I don't own Criminal Minds... duh. ReidMorgan fluffishness~ This is unbeta'd, so if there are any spelling mistakes or blaring grammatical errors that I didn't catch (even though I'm an English whiz, I, too, overlook things) please let me know. Sorry it's so disjointed... I wrote it for a friend earlier today. ENJOY, LOVES.

It had been a particularly tough case. The unsub traveled all over the country to kill very specific people, we realized, and had been doing it for years. Women who had married men who had later gone to prison, or had sons that went to juvie, and lived in states without the death penalty. The crime that the male family member committed had to be severe enough that other states would potentially sentence them to death. Her MO was punishing the women as if it was their fault their husband or son committed the crime. Each of the women had a lock of hair missing on the front right side of their head.

The police departments in the counties the murders were in didn't communicate very well, so the details of the information had been lost in transit for the length of time she had been killing. It was all too specific, as if she wanted us to find her, but no one could, so she kept at it until we did.

Her name was Nancy Callin. Thirty-four years old. Found in the back of a small mom-and-pop general store, about to kill the owner whose son had gone to prison for manslaughter. By the time we caught her, we knew she had killed fifteen women. Discovered scrapbook with all the locks of hair from the victims and, disturbingly, quite a few others in the suitcase she used. She went quietly, smiling the entire time. She had done what she set out to do; there was nothing left for her to live for.

That was the most terrifying thing about some unsubs. To devote their lives to something like this and, once caught, felt satisfied enough to not care about dying.

I didn't sleep well on the place ride back to Quantico.

Now we were in a local burger joint, celebrating this latest victory. I wasn't too hungry, still thinking about iher/i, but I saved face and went along with everyone, eating, joking, never once mentioning the case.

"Hey, Pretty Boy, what's up? You look a little sick," Morgan put his hand on my shoulder. I hadn't even realized I had spaced out. We were the last two of the team in the joint, it seemed.

"I-I'm fine," Whispered, because I knew he could tell I wasn't. He stepped aside as I slid out of the booth, following me out of the building and to his car silently, but didn't go to the driver's side. Biting the inside of my cheek, I tried to keep myself under control. Tears skewed my vision, seemingly making the cement roll and twist under my gaze. His hand was on my shoulder again and I gave in, turning and clinging to him as if my life depended on it. My own hands fisted the back of his shirt, face buried in his shoulder, tears staining the collar of his shirt.

"I-I'm s-so-sorry," I hiccupped, pulling away once the wracking sobs had subsided for the most part. "I sho-shouldn't ha-ave…" He was wiping away the tears with a tissue that had come out of nowhere.

"Don't be sorry," An arm slid around my waist and he pulled me back in for a hug, his free hand stroking my hair as the fitful sobs renewed themselves. "Shh, Pretty Boy, it's alright…" he cooed.

I don't know how long we stood by his car, but by the time we pulled away from each other, the joint had long been closed. Sniffing, I wiped my eyes on the back of my hand. "Tha-that was unprofessional…" I started, staring at the ground again, thoroughly embarrassed. Finger under my chin, he tilted my face up to meet his eyes.

"Spencer, seriously, don't worry about it," Mor-Derek kissed my forehead. He hadn't called me that in… I couldn't even remember. "Let's get you back. You wanna stay at my place tonight?" Nodding, I let him go to the other side of the car as I slumped into the passenger seat, utterly exhausted.

He held my hand the whole way home