Jail changed Spencer Reid.
At first, it was just little things here and there. But then it got worse and worse until he was out of control.
Now, he's doing the things he spent his whole life stopping. And then he meets her. Will she be the one to...
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Content Warnings: bad talk on the BAU, talks of murder, talks of how Spencer's killed, talks of fleeing the country, past trauma, self loathing (let me know if I missed anything.)
I woke up before the sun that next morning. Her body clinging onto mine for dear life. Our feet were tangled together, her head resting on my chest. I had one arm around her back, holding her frame to me, and the other above my head.
I stared down at the sleeping girl in my arms. Her arm rested on my bare chest, her ear right against my beating heart. She looked peaceful, her breathing deep and even. I couldn't help but feel the twinge of sadness in my chest. We would've been perfect if we'd met before. She would've saved me.
I grabbed my burner phone from its place on the shitty night stand by the bed. I barely used it for more than to keep up on the media coverage on my case. I needed to know any and all information the BAU was going to give out about me. Of course, I knew whatever it would be, if any at all, would be strategic. A way to draw me out and force me to make mistakes. I was sort of hurt that they were profiling me as the average killer. That was not me.
FBI in desperate search for one of their own.
Former FBI agent a suspect in a series of murders across D.C.
The articles were laughable. The profile they'd concocted made it clear they were lost without me. I wasn't some fuck from the streets. I was an FBI trained mass manipulator. And sure that was in there. But did they take into consideration the way I have the human body memorized? How I could make someone bleed out in seconds? How easy it is to not leave prints. I'd made no mistakes and I know that's what drove them mad.
Killing isn't easy. It takes an intense amount of energy and time. You need space to house those you torture. It needs to be quiet, secluded. Unless, you don't torture at all. No, you see, sometimes the ancient instinct takes over. The animalistic ones our ancestors used to stay alive. Once you take that and twist it to apply to modern tools and technology, killing is quick.
I was getting antsy. My need to fuck the system I worked for returning hotter than ever. I swore to myself that the last murder would, in fact, be my last. The FBI was on my tail and at some point I knew I needed to fall off the grid. Maybe hit up a tropical island. One we don't have an extradition treaty with. Some place warm; the Maldives seems like a great place. I bet, y/n would like it there.
I looked down at the girl on my chest, wondering how long she'd stay asleep for. Could I find and kill that quick? I decided no because as I was doing the calculations in my head, she stirred. A small sigh left her as she pulled me tighter. My chest fluttered at the action, her need to pull me closer tugging at my heart.
I ran a hand through her hair, pushing the little wispy pieces out of her pretty face. The sun had started to rise, shining through the windows and illuminating her. Like this she was more beautiful than I ever thought possible.
