Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.

but every sun doesn't rise

"Look what Reid got," Morgan grinned, waving the envelope.

Spencer turned around in his chair. "What did I get?" he asked. Morgan dangled it above his head. "Wait, Morgan, what did I get?" He frowned. "JJ, he won't give it to me."

JJ sighed, glancing up from her cell phone. "Morgan, stop teasing and give it to him," she said.

"Of course you'd tattle to Mom," Morgan said, rolling his eyes. He dropped the envelope on Spencer's desk.

He tore it open and scanned the letter, his mouth drooping. "Oh," he said, disappointed.

"What is it?" JJ asked. "You look like you just let your balloon go at a carnival."

"Go on, tell the rest of the class," Morgan said.

Spencer dropped the letter on his desk. "It's the reminder about my firearms evaluation," he said glumly.

"Oh, it can't be that bad," JJ said. She sat down on the edge of his desk. "You've passed it before, you can pass it again."

"JJ, I passed by the skin of my teeth," he said. "It was practically a fluke. Not that I genuinely believe in flukes when it comes to testing, there's too much of a factor of practice and experience for anything to purely be an accident, but I definitely struggled."

"Aw, come on, man, don't worry about it," Morgan said. "You're not required to carry a service pistol. You can opt out, save yourself from a lot of stress."

"I'm not stressed," Spencer said, frowning at the letter.

Garcia swept into the bullpen with a cardboard tray of cups. "I come bearing an afternoon pick-me-up!" she declared. She paused. "Why is Reid stressed?"

"I'm not stressed," he repeated.

She placed a venti cup in front of him. "Drink your sugar, you'll feel better," she said. "Someone else, tell me why he's stressed."

"He's got to go in and get retested for his firearms qualification," JJ said, accepting her grande hot caramel macchiato.

Garcia clicked her tongue. "You have my sympathies, my angel," she said.

He drummed his fingers on his coffee cup. "It'll be fine," he said. "I'll just...go practice."

"Sure, that'll help," Garcia said. "You'll be fine." He caught her shrugging at Morgan over his head and scowled at her.

Hotch strode in, his frown lines deep in place. "What's going on?" he said. He paused. "Ooh, coffee?"

"Aha, fearless leader, yes, I have yours," Garcia said, prying a cup out of the tray. "Grande cold brew, nothing in it. Just cold caffeinated bean water."

Hotch accepted the cup. "Why does Reid look like someone kicked his puppy?" he asked.

Spencer threw his hands in the air. "I'm not making a face!" he exclaimed.

Hotch leaned over and read the letter on his desk. "Oh, yes, your eval," he said. "It's about that time."

"He's nervous," Morgan said.

"I am not!"

Hotch's frown deepened; Spencer didn't think that was possible. "Reid, I'd be happy to coach you," he said.

"Really?" he said.

"Yes, absolutely," Hotch said. "What are you doing after work tomorrow?"

"Star Wars marathon on TNT, probably," Morgan said.

Spencer blinked. "It's fine, I have the VHS box set," he said. "I have considered upgrading to the DVDs, but they were recently remastered to maintain continuity with the new prequel trilogy."

"Reid."

"I understand the logic behind it, but it does definitely seem like an update merely for the sake of an update."

"Reid."

"It does technically make sense to replace the original actor with Hayden Christiansen, but at the same time-"

Garcia put a hand over his mouth. "Hush, my little nerd, and answer the man," she said.

Hotch raised an eyebrow. "I'm free," Spencer mumbled behind Garcia's palm.

"Good" Hotch said. "I'll meet you at the range tomorrow."

Morgan elbowed Spencer in the ribs. "Good luck, kid," he said.

It didn't take a profiler to see how anxious Reid was. His hands trembled as he loaded the clip, his hair kept falling in his eyes and he kept brushing it back, he babbled nonstop about inconsequential information and statistics about firearms. Hotch let him talk. He knew Reid well enough to know that sometimes the talking was the only way to get the nerves out of his system. He just kept redirecting him, guiding him into the next steps, calm and clinical like he was coaching any other rookie.

Reid took another shot at the black silhouette target, his lips pressed together in stressed determination. He missed the head by several inches.

"On SWAT, we broke shots down into three steps," Hotch said. "One- front sight. Focus on the front sight, not on the target. Two- controlled trigger press. Three- follow through. After the shot, you come right back to the target. Now what did you do wrong?"

Reid hung his head. "I didn't follow through," he said. He looked like a little kid getting scolded for a failed math test.

"Right," Hotch said. "You came off the target to see where you hit."

"Hotch, my firearms qualification is tomorrow morning," Reid said, setting down the firearm and pulling off his hearing PPE in frustration. "I barely passed my last one."

Hotch touched his shoulder and turned him around gently. Reid took a step back, putting his earmuffs back as Hotch took out his own firearm. "Front sight," he said, demonstrating careful aim. "Trigger press…" He fired, striking the target on the temple. The spent casing hit the floor with a gentle plink."Follow through. You do those three things, you'll hit your target every time."

Reid picked up his firearm and took aim again. This time his shot struck the target directly in the groin. "Did Elle teach you that?" Hotch asked, amused.

"They're gonna take away my gun," Reid said glumly.

"Profilers aren't required to carry," Hotch said.

"Yeah?" Reid said, stepping back and folding his arms. "And yet you carry two of them."

Hotch reached for his second firearm, the Glock he kept on his right ankle, and fired three shots, all three striking the target directly in the chest. Reid's lower lip dropped into a childish pout. Hotch holstered the gun and stood up, taking off his PPE. "When I joined the BAU, Gideon said to me, 'you don't have to carry a gun to kill someone'," he said.

Reid pulled his PPE down around his neck and frowned. "I don't get it," he said.

"You will," Hotch said. He patted Reid's arm. "Good luck tomorrow."

He heard another shot fire as he left, and Reid mumbling in frustration under his breath. He had a feeling the test wasn't going to go very well.

Spencer had never choked on a test before (other than his fitness test at the academy, but that wasn't choking so much as just being unable to do it). Testing was his strong suit- standardized, computerized, essay questions. He could identify every part of his firearm, could take it apart and put it back together again. He could recite every safety rule. But when he stepped up to fire, he completely choked.

He went back to work in mortified disgrace, replaying the test in his head, the examiners' neutral faces when they informed him that he failed and he could try again in two weeks. The embarrassment left him speechless, which was rare for him.

Hopefully no one at work would know, at least not yet. He marched into the building and squared his shoulders as he walked into the bullpen, his hands in his pockets, his hip feeling strange without the weight of his confiscated firearm, and made a beeline for his desk. He brushed past Morgan, who closed the file he was reading, and made the mistake of catching Elle's gaze as he sat down. She gave him a sympathetic half smile and quickly turned back to her work. Hopefully she didn't know, and that look was related to something else.

He busied himself with setting his bag aside and getting his desk set up for the day, choosing to ignore Morgan as he approached. "Hey," he said gently. "We're all here for you."

Spencer shot him a frustrated glare. They knew. He didn't know how they knew, but they knew. "I'm serious," Morgan said. He was hiding something behind his back. "If you ever need anything-"

He revealed a jangly silver whistle on a blue cord and draped the lanyard around Spencer's neck. Before he could protest Morgan picked up off his chest and piped into it, loud and shrill. "Just blow on that," he grinned.

Spencer scrambled to get the cord off from around his neck as Morgan walked back to his desk laughing. He caught Elle biting back a smile.

JJ walked in with a stack of files in her arms, Hotch following close behind. "Hey, we've got a case," she said, sorting through the files. She glanced up. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Spencer said, his voice coming out in a squeak. Morgan hid a grin behind his blue coffee mug. "Everything's fine."

JJ paused, tilting her head sympathetically. "Oh, Spence, I'm sorry about your eval," she said. "I'm sure you'll do fine when you take it again."

"How did you find out?" he asked.

"Garcia sent an email," Hotch said.

Spencer rolled his eyes as JJ started passing out files. "Okay, Franklin Park, Des Plaines, yesterday afternoon," she said. "Three victims shot at distance. It's the third such shooting in two weeks."

Elle opened her file and frowned. "A sniper?"

"We don't use that word," Morgan said.

"Why not?"

"The public perception is that the FBI doesn't have an exemplary record with snipers," JJ said with a wry smile.

"Besides, a sniper is a professional marksman," Hotch said, frowning at his notes. "These guys aren't snipers."

"What do we call 'em then?" Elle asked.

"L. D. S. K.," Hotch said absently as he flipped pages.

Elle looked over the cubicle wall at Spencer. "Long distance serial killers," he explained, and she nodded.

"How many of these guys have we caught using a profile?" she asked.

"None," Gideon said.

Spencer twisted around in his chair. He hadn't even heard him approach. "We've got a lot of work ahead of us," Gideon said. "Conference room. Let's get on the same page." He paused. "Reid. Sorry about your test."

Sepncer slumped in his seat. "Did you get Garcia's email too?" he asked.

"Who's Garcia?" Gideon frowned. "No, Elle told me."

Spencer shot Elle a look. "In my defense, I told everyone not to mention it," she said.

"Well, everyone's mentioning it," he grumbled. He stowed the whistle in his pocket, picked up the file JJ had handed him, and stomped to the conference room.

Luckily the case was so complicated that no one mentioned his lack of a firearm for a while. Spencer had read up on LDSKs before, but they were so rare he never thought he'd experience one. The pieces clicked into place, painfully slowly. Multiple victims, multiple locations, no connection. The team traveled all over Des Plaines, interviewing, gathering information, trying to assemble some kind of profile. Spencer drank too much coffee, ate less, slept for three or four dreamless hours before starting everything over again.

He stared at the bulletin board, a rapidly cooling cup of coffee in his hand and the noise of the busy field office blurring in his ears, as Hotch went over the files he'd requested. "I don't think the unsub qualifies as a narcissist," he said. "I think he would be bragging more about the crimes he was committing, trying to get more attention."

Spencer shook his head. "That's not the actual definition of narcissism," he said.

Hotch frowned. "What is, then?"

"Classic narcissism is an inflated sense of self worth, not necessarily bragging," Spencer said. "Someone with narcissistic personality disorder would have a sense of entitlement, they'd want to be recognized as superior even if they didn't have anything to warrant it. They'd be preoccupied with fantasies of success and brilliance, come across as arrogant and conceited, exaggerate their achievements. And they can be impatient and angry if they don't feel like they're being treated as special. Anything could be a perceived slight. So, actually, I think this unsub is a textbook example of classic narcissism."

He swigged the last of the cold coffee and met Hotch's gaze, his mouth pressed in a thin line. It was way too loud and he was going to scream.

Hotch's lips thinned. "How many cups of coffee have you had today?" he asked.

Spencer frowned. "Four, maybe five. Why?"

Hotch walked over to the water cooler and filled a paper cup. "No one's in the office over there," he said. "Go take a break."

Spencer frowned as Hotch pried the empty coffee cup out of his grip and handed him the water. "But why?" he asked.

"Go take a break," Hotch said firmly. Spencer bit back a sigh. There was no arguing with Hotch when he pulled out the dad voice.

At least the office was quiet once the door was closed, and he kept the lights off. He stared at the wall for a while, thoughts still tumbling in his mind. He knew Hotch wanted him to stop thinking, but he didn't bother. Thinking was helpful.

The door clicked and creaked open. He glanced up to see Gideon closing the door behind him. "I can see the gears turning," he said quietly. "I thought Hotch told you to take a break."

"I am," Spencer said. He held up the cup of water. "I'm taking a break."

Gideon leaned against the wall, scanning Spencer with that gentle searching look that he'd come accustomed to over the past year. "No, you're not," Gideon said. He folded his arms. "You're running yourself into the ground. Again." He tilted his head. "Trying to overcompensate for failing your exam."

Spencer looked into the cup. "You don't have to profile me," he said.

"Oh, I'm not," Gideon said. "I just know you pretty well by now, that's all." He sat down across from Spencer. "No one is judging you for not passing your qualifications, by the way."

The whistle in his pocket cut into his thigh. "I'm not so sure about that," he said.

"You don't always need a gun to take down an unsub," Gideon said.

Spencer half smiled. "Hotch said that too," he said.

"Hotch is smart."

"Hotch carries two firearms." Spencer sighed heavily. "I think I took my ability to carry a gun for granted until they took it away. I've barely used it, but…"

He stared at the floor. Gideon sat with him in comfortable, companionable silence.

"What if I can't defend myself?" Spencer said.

Gideon stayed quiet for a moment. Spencer wondered what he was thinking, but Gideon was always a mystery.

"I left you behind in Boston," Gideon said quietly, and Spencer's heart squeezed in his chest. Gideon never spoke about what happened in Boston. "I left Morgan and Hotch and Elle behind too. I chose that. It was the only saving grace of that day." He exhaled, slow and measured. "Sometimes you can't defend with guns. There are other ways to keep the people you love safe. Keep yourself safe."

Spencer kept staring at the floor. Gideon cupped his chin in his hand and tilted his face up to look him in the eyes. "Don't think less of yourself," he said. "You have already proved yourself, over and over again. You can be confident now. You can trust your team. You can trust yourself."

Spencer couldn't think of anything to say. Gideon gently tapped his thumb against his jaw, his gaze kind and paternal. "Sometimes when I look at you, I still see that eager little fifteen-year-old listening to me speak," he said. "You've grown so much since then, but sometimes I think you're still a little lost." Gideon smiled. "Don't be afraid, Spencer."

Gideon patted him on the knee, got up, and left the room. Spencer fidgeted with the cup in his hand, and after a long time he drained it dry.

He felt a little bit better after that, a little less on edge, and when he rejoined the team his head was clear again. They started assembling more information on the unsub- someone in the medical field, someone who wanted to exert power, someone who felt they deserved more.

They ended up at the hospital, tracking down a surgeon, and Reid found himself at Hotch's heels as the more experienced agent grilled an emergency room doctor for more information.

"Look, I've got patients who need me," the doctor said, trying to sidestep Hotch.

Hotch caught her gently by the arm and guided her back. "He's in his thirties," he continued, infinitely patient. "He's vain, rude, arrogant. He works out. He shows up to work late. He blames others for his mistakes, doesn't take responsibility for his behavior. All of his coworkers detest him."

Spencer saw recognition dawn in the doctor's eyes. "Oh my god," she breathed. "It's Phillip Dowd. He's- he picks up shifts at Arlington."

"Is he here today?" Hotch asked quietly.

The doctor looked around the emergency room, eyes wide. "Oh, my god," he said.

"Okay," Hotch said, gentler still, redirecting her. "Your patients need you calm." She took a deep breath. "Tell me, is Dowd working today?" She closed her eyes and nodded. "Do you see him?"

The doctor scanned the room, then shook her head. Hotch touched Spencer's shoulder lightly. "Go tell Gideon," he said. Spencer nodded and took off running down the hallway.

"Reid," Hotch warned. "Easy."

Spencer slowed down and took a deep breath. Easy, he thought. Easy.

A nurse in a white labcoat rounded the corner. Spencer glanced up, but the man pulled out a rifle from under his coat and struck him cross the jaw. He felll hard, breath rushing out of his lungs, his head bouncing the tile floor. For a moment his consciousness drifted, his cheek pressed to the cold floor, but he didn't pass out. Gunfire echoed through the emergency room, mixing with panicked screams, and the lights turned amber as the emergency lights flipped on.

"Nobody moves, and nobody dies!"

Dowd. It was Dowd. It was too late.

But Hotch is here, he thought. Hotch can get him.

Spencer raised his chin off the floor. Hotch had his hands in the air, and Dowd was taking his gun, and his heart sank in his chest. Dowd turned and looked at him, eyes ablaze.

"Get up! Get over here!" he bellowed. Spencer pushed himself up, hands over his head. "Double time! Let's go!"

He jogged faster, dumping his bag on the floor, and stood next to Hotch. Hotch didn't look at him. Dowd aimed his rifle at them and Spencer kept his hands up, his shoulders hunched."You, take your partner's gun, put it on the counter," Dowd ordered.

"He's not armed," Hotch said calmly. "See for yourself."

Dwod glared at them, eyes shifting from one to the other. "Hands on your heads," he said said. Spencer obeyed, pinning his trembling fingers to the back of his neck. Dowd pulled at his arm, patted at his sides and hips, looking for a gun that didn't exist. He pulled the badge out of Spencer's pocket, glanced at it briefly, and tossed it aside.

"Get up, Keith," Dowd said in a low voice. He fumbled for something in his pocket and threw it at the security guard. "Put those on 'em."

The security guard took the plastic zipties and lashed them around Spencer's wrists first, then Hotch's, tight enough to cut off circulation. "Now put 'em on yourself," Dowd ordered. "Now step back. Back up. Back up, back up."

He struck the security guard in the face, throwing him to the floor, with enough force that he definitely had to be out cold. Spencer heard the other hostages murmur in panic.

Dowd pointed the rifle straight at Spencer. "Get down on the ground, he demanded. Spencer obeyed, dropping to the floor, unable to keep his balance with his hands tied. Hotch stayed standing.

"Have a seat," Dowd said, and Hotch sat down slowly. "Now, what kind of an FBI agent doesn't carry a gun?"

"I'm a profiler," Spencer said. His eyes welled up despite himself, he wasn't sure if was pain or shock or just fear.

"Profiler?" Dowd repeated. He smirked. "They sent you to figure me out."

"We did," Spencer said. "That's how we found you-"

"Shut up, Reid," Hotch said through his teeth. Spencer dropped his head, his heart squeezing in his chest. Hotch never spoke to him like that.

"No, don't shut up," Dowd grinned, shouldering the rifle. "Tell me what you think you know about me."

Spencer swallowed hard, searching for words.

"Go ahead, genius. Tell him," Hotch said. Spencer looked up at him, a stray tear rolling down his bruised cheek. Hotch's face was unreadable, set in stone. "Tell him. But remember, get it wrong, and he's gonna kill you."

Spencer looked from Hotch to Dowd, who raised an eyebrow. His voice was stuck in his throat.

"Okay," Dowd said. "You're the boss. You tell me. Who am I? What's my plan?"

"I know you shot 11 people in broad daylight and left us nothing," Hotch said, flat and emotionless. "You executed a cop in front of the FBI and got away clean, and I know your plan is to go down in a hail of bullets."

"What else do you know?" Dowd pressed.

"I know you're the smartest guy in every room you've ever been in, and no one's ever known it," Hotch said. Spencer looked down at the floor, trying to even out his breathing, trying to will himself to stop goddamn crying. "People feel threatened by you and try to sabotage you every chance they get. You're not a bad person."

Dowd half lowered his gun, taken aback. "You help save all of your victims afterwards," Hotch said. "First guy wasn't your fault. If the EMTs had been there on time, he would've lived."

"Took those guys thirteen minutes," Dowd sneered. "Thirteen!"

There was a slight pause. "You want to barricade the door," Hotch said.

Dowd frowned. "What?"

"Let me and the kid do it," Hotch said. "Let 'em see that you've got 2 FBI agents in here doing your bidding."

"Right, let you give them a signal," Dowd said, tightening his grip on the rifle.

"What signal?" Hotch said. His angular face looked sharp and yellow in the amber emergency lights. "They knew you were in here. They knew you were armed. What can I tell them?"

Dowd took aim at Hotch's head. "What is this, some sort of profiler trick?" he demanded. "New negotiation tactic?" There was a long silence. Spencer held his breath. "Oh, but the barricade's a good idea, though." He lowered the gun away from his aim to Hotch's forehead. "Now, why would you wanna help me?"

"I don't," Hotch said.

Dowd clicked his tongue. "You said they knew I was in here," he said.

Spencer watched Hotch's face out of the corner of his eye; a muscle twitched in his jaw. "I said they know you're in here," he said.

"No," Dowd said slowly, as if he was correcting a particularly stupid child. "That's not what you said."

Spencer raised his head. "Why does it matter?" he asked. His nose was beginning to bleed.

"It matters because your partner wants to help me even though he doesn't know it," Dowd said. A slow grin crept across his face, skull-like in the half light. "Go ahead, boss man. Tell him why." He tightened his grip on the rifle. "If you lie or leave anything out…"

Dowd made a soft popping noise with his mouth. Spencer looked up at Hotch. He has a plan, he thought wildly. He has to have a plan.

"They knew he was in here," Hotch said, half to himself, "they knew he was armed and dangerous, and they knew that he was gonna fight till the last round, and they sent me in here with an unarmed kid who can't shoot his way out of a wet paper bag."

Spencer stared down at the floor, his heart thumping in his chest. How was this Hotch's plan?

Unless...this was really what Hotch thought of him.

"They set you up," Dowd said.

"Exactly, and they're probably laughing about it right now," Hotch said.

"That's why you want to help me."

"I wouldn't say I want to help you, but when they come in here to get revenge for the cop you killed, you're going to go down fighting, and in the crossfire, a lot of us are going to die," Hotch said. "They sent me in here. I figure why make it easy for them."

Dowd grinned. "I like the way you think," he said. "All right. Barricade it is." He pointed the rifle at Spencer's forehead. "Come on, kid. Up and at 'em."

Spencer struggled to his feet, unable to steady himself with his lashed hands. "Boss man, tell him what to do," Dowd ordered.

"Reid, stack the chairs in front of the door," Hotch said. "Four of them. Jam the door handle."

Spencer obeyed, shuffling as fast as he could. He strained to look through the frosted glass in the door. Was there anyone out there? Was the rest of the team waiting, coming up with a plan to help them?

Had they given up?

"Move the hostages," Hotch said. "Six over there. The rest of there." He regarded Dowd coolly. "You've never tried to kill innocent people. If they get shot, you can't save them fast enough."

"Yeah," Dowd said. "Yeah, you heard the man. Move. Move!" He swiveled back towards Spencer, the barrel of the rifle inches from his face. "You. Sit. Where your boss can see you."

Spencer sank down to the floor, his knees shaking. Adrenaline pumped through his veins but he didn't know what to do with it. Hotch caught his gaze, and without moving his head he looked from Spencer to Dowd and back again, then settled back against the chair, looking at the far wall. Spencer blinked. He didn't understand.

And then it dawned on him. The risks were out of the way. There was a clear shot.

"You know why they took away boy genius's gun?" Hotch said.

"Why?" Dowd asked.

"He failed his qualification," Hotch said. Spencer dropped his head. "Twice a year, I've got to listen to him whine about requalifying. So I tutor him. And he fails again."

Hotch taking him to the range to practice. Hotch walking him through the steps. Hotch pulling out the Glock from his ankle holster.

"You think you got it rough?" Dowd scoffed. "These people done nothing but undermine me since I got here."

"Put him next to the barricade," Hotch suggested. A slow grin spread across Dowd's face. "That way, when they blast their way in here, both of our problems are solved. That sort of thing can ruin a cop's career."

"You are one sick dude," Dowd said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

"How do you think I found you?" Hotch said. He paused. "Can I ask you a favor?"

"You can ask."

"I figure the chances of my getting out of here alive are pretty slim."

"So?" Dowd snorted.

"I want to kick the snot out of this kid," Hotch said. Spencer looked up at him. Hotch didn't make eye contact. "He's made my life miserable for three lousy years."

Dowd pondered the question. "Go ahead," he said. "Knock yourself out."

Hotch lunged for Spencer, his tied-together hands smacking him in the shoulder and sending him crashing to the floor. Instinctively Spencer threw his forearms over his face to protect himself. Hotch struggled to his feet and kicked him in the ribs.

If his adrenaline was pumping too fast before, it was at lightspeed now. Spencer grunted as Hotch kicked in him in the sides.

"How smart are you now, smart guy?" Hotch shouted.

He was kicking him hard enough to hurt, hard enough to be believable, but he was avoiding the most sensitive parts of his body.

"It's front sight, trigger press, follow through!"

He was coaching him, reminding him.

"It's not that hard!"

He planted his right leg on the ground, his ankle holster inches from Spencer's face, and kicked him in the belly with his left. Spencer gripped his right ankle and scrabbled for the gun.

"A dalmatian could do it!"

The Glock fell into his shaking fingers.

"Let go! Let go!"

Spencer moaned as Hotch kicked him away. He could sense Dowd staring at him; he coughed as he struggled to get a good grip on the gun.

"Feel better?" Dowd inquired

"I think he got the message," Hotch said.

Spencer twisted on the floor, wheezing. His hands closed around the butt of the gun and his finger reached the trigger.

"What's that?" Dowd asked.

Spencer rolled over onto his back.

Front sight.

Dowd aimed the rifle at Hotch.

Trigger press.

He watched Dowd's body seize as the bullet struck him, forming a black dot on his forehead.

Follow through.

"We go now!" a voice shouted in the hallway. Spencer watched Dowd sink to the floor.

"Federal agent!" Hotch bellowed, pulling the chairs away from the door. "Federal agent, hold your fire!" He pulled the door open. "It's all clear."

The SWAT team poured into the room. Spencer struggled to get up, the gun still clenched in his hand. The lights were still dim, too dim to see well. He couldn't get up. His arms shook.

Hotch reached under him and pulled him up from the floor. "Let's get you out of here, kid," he said.

"I still have the gun," Spencer said, bewildered. It was too loud. Everyone was shouting. "I still have it."

"Reid, you have to move."

He tripped and looked down at the floor, straight down at Dowd. The man stared blankly at the ceiling, dark liquid trickling from a small hole in his forehead. "Is he dead?" Spencer said, his voice rising. "I killed him?"

Hotch lifted him up, half dragging him out of the garish yellow lights of the emergency room and into the bright hallway. "Spencer!" a voice called.

"Go to JJ, go to JJ," Hotch ordered, and he gave him a push.

Spencer stumbled and fell into JJ's arms. She caught him, her body bowing under his weight, and his tied-together hands pinned against her shoulder.

"Is he okay?"

"I think so."

"Hotch, fill us in."

"I'll stay with him, the rest of you go."

The voices receded, so did the footsteps. JJ squeezed him tight. "Come on," she said gently. "You need to sit down. Come on."

She guided him over to a waiting room couch and forced him to sit down. He looked up at her, stricken. "I still have the gun," he said. "I don't know where to put it."

"Give it to me," she said. She pried it out of his hands and set it down next to a stack of magazines. "Are you okay?"

"Hotch kicked me," he said. JJ's mouth dropped open. "No, he was helping, it's okay, I-"

His breath caught in his throat. JJ knelt down in front of him, her hand on his knee. "It's okay," she soothed. "You don't have to explain things right now. There's time, there's time. Catch your breath." Her eyes softened and she touched his cheek. "Oh, Spence. Don't cry."

"I'm not crying," he said, but she brushed her thumb over his cheekbone to dry his tears. He shivered, but he wasn't cold.

JJ sat down beside him quickly and wrapped her arm around his shoulders. He was shaking harder now, full body shivers, but he couldn't stop. "Your adrenaline's wearing off," she said. She took his hand and squeezed it tight. "You're okay. Hold my hand."

The zipties dug into his wrists, but he gripped her small hand and tried to slow down his breathing. His head swam. JJ gently pushed him down until his head rested against his knees. "Just breathe," she said softly, rubbing his back. "Just breathe, Spence."

"Ma'am? We're evacuating the hospital. We need to get you out."

"Just a moment, please." He felt JJ rub the heel of her palm between his shoulder blades. "Is there someone who can take a look at him, when they have a chance? He's not badly hurt, but someone should check him out."

"Of course, I'll have someone meet you outside."

"Oh- and do you have a pair of scissors handy?"

"Sure, just a second."

Spencer closed his eyes, counting his breaths. His heart was still beating too fast and nausea was pushing at his throat, but he was beginning to feel like himself again.

JJ guided him to sit up and took his wrists in her hand. "Hold still," she said, and she cut at the thick plastic zipties until they fell away. "There. Better, right?"

He nodded. "Thank you," he managed to say. The tremor in his body was beginning to quiet.

JJ smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind his ear. "Let's get out of here," she said. "We'll have someone take a look at you, all right?"

He nodded and struggled to his feet, then leaned over to pick up the gun and slide it in his pocket. JJ held his arm, letting him lean on her shoulder. She guided him through the chaos, keeping her pace easy, her grip firm but reassuring and gentle.

Outside the evening breeze was cool and gentle on his hot face. He closed his eyes for a moment, slowing down and allowing JJ to lead him. She tucked an arm around his waist. "How're you doing?" she asked.

"I'm okay," he said.

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

They walked through the busy parking lot where ambulances and police cars waited. "Ma'am, you can bring him over here," an EMT said, waving her over. "They said he needed to get checked out."

"JJ, really, I'm-"

JJ led him over to the ambulance and forced him to sit on the bumper. "You're getting looked at," she said.

Spencer submitted to the EMT's scrutiny; the man probed at the sore spot on his jaw and shone lights in his eyes. At JJ's urging the EMT lifted the hem of his shirt and checked out his ribs and his thin belly, searching for signs of damage from Hotch's kicks.

"You're going to be pretty bruised up, but nothing's broken," the EMT said. He handed Spencer a prepackaged alcohol wipe and an ice pack. "Ice your jaw, take it easy. You'll be fine in a week or two. Take ibuprofen if you need it."

"Thank you," JJ said, and the EMT nodded as he moved on to the next potential patient. She took the alcohol wipe out of Spencer's hand and ripped the packet open. "Hold still."

"I can do that myself," he offered, but she cupped his chin in her hand and gently wiped away the dried blood from around his nose.

"You're sure you're all right?" she asked quietly. "That was really intense. And you-"

Her voice trailed off, but her unspoken sentence hung in the air. And you shot a man.

"I promise, JJ, I'm okay," he said.

She busied herself with the ice pack and held it up to his jaw, then placed his hand over it. "Hold that in place," she said. "Don't get up too soon. Do you need water or anything?"

He shook his head. She smiled and squeezed his knee. "Be good," she said. "I'll be back."

Spencer watched her go. His breathing was back to normal, the roar had left his ears. He was starting to feel like himself again. He slid down from the bumper of the ambulance and leaned against it, and he held the ice pack to his jaw until his fingers were numb and he set it aside.

A gurney rolled past him, the body wrapped and covered completely. Spencer hugged his arms over his stomach. Dowd. He waited for panic to spike, remorse, anger…

He only felt numb

Hotch walked towards him, distracting him. "You all right?" he asked, crossing his arms. Spencer nodded. "Nice shot."

"I was aiming for his leg," Spencer said, and a ghost of a smile tugged at Hotch's mouth.

"I wouldn't have kept kicking, but I was afraid you didn't get my plans," Hotch said.

Spencer could hear the unspoken I'm sorry in his voice. "I got your plan the minute you moved the hostages out of my line of fire," he said.

"Well, I hope I didn't hurt you too badly."

Spencer squinted up at him in the flashing red and blue lights. "Hotch, I was a twelve year old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school," he said. "You kick like a nine year old girl."

He grinned, and he was rewarded with Hotch half-laughing. Spencer reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun, holding it out to him. "No," Hotch said. "Keep it." He clapped Spencer on the shoulder. "As far as I'm concerned, you passed your qualification."

Spencer looked down at the handgun as Hotch walked away, then slid it back into his left pocket The pride in Hotch's voice was unmistakable.

He got up from the ambulance bumper and started to walk towards the police SUV they'd been borrowing all week, but nearly bumped into Morgan. "Reid, you all right?" he asked.

Spencer reached into his right pocket, pulled out the stupid whistle on its stupid blue lanyard, and tossed it to Morgan before continuing to walk away. He could hear Morgan start to laugh behind him.

They left on the jet that night, stopping just long enough to pick up their belongings at the hotel; Spencer immediately claimed one the comfy seats at the table. There was still just enough adrenaline in his body to keep him from sleeping, but the soreness was definitely kicking in. JJ stopped long enough to check on him, scrutinizing the blossoming bruise on his jaw in the soft warm light of the jet, but she listened when he told her he was fine.

The rest of the team stayed quiet on overnight flight, most of them dozing off. Spencer stared out the window, his thoughts gently tumbling in his head.

They were halfway back to Washington when Gideon stopped by his seat. "How you doin'?" he asked gently, and Spencer raised his head.

"You were right," he said. "You don't need a gun to kill somebody."

Gideon was quiet for a moment. He slid into the seat across from Spencer. "No, you don't," he said.

"But it helps," Spencer offered, his lips quirking up, trying to play it off, make the conversation a little less serious.

"Yes," Gideon said, and Spencer dropped his smile. Gideon could see right through him. "Yes."

He hesitated. "I- I know I should feel bad about...what happened," he said. Gideon met his gaze. "I mean... I killed a man. You know, I-I should...feel something." He searched for the right words and came up empty. Why was he saying this to Gideon, and not JJ or Hotch or Morgan? Why was he saying it at all? "But I don't."

He felt like he had just dropped a bomb, but Gideon didn't seem shocked. He was thoughtful. "Well, not knowing what you're feeling…" he said slowly. "That's not the same as not feeling anything."

Spencer nodded. He hadn't realized he needed the reassurance until Gideon gave it to him.

"This is gonna hit you," Gideon said. "And when it does...there's only three facts you need to know."

Spencer leaned forward on his arms, waiting. Facts were helpful. He could understand facts.

"You did what you had to do," Gideon said. "And a lot of good people are alive because of what you did."

Spencer looked down at the table, repeating the words in his head, letting them settle into his skin. He raised his head. "What's the third?" he asked.

Gideon smiled. "I'm proud of you," he said.

The words sank into him, and the tension in his chest eased. He didn't know how to respond, but Gideon didn't seem like he was waiting for a response. Spencer leaned back against the seat, his muscles aching, and he gazed out the window. Gideon sat with him in quiet companionship until he dozed off, his forehead resting against the window.

It didn't hit him till three months later. He usually had dreams, faded and scattered and never truly bad, just unsettling, but one night he dreamed of the amber emergency lights and the fluttery screams of hostages and Hotch spitting cruelties and then he saw Dowd with the hole in his head, falling backwards, eyes black, blood trickling down in his face, and Spencer woke up screaming with the sheets tangled around his long legs and cold sweat dripping down his back.

He didn't sleep for weeks. He started a file on his rarely-used computer, stockpiling information, looking for a pattern, a reason, a justification. He learned everything he could about Dowd. He couldn't find what he was looking for.

Gideon stopped by his desk one day and caught him half dozing, his cheek resting on his hand, the file pulled up on his computer screen. "Research?" he asked mildly.

Spencer leaped up. "Oh, um...I'm sorry, it isn't...I was working on…"

His voice trailed off. Lying to Gideon was a fruitless venture.

"How about you come visit with me for a little bit?" Gideon suggested. It was not a suggestion. Spencer got up and followed reluctantly.

Gideon closed the door and gestured towards a chair. Spencer sank down, his hands tucked nervously under his thighs. "It hit you, didn't?" Gideon asked.

He nodded miserably. Gideon folded his hands. "Bad dreams?"

He nodded again. "I thought so," Gideon said. "You haven't been yourself lately."

"Sir, I...I can't stop thinking about it," Spencer burst out. "What if there was something I could have done, instead of shooting him?"

"Reid-"

"I know there wasn't a lot of time, but maybe if I had said something differently, if I had known his past better and been able to appeal to him-"

"Reid-"

"If I had done something instead of just crying like a child-"

"Spencer," Gideon interrupted. "Take a breath."

Spencer struggled to obey; staring down at the floor until his shoulders stopped hitching. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

Gideon leaned in closer. "You can spend the rest of your life thinking about the what-ifs," he said. "The reality is...you did what you had to do." He nodded towards the collection of framed photos clustered over his file cabinets. "Look at those. You see all those faces?"

"Yeah," Spencer said, scanning them one by one.

"Those are people I've rescued over the years," Gideon said. "People I returned to their parents, their spouses, their children." Spencer looked over the photos again, his heart squeezing in his chest. "Let this be your saving grace. You saved so many people that day. Let them return to their lives." He smiled. "If you hadn't taken that shot, Hotch might not have been able to go home to his wife and baby."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," Spencer said softly.

Gideon reached across the desk and squeezed Spencer's wrist. "Go home," he said. "Get some rest. We can spare you for an afternoon."

Spencer nodded and stood up. He had paperwork left to do, but he knew better than to argue with Gideon. "Oh, and Reid?"

He paused in the doorway. "Yes, sir?"

"Hotch trusted you to take his gun and make that shot," Gideon said. "You can trust him in return. All of us on the team. You can trust us."

Spencer pressed his mouth together in a kind of half smile. "Yes, sir," he said.

Author's Notes:

WHOOPS I THOUGHT THE FISHER KING CAME BEFORE LDSK AND I WAS WRONGGG. LDSK is season 1 episode 6 and Fisher King is the season 1 finale/season 2 opener. Hence...this chapter first.

Spencer is such a precious angel in this episode. I remember watching it for the first time and being gobsmacked that Hotch was being so mean, and Spencer was crying and I was big sad. I think this was the episode that clinched him as my favorite. I'm a sucker for emotionally distant sweet boys with big eyes and a tragic backstory.

So fun fact: I have formal gun training thanks to my former role at Disney; I used to perform as a gangster and a bandit at the Great Movie Ride before it closed so I leaned into that knowledge to write this chapter. I also really want to know what firearm Spencer uses because it reminds me of my favorite prop at work.

Also I love Spencer and JJ being best friends. She's such a big sister and I love it. I love writing the whole team, honestly. I wish there was like...another series that was just the team living their lives and the crime solving is just an afterthought.

Special thanks to The Cheese Reaper, Dayanna, Unathana, fishtrek, and nitrogentulips for reviewing! Hopefully I"m bringing a little bit of sunshine to y'all's quarantines; y'all are certainly bringing sunshine to mine!

I'm almost done with the Fisher King chapter. It's really long, y'all. It's a true gapfill with a lot of EMOTIONAL SPENCER and but I don't know if I should edit it to be shorter and take out bunches of the canon content, or leave it as is.

Also, please prompt me anything you'd like! I'd love to write scenes with the team (slice of life and whump are my specialties, and also I want more JJ and Spencer/Blake and Spencer friendship fics) but you can prompt them here or on my tumblr (themetaphorgirl)

ALSO. I've been crossposting this fic to AO3 and really love the formatting, so I think I may crosspost my Glee fics over there! I can finally organize my different universes so they can be read in order. What a dream. Let me know if you like that idea!

Up next: He hadn't seen his mother in two years. This was not how he expected it to go.