She stormed into the bullpen, her footsteps heavy with anger and worry.
The place was just as she remembered it—every desk and wall seemed untouched by time, as if preserved for her.
The familiar hum of computers and muted voices felt strange now, like an echo of her past self. She could almost see herself, years younger, settling into her own desk, sharing half-smiles with her team as they prepped for the next case.
It was strange how nothing had changed, and yet everything felt different. The last time she'd been here, she had said her goodbyes with a mix of sadness and relief, ready to leave Quantico and its weight behind her.
Yet standing here now, it felt like yesterday, like she'd never left at all.
She stopped in front of Spencer's desk, her eyes tracing over the same surface he'd had since they first started working together. It was unmistakably his, cluttered in a way that somehow still looked organized—papers stacked neatly but chaotically, worn books with creased spines, and a few scattered pens.
Despite all the years, nothing had really changed. The familiarity of it, down to the faint coffee rings she knew he'd never bother to clean, tugged at her heart.
Her gaze softened as it landed on a small framed photo tucked into the corner of his desk—a team photo from 2005. Spencer looked impossibly young, standing right beside her, with that shy, unsure smile she remembered so well.
She chuckled quietly, noticing how his eyes were turned toward JJ, his expression betraying the innocent crush he'd once had on her.
Spencer hadn't picked up his phone in days, which was unlike him.
When Garcia finally answered her frantic calls, the news hit Elle like a punch to the gut. Spencer was in jail. By the time she managed to take time off work and get to D.C., the trial was already over.
Guilty.
Now, she stood in the heart of the BAU, eyes blazing, ready for answers. Her gaze swept the bullpen,
Just then, JJ entered the room, her expression weary and focused, carrying a file under her arm.
Before she could even greet Elle, Elle's sharp and demanding voice cut through the air.
"What the hell is going on?" she snapped, her gaze locking onto JJ.
"Elle?" JJ's shock was palpable. She hadn't seen her in years. It felt like a fever dream to see her again. It's been so long. Too long.
"He didn't do anything! How could you let him get convicted? Do you have any theories on who framed him?" Elle's voice cracked with frustration. She had a million questions. How could Spencer of all people be in jail, be guilty of a crime? How did this even happen? How did the team let it happen?
JJ blinked, taken aback. "Elle... What are you doing here?"
"I heard from Garcia," she snapped, cutting off any pleasantries. "Spencer's in prison. And you're all just sitting here?"
"We haven't seen you in almost ten years. How - how do you and Spencer...?"
"We talk." She said blankly. "We're still friends." She knew it was coming - questions.
She and Spencer never discussed details.
Who to tell?
Why would they? It was just the two of them away from DC. No one had to know so it was never a worry of theirs. "That's what friends do," she added to back up her presence.
"I didn't know you two—" JJ began, but the sound of footsteps interrupted her.
Emily descended the stairs, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene.
"Elle Greenaway," Emily said, extending her hand with a respectful nod. "It's an honor to meet you. I've heard great things."
Elle ignored the pleasantries, glancing at JJ. "So, this is the one who replaced me?"
"I guess you could say that," Emily replied evenly.
"Elle's here because of Spencer," JJ interjected, raising her brows at Emily.
Emily's surprise was evident. "Really? I didn't know Spencer—"
"It doesn't add up," Elle cut her off, her tone sharp. "Whoever did this made sure Spencer took the fall. But why? And who?"
"We're working on it, but..." Emily's voice softened. "We can't involve outsiders."
Elle let out a bitter laugh. "Outsiders. Of course." She shook her head, frustration simmering beneath the surface. "I get it—I'm not part of the team anymore." Her voice softened, but a raw edge lingered as she looked away. "But Spencer and I... he trusted me. He confided in me in ways he never did with anyone else." She paused, the weight of her powerlessness pressing down on her. "Maybe I know something that could help."
Elle felt her pulse quicken as she stood in the visitation room, waiting.
The harsh lighting and uncomfortable chair did nothing to calm her anger, only adding to her frustration as she crossed her arms, fingers tapping impatiently against her sleeve.
Her eyes were glued to the steel door, the one she knew he'd walk through any moment now.
Then, a mess of brown hair appeared in the small window, and Spencer's face, drawn and pale, came into view. His eyes immediately found hers, and though his face was unreadable, she could see the flicker of emotions beneath—anger, frustration, sadness. Maybe even a flash of relief.
But Elle didn't care what he felt about her presence here. She was here because she needed to be.
The door swung open, and there he was, shuffling in with his head low. Seeing him in a gray prison uniform, shoulders slumped under the weight of something he couldn't shake, twisted her heart.
This wasn't the Spencer Reid she remembered.
This was a shadow of him, broken down and resigned. His eyes finally met hers, and he stopped short, his disbelief written plainly across his face.
"Elle?" His voice was rough, hoarse as if scraped raw from sleepless nights or swallowed grief. He stared at her, as if unsure she was real.
She didn't move, didn't smile. She held her gaze steady as he sat across from her, then said, "You look like hell, Spencer."
He let out a short, bitter laugh. "Nice to see you too." His fingers fidgeted in his lap, his gaze dropping as if unable to meet her eyes again. "How did you even get in here? I didn't… I didn't put you on the list."
She raised an eyebrow, her mouth curving into a faint, humorless smirk. "Do you actually think I care about some list you made?" But her tone hardened as she leaned forward, her voice a low, determined murmur. "I'm here because you don't belong in this place. You didn't do anything."
He swallowed, his gaze flicking away. "You shouldn't have come, Elle," he muttered, his voice laced with a weary resignation. "I don't want you involved. You're risking too much—"
"You think I care about the risk?" she cut him off, her voice sharp and unyielding. "I'm not going to sit back and let you rot in here when I know you didn't do this. I know you, Spencer. I know why you did what you did, and I know the system well enough to help get you out of this place."
Spencer's mouth opened, then closed, as if he wanted to argue but couldn't find the words. His fingers trembled slightly as he took a shaky breath. "Elle… it's not that simple. It's all so complicated… And… and I don't want you putting yourself in danger because of me. You're not part of the team anymore, you have a new life-"
Her jaw tightened as she cut him off again. "I don't need a badge to help you, Spencer. I know how to work around the system, and I'm not afraid to use every trick I've learned if it means getting you out of here."
He looked at her, truly looked at her, a mixture of disbelief and wariness in his eyes, as though he couldn't quite accept that she was willing to do this for him.
He took a breath, looking down, shame and self-doubt flickering across his face. "You shouldn't… I mean, after everything—I don't deserve this, Elle. I put myself here, I—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," she snapped, her voice tinged with an unexpected, almost vulnerable anger. "You deserve better than this. You just wanted to help your mom. I don't know if this is some fucked-up survival mechanism you've developed to cope in here, but you shouldn't be in this place."
He looked at her, his face softening for the first time since he'd entered the room. "I'm not sure there's anything we can do."
"Spencer," she said slowly, her voice almost breaking, "I care about you. I always have. And I'm not going to let you disappear in here. We're going to figure this out."
His hand flexed on the table, almost as if he wanted to reach for hers, but he held back, glancing warily at the guard by the door.
Finally, he nodded.
"You… you shouldn't have come," he whispered, though this time, his voice lacked conviction.
"Well, I did. And I'm not going anywhere. So you can either sit here and let this place eat you alive, or you can help me get you out of here. Your choice."
She knew he felt helpless, vulnerable. All of this because of the job that had once meant everything to them both.
He swallowed, a faint glimmer of hope kindling in his eyes.
"Thank you," he murmured, the words barely more than a breath.
Elle's face softened, her tone laced with fierce determination. "We'll get you out, Spencer. I'm not giving up on you."
For the first time in weeks, he felt something crack, a small fissure in the numbness that had swathed him since his sentence. the walls he'd built up started to chip away.
The days settled into a quiet, predictable rhythm. Spencer had taken to marking his calendar—not to count down the days served, but to mark the ones when Elle would visit.
In a place where hope was scarce, she became his harbor, his one constant. Even if her visits were brief and strictly monitored, they gave him a reason to hold on.
Elle had been visiting regularly over the past few weeks, though the team kept her at arm's length. It wasn't surprising; she was no longer with the FBI, and none of them had kept in touch with her over the last decade.
None except Spencer.
There wasn't much she could do for him beyond showing up. And maybe that was enough, offering a kind of support no one else could.
But today felt different. He saw it as soon as he walked in.
Her shoulders slumped slightly, and dark circles marked her eyes—a weariness that hadn't been there before. She looked tired, and though she tried to mask it, her exhaustion was plain as she sat across from him.
She noticed his fatigue, too. He looked even more worn than before, eyes heavy, face bruised, shoulders hunched as if his own thoughts were pressing him down.
The brutal reality of prison life was chipping away at him.
They sat in heavy silence until he finally spoke.
"What is it?" he asked, his voice a low rasp of fatigue.
Elle's expression softened, her gaze lingering on him, and for a moment, words seemed to fail her. Her eyes traveled over his hunched shoulders, his hollow gaze, the tension in his hands as he clutched at nothing as if holding onto an invisible thread.
"Spencer…" she began, her voice barely steady, and it hurt to say his name.
He looked at her with a resignation that betrayed the fight slipping from him. A muscle in his jaw tightened. "I know." His tone was flat as if he'd accepted a truth neither of them wanted to confront.
They held each other's gaze, their despair a mirror—him looking at her as if she were the last piece of the world he knew, while she struggled to maintain her composure, her fear and helplessness growing with each visit.
"You need to go," he whispered, his voice so soft it was almost lost in the stillness, as if saying it aloud would make it real.
She shook her head, refusing his words. "I'm not ready to leave you here."
Her hand moved, almost instinctively, reaching across the table before she caught herself, her fingers curling back. They sat on the edge of saying more, each holding back, knowing their time was fleeting.
He took a breath, trying to find strength in the words he could barely believe himself. "Elle, this could take years. We both wanted answers—wanted it to end quickly, but… there's nothing. No leads. No way out."
Ignoring his plea, she leaned in, her eyes searching his face. "Are you okay? Be honest."
His fingers picked at the edge of his shirt, and he gave a small, defeated nod. "It's… harder than I thought. I keep telling myself I'm strong enough, but some days…" He trailed off, his voice barely a murmur. "Some days, I feel like I'm disappearing."
Without hesitation, Elle reached across the table and took his hand, ignoring the guards' stares. She needed this, even if just for a moment.
Her grip was firm, grounding. "You're not disappearing, Spencer. You're still here. And if you can't keep fighting for yourself, then fight for everyone who's still out there fighting for you. Fight for your mom. You can get through this."
He looked into her eyes, her words settling into the hollow ache inside him. The fear, the anger, the loneliness—all of it felt just a bit more bearable with her here.
He could survive this. He had to.
The California sun had been blindingly bright, glinting off the pool's still surface as Elle drifted lazily on her floatie, her sunglasses shielding her from the intense summer light.
The faint hum of a lawnmower in the distance and the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze made the afternoon feel almost drowsy, the air thick with the scent of chlorine and warm grass.
Spencer sat on the pool's edge, his feet dipped in the cool water. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, just like his pant legs, and the buttons at the top of his shirt were undone, exposing a hint of the soft skin of his neck.
He leaned back on his arms, feeling the warmth seep into his skin, the heat making everything feel just a little more intense.
"Am I bothering you? Being here?" he asked, glancing at her.
Elle shifted slightly, smirking behind her sunglasses. "No. I love when you're here. Don't worry about that. I get if you don't wanna be alone. Makes sense."
"Yeah?" he said, as if testing the waters of her answer.
"I didn't want to be alone after… you know. But I had too much pride to admit that. You know me."
Spencer chuckled. "Yeah, little Miss Independent."
"Shut up," she laughed, pushing herself up slightly to splash a bit of water his way. "I've gotten better, and don't act like you're not a little Mister Independent yourself!"
"Yeah, you're right," he admitted, looking down into the water. "I'm just used to it. Being on my own."
"I get that," she said softly, tilting her head. "How's therapy?"
He exhaled, almost in a huff. "Good. Annoying. I'm too self-aware, but I think she likes that. I'm some sort of a challenge. How's your therapy?"
"It's good. I'm doing good."
"I'm glad."
They sat there in comfortable silence until she spoke again, her voice a bit more vulnerable. "Spencer, if you ever wanna talk about what happened or didn't happen with Cat and stuff… you can talk to me, you know?"
"I know."
She took a breath. "I know how you're feeling. I mean, not exactly… what we experienced is different, but similar. We both faced things that shouldn't have happened to us because of our work. After I got shot, I know we never talked about it. It's difficult. I was so scared, Spence. So scared."
"I'm sorry," he said, and there was a heaviness in his tone, his eyes downcast, avoiding her gaze like it was too much to bear.
"About what?" Her voice was soft, almost a whisper, but her brow furrowed slightly, confused by the sudden apology.
"I've always felt like I could've done more."
He let out a long sigh, as if the words were hard to get out.
She shook her head, the movement slow and deliberate, like she was trying to brush off the weight of his words.
Her eyes met his for a fleeting second but quickly dropped. "I wouldn't let you. I was awful." Her voice cracked just a little, the guilt still raw and fresh, even though the years had passed.
"You were traumatized," he said, his voice gentle but firm.
"And now you are. And I don't want you… to end up like me. Wasting years being scared and too proud to admit there's something wrong and ask for help. You've already been through enough. And I let you be alone one too many times."
Spencer looked at her, his expression conflicted. "It's not that easy."
"I know. I just want you to know I'm here. Always."
A silence stretched between them, the sun beating down, wrapping them in a cocoon of warmth.
He finally spoke, his voice low, almost tentative. "Do you sometimes wonder… what we would've looked like if you'd stayed in Virginia?"
She was quiet, watching him carefully. "I don't know. What do you think?"
He shrugged, playing with the water at his feet. "I don't know either. I'd like to think… we'd be friends."
"Just friends?" She couldn't help but tease, a small smile playing on her lips.
He chuckled, looking up to meet her covered by sunglasses eyes. "Do you think we'd be more?"
"I think we'd still enjoy each other's company, no matter where we'd be."
"Just that, huh?" He said it lightly, but there was an edge there, a bit of vulnerability he couldn't quite mask.
She hesitated, finally asking, "What do you want, Spencer? What do you want me to say?"
"Honestly, anything. I just… I just… what is this? What are we?" His voice cracked slightly, and there was a hint of desperation in his eyes.
She didn't answer, the silence stretching on.
He got up, his movements sharp and frustrated. She watched him, panic flashing across her face as he began gathering his things in the living room.
Elle pushed herself off the float, her body slipping into the water with ease. She swam smoothly toward the edge, her arms cutting through the water with practiced strokes.
"Spencer, wait," she called, hurriedly climbing out of the pool, water dripping off her as she reached him.
He shook his head, his jaw set. "Why are you asking me to come over? Every few weeks, for the past decade, Elle. You ask me to come to California so we can have casual sex, and then I leave, and we talk sometimes, and at this point, you know more about me than anybody else. More than Morgan. More than JJ. Now, with my mother not even remembering who I am… you know more than her. I've told you everything. I've told you more than I've ever told anybody else. And as far as I know, I know more about you than anybody else. But this is just it. We're just friends on opposite sides of the country, fucking from time to time."
She blinked, looking taken aback. "Do you not like it anymore?"
"Is this all it is to you? Just sex?" He looked at her, almost pleading. "Just… tell me."
"You know I like you," she said, barely above a whisper.
"You like me?"
"Yeah," she breathed, looking away.
He took a shaky breath, his voice strained. "You know what… I agreed to this all that time ago because it felt like a dream. To have you like this. I was just grateful it was happening. But… I can't do this anymore. I can't pretend that it's just sex."
He turned toward the door, but before he could leave, she stepped in front of him, blocking his path. "Please don't leave. Don't leave angry at me."
He softened slightly, but the frustration still lingered. "I'm not angry."
"You seem angry."
"Frustrated," he corrected, meeting her gaze.
She looked up at him, eyes wide and earnest. He sighed, the tension leaving him just a little.
"I like you. A lot. I think about you a lot. When you're here… that's when I'm happiest. I love being with you. I love… us. We work together. We make sense. But… what are we supposed to do with that?"
"Whatever we want," he replied softly, a small smile creeping onto his face.
She let out a breath. "You're there. I'm here."
He tilted her head, a playful gleam in his eye. "So, would you prefer that we keep pretending we don't care about each other in that way? Do you want to keep this act up?"
The corner of her mouth quirked up despite herself.
"No. I don't wanna pretend anymore," she said.
Spencer's breath quickened as he reached up, his hands cupping her cheeks with an urgency.
Without warning, he crushed his mouth to hers, the kiss fiery and desperate. His body pressed against hers, and they both stumbled backward until her back hit the door. Elle's fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him deeper.
It had been too long. They had let each other go too many times, kidding themselves that their love wasn't fated
It was clear now—no more pretending, no more fighting what was meant to be.