Chapter Text
August 19th, 2005
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE ONCE WROTE: WHAT’S IN A NAME? THAT WHICH WE CALL A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME WOULD SMELL JUST AS SWEET.
It was a lovely sentiment, Evie thought, one that carried elegance when recited on a stage. In practice, however, it was far less charming— especially when her Bureau-issued ID badge bore a last name that wasn’t quite hers. A single misplaced letter. One letter. Off by a keystroke, on the opposite side of the keyboard.
It wasn’t catastrophic— her credentials still got her through security doors and into classified systems— but every time she clipped the badge to her blazer, the sight of that small mistake needled her pride. She cringed at it silently. She thought of correcting it more than once, even drafted a mental script of what she might say to Human Resources. But three months had passed, and still she wore the misspelled badge. She had more important things to worry about than the inconvenience of an “i” where there should have been an “e.”
Her transition into the Behavioral Analysis Unit had been otherwise smooth, almost startlingly so. Her desk had taken on her touch quickly: neatly stacked folders, a fountain pen she favored, and the occasional empty coffee cup tucked to one side. The team had welcomed her with varying degrees of warmth, but none more noticeably than Derek Morgan.
Not that his interest surprised her. Derek was predictable in that way. Charming, warm, quick with a grin and quicker still with his teasing remarks. His reputation for flirting with new arrivals preceded him, though his version of flirting always had an undertone of kindness, never cruelty. For Evie, it was more flattering than anything else— the way his gaze would linger across the briefing table, the casual invitations to grab coffee, the light prodding into what she did with her free time. She’d learned to sidestep neatly, to parry his curiosity with an amused smile, offering just enough to be friendly while keeping the rest carefully tucked away.
And so, when the subject of names came up, she wasn’t surprised he was the one to bring it to the table.
It was mid-morning in the bullpen and the team was scattered, immersed in files and reports at their respective cubicles. Evie sat at her desk, studying a grainy surveillance photograph, her concentration sharp enough that she didn’t notice Derek until his shadow stretched across her paperwork.
“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask,” Derek began, leaning an elbow on her desk, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Are you sure you and the Doc over there aren’t long-lost siblings? You’ve even got the same last name, just spelled different.” His brows arched as though he’d uncovered a great conspiracy. “C’mon, there’s no family connection? Not even a distant cousin situation?”
The comment pulled JJ’s attention immediately. From her desk, she glanced up, her blue eyes alight with curiosity. She leaned forward, clearly intrigued. “He’s got a point,” she said, her lips curving into a teasing smile as she looked between Evie and Spencer. “You two even… I don’t know, you kind of act alike sometimes. Same little frowns. Same way of trailing off when you’re mid-thought. Maybe there’s something there.”
Evie’s lips curved in a faint smirk. She tilted her head just slightly, feigning consideration before answering. “Is that so?” she murmured, her eyes sliding toward Spencer.
The young doctor had just looked up from his paperwork, blinking as if pulled out of another world entirely. His gaze darted between them, his mind already working double-time.
“Statistically speaking,” he began, “there’s a very low probability of us being related. Surnames evolve independently in different regions, and spelling variations like Reed and Reid are extremely common. Particularly in Anglo-Saxon naming traditions.” His cadence quickened as his thoughts aligned. “For example, the surname Reed often denoted someone with red hair or a ruddy complexion, while Reid likely came from the Old English word hreod, meaning reed plant. So, in all likelihood, the similarity is coincidental.”
Derek chuckled, shaking his head as he straightened up from her desk. “Kid, it was a joke. You don’t gotta pull out the etymology lesson every time.” He glanced between Spencer and Evie again, smirking. “Still funny, though. Just a couple letters off, and hey, maybe you two were trading toys back in preschool.”
JJ laughed, leaning back in her chair, her eyes still sparkling. She nudged Evie lightly. “I don’t know, Spence. You’ve got to admit, it would explain a few things.”
Evie’s brow arched, her expression poised, her tone even. “I’m confident Dr. Reid and I don’t share any branches of the family tree,” she said smoothly. “But great minds do think alike.”
This hadn’t been the first time Derek had made an attempt with Evie. Within her first month of working in the BAU, he had made it something of a ritual to stop by her desk whenever he passed through the bullpen. Sometimes it was blatant— leaning casually against her desk, flashing her that grin he wore like second nature. Other times, it was subtler, a quick remark dropped as he moved past, the kind of thing easy to brush off as banter but intentional enough to let her know he was paying attention. Derek Morgan wasn’t known for subtlety when it came to charm, but he was persistent, and he had the patience to chip away at walls without looking like he was trying too hard.
That particular afternoon had been no exception.
June 8th, 2005
Evie sat at her desk with her waterfall ponytail clipped back in a claw clip, though a few strands had slipped free to frame her face as she worked through her latest case reports.
It was exactly the kind of moment Derek liked to interrupt.
“Hey, Evie,” his smooth voice came, accompanied by the shadow he cast across her desk as he leaned against it, one hand braced casually on the edge. His grin was easy, practiced but not insincere. “You free later tonight?”
Evie didn’t look up right away. She finished her sentence, underlining something with a neat stroke before finally lifting her eyes to him. “Uh… no, actually.” She blinked once, then delivered the rest of her answer with straight-faced sincerity. “My cat tore her ACL this weekend.”
Derek’s eyebrows lifted, his head tilting in surprise. “Hold up. Cats can do that?” His lips quirked, and the skepticism in his tone was colored with amusement. “I thought they were more… limber than that.”
Evie huffed out a short laugh, shaking her head as she pushed a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “Yeah, I thought so too. But apparently my old lady’s too old to be launching herself onto the fridge anymore.”
Derek let out a low whistle, grinning. “Man… rough luck.” He straightened slightly, hands sliding into his pockets as his grin shifted back into that playful tilt. “So what, you need some company while you’re nursing her back to health? Somebody to keep you entertained?”
Evie paused her pen mid-stroke, her gaze flicking up to him with a look that was unreadable at first— half considering, half cutting. Before she could answer, a loud clatter interrupted from across the aisle.
Spencer, hunched at his desk, had just knocked over his stapler. It tumbled once, then clattered to the floor, startlingly loud in the otherwise quiet bullpen. He bent immediately to retrieve it, muttering something under his breath as his long fingers scrambled to collect it. His cheeks had flushed pink, but he kept his head down to not make a further scene.
Both Evie and Derek turned their heads toward the noise. Evie’s gaze lingered a moment longer than Derek’s, her lips twitching almost imperceptibly before she smoothed them back into a neutral expression.
“Sorry, Disney doesn’t do well with strangers.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward Spencer— just for a fraction of a second— she added, almost lazily, “And men. Disney hates men.”
For a heartbeat, Derek just stared at her, then broke into a laugh, shaking his head as he raised his hands in mock defeat. He recognized a closed door when he saw one. “Alright, alright,” he said, still amused, his grin easy. “You have fun with your man-hating old lady, then.” He pushed off her desk with a small chuckle and started toward the hallway with the same easy confidence he’d walked in with.
August 19th, 2005
“Reed.”
Hotch’s voice, firm but even, carried from the open doorway of his office above.
Evie’s head shot up instantly, just as Spencer’s did from across the aisle. The two of them froze for a beat, mirroring one another in their startled reaction: wide-eyed, alert, as though waiting for clarification. Even the slight tilt of their heads was eerily similar.
For a fraction of a second, Hotch’s brow flicked upward. His gaze moved from Spencer, sitting hunched behind his files, to Evie, still mid-motion with her fingers on the keyboard. There was no verbal acknowledgment, just the barest trace of recognition crossing his face as if the unison movement had caught him off guard. But he said nothing of it.
Instead, Hotch gave a subtle tilt of his chin toward Evie and gestured with two fingers, wordlessly summoning her upstairs.
Behind her, Derek let out a low chuckle. “Uh-oh,” he added under his breath, loud enough for half the bullpen to hear, “guess Hotch finally noticed your report’s late.”
The corners of JJ’s mouth twitched, but she stayed focused on her paperwork.
Evie shot Derek a narrowed look over her shoulder. “Shut up,” her expression said as clearly as words would have. She pushed her chair back and stood, smoothing down her blazer as if the simple act might steel her against the amused eyes tracking her ascent.
The bullpen’s low din carried on behind her as she climbed the metal stairs, her heels clicking quietly against the steps. When she reached the threshold of Hotch’s office, she paused, catching his eye. Her hand hovered on the frame, her brows knitting slightly in silent question.
Hotch, without lifting his gaze from the paper he was reviewing, gave the slightest shake of his head before looking up at her fully. His voice was calm, pragmatic. “You’re not in trouble.”
Relief softened her shoulders, though she gave him a small, sheepish nod, stepping inside. She closed the door most of the way out of instinct, leaving it cracked so that the hum of the bullpen still threaded faintly into the room.
Crossing to his desk, she folded her hands lightly in front of her, expectant.
“There was an issue on HR’s end,” Hotch said, sliding one of the manila folders closer to him, his tone measured. “They noticed a discrepancy in your transcript.”
Evie’s eyes widened, her posture stiffening. “What do you mean?” she asked quickly. Her voice edged toward panic, the calm façade slipping. “Which one?” Her pulse ticked faster.
Hotch looked up, steady. “Your transcript from Georgetown didn’t get processed fully into the system. They need another copy. That’s all.”
“Oh.” The sound left her in a rush, almost deflated. She blinked, fumbling to collect herself. “Yes, I can. I mean, I’ll provide another copy.” She hesitated, her mind already sprinting through worst-case scenarios, words spilling faster than she intended. “Is this urgent? Do I need to contact them right now and request it? Am I going to be—” She cut herself off, but not before the word slipped out, almost incredulous— “suspended until it—?”
Hotch’s expression didn’t change, though a hint of patience edged his features. “No,” he said evenly, cutting through her spiral with quiet authority. “It’s not urgent. You’re still qualified. This is a paperwork matter, nothing more. Get it taken care of when you have the chance.”
The line of tension in her shoulders eased. Slowly, Evie exhaled, nodding once. “Right. Okay.” A small, sheepish smile tugged at her lips, her earlier panic already beginning to embarrass her.
Hotch gave the smallest nod in return, already shifting his attention back to the folder on his desk. He trusted she’d handle it. That was all there was to it.
When Evie returned to her desk, Derek was already waiting for her with that familiar half-grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back lazily in his chair, arms folded across his chest like a man who had been anticipating the moment.
“Well, well,” he drawled, his voice pitched just loud enough for JJ to glance over from her desk. “Back so soon?”
Evie set her pen down, fixing Derek with a look. “Relax, Morgan. I wasn’t in trouble,” she said, her tone crisp but light. She tugged her chair closer to her desk and tapped the edge of her keyboard with one finger. “HR messed up my onboarding. I’ve got to call Georgetown and get them another copy of my transcript. That’s all.”
Derek leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. “Uh-huh. Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
“Some secret,” Evie muttered under her breath, though her lips twitched with a reluctant smile as she shook her head. She turned back toward her monitor, a sharp but playful dismissal. She had already pulled up her email inbox, readying herself to draft a note to the registrar’s office.
Across the aisle, Spencer hadn’t looked up once during the exchange. At least, not obviously, but he’d been listening— he always listened. When Evie glanced up from her own computer, her eyes caught his. For the briefest moment, the noise of the bullpen seemed to dim. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t need to. Her lips curved into the faintest smile before she dropped her gaze back to her screen.
A minute later, Spencer pushed his chair back with a muted scrape against the floor. Without fanfare, without comment, he rose from his desk and slipped a pen into his shirt pocket as though it were an afterthought. His posture was casual, his expression unreadable.
“I’ll be back,” he murmured to no one in particular, already angling toward the breakroom.
Derek glanced up, one eyebrow arched, but didn’t press. Evie, for her part, kept her eyes on her screen as Spencer passed. But the corner of her mouth ticked up as she watched him go, the movement masked easily by the angle of her head.
By the time he disappeared into the breakroom, she had returned her attention fully to her desk, giving no outward indication of thought or concern. She simply deleted the email draft.
September 22nd, 2005
First impressions mattered. In Evie’s experience, they were often decisive— especially when meeting someone whose reputation had already preceded him.
Jason Gideon wasn’t just another senior agent. Within the FBI, he was something of a legend. Even in his absence, the hallways of Quantico still whispered his name. His cases were etched into textbooks; his victories were tacked on walls in black-and-white photographs that spoke to his sharp instincts and relentless pursuit of justice.
So when Hotch told her that they would be attempting to recruit Gideon back from leave, Evie’s stomach tightened in quiet nerves.
The older man was easy to recognize even before they entered his office. He looked exactly as he did in those photographs scattered along the BAU corridors as he bent over his desk: slightly stooped posture, hair peppered with gray, eyes keen and restless.
“You’re gonna be with us in Seattle ASAP,” Hotch announced, his tone clipped and steady as always. His presence filled the room first.
Evie followed closely behind, her steps purposeful but careful, positioning herself instinctively a half-step behind Hotch, ahead of Derek, before coming to settle beside Spencer. She clasped her hands loosely in front of her torso, adopting a posture of polite reserve, though her pulse beat faster when Gideon’s gaze found her.
Gideon peered up, his expression difficult to read. His eyes narrowed fractionally as they passed over Hotch and Derek before landing on her with a kind of scrutiny Evie hadn’t encountered before— like he was taking in every detail and filing it away, searching for what was beneath the surface.
Derek broke the silence by laying down a photograph on Gideon’s desk. The image of Heather Woodland stared back at them— another victim, another time-sensitive case. Beside it, he slid a printout of the unsub’s taunting virus message.
“For heaven’s sake, catch me before I kill more,” Gideon read aloud, his voice low, deliberate. “I cannot control myself.”
His focus shifted briefly to a framed photograph pinned to his wall— a crime scene from the Lipstick Killer case. Evie followed his gaze and wondered fleetingly if their unsub had chosen his words as a mimicry of other infamous killers. Copycats were rarely original, only desperate for recognition.
Hotch’s voice broke through her thoughts. “He never keeps them for more than seven days. Which means we have fewer than thirty-six hours to find her.”
Spencer leaned against a bookshelf, his posture loose but his mind clearly alert, eyes darting between Derek, Hotch, and Gideon as the conversation unfolded. Evie stayed at his side, leaving respectful space between them, her fingers absentmindedly adjusting the cuff of her black Ralph Lauren sweater. The baby-pink emblem stitched on her chest stood out against the dark fabric. She’d debated layering it over a white button-down but had ultimately decided against it due to Spencer's similar styling choices. The BAU already had enough chatter about their supposedly “sibling-like” similarities. No sense in fueling it further.
“They want you back in the saddle,” Derek said, testing the waters, his voice carrying its usual blend of warmth and challenge. “You ready?”
There was a pause, heavy but expectant, before Spencer spoke quietly from Evie’s right. “Looks like medical leave’s over, boss.”
Evie tilted her head slightly at that phrasing. Medical leave. She hadn’t realized that mental breakdowns could be categorized so clinically. If that were the case, she would have qualified twice over during her undergraduate years.
Gideon’s gaze cut to Hotch. “They sure they want me?”
Hotch’s nod was decisive. “The order came from the Director.”
That settled it. Gideon’s shoulders squared. “Well, we’d better get started.”
The shift in him was subtle but palpable. The air in the room seemed to settle, the inevitable conclusion reached. Evie felt the moment was right— Gideon’s eyes had already flickered to her again, searching as though trying to place her face in memory.
“Agent Gideon,” she said, her tone respectful yet steady. She extended her hand. “It’s a pleasure to work with you. I’m Agent Evie Reed.”
His handshake was firm, practiced, his eyes still scanning hers with that unnerving precision. “Reed, huh?” he echoed, a faint gleam of curiosity sparking. “Any chance you and Dr. Reid are related?”
The silence that followed carried the weight of unspoken amusement.
Naturally, Derek couldn’t resist. “See? I said the exact same thing when she joined.” He shot Evie a grin, delighted to resurrect the running joke.
Spencer, mid-turn of a photograph, paused and looked up. His brow furrowed slightly, the wheels already turning. “Well,” he began, tone precise, “biologically speaking, the likelihood of us being related is negligible. Our families have never lived within a five-hundred-mile radius of one another. And genetically, if we were siblings or even distant cousins, there would be a greater than sixty-five percent probability of us sharing similar eye color. My family all has brown eyes, whereas Agent Reed’s are blue.”
For a beat, Gideon just watched him, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been the ghost of a smile. “Fair enough, Dr. Reid,” he said at last. “Seems you’ve given this some thought.”
Evie let her lips curve slightly, a glimmer of humor softening her calm exterior. “I can assure you, Agent Gideon, any resemblance is purely coincidental,” she replied lightly. “Even if we were related, I doubt I’d have inherited any of his intelligence. That’s a pure genetic mutation.”
Derek gave a low chuckle, shaking his head, while Spencer ducked back into the photos with his usual intensity, though his ears betrayed a faint pink flush.
Gideon, however, continued to watch Evie for a lingering moment longer. His gaze was penetrating, thoughtful, the look of a man who never asked a question lightly. She held it without flinching, accustomed to scrutiny, though she could feel him assessing more than just her words— her poise, her conviction, the way she fit into the fabric of the team.
Finally, he nodded. A silent acceptance.
At the jet, practicality and style collided in the most inconvenient way.
Evie had packed carefully, fitting her three changes of clothes and toiletries into her Louis Vuitton Damier suitcase. The bag was her indulgence, one her husband didn’t understand— “Why bring something so expensive when it’ll just get ruined?” he had said more than once. But Evie believed in traveling with style as much as efficiency. The wheels made it effortless… most of the time.
That is, until one of those wheels snagged awkwardly on the narrow steps of the jet.
Her suitcase jolted to a halt. Spencer, climbing just ahead of her, paused at the sound. He turned slightly, his profile catching the faint glow of the runway lights, and without hesitation, he extended a hand. Evie handed the suitcase over without fuss, and his long fingers closed easily over the handle. He hefted the weight with ease, and she slipped past him into the jet’s interior without drawing attention.
On the jet, Evie sat beside Spencer as he had his head bowed over the file in his hands as he began to read aloud.
“His first victim,” Spencer began, “was twenty-six-year-old Melissa Kirsh. Stab wounds, strangulation.”
Derek leaned forward slightly from his standing position against the back of a seat, eyebrows raised. “Wait, wait. Back up. He stabbed her… and then strangled her to finish her off?”
Gideon’s voice cut in before Spencer could answer. He had stopped mid-pace in the aisle, one hand resting lightly against the back of a seat next to Derek. “Other way around,” he said simply. “Why do you think he started using the belt with the second murder?”
Evie tilted her head and leaned in closer to Spencer, shoulder brushing against his as she angled herself toward the open file. Spencer, without looking at her directly, shifted the file closer to her side, opening it just a fraction wider so she could see. His eyes, however, stayed trained on Derek, Gideon, and Hotch as he explained.
“Strangulation with your bare hands,” Spencer began, “is not as easy as one would believe. He probably tried—” his gaze flicked momentarily to Gideon in agreement— “and realized it took too long.”
Hotch added to that, “And realized it would be hours cleaning up the blood.”
Evie’s eyes flickered up from the page to Hotch, nodding faintly. She made another face— small, silent, a grim tightening of her features— before glancing sideways at Spencer again. Their eyes met briefly, and without intending it, their expressions mirrored one another as if it had been rehearsed, although it hadn't.
“Next time,” Derek said, sitting back in his seat, a note of finality in his tone, “our boy’s got a method.”
“The belt,” Gideon added.
Evie exhaled softly, her gaze dropping back to the file. “He’s experimenting,” she murmured.
Gideon stopped again, turning his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he considered her. “Or he’s learning,” he countered. His hand tapped idly against the leather seatback. “Perfecting his scenario. Becoming a better killer.”
The attic of the Slessman house groaned under the weight of years. Its air was thick, stale with dust, and carried the faint tang of mildew clinging to old wood. Boxes were stacked haphazardly in corners, some sagging with age, others split open to spill their forgotten contents: a child’s broken rocking horse, a stack of yellowed newspapers tied with twine, lamps with missing shades, ceramic figurines chipped at the edges. Cobwebs draped the beams like abandoned curtains.
Evie moved carefully, her heels muffled against the warped floorboards, her eyes scanning every shadow. Spencer walked a pace ahead of her, long limbs folded slightly inward, his attention darting from one pile of clutter to the next with sharp calculation while Elle sifted through boxes near the stairwell.
Evie didn’t know Elle well. Their exchanges so far had been brief, polite, and without much color. Derek, on the other hand, seemed more than familiar with her— too familiar, if Evie had to guess. It didn’t surprise her. Derek’s contact list of women could rival a phone book. If Evie had been ten years younger and inclined toward something fleeting, she might have been drawn into that easy charisma. But her tastes were steadier, rooted. She had no need for a man who required a leash or constant vigilance. Her husband knew his place in her life without the weight of control.
Still, Elle… Evie wasn’t sure what to make of her yet. Not dislike, not admiration— just a blank space waiting to be filled with time.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Derek’s voice calling from downstairs, carrying easily up through the rafters: “Next time, show a little leg!”
Evie’s lips twitched. Which was exactly why she always wore pants.
The attic pressed in close with its heavy air. She brushed a sleeve over her mouth, stifling the urge to cough as Spencer crouched beside a small table set against the far wall. A board game was laid out, stones scattered across its squares. He studied it, fingers hovering just above the pieces without touching.
“In China, it’s called Wei-Chi,” he said. “Here we call it Go. It’s considered the most difficult board game ever conceived.”
Evie leaned against a nearby beam, eyes flicking to the black and white stones. “Funny,” she muttered under her breath, “I always thought the hardest game was Monopoly.”
Spencer looked up, his lips quirking in the faintest twitch before he returned his focus to the board.
“Chairman Mao required his generals to learn it,” Gideon added from across the attic, his voice carrying the weight of memory.
Elle stepped closer, curiosity drawing her to the table. Spencer’s brow furrowed, his head tilting slightly as he studied the stones. Almost in perfect time, Evie’s brows pinched as well, her head angling at the same degree.
Gideon watched the two, noting the mirrored gestures, the mirrored thought, two minds bending toward the same riddle. His eyes lingered on them a second longer, filing it away, though he chose not to comment.
“It looks like he’s playing himself,” Spencer murmured.
“How can you tell?” Elle asked, leaning in further.
Evie reached down and spun the board, the game swiveling neatly on its pedestal to reveal the opposite side.
“This might actually give us an advantage,” Spencer continued, eyes narrowing as new patterns emerged. “Go is a psychologically revealing game. Every player has a profile: the conservative point counter, the aggressor, the finesser.”
Hotch’s voice sounded from across the room, steady and precise. “What kind of player is Slessman?”
Spencer bent lower, his eyes darting over the patterns of stones, his mind racing through the possibilities. “Extreme aggressor,” he concluded.
The investigation pressed forward. Evie sifted through records stacked on a warped shelf, their covers worn, while Spencer gravitated naturally to her side, scanning the spines as though patterns might leap from the titles themselves.
From his vantage, Gideon caught it. With a small, subtle gesture, he directed Hotch’s attention toward the pair. Hotch’s dark eyes followed, the faintest twitch of his mouth acknowledging what Gideon had already noticed.
“Reid,” Gideon called suddenly.
The effect was instantaneous. Both Spencer and Evie turned over their shoulders at the exact same moment, heads angled with the same tilt, expressions carrying identical shades of mild curiosity and alertness.
“Dr. Reid,” Gideon clarified, motioning him over. “I want you to take a look at something.”
Spencer straightened immediately, crossing the attic with his careful stride, already reaching for whatever detail Gideon had uncovered.
Evie’s gaze lingered a fraction longer before she turned back to her work, joining Derek near Slessman’s laptop. He was bent over the machine, a frown carved into his features as he rifled through files and CDs.
“You and Reid are like two peas in a pod today,” Derek remarked, looking up at her with a teasing grin. “What’s the deal? You two sharing brain cells now or what?”
Evie chuckled softly, shaking her head. “We’re the same age and spend a lot of time in the same room. Guess we’ve just picked up on each other’s habits.”
Derek’s grin widened, but his eyes returned to the laptop screen. “Well, let’s hope it helps us. Maybe some of his IQ points rubbed off on you.”
Evie leaned in, shoulder brushing the edge of his as she studied the scrolling text. “Don’t hold your breath on that one.”
“I’ve never seen this many CDs before,” Evie remarked, half to herself, half to Spencer. Sprawled out on her stomach, she looked more like a teenager in her bedroom than an FBI agent at a crime scene. Her legs bent at the knees, heels swaying lazily back and forth as she scanned the covers.
The collection seemed endless, stretching across the floor in a sprawling mess of cracked jewel cases and dog-eared inserts. Her fingertips brushed over the glossy covers, faces of long-haired rockers staring up at her from beneath smudged plastic.
“Insane Clown Posse. Slipknot. Metallica,” she listed off, each name sounding more dramatic than the last. She paused, eyebrows knitting as she held up a cover. “Honestly, I’m surprised he doesn’t have any Nickelback in here.”
Spencer didn’t even glance up. His entire focus was fixed on the CD case in his hand, fingers turning it over and over in a restless rhythm, eyes unblinking and distant. He had that look again.
Evie knew that look well. She kept talking anyway.
“Honestly,” she murmured as her finger traced the cracked edge of a Slipknot case, “I end up listening to the same two albums on repeat when I drive to headquarters. I’ve been obsessed with Imogen Heap’s new one. I think I left the case in the backseat of my car, or maybe it’s sitting at home somewhere. All lonely and empty…”
“What was that?”
Evie startled, blinking at Spencer in slight shock. His tone wasn’t sharp, but curious, almost puzzled, as though he’d only caught the tail end of what she’d said and needed the missing piece.
She shifted onto her elbows, propping herself up and craning her neck to look up at him. “The case is empty,” she repeated slowly.
In one fluid movement, Spencer unfolded his long limbs and rose from the bed, the mattress springs groaning in protest as he walked toward her. His hands slipped into his pockets, shoulders angled ever so slightly, his mind clearly already racing several steps ahead.
Evie, still on the floor, tilted her head back to look up at him. She shifted into a seated position, crossing her legs as her gaze lingered on him.
“Do you have a bobby pin?” Spencer asked abruptly.
It took her a beat to process the request. “Well, yes,” Evie said, tugging her purse closer. She dug through the clutter until her fingers closed around the small, familiar shape. “I’ve got a spare in here somewhere.”
A moment later, she produced the pin and held it up triumphantly between her fingers. Spencer plucked it from her hand with a small nod, already twirling the thin piece of metal between his long fingers as if running silent calculations on its potential. Without another word, he turned and strode toward the stairs, his gait quick, assured.
Evie lingered for half a breath longer, watching the back of him disappear, before rising to her feet and trailing after. Her hand brushed the banister as they ascended the carpeted steps, their footsteps softened by the old fabric.
Spencer wasted no time when they reached the top of the attic. “We’ve been thinking about the CDs,” he said, announcing their presence.
Derek groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, come on, Reid. We tried the CDs. We tore through every one of this guy’s head-banging collection.”
Evie lowered herself cross-legged onto the floor beside Spencer. “He did have one Gorillaz disc,” she offered lightly. “Not exactly heavy. Not exactly metal. But… something.”
Derek shot her a weary look. “We need more than something, Reed. We need answers, or that girl is dead.” His voice was tight, laced with frustration.
Evie only hummed in quiet acknowledgment, but her gaze stayed fixed on Spencer, who was crouched before the laptop, the bobby pin glinting faintly between his fingers.
A quiet click broke the tension as Spencer pulled the disc drive open to reveal a CD nestled inside. Derek’s eyes widened as his focus landed on the cover— Metallica: Some Kind of Monster. His jaw tightened as the pieces began to fall into place.
“Reid,” Derek asked, his voice low, incredulous. “What made you think of this?”
Spencer’s answer was simple. “It was the only empty case.” Beneath the table, his hand brushed against Evie’s briefly before dropping it back into his lap.
Derek’s gaze darted from the CD to Evie, suspicion flickering before he muttered aloud, “I’m an insomniac who listens to Metallica to help me sleep at night. What song could possibly speak to me?”
Evie’s brows knit together as she sifted through her thin memory of the band’s discography. “The Four Horsemen?” she tried. A pause. “Master of Puppets?”
Before Derek could dismiss her guesses, Spencer’s voice cut through: “Enter Sandman.”
Of course.
The computer gave a sharp beep of compliance as the lock screen dissolved into the desktop.
September 23rd, 2005
The morning air down by the docks had teeth. It gnawed at exposed skin, the kind of cold that clung to bone rather than simply brushing the surface. Evie drew her arms tight around her body, shoulders hunching as another gust rolled off the water. The thin cotton of her blouse offered little in the way of protection, and each breath she released bloomed in the air like pale smoke.
A few yards away, Gideon stepped back from Heather by the ambulance, his left arm swaddled in a fresh bandage. Spencer lingered at the edge of it all, his gaze following Gideon before sliding— almost unconsciously— back to Evie. He noticed the subtle inward curl of her posture, the way she seemed to fold against the cold, trying to disappear into herself. His brow knit, the smallest flicker of indecision shadowing his features as he glanced down at the FBI windbreaker draped across his own shoulders.
For a moment, his fingers hovered near the zipper. Finally, with a quiet resolve, Spencer slipped the jacket off and held it out, his movements hesitant but deliberate.
“Here,” he murmured. His eyes darted away from hers almost immediately. “You… you left yours at the precinct. So, um… I thought you might need it.”
Evie’s expression softened as she slid her arms into the sleeves, pulling the material tight around her shoulders, savoring the lingering heat trapped in the lining. “Thanks,” she said simply.
As they fell into step behind Hotch and Derek, Hotch leaned slightly toward his colleague, his voice pitched low. “Haley and I were looking at baby names the other night. Guess what Gideon means in Hebrew.”
Without missing a beat, Spencer supplied the answer, his tone absent but certain as he and Evie drew closer to the others. “Mighty warrior.” His eyes flickered briefly toward Gideon as if to confirm the fact before he added, almost under his breath, “Appropriate.” Evie tugged the zipper of his jacket up to her chin as they moved toward the SUVs.
Derek folded his arms and let a mischievous grin spread slowly across his face as he caught sight of them— Spencer in nothing but his striped sweater, Evie swallowed in his jacket. “Look at that,” he drawled, amusement thick in his tone. “Reid Squared is at it again.”
Spencer froze mid-step, color rising to his cheeks in a rush that painted him pink.
They boarded the jet hours later, the city lights shrinking into nothing beneath them. Hotch sat across from Gideon near the front, the others spread throughout the cabin.
“So,” Hotch began casually, though his gaze had already drifted toward the back, “what do you think of Reed?”
Gideon’s brow furrowed, his head tilting slightly as if clarifying. “Which one?”
Hotch allowed himself the faintest smile, one that ghosted across his face almost imperceptibly. “Evie.”
Leaning back, Gideon exhaled slowly, considering. “From what I’ve seen… she’s steady. Good instincts. Knows when to speak, knows when to listen. That’s harder to teach than anything in a file.”
Hotch nodded, but his eyes had slipped back toward the rear of the cabin. Spencer and Evie were seated side by side, both slumped in identical postures, heads tilted back against the headrests. Evie’s head had rolled slightly toward Spencer’s shoulder, and though his chin was dipped toward his chest, his hand rested lightly on the armrest beside hers, fingers curled in faint contact.
Hotch leaned back, folding his arms, his mouth curving ever so slightly. “They seem close.”
Gideon followed his gaze, eyes narrowing with curiosity. Then, with a faint glimmer of amusement, he added, “Twenty says she makes the first move.”
Hotch chuckled under his breath, the sound brief but genuine. “Fifty on him.”
Gideon arched a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “That’s a pretty high wager.”
Hotch’s eyes lingered a moment longer on Spencer. “I wouldn’t underestimate Reid.”