something, so I— I'm not going to use it."

"That's...accurate," I said. "But now I kind of want to hear it."

"You're not," he said firmly, and that was when I realized his hands were actually shaking. "Because I don't want this to sound like anyone but me. And you. Us."

My heart did something really inconvenient, so I ignored it. "You're killing me over here, Reid."

He rolled his eyes, which didn't help my racing heart because he had no right to look that attractive while doing it.

Then he grew serious, all at once.

"When you were in that hospital bed," he began, "and you were still unconscious, they kept telling me you were stable. That they'd done everything they could. That it was just...time. That we had to wait."

I swallowed. "Yeah, well. I've never been good at doing what people tell me."

"I know. And I kept thinking—if you don't wake up, there are so many things you'll never...know. That I never said. That I thought we had time for."

Everything around us seemed to pause; even the rest of the museum just sort of dropped out.

"This felt like the right place," he said, glancing around like the building. "Because this was our first date. Or non-date. Whatever we called it. But it was the first time I knew something had... changed. That if my life was going to alter it would start here, walking next to you while you made fun of half the exhibits."

My chest ached, but not in a sad way. More in a "too much feeling, not enough room" way.

"Spencer..."

He shook his head, cutting me off. "I don't want to waste time anymore. Not with you. Not with us."

My pulse tripped. "Are you sure... because this would be a really bad moment to be all 'just kidding!'"

He smiled again, but it faded quickly. His fingers fumbled with the box one more second, then he dropped down onto one knee.

Oh.

Oh, okay, we were doing this.

My brain did a full system shut down. I'm talking sirens blaring. I genuinely forgot how to breathe.

"Quinn Bennett," he said, looking up at me with those gorgeous puppy dog eyes. "You are the most stubborn, infuriating, brilliant person I have ever met."

"Flattery will get you everywhere." I rasped. "Go on."

"You also make me feel..." He stopped, searching for a word. "Like surviving all the things I did before you wasn't...for nothing."

Well. Okay. Looks like I'm going to be one of these people who cry when being proposed to.

"I realized something," he said, voice unsteady. "I'm not built to lose you. I'm really not. My life... it doesn't work without you in it."

My throat burned as I answered, "Good. Because I'm not planning on going anywhere."

He smiled. All teeth, that made these little dimples pop in his cheeks. Then he opened the box.

It was my gran's ring—heavy gold and enough diamonds to blind someone if the light hit right. She'd always tell me, "You'll get this when you've found the right one, Quinn." I used to laugh at her. Now the joke was absolutely on me.

"Quinn Margaret Bennett, will you marry me," he said and then quickly added, "Please."

I stared at him.

Some girl in the background whispered "oh my God," like we were in a movie. Somewhere else, a camera clicked. I ignored all of it.

My life wasn't empty before Spencer, it just didn't really feel like mine. It was courtrooms and late nights and wins that still somehow felt like losing. I kept moving because stopping meant admitting I didn't actually know what I was moving toward.

And then he showed up, and suddenly everything had a direction. Something that felt like an actual future.

And now he was on his knee. Looking at me like loving me had always been the plan.

"Yes." I blurted, before he could spiral with how long I was taking. "Of course I'll marry you."

His eyes went wide. "You— really?"

"No, I just like emotionally torturing you," I joked, and held out my hand. "Yes really. Put it on before I change my mind and demand a pony as part of the deal."

He huffed out a strangled sound that might have been half laugh, half sob, and slid the ring onto my finger with so much care you'd think I was made of glass.

I stared at it for a second. It didn't magically change anything. I was still me. He was still him. But something in me finally quit freaking out for five seconds.

He didn't give me a second to react — he just kissed me, hard, like the proposal had knocked the restraint out of him. I grabbed his tie and pulled him closer, kissing him back with every ounce of adrenaline still buzzing in my veins.

He made a quiet noise into the kiss, that made my knees actually wobble. Ridiculous. I was never telling him that he actually made me swoon.

Spencer pulled back just enough to breathe, eyes blown wide, lips flushed, looking so unbelievably perfect.

So I kissed him again, because he was my fiancé now, and there was absolutely no universe where I wasn't taking full advantage of that.

"Spencer Reid," I said pulling back, "you just willingly signed up to deal with me for the rest of your life."

He smiled, and stupidly enough, it made everything in my head go quiet.

"I know," he said. "I've never been surer of anything."

"Wow," I muttered. "You really do have terrible judgment."

He squeezed my hand, ring catching the light. "And look how well that turned out."

"Yeah," I breathed. "Guess it did."

And you know what? I wouldn't change a thing.

Notes:

This is the final chapter of Quinn and Spencer's story.
I do have a couple of epilogues planned, but this is where their main arc ends.
Thank you for reading and supporting this journey — it truly means a lot.

Chapter 32: Epilogue One: The Wedding

Marriage (n.)
A legally binding contract between two people, enforceable by the state, dissolvable only through death or extensive paperwork. Often described as romantic. Almost never described as terrifying.

 

      ~~📖Quinn📖~~

One year later

There have been many humiliations in life. Courtroom losses. Orange jumpsuits. The bathroom stabbing. Truly a highlight.

But none — NONE — compare to the sound of Penelope Garcia grunting behind you while three fully grown women try to shove your body into a dress that clearly has it out for you.

"It's stuck," Penelope huffed, yanking the zipper like she was trying to revive a dead lawn mower.

"Bullshit," I snapped, hands braced on my hips as I stared at myself in the hotel mirror. "This is a mermaid dress. A skin-tight, sweetheart neckline, zero-margin-for-error, aka the perfect dress. It can't 'just' be stuck."

"It can," Zoe said from the left, "And it is."

"Try sucking in," Penelope said, patting my shoulder. "Big inhale. Engage every abdominal muscle you've got."

I glared at her reflection. "Thank you for that."

"Aww, you're welcome. Now breathe."

I inhaled. Hard. The zipper moved exactly one centimetre before halting again, like it hit a brick wall. Or my ass. Anyone's guess is as good as mine.

"It's this damn fabric," Penelope muttered, leaning in so close to the zipper she was practically nose-to-seam.
Her eyes drifted to where the dress pulled the tightest — my stomach — and her whole face widened in silent alarm.

I gave the tiniest shake of my head.

She snapped back immediately. “Who makes a dress with zero elasticity? Clearly people who have never breathed in their lives."

Grace flopped onto the couch, mascara wand in hand. "You look hot though."

"That's not the issue," I replied. "The issue is whether this thing is going to explode mid-vow and I'll be standing there naked like every nightmare everyone's had."

Penelope tugged again. The dress didn't budge, but it did make a noise that had me cringe.

Zoe actually winced. "Okay, not gonna lie, that sounded bad."

"Yeah," I said. "That was my hope tearing.”

Penelope straightened, wiped her forehead dramatically, and planted her hands on her hips. "Alright. New plan."

"Oh good," I said. "Because the original plan was 'zip.' That's it. That was the whole plan. And we already blew it."

Penelope narrowed her eyes at the zipper, "Honey... you're going to need to suck. It. In."

"For the record," I gasped as I tried to retract every organ I've ever owned, "if I pass out and die, this is all on you. And the seamstress that measured me wrong."

Zoe perked up. "Oh! Can I write the eulogy?"

"No," all three of us said.

Penelope gave one final, determined yank—

ZIP.

"OH THANK GOD," she cried, throwing her arms up like she'd just ran a marathon.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

And okay... I looked good. The dress hugged every inch of me, sweetheart neckline really enhancing the girls, the makeup literally making me look like I was glowing.

For half a second, the panic eased.

For half a second, I let myself think, Oh. I look like someone getting married today. To Spencer Reid.

Then I saw Penelope's eyes fill with tears.

"No," I cried out instantly, pointing at her. "Do NOT start. The make up is perfect. If you cry, I cry, and then my face slides off and we have to start again."

Penelope sniffed. "But you look—"

"DON'T."

"I'm just saying—"

"PENELOPE."

She squeaked and fanned herself with a makeup sponge. "Okay! Okay! I'm done. Emotion suppressed. Feelings compartmentalised. I'm a vault."

"You are the opposite of a vault," Zoe said.

Grace stood and adjusted a strand of hair around my shoulder. "You ready?"

"No," I said automatically. "But also yes. But also absolutely not. But also—"

Penelope clapped her hands. "Great. Shoes on. Bouquet up. We're walking."

"I love how no one is asking for my consent," I muttered, but my feet were already moving.

The hallway was empty, which felt rude. I would've appreciated at least one distraction. A stray guest. A waiter. A fire alarm. Anything.

Grace adjusted the veil at the back of my head. Zoe pressed the bouquet into my hands.

"This is it," Zoe said.

"Yes," I replied. "I gathered that from the dress."

The doors opened.

The room was bright. Tall, arched windows lined the walls, sunlight pouring in and catching on the chandeliers overhead. White columns, pale stone, flowers tucked along the aisle — elegant without trying too hard.

Everyone was already seated. Emily, Rossi, JJ and her family, Gran...familiar faces scattered through the room. Spencer's mom in the front row, calm and smiling. Friends and family filling in the rest.

And there he was.

Spencer stood at the front, hands clasped a little too tightly, posture just slightly a tad formal. His tie was straight. His hair was behaving. He looked like it was killing him not to turn around and see me.

Then the music changed.

Penelope went first and immediately started crying. And not quietly. She smiled through it anyway, which honestly felt like a solid effort.

Zoe followed, composed as ever.

Grace brought up the rear. She squeezed my hand as she passed. "You're good.”

Then they were gone. And that was it.

The song started — yes, Canon in D. I know, I’m a cliche— and my feet moved before I could overthink it.

My dad walked beside me. His arm hooked through mine was reassuring, which still surprised me sometimes. A year ago, this would have felt impossible. We spent a long time not saying what needed to be said. Over the past year, we finally did. It wasn't perfect, but it was honest, and it was enough to get us here.

"Remember to breathe." he said quietly.

"I am," I replied, even though I was most definitely not breathing.

My eyes stayed on Spencer. There was no spiraling, or fear. It was just him, waiting, exactly where he said he'd be.

Okay. We're doing this.

At the front, my dad gave my arm a brief squeeze before stepping away, and Spencer's hand went to mine immediately.

Derek, Hotch, and Luke were lined up beside him.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. "You look—" he said, then stopped, clearly annoyed with himself. "You look beautiful."

There it was.

I felt my mouth curve before I could stop it. "Yeah?"

"Yes," he said immediately. "Very."

"You look quite dashing yourself, Dr Reid. Has anyone ever told you, how good you look in a tux."

He chucked, but the officiant cleared his throat before he could reply. "Friends and family—"

Spencer's thumb shifted against my knuckle. I adjusted my grip without looking down.

I kept my eyes on him. Trying so hard to listen and take the moment in, but all I could think was holy shit I'm about to be his wife.

"And now," the officiant said snapping me out my thoughts. "the vows."

Spencer inhaled. The officiant nodded for him to start.

"I, Spencer Reid," he said, clearly reciting, "take you, Quinn Bennett, to be my wife."

Wife. Wow. I need a minute.

"I promise to be honest with you. To listen to you. And to stand with you in whatever comes next," he said.

Then he exhaled, like he was bracing himself.

"I had this whole thing written out," he added, glancing down, then up again, breath catching just slightly."And I memorized it. I did. I just—there were bullet points, originally, which in retrospect was unnecessary, but I wanted to make sure I didn't miss anything important because there are a lot of important things, statistically speaking, when you're committing to someone for the rest of your life—"

Derek shifted beside him. "Reid."

Spencer blinked, visibly reorienting. "Right. Sorry."

I smiled, because this was honestly so perfect. I wouldn’t want him to give me my vows any other way.

"I promise to choose you," he continued, voice steady again. "Every day."

Then, the last line. The only one that wasn't standard.

He looked directly at me when he said it. "You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

That was it. My heart fully betrayed me. I had to bite down on my lip hard enough to keep the sound in, because if I let it out, it was going to be ugly and loud and absolutely not bridal. Of course he had to quote Pride and Prejudice to me.

The officiant turned to me…right, my turn.

I took a breath and kept my eyes on Spencer.

"I, Quinn Bennett, take you, Spencer Reid," I said my voice holding. “To be my husband. Loving you has changed the way I exist in this world. You listen to me. You see me. You make space for me even when I'm difficult or tired or pretending I'm fine when I'm not."

My voice wobbled a little, but I didn't stop.

"I promise to choose you too. Not because it's easy, or romantic, or safe, but because it's you. Because being with you has been the most certain thing in my life."

I swallowed, blinking hard. "I love you, Spencer Reid. Completely. And without hesitation."

The officiant nodded, smiling at both of us. "May I have the rings?"

There was a small shuffle to my left, and then Jack stepped forward, solemn as anything. He was holding the ring box with both hands.

Jack stopped in front of us and held the box up. "I didn't drop them," he announced quietly, like this was important information that needed to be logged.

"Thank you, buddy," Spencer said, just as quietly.

Jack nodded once, satisfied, and backed away toward Hotch, who actually had a smile on his face. I know, I was shocked too.

Spencer took the ring and watched it as he slid it onto my finger, like he needed to see it to believe it was real.

"I give you this ring," he said, "as a symbol of my love and my commitment to you."

My chest tightened, but I managed to breathe.

I took the other ring and held it for a second longer than necessary, just looking at him.

"I give you this ring," I said, sliding it onto his finger, "as a symbol of my love and my commitment to you."

The officiant smiled again. "Spencer Reid, do you take Quinn Bennett—"

"I do," Spencer said immediately.

There was a small ripple of laughter. I smiled despite myself.

"—to be your lawfully wedded wife?" the officiant finished.

"I do," he repeated, calmer this time.

The officiant turned to me. "Quinn Bennett, do you take Spencer Reid to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do," I said, just as eagerly as him.

The officiant nodded once, like that settled it. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

There was a pause as the words actually sunk in.

"You may kiss your bride."

Spencer didn't rush it. He leaned in and cupped my face, his thumbs warm against my cheeks, and kissed me.

His mouth was soft at first. Then sure against mine. He kissed me again, closer this time, and I felt the slight shift of his thumbs at my jaw as he held me there.

I kissed him back, slow, matching him. There was the press of his mouth, a brief pause, and then another kiss, deeper, unhurried.

When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, neither of us wanting to move right away.

We reluctantly pulled back, there was clapping and cheering and Penelope absolutely losing her mind somewhere behind us.

Spencer smiled at me, wide and somewhat disbelieving.

"Hi wife." he said.

I laughed, breathless. "Hi husband."

He blinked. "Right."

And then Derek's voice cut in from somewhere close. "Okay, Reid. You can panic later. It's time to walk."

Spencer reached for my hand, and we turned together as the officiant stepped aside.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, smiling, "Mr. and Mrs. Reid."

There was more clapping. More cheering, and shouting our congratulations, I’m pretty sure Spencer and my mother were crying together.

We turned and started down the aisle as the music picked up behind us. Spencer tightened his grip on my hand, just slightly, and we kept walking toward the doors.

By the time we reached the end, Spencer glanced down at me, giving me a smile that felt unreal. “We did it.”

I grinned back up at him, "Hell yeah we did." And because he was my freaking husband now, I pressed my lips to his once again.

The reception was set up in the library, which felt less like a design choice and more like a quiet concession to the fact that I had just married a man who relaxes around books.

Real ones. Old ones. Shelves that climbed the walls and smelled faintly of dust and history, and somehow made him calmer just standing there.

Spencer took exactly three steps inside before he leaned down toward me, voice low and conspiratorial. "Can we—just for a minute—can we look at them?"

I smiled. Typical Spencer Reid. "Go on," I said, giving his hand a gentle shove. "I'll be right here."

He looked so excited as he took off to the closest stack. I watched him scan the spines, fingers hovering but not touching, so focused and completely himself.

The photographer found us before he could finish his tenth book. Cameras flashed. A lot. I smiled until my cheeks hurt. Somewhere in the middle of it all, Spencer reached for me without looking, pulling me in just slightly, his forehead brushing my temple as he murmured something that I will definitely not be repeating. It was for my ears only, but that's the photo I'm having framed.

The food was incredible—an Italian place Rossi had recommended, (I didn't have the energy to argue with him about the food). Pasta, wine, things served family-style that made everyone linger instead of rush. There were speeches. Laughter. Glasses clinking.

At some point, I realized I wasn't bracing for anything.

People were happy. Relaxed even. Spencer was laughing freely, surrounded by people who loved him, and every time he caught my eye, he looked a little stunned all over again.

I was happy.

The bouquet toss happened whether I was ready for it or not.

Penelope and Zoe lined up like it was a competitive sport. Shoes kicked off. Drinks handed away. Both of them bouncing on their toes like this meant something important.

"Absolutely not," I said, laughing as I turned. "I am not responsible for whatever happens next."

I tossed it over my shoulder and immediately heard a scuffle. A gasp. Someone laughing too hard to stay upright.

When I turned around, the bouquet was on the floor.

At Emily's feet.

She looked down at it like it might explode. Then she picked it up, held it out awkwardly in front of her chest, and glanced around the room like she was waiting for instructions.

"I—uh—" she started.

Grace was standing a few feet away, mid-conversation with Hotch, completely oblivious.

Emily took two careful steps forward and gently handed the bouquet to her.

Grace blinked. "Oh."

Hotch glanced down at the flowers. Then at Grace. Then back at the flowers.

I leaned toward Spencer. "Ooooh," I murmured. "That looks interesting."

He made a small, thoughtful noise. "They're just talking though?"

"That's how it starts though! First the talking... then the dates..."

He smiled despite himself. "Or in our case, the insults and the fighting."

I playfully smacked his arm, "You shouldn't have tried to show me your profile."

"I'd do it again if it means I end up here, every time."

Yep… there goes my heart again.

The music shifted not long after. Slower this time. Oh... the first dance as a couple.

Spencer's hand found mine. "Hope I picked the right one."

The first notes started, and I laughed softly. "You did good."

Can't help falling in love, played all around us. We moved together easily, there was no choreography, it was just us. His hand settled at my waist. Mine rested against his chest, right over his heart, which was still going a little fast.

"Hey," I said after a moment.

"Yes?" Immediate alertness.

"There's something I've been meaning to tell you."

His body went tense. "What?"

I blinked. "Wow. That was fast."

"Is it—should I be worried?" he asked, already spiraling. "Because if this is bad news, I would prefer—"

"It's not bad," I said quickly. "Well. I don't think it's bad. Unless you really don't like kids, which I know you don't, except you clearly do, you practically love Jack and Henry and—"

"Quinn," he said, gently cutting me off. His eyes searched my face. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

I smiled, unable to hold the excitement and joy from it.

His breath caught. "Oh."

I nodded. "Yeah."

He stared at me for a second, stunned, and then his hands tightened at my waist. "We're—"

"Yes."

"We're having—"

"Yes."

A laugh burst out of him, half disbelief, half joy. He pulled me closer, forehead resting against mine again, eyes shining. "Okay," he said softly. "Okay. That's—okay."

I kissed his cheek. "You good?"

He nodded, still smiling like he might never stop. "I'm... really good."

We kept swaying as the song played on, the world continuing around us like nothing monumental had just happened.

And maybe that was the best part.