AN: Considerably updated in January 2019. Many thanks to Greeneyedconstellations for all her work beta'ing this piece.

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Chapter 1:
Grim Tidings

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Penelope hadn't seen Spencer this angry in a long time. Not for at least ten years—not since Sommets. But furious he was, and the entire bullpen of the sixth floor was pretending to be working hard while actually staring at the two agents squaring off in the doorway of Gideon's office. Heart climbing into her throat to escape the tension of the moment, Penelope whispered to the man slouching next to her with his butt on Spencer's desk, "Oh, my, God, Gideon's going to eat him like a bug."

Gideon vanished into the depths of his office, the frustrated Spencer following with his face about as cheerful as a storm-cloud on picnic day. Before Gideon slammed the door behind him, Spencer's voice floated out: "Your judgement has been compromised—you're making the wrong call! He's a sociopath!"

The blinds crashed shut too, hiding the argument.

Next to Penelope, Agent Ethan Coiro snorted and shook his head in disbelief at his friend. Almost absent-mindedly, still staring at the closed office door, he poked at a bobble-headed cat on the desk he was sitting on, the one that Penelope had brought Spencer years ago during what she privately referred to as 'The Bad Times'.

"I owe Weis fifty bucks," Coiro said of their fellow agent, glancing at her desk across the aisle. "I didn't think Spencer had the balls to face up to Gideon."

"Damn right you do," Weis called out, appearing near them with a bag of lunch in her hand and looking intrigued by the tightly sealed office. "What's going on up there? Someone getting fired?"

"Definitely not," Penelope said. "Ethan's still here, and we all know he's the first to go when the budget gets cut again. Gideon's always complaining about him—"

"Gideon loves me," Coiro argued, mouthing haha at her as he picked up Spencer's pen and began to nibble absent-mindedly at the end of it. Honestly, sometimes Penelope really questioned their friendship. No one else triggered Spencer's germ anxieties as effectively as Coiro did, and got away with it. "Spencer drew the short straw—he's confronting Gideon about Bale."

Penelope ached with second-hand tension for Spencer, knowing how hard it would have been for him to tell the man he admired most that he was wrong. "Did you really have to send our little Junior G-Man in there? Gideon probably won't even listen to him, you know that—you're more senior than Spencer is." Coiro mouthed at the pen, eyeing her innocently; she smacked it away from him and tried to ignore the puppy-eyed pout he shot at her. She'd been dealing with Spencer's pouts since college—and Spencer had taught Ethan how to pout. "If Spencer finds out you put your mouth on his pen, he'll throw every pen he owns out, so he can replace them with not-mouth-germy ones. And then he'll do something horrible to your stationary as retribution: remember the glitter thing?"

"Gideon's not going to listen to anyone that's not Gideon at the moment," Coiro said, ignoring her scolding. "But Rossi's not here to be the shit-stirrer, and Spencer's the only other person who won't get suspended for questioning him. Come on, you know that Gideon thinks the sun shines out of Spencer's—"

Weis punched his arm, cutting him off.

"Glad I'm not your friend," she said taking a seat on the desk opposite and studying the office door like she was trying to profile the men on the other side through the thick wood. Maybe she could. Penelope had never ceased to be amazed by her co-workers' talents. "Let's see: you let him get cornered by those insane women at the bar last week, you didn't tell him that the woman hitting on him during his last case was a prostitute, you signed him up to be a model at that life-painting class, and now you let Gideon tear into him? Fuck me, Coiro, you're the worst."

Coiro's face shifted into a woeful kind of hurt that would have been convincing if Penelope hadn't spent her formative years following David Rossi around. He sat up, brushing dark hair out of his face with a practised kind of guilt she didn't trust at all. "Hey, those first three were funny. Working girls love Spencer and, come on, he needs to learn how to talk to women eventually; he can't marry his books. I was just doing him a solid."

Before they could respond, the door opened. A red-faced Spencer walked out, determinedly staring ahead. With an ease that almost certainly meant he'd done it many times before, Coiro dropped Spencer's pen into his drawer and slammed it shut, plastering an innocent grin on his face as their co-worker slunk over to them. The door slammed shut behind the retreating agent's back.

"Morning, Reid," Weis said with false cheer, trying to match Coiro's innocent expression and failing. "Lovely day for bickering."

Spencer's eyes met Penelope's, a grimness in them that chilled her. He ignored the attempt at small-talk. "We're going to Boston."

Damn, Penelope thought.

"Damn," Weis said. Her innocent face vanished, replaced with the eagle-eyed sharpness they all wore when on the job. Penelope watched with interest; she got a strange kind of kick out of seeing her friends shift into 'agent mode'. Spence was already there. Coiro, well, he generally left it a little longer to take things seriously. "Gideon's too wrapped up in Bale, this doesn't bode well…"

Spencer was badly faking nonchalance. They could all tell. "We've had worse. Get the rest of the team ready—wheels up in twenty."

And then they were gone, bags on their back and vanishing with nothing more than quick goodbyes. Penelope chanted her usual prayer in her head as they left, knowing that their expressions were taut with stress despite them hiding them from her. The only one still smiling was Coiro, tapping at his cell and chattering to the fuming Spencer.

Please let them all come home, she prayed, even though she knew there was really nothing she could do to stop things from going wrong. Please let them all stay safe. Please bring my family back alive.

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Derek took a deep breath as he stepped into the bar, glancing about at the patrons with a cop's trained eye. The bar was relatively empty for this hour of the day, the few people scattered about the room either drinking silently or watching the large TV screens mounted on the walls. Sports. Unsurprising. A grin split his face as his gaze fell onto two women sitting close together at the bar, heads bowed together in conversation.

"Ladies, ladies, ladies," he called, walking up behind them and holding his arms out as though already expecting an embrace—and damn right he did, especially from the dark-haired sass-pot who tossed her hair and shot him a haughty look to hide her gleeful smile.

One was promptly delivered. JJ and Emily both lit up at the sight of him, JJ jumping into his arms and hugging him tight. She said into his shoulder, "Derek! It's so good to see you!"

"Long time no see, Derek," Emily said. In a heartbeat, he realised how long it had— "How long has it been, two years?"

Damn, he'd missed her.

He let go of JJ and hugged Emily close as well, feeling her tense up before returning the gesture. He'd only seen her a handful of times since she'd left to work with her mother, her busy schedule rarely allowing for casual visits. JJ he'd seen a lot more; she'd settled down only a few hours away from him with as a field agent in a media liaison position at the FBI, with her sights set on some elite unit. A surprising amount of their friends had turned their sights to the FBI after graduating—Dave, Spencer, Penelope, and JJ had all made it. Not so far from him, but far enough.

He'd still missed her, just like he'd missed all his college friends as time had marched them onwards and deposited all his friends exactly where they wanted to be… except for him.

Slipping onto the stool next to JJ, he ordered a beer and allowed himself a moment to relax. It'd been a tough week at work, rough cases with no real resolutions. And whispers of corruption in his department—

"So, how's cop life treating you?" Emily asked.

"Everything I expected," Derek answered dishonestly, avoiding the thorny points of that question. "What's it like doing—what do you do, anyway?"

Emily's eyes flicked to him and then away before she deflected with an obviousness that had to be intentional: "How're Aaron and Dave? Dave still a horn-dog?"

Derek wasn't the only one avoiding questions.

JJ snorted. "He's been married twice. Twice! Where does he keep finding women willing to marry him?"

"I can't even find one willing to stay the night," Derek complained, shaking his head at their incorrigible friend. "Lucky dog."

"Lucky is finding a woman to stay long enough to change the sheets on the wedding bed," JJ corrected. "Did you hear about Aaron and Haley?"

Derek had heard. He hadn't been shocked. Aaron was a federal prosecutor. That kind of high-octane career track was about as good for marriage as a cop's was.

"She's taking Jack," JJ said, finger tracing the condensation on her glass. "He's not even fighting it, he's just letting her go. Poor Aaron."

Derek could sense the mood turning glum. He cast his memory over the last few months, desperately searching for something they could talk about that would lift the atmosphere back to the fun banter they'd enjoyed previously. "Hey, anyone heard from Spence?"

Mistake. JJ looked away, face stilling as Emily took an unnecessarily large gulp of her drink. Sure, bring up the guy who'd dropped out of their lives years ago. Not a phone call, not a letter, not a text. Nothing. Derek had lost count of the messages he'd left him, knowing Spence had been struggling with something, something he wasn't willing to talk to them about. But he'd assumed he'd ask them for help eventually? They'd all assumed.

They'd all been wrong.

"I haven't spoken to him in years," Emily finally said. "He's on Dave's team though, isn't he? With Pen? I'm sure he's fine."

If Derek hadn't spent the last three months obsessively mistrusting everyone in his department, he would have believed her—but he'd gotten good at spotting liars.

He let it slide.

"So, JJ," he teased, plastering a smile back onto his face. "What's this I hear about a new man?"

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Ethan was a familiar presence at Spencer's side, looking obscenely cheerful considering the circumstances and nudging his elbow against his friend's side as Spencer fidgeted.

"Why so glum, chum?" Ethan asked, those dangerously discerning eyes locked on him.

"What?"

Spencer should have known Ethan wouldn't give up. He never had, not ever—not since college, after the group had broken up and left Spencer floating about looking for something new. Something that had turned out to be a jazzy weirdo with higher aspirations and a keen sense of who Spencer was. No one had ever really understood Spencer like Ethan did, not even his old friends.

"You're quiet. Withdrawn. You want me to profile you, Spence? I'll do it." It was an empty threat and Spencer knew it. They profiled every person they met, every moment of the day. It was automatic. "Come on, man, you gotta get your head in the game. I need you at my back."

He scooped up a bulletproof vest, shoving it towards Spencer. Spencer stared at it. He didn't want to take it. He didn't want to do this. This was a mistake. A terrible mistake.

Nothing good waited out there.

"Ready to move in," crackled the radio at Spencer's side.

"This is it," Ethan said. "Let's go get that hostage, then we'll go out and get you drunk, okay? Case over, bad feelings gone."

Spencer nodded jerkily. If Ethan wanted to lead, he'd follow—just like he'd led Spencer into the FBI when Spencer had faltered even under Gideon's tutelage. Just like he'd led him through the Academy. Just like he led him right now, into position as Ethan signalled to the rest of the team to take the other two entrances. Bale's potential victim waited within, needing them—they had to do this, for him. Weis stood by him, gun ready and eyes on Ethan. They all followed his lead in Gideon's absence, their unit chief back with Bale at the station trying to find out what exactly his intentions were behind taking a hostage before getting caught.

And then they were moving, Spencer right behind Ethan as they entered the building and trying to hold back every part of himself that was screaming that this was wrong, it was too simple and Gideon was blinded by trusting someone he shouldn't—

"I'm not worried," Ethan said suddenly, quietly, in a low voice just for Spencer. "Our team is good. You're good—I'm better. And we're going to be fine, man." Spencer went to nod, but Ethan continued, "If you get your shit together, anyway. Do you trust us?"

That was valid. Spencer's gaze was skittering around the corridor they were in, his gun uneven in shaking hands. He was on the edge of panic, and Ethan could tell.

"You, yes," Spencer managed finally, knowing this would see him benched. "Gideon, no. Not right now. Ethan, my mind constantly assesses and processes multiple outcomes from every possible interaction of events. It's a great asset in this job, but also often my downfall. And I can't stop it, I can't stop thinking of every way this could go wrong and Gideon isn't listening—"

"I can't take you into a hostile situation when you're like this," Ethan said, a completely expected response. Spencer nodded, resigned to this. It was his punishment for being who he was. And, when Ethan signalled him to fall back, ignoring Weis's startled look, he went. "Spencer, out. Now. We'll talk later."

There'd probably be hell to pay for it later when Gideon found out, but, right now, Spencer was following Ethan, not Gideon and not Dave. He went, wondering if this was the end of his eventful stint as the world's most eclectically awful FBI agent—

He was barely a foot from the warehouse door when an invisible hand punched into his spine and hurled him forward into the dirt. Heat hit him moments later, ripping the air from his lungs as something slammed into his back and sent his head snapping forward into the ground.

He wasn't conscious to hear the boom.

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Dave dropped a box near his solemn friend, who was holding a battered pirate hat and looking miserable. "Aaron, let me tell you, I've been through two divorces. You can't bring mementos, you'll just obsess over them."

"I joined this play to get closer to her," Aaron admitted. "She was the most beautiful girl in school, and I was the worst pirate ever. Just like I'm the worst husband—"

Dave leaned over and took the hat out of his hands, throwing it into the junk pile to cut off the spiral he knew was coming. "Even more reason to ditch it. I only have so much room at my place, you know."

Aaron didn't move. Just stared at the hat and said, "She's cheating on me," in the kind of voice that meant he'd seen it coming and was still heart-broken.

There was no way Dave could possibly sound shocked by this announcement. All he ended up saying was, "I know. Which is why you have to move on; she already has."

Aaron drifted through the garage, seemingly unsure of what to do now until he settled on playing with the remote of the TV Dave had set up to try and make the packing slightly less monotonous. "Jack hates me," he said despondently. "He thinks I'm leaving because I don't want to be his dad anymore. What can I tell a ten-year-old to make him believe that his parents splitting up isn't his fault?"

There was a box filled with old high school yearbooks that Dave unearthed and then shoved out of sight. He'd rather pick his battles. "The truth? That you still love him, you just don't love each other? Use the clichés. He's ten, he won't notice." Aaron didn't answer, his attention firmly on the old TV set. "Come on, man, he's just upset. He'll come around, especially when you get to spoil the hell outta him and be the cool dad again." Aaron still didn't move. Dave approached him cautiously. "Aaron?"

"Where did you say your team was going?" Aaron asked in a slow, stunned voice.

Dave shrugged. What did the team have to do with this—Aaron was deflecting. "Boston. Serial bomber case. How is that relevant? Come on, we're—"

The newscaster's grim voice filling the garage as Aaron turned the volume up, cutting Dave off.

"Emergency crew are at the scene of another bombing; the third in a series of attacks that have terrorised Boston for the last few months. It is unknown if there are any casualties, but it can be confirmed that FBI specialists were on the scene, last seen entering the warehouse before it ignited. Their conditions are unknown."

The room went very, very quiet after that.

Dave wasn't sure if he'd spoken out loud, but Aaron turned shocked eyes onto him as he fumbled for his phone. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and tried to speak as Aaron's expression changed to concern. He couldn't find words. His brain choked and he—

Not possible.

Not while I'm not there.

Not like this.

—hit the speed-dial on his cell, the two of them completely silent as they waited for someone, anyone, to answer.

No one did.

"This is SSA Jason Gideon. I'm not available, leave a message."

He couldn't even hear the line connecting to the next number over his heart thumping. At the first sound of a voice, he barked, "Spencer, you—"

"You've reached Doctor Spencer Reid. Please leave your name and a detailed message, and I'll return your call."