Spencer twirled a pencil between fingertips as his other hand paged through a faded paperback.
"Spence?" You leaned forward, examining the novel.
"Yes, y/n?" The pencil stopped twirling.
"Is that…in Russian?"
He grinned and ducked his head. "Maybe," he muttered sheepishly. You sat back in your chair and inwardly chuckled.
Dr. Spencer Reid had surprised you from your first day at the Bureau when he had refused to shake your hand but hadn't seemed too reserved about sharing a kiss. Unfortunately, your technical analyst—Penelope—explained his odd behavior away: "he says that to everyone who tries to shake his hand," she said, handing you a pink sheet of paper.
"What is this?" You asked, looking over the page—an invitation from the looks of it.
"Rossi always hosts an Italian dinner at his place when we gain another agent, it's kind of his thing." She sat down at one of the many monitors in her bat cave and began entering your credentials into the database. "And when Hotch mentioned that I make my own stationary, he wanted me to make the invitations from then on."
"Hotch?" You asked, folding the paper and putting it into your briefcase.
"Oh, our old boss. He's in witness protection now—oh I shouldn't have said that—well you seem trustworthy enough." The computer chirped and she sighed. "You now have clearance as part of the BAU! Does it feel cool? I always imagined getting security clearance felt cool."
You jokingly shifted your weight back and forth and gave an amused expression. You had a feeling you were going to like it here.
"We have a case guys!" You looked up from your desk to see Penelope Garcia speed-walking towards the conference room. "Tally-ho!"
Spencer got up from his chair and paused for you. Did that mean something? You shake the possibility out of your mind quickly: you have a job to do.
As the team got settled, Garcia muttered over her technological babies, and took in the information on her tablet. She let out a sigh.
"Alright, my lovelies, this is not going to be an easy case."
"They rarely are Garcia, hit us," Rossi said gruffly from his seat.
"You make a good point, dear Rossi. Unfortunately in Cleveland, Ohio, someone is trying to make their point by executing prostitutes and dropping their bodies on church doorsteps." As she spoke she flashed three pictures on screen, all showing female sex-workers with a gunshot to the forehead at multiple church sites. "The Unsub has been killing once a month; the authorities think that he's picking up the girls on the first Friday of the month, holding them over the weekend, and then dropping them at the churches before services start."
The team remained silent for a moment, analyzing the information on their tablets. Spencer spoke first after reading the entirety of his physical folder: "Maybe the Unsub is trying to reference the Easter Triduum—taking the girls on Friday, a day of silence on Saturday, and then his form of a sick resurrection on Sunday morning?"
"It's possible," Emily posited. "In addition, all these girls have the same hair, appear to be the same height—it appears the Unsub has a type. They're even all in red dresses"
Lewis stared at the crime scene photos. "I think the Unsub might be redressing them. The red dress on the second victim is way too large for her, and she's the shortest of the victims. This Unsub is either remorseful or he has some twisted version of religion commanding him to do this." She sighed.
"Or both," Alvez growled.
"Or both," Emily agreed. "Wheels up in twenty."
The team had been in Cleveland for just over a week, and the first Friday of the month was approaching quickly. Of course, the team had learned some useful things, but everyone was frustrated that they weren't making the same headway they did with other cases. Yes, the killer did redress the victims, but the forensic team concluded that the fabric was too common to be traced, and that the Unsub probably made it himself, judging by the stitching. And yes, judging by the size of the stitches and the skill that made them, the forensic team is certain that the Unsub is male.
You had just gotten off of the phone with Garcia when Emily and Spencer walked into the office space your team was occupying. You let out of breath of air and turned to face them. "A new development?"
"Not exactly," Emily cautioned. "We think that we want you to go undercover tomorrow night. You fight the Unsub's type, y/n. And this is our Hail Mary."
Your jaw dropped. "O-Okay." You tightened your ponytail and stood. "What do I do?"
Spence grabbed your elbow. "Y/n, you don't have to do this unless you're absolutely confident. You're our newest agent and we don't want to lose you or freak you out."
"Please," you said, but not in a prideful manner. "I aced hand-to-hand combat at the academy, and I'm sure you'll have me on comms the whole time, right?"
Emily nodded curtly, said, "Reid will assist you in attracting the Unsub's attention," and left the room.
Attracting the Unsub's attention? It hit you. Spence was going to dress you up like a hooker.
He was already moving towards a suitcase he had brought in. "The coroner found that the makeup on the girls was original, so I had JJ pull together a look that roughly matched all of them. One of the girls was caught in a photo taken at a bar near the popular hook-up spot, so this dress is similar to the one we think she was originally wearing and this"—he pulled a red rosary from the bag—"will probably catch his attention most of all." He dropped it into your hand and paused. "Y/n, we'll be close by the whole time, I promise," and then—as if to ensure this vow—he closed your hand around the rosary and placed both his hands on yours. Your heart must've skipped three beats.
"I better get into the mindset of these girls before tomorrow. I'll have to review the type of gun this guy uses, find a good pair of heels…" you trailed off, and looked up at him as he withdrew his hands.
"You'll do great. I better leave you to it," and he hurried out the door.
You should have known that a Friday night in November was going to be chilly. Especially one in Cleveland. You paced up and down the street, twirling the rosary around your neck. You were trying to appear sacrilegious, but in reality you were just nervous. Sure, you had a few close calls when you worked in other divisions of the FBI, but none of your undercover jobs every came close to risking your life. Just a possibility of Russian mobsters wanting you dead, but that was far different from being willingly picked up by a serial killer.
An American-made truck pulled up to the corner. You could barely make out the face of a man over the glaring headlights, but you knew he fit the profile: white, athletic, middle-aged. What really set him apart, were the multiple religious bumper stickers on the back of the car. He rolled down his window and looked you over. "How much?" He rasped around a lit cigarette.
You gave your best sugar-sweet smile. "Sale tonight; $75".
He wordlessly unlocked the car door and you slid in. He gave you a wad of bills, which you counted one by one and folded into a clutch you were carrying. You could hear Spencer, Alvez, and Emily over your earpiece and you gave a quick look to the van you knew they were hiding in on the corner. You gave a quick prayer to anyone listening that this would be over soon.
The man peeled away from the corner. He puffed more on the cigarette, and you held your breath. His truck, upon further inspection, was what you would expect from a shady guy picking up a working girl at midnight. In short, it smelled like onions, smoke, and dirty linen. He drove away from the city, and pulled into a deserted parking lot. The engine turned off and you twirled your rosary some more. If this wasn't the guy, backing out would get really awkward, really quickly. You knew the van couldn't be far behind.
The man startled you by pulling a gun from the glove box and resting it across your thighs.
"You're doing the work of the devil," he choked from behind his cloud of smoke.
"Sir, you picked me up…" you tried to say something, anything. He dragged the gun up your skin and pointed it to your chest.
"Y/n, do you need help? Is there a weapon?" Emily's voice came in loud and clear over the comms. Maybe too loud and maybe too clear because the man started.
"You're a fed?" He growled and coughed.
"Sir, let me take you in," you began again.
"Like hell. I will not let you stop my work!" and with that he raised the gun to your temple. You grabbed the barrel and jerked it upwards, the round went through the roof. He growled again and you began the struggle with him. He got off a quick succession of shots, all going through different parts of your body.
"Y/n, we're coming in! Hold on!" You heard the concern in Spencer's voice, but you couldn't stop to ponder what it might mean. Right now you had to fight to live.
Gravel screeched everywhere as the van pulled up. Emily ripped open the driver's side door and pulled the man out, screaming, "On the ground!"
Spencer and Alvez ran to the passenger door where you had slumped over. The opened it and gently laid you on the ground. You could hear Alvez calling for an ambulance and telling the dispatch that there was a federal agent shot, but the only thing that wasn't muffled was Specer's voice: he sounded as clear as a bell.
"Y/n, hold on, hold on. It's okay, I've got you, you're going to be okay." He ripped off his tactical jacket and pressed down on the most concerning wound—the one on your abdomen—and you let out a stifled groan. "Hey, hey, it's okay. I know it hurts, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
Alvez was there suddenly, his hands at the two wounds in your left shoulder. You felt a sharp pain and swallowed a scream as Alvez felt for the bullets. You felt him wince against your skin as he heard you let out a pained gasp at his prodding. "Hey, y/n, guess what? I think all the bullets went through. That means you're going to be okay."
Over the commotion you could hear Emily calling out, asking if you were okay. You tried to answer, but Spencer put a finger to your mouth. "Y/n, don't speak, it's going to be okay, just let me take care of you". With his free hand, he carded his fingers through your hair and brushed the wetness from your cheeks. You felt it rest on your forehead, where his fingers thrummed a steady beat.
Soon the sirens arrived and you were lifted onto a gurney. Alvez went with Emily to the station, but Spencer opted to ride with you to the hospital. He never left your side, but you wouldn't have noticed for very long, because you lost consciousness before arriving.
Cold. You felt cold.
You opened your eyes to bright lights. Not heaven, unfortunately, just the intensive care section of the hospital. You heard a page turn to your left, and saw Spencer sitting in a lousy chair, flipping through yet another book. Slowly, sounds came back into focus, and you noticed that Spencer was reading to you.
In French.
Of course.
You tried to reach your hand to him, but the pain in your shoulder was too much. He looked up as you gasped. "Y/n, you're awake, thank god. How are you feeling?"
"Crappy," you coughed. Your throat was dry from the smoke and probably being out for a day or two. "Spence—could you pass me some water?"
"Yeah, sure." He grabbed a pitcher and poured some into a clear plastic cup, adding a straw. His hands shook. "Here," he leaned forward to put the straw against your lips, but wouldn't let you hold the cup yourself. "Just let me do this, okay?"
You thanked him with a nod. His hand returned to your hair. "You have really bad bedhead," he joked. His hands still shook.
"Spence, how long have I been out?"
He sighed and leaned back into his chair. "In and out of surgery for two days, slept after that for another two days."
"Spencer, you look like you've been awake the whole time," you said. You meant it as a joke, but the more you look at him; the stubble, messy hair, his sunken eyes looking darker than usual. "You were awake the whole time."
"Don't get mad at me, please. You got shot on my watch, it was the least I could do."
Just then Alvez rapped his knuckles against the door. "May I come in?" He poked his head in. "I brought pizza."
You grinned at him and turned to Spencer. "Go home, take a shower. I'll be here when you get back. Besides," you said, looking towards Alvez, "I am in very good hands."
"Alright," Spencer stood, straightened his sweater, and then on second thought, spread his woolen cardigan over your shoulders. "You sleep after the pizza, okay?"
"I promise," you said. "And, Spencer?"
He turned back.
"Thank you for reading to me."
He smiled.