CHAPTER SEVEN
( i tried to be good )

☆ content warning ☆
details of past and present abuse,
blood & gore, internalized homophobia,
panic attacks, graphic violence

introducing
alisha boe as ANNA PARKER

SHE KNEW IT WAS BAD.

If the hour drive into the Virginia woods wasn't enough of an indication, the open valley crawling with uniformed officers and crime scene units was.

Natalie sat in the back seat beside Emily, staring at Hotch's neck through the hole in the headrest. Derek sat in the passenger seat, quietly providing directions throughout the trip.

Her stomach churned from the bumps in the gravel, the vehicle bouncing up and down over each divot on the dirt road. Trees towered over the clearing, caving in and almost creating a sort of canopy above them; through the thick bristles, she was able to make out a body of water in the distance.

Slowly, the air thinned as they pulled to a stop.

The other three agents exited the SUV, but Natalie remained, her cold fingers gripping the door handle yet refusing to pull.

It was bad.

Even if the newly discovered body had been minced to pieces, there wouldn't be this many people walking around the crime scene. Even if two bodies were found, it wouldn't amount to this volume of agents and officers and medical examiners and everyone in between. The thought of what would gave Natalie pause.

A part of her wished Spencer was here.

Another part, a bigger part, was glad he wasn't.

Natalie checked her watch, seeing that it was 5 p.m. on the dot. Any minute, Spencer, Rossi, and JJ would be interviewing Liam Marlowe back in Maine.

He was only an hour-and-a-half-long flight away, but with her here and him there, they'd never felt further apart. Perhaps, it was for the better. He would be safer, if kept at a distance; something she often had to force herself to remember.

There was a knock at the window, and Natalie jolted from the noise. She blinked, curious to how long she'd been sitting there, as stiff as a tree.

Emily opened the car door when the blonde refused to, a nearly imperceptible frown gracing her maroon-tinted lips.

"You'll freeze to death in there, ya know."

Natalie blinked again, and suddenly felt the chill of the below-freezing air. It came early, this year, with the summer not even over. "Oh, uh, yeah."

Her legs nearly crumpled beneath her as she hopped out of the SUV, and Emily had to grab her hand to steady her on the way down. A haha-Natalie's-short joke was coming, she sensed it, but the current situation made the older woman refrain from doing so.

"Alright?"

"Mhm."

They stepped beside each other at an even pace, despite Natalie's entire body feeling as though it would disintegrate at any moment. It was the altitude, surely.

As if she could feel a question on the tip of Emily's tongue, Natalie's pace quickened, dirt kicking up around her ankles as she mindlessly made her way towards Hotch in an attempt to escape.

"You can't do that."

"Do what?"

Behind her, she heard Emily sigh.

"The whole, I don't need anyone, I can handle my own problems, thing. Trust me, from experience, it's not gonna work."

Almost as rapidly as Natalie had been pacing, she stopped in her tracks, and Emily nearly ran into her back as she did so.

Crossing her arms over her chest, she let out a harsh breath, and it wasn't due to the cold. The other woman didn't let up, moving to stand in front of her and block the view of the police cars and agents. Natalie tried to ignore the shouting she heard from across the clearing, but found it increasingly difficult.

"I'm not faking my death anytime soon, if that's what you're worried about," she half-joked, aware of the fact that her actual death was imminent, if recieving a birthday card from a killer had anything to say about it.

Emily raised a brow at the jab, but continued with a stern, "Okay, that was the most I've heard you speak in the last 24 hours."

Natalie sighed. "I'm fine."

"You do realize I'm a profiler, right?"

"I'm fine—"

"Look," Emily spoke softly, too softly, as if Natalie would break at the slightest touch. "You're a private person, which I get. But whoever this guy is, he's after you. At some point, you're gonna need to talk to us."

"You're a profiler," Natalie mocked, and even she couldn't tell if she was still joking, "Figure it out."

The words left her mouth like a harsh bite of a violent animal, and she forced herself to walk away before the other woman saw the flash of repentance on her features.

She didn't mean to lash out. The urge was simply ingrained in her, taught from her father, like a greedy owner teaches a show-dog tricks.

Almost immediately, she regretted leaving the warmth of Emily's distraction.

Still unaware of what was actually happening, Natalie allowed herself to take in what was in front of her. A circle of flashing blue and red lights, ambulances, a small area filled with more agents than she'd ever seen at once. The ground caving in at the center of the clearing, but the cars blocking the view of whatever was causing it to do so.

Sometimes, Natalie felt herself leave her body.

When she was frightened, or more anxious than usual, or even after a bad case; sometimes, she would just... float away. The sight before her was enough to invoke that feeling, as hard as she tried to stop it.

With hazy vision, she gazed toward Hotch again, who stood far enough away that she couldn't hear the words he spoke. That, or the sound of water in her ears drowned him out. All she could do was stare; at him, at the officers, at Derek, at—

Oh.

Erin Strauss stared back at her.

It was bad.

Natalie froze in place when the Section Chief rapidly approached, walking as quickly as she could in her two-inch heels. Hotch followed closely behind her, wearing a scowl Natalie had only seen in the presence of the older woman.

"You shouldn't be here," were the first words out of Strauss' mouth, and as much as she hated to admit it, Natalie agreed. "You shouldn't be on this case at all, actually."

"Erin—"

Natalie watched Hotch for a moment, regarding the crease on his forehead which only appeared when he was stressed. It didn't provide any comfort to her, by any means.

"No, Agent Hotchner," Strauss cut him off, sending him a warning glance before turning back to Natalie. "I'm sorry, but this is much bigger than you, and I can't have you interfering in the investigation. We're dealing with a mass grave holding eighteen bodies, and—"

"What?"

Once again, the air grew thin, but the elevation could no longer be blamed. A wave of dizziness hit Natalie at once, and she stumbled back a few feet.

Eighteen bodies.

Eighteen bodies.

Without giving anyone a chance to speak, she moved towards the sinking valley—eighteen bodies—and past the wall of cop cars, staring down into her own personal nightmare.

Some of the corpses still had flesh hanging dry against the dirt, but most had decomposed down to nothing but bone.

Natalie wondered if it would hurt, when she was inevitably slaughtered and God was able to have His way with her. If it would sting, being torn apart and sent to waste away in the fiery pits of Hell.

She wondered if God would be there at all.

A hand touched her shoulder, and she quickly brushed it off as if it were a venomous snake sinking it's fangs into her skin. Beside her, Hotch cleared his throat, taking the rejection as if it hadn't happened at all.

On her other side, Strauss spoke again, this time with a note of sympathy in her otherwise severe tone.

"Agent Hotchner will drive you back to Quantico. Once we have all the information, we'll go from there."

With that, the woman left. When neither Hotch nor Natalie made a move to follow, Derek took her place shortly after. She knew it was inevitable, now, what Emily had said; she couldn't handle it. Not alone, and probably not with anyone's help, either.

Natalie needed them.

Natalie needed them, and she loathed it.

"Forensics thinks some of these graves may be up to ten years old," Derek informed them, breaking the tense silence, and she could feel her heart drop to her stomach as he did.

Hotch clenched his jaw, and nodded once. "Garcia needs to check missing persons cases going back at least ten years."

Derek pulled out his phone, speed dialing Penelope's number and leaving the two alone once again.

As they watched the Crime Scene Unit dig up the remaining skeletons, a uniformed officer came by, handing Hotch a sealed evidence bag with a curt nod. Without a word, he passed it to Natalie, who accepted it with hesitant, shaking fingers.

Turning it over, she sucked in a breath.

Happy Birthday, Natalie Blair, the card said, the words scrawled in a messy, nearly-illegible cursive, Do You Like My Gift?

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Spencer hung up the phone with a rough press of a button, far harsher than he needed to be.

Rossi and JJ exchanged a look, entirely unsubtle, and he knew he needed to take in a breath to calm himself down. Emily filled them in over the speakerphone, and even through the small device, her wavering voice told them everything they needed to know.

Whatever was going on, it was bad.

No words were exchanged on the subject, as right as the call ended, the all too familiar beep of the door on the other side of the glass rang out.

Stepping in with his chin tucked down and his ankles and wrists chained together, Liam Marlowe was seen by the FBI for the first time in 20 years.

Spencer squinted, tilting his head.

"He looks..."

There was a word for it, he was sure, but with the majority of his mind being preoccupied with Natalie—and how Natalie was doing, and if Natalie was okay, and if he should call Natalie now or later—he couldn't put his finger on it.

Next to him, JJ moved closer to the one-sided mirror, finishing his sentence with a soft, "Sad."

Really, he did.

His eyes sunk in, surrounded by dark circles in such a deep shade of purple that they could be mistaken for black eyes. His hair was slicked back out of his face, but a few strands fell around the edges of his forehead and framed his high cheekbones.

(Admittedly, Spencer couldn't blame Natalie's mom for having an affair with the man; he wasn't unattractive, by any means.)

JJ made herself comfortable on the side of the glass she stood, not exactly eager to speak to a man who killed women that resembled herself. They'd mutually decided that she'd observe his behavior from behind a safety net, as to avoid any more of them getting involved in the mess.

Rossi wasted no time in entering the interrogation room, with Spencer hot on his heels.

The man sitting before them glanced up at the sound, his fingers loosening from their previous position in clenched fists. They watched him blink rapidly, as if to rid of any tears that were forming.

With narrowed eyes, Spencer subconsciously ran his tongue over his bottom lip.

It was an act. It had to be.

"Mr. Marlowe," Rossi broke the silence, resting a hand on the chair closest to him, "I'm SSA David Rossi, and this is Dr. Spencer Reid."

"Just, uh, call me Liam, Agent."

Spencer looked carefully for microexpressions. When Rossi sat down, he remained leaning against the far wall; it was odd, this faux-self-effacing act, especially for a psychopath with no remorse. The only explanation was that he was trying to play them.

Rossi raised an eyebrow at the man's behavior, too, as he slid open one of the several files on the desk.

"Here's the thing, Liam," he spoke mildly, as if they were just having a conversation about the weather, "I couldn't help but notice that you don't seem all that confused as to why the FBI is here."

Noncommittally, Liam shrugged.

"I know what day it is."

Natalie's birthday.

Spencer tried not to flinch.

Pushing off from the wall, he moved briskly towards the open chair, pushing himself down and allowing the metal to scrape across the floor when he scooted in. Liam jumped, ever so slightly, but Spencer didn't allow his gaze to waver.

The other men paused, expecting him to say something, but all he did was stare at the person who ruined the life of the woman he l—Natalie.

Rossi cleared his throat. "Do you, now?"

Liam's gaze remained on Spencer for an elongated second, before moving back to the man who spoke. "Look, I'm not interested in being interviewed for whatever book you're writing, and sure as hell not on the 20th anniversary of—you know what—alright?"

Spencer found it difficult to control the way his expression contorted into that of confusion, as did Rossi, who didn't even seem to try.

"Well, that's not why we're here."

Liam shifted in his chair—a nervous tick he hadn't exhibited before—when he replied, "What—what do you mean?"

The purple around his eyes seemed to darken as his pupils dilated, both things that were subconscious, things that were impossible to control; things which not even the most psychotic killers out there could do on command, let alone a narcissistic cop from rural Maine.

Spencer leaned forward in his chair, speaking to the man for the first time since he'd entered the room. "Two women have been murdered, and their crime scenes have you all over them."

"I haven't exactly been granted parol," Liam joked, gesturing to the chains on his body despite the obvious tremor in his voice.

Before his sentence was finished, Rossi quickly removed the crime scene photos from the first murder, placing them across the table only inches from the man's restrained hands.

"That's why we're here," Rossi barked out, a flat hand lightly slamming against the table, and Liam jumped for a second time.

Spencer found himself diverting his gaze away from the photos; the victim looked too similar to Natalie to bear.

Liam did the same, and the room went quiet.

"I—It wasn't me, I swear—"

"Yeah, but the thing is, Liam," Spencer said with a low tone, "You may not have done this, but whoever did knows things that only you could have told him. So, I'm going to give you one chance to tell the truth—"

"I didn't—I don't know," the man emphasized, actively avoiding sparing a glance at the pictures in front of him. "But I'm not gonna let you federal pieces of shit pin this on me, too."

Rossi and Spencer shared a look.

"What do you mean?"

Liam clenched his jaw, and a harsh puff of air escaped his nose as he did. Spencer watched him even more carefully than before.

"Don't act like you don't know."

Leaning back in his chair, Rossi inclined his head. "By all means, feel free to enlighten us."

The man sniffed, looking Spencer in the eye.

"I didn't hurt anybody, ever. Those women... all I ever wanted was to help them. I took them into the station, gave 'em food, set them up with therapists. Why in God's name would I do all that, just to turn around and commit serial murder?"

"They found the mask in your car—"

"Which anyone could've put there—"

"We have an eyewitness—"

"Oh, Natalie, you mean?"

With yet another loud scrape of metal, Spencer pushed his chair back, getting to his feet and leaning over the table, his palms flat on the metal.

Don't talk about Natalie, was what he wanted to say; instead, he went with a wildly restrained, "Yes."

A flash of anger appeared in Liam's eyes, behind the steadily building tears of frustration which Spencer had only just begun to notice. The man grabbed the side of the table, as if to steady himself, to prevent from lashing out further.

When he finally spoke, he said every word with finality, as if they were each their own decisive sentence—

"I was trying to save her."

Spencer stood at his full height.

There it was.

"Like how you saved Elaine?"

Five words was all it took for Liam to use all of his remaining strength to get onto his feet, pushing away from the table with his chair flying backwards into the wall.

"Don't you dare say her fucking name."

The two men glared daggers at each other, and Spencer knew he shouldn't have been getting so worked up. It was hardly professional, and angering the man they were trying to get answers out of what objectively stupid, but he quickly found that there was no rhyme or reason for how he behaved when 20 people were dead and Natalie's life was at stake.

Between them, Rossi briefly pursed his lips.

"Liam," he said quietly, sitting with his ankles crossed as if nothing had happened, "Take a seat."

After a moment's hesitation, the man did. While he turned to pull his chair back up, Rossi turned to Spencer, nodding for him to do the same. It seemed like a suggestion, only he knew it wasn't.

They each followed the older man's orders, albeit reluctantly. The room went silent, for quite a long while, until Liam spoke again; this time, with an air of caution.

"I loved her."

Spencer was too afraid to say anything, fearing that he'd get fired for whatever came out of his mouth, and so he didn't.

Rossi leaned forwards once again, taking the reigns back in an attempt to control the conversation. "Now, forgive my curiosity, but I don't think people tend to rape and murder those whom they love."

All at once, the fight drained from Liam's eyes.

Spencer watched it happen, so sudden at the mention of Elaine's assault and death, once again something that could never truly be faked.

"I've been saying this for twenty years, Agent," Liam grit out through clenched teeth, tears springing in his eyes and falling down his cheeks before he could stop them, "I didn't do it, and I keep telling everyone, I didn't do it, and nobody fucking believes me."

Startled, Spencer cleared his throat.

"In the original report, Natalie said—" he paused, collecting himself as he pulled out the file from beneath the extra photos, reading the words aloud despite knowing them by heart, "A man in a mask pushed me down. I couldn't breathe. He—"

His voice cracked, and he swallowed.

Next to him, Rossi watched closely for a few seconds, before removing the then-eight-year-old Natalie's statement from his hands, the statement Hotch had written down all those years ago. With a deep breath, the older man continued to read.

"He took off the mask, and when I tried to get out of the water, I saw that it was the man who helped me and my mommy with our bruises sometimes. I tried to make him stop, but then I swallowed more water, and I fell asleep."

Rossi set the paper face-down, taking in a shaky breath before sticking it back into the file.

Spencer felt his heart break in two.

The fact that he'd gone so long without knowing, without asking, tore at his insides. The fact that Natalie watched the one person who was good to her die, that she was left with nothing more than an abusive father and a fear of the water.

And now, this.

He should've gone home with her.

Spencer was snapped out of his thoughts by the rattling of Liam's chains as the man wiped his own tears.

"I was trying to save her."

Rossi almost rolled his eyes. "That's not exactly what I would call it—"

"No," Liam emphasized, a bite to his tone that wasn't there before, "I was trying to save her life."

The man shifted, his eyes bouncing between the two but focusing on Spencer the longest; though, he still had trouble finding his words, and so Rossi continued his questioning with an inquisitive, "Go on."

Liam sighed, but there was a hint of gratefulness in his eyes, like being allowed to explain himself was God's greatest gift.

"Elaine called me one night. She and James had gotten into some big fight. The usual, you know. He gave her a few good punches and took off to his car shop. She didn't say what about, only she needed someone, you know? And I was still workin', so I got into my squad car, and drove over."

"And then?"

He sniffed, shaking his head. "When I got there, I heard screaming. So I went around back—the Blairs had this tiny house, but a big property—and it was coming from the lake a few acres away, and then—you know."

Spencer bit his lip, once again studying the man before him. The whole thing sounded so convoluted, but not so much to be a lie.

But it had to be.

"How does that have anything to do with Natalie?" Spencer found himself asking, his voice cracking once again when he said her name. "She said you were pushing her down."

"No, listen... someone was drowning her, but I came up from behind him and pulled the guy away. He ran off, and I... I was trying to save her, I was, but she was so far under, and he was getting away, I couldn't..."

Spencer felt his stomach turn. "You gave up?"

Liam wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and reluctantly, he nodded.

"I went after that sick freak instead. But then all of a sudden, Agent Hotchner was tackling me to the ground and asking where they were. I assumed he meant the girls, so, I told him, blinked, and then I was in goddamn handcuffs."

Rossi tilted his head. "And the mask?"

"I don't know," Liam replied with newfound enthusiasm, most likely at the fact that people were actually listening. "But I didn't do it, I swear on God's name, I did not do it. And I sure as hell didn't do these new ones, either."

Again, Spencer and Rossi shared a look.

They got to their feet only moments later.

On their way out the door, after Rossi had already left and Spencer nearly had it shut, he found himself pausing.

He turned around, and found that Liam was already looking back at him, a wounded glint in his eye.

"You said she was too far under to be saved."

He nodded, although Spencer caught the wave of confusion pass over him at the question. "I did."

"But Natalie said she saw you. If it was dark, and she wasn't near the surface, that would be impossible. There's no way she'd be able to make out your face through all of that, let alone be fully conscious and able to discern her surroundings."

Liam shrugged, and Spencer squinted.

It wouldn't be possible.

Not unless someone was lying.

(As much as he wanted to bet on the convicted serial killer, a voice in the back of his head was screaming the opposite.)

When he joined Rossi and JJ outside of the interrogation room, the silence was palpable.

At first glance, it was obvious that JJ had cried, at one point. Her red nose and puffy eyes stood out to him, but he couldn't focus on that; really, he couldn't focus on any one thing in particular.

He needed to get home, was the thought that broke through, he needed to get back to his home.

"So," Rossi said into the tense space, ignoring how JJ couldn't look away from the man still sitting in the interrogation room, and how Spencer had retreated into his mind so deeply that he most likely wasn't listening at all. "Thoughts?"

JJ let out a heavy sigh, crossing one arm over her body while the other moved to play with the necklace sitting on her chest.

"Guys, I—I don't think he did this."

Rossi nodded his assent. "No, he didn't."

JJ looked back at the two men, a frown painting her lips when she added in a small, devastated voice, "Any of it."

The gravity of the truth took a while to settle in. When it did, Spencer found himself speechless.

Twenty years in a cell for a crime he didn't commit. Twenty years being half-starved; repeatedly beaten by those who learned he was once a cop, nearly killed by those who heard that he'd harmed a child. Sent to solitary confinement for his own safety. Disowned by anyone who once cared for him.

Twenty years of innocence.

All the while, the real killer went free, meticulously planning out his endgame over the course of that time.

His endgame, which Spencer had yet to figure out. His endgame, which involved a crucifix, and a mass grave, and taunting the police, and Natalie.

"Then who did?"

Through the glass, he saw Liam wipe another tear.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Natalie had lived in D.C. for the better part of a decade, despite the feeling of home never settling in.

It begun with the three years that she attended college in the city; American University had been a brief escape from her hometown, from her father, from herself.

A Bachelor's Degree in Justice and Law was only the start of her career, which was soon followed by five months in the Academy, two years in the Maine Field Office, and finally, a transfer to the BAU.

Ten years, almost to the day, was when she first made the move.

Ten years, almost to the day, was the estimated time of death for the oldest skeleton in the grave.

Natalie sat at the round table, watching the stacks of files pile up before her. Penelope had managed to match missing persons reports and dental records to each of the bodies, and by the time they'd arrived back at Quantico, the information on all eighteen women had already started to print.

"That's all of them," Penelope said, setting the last file beside the others. "I organized them by the, uh, order they went missing, so it should be easier to—to go through."

Emily, who sat near Natalie with an empty chair between them, began to split the stacks into three.

Derek came in, next, giving Penelope a slightly-too-friendly pat on the arm. "Thanks, mama. We'll let you know if we need anything else."

Penelope gasped in offense.

"But—oh, come on, you can't banish me to my lair when you're finally working here! That's not fair, you know how lonely I get without you—"

Natalie sensed a Chocolate Thunder coming on at any minute, but Derek cut her off before she could openly flirt at such an awful time. Truth be told, Natalie wouldn't have minded it; everything felt so far away, it'd be nice to be grounded by something normal.

"Babygirl, I will see you later."

As if on cue, Hotch appeared in the doorway, his lips turned downwards and his brows pinched, almost as if he'd just eaten something sour. Through the window, Strauss was seen exiting the bullpen; her steps were thunderous, able to be heard even over the chatter of agents below.

"Garcia, have you checked the security tapes?"

Natalie frowned, her mind blanking on what exactly he was talking about. Penelope's casual smile dropped a fraction of an inch, and she shook her head.

"Not yet, Sir, I thought you asked me to—"

"Get it done."

Penelope nodded quickly, visibly deflated, and hurriedly left the room to do as told. Watching closely, Natalie almost thanked her for getting the files so quickly, but the blonde had scurried off before she had the opportunity.

Instead, she turned to Hotch. "What tapes?"

Hotch stared at her for a moment. Emily and Derek seemed to stop what they were doing—she felt them share a look behind her back—and did the same.

"We need to solidify your fathers alibi."

Natalie almost laughed.

"You're kidding, right?"

He didn't seem to think it was funny, at least, not as much as she did. Sure, James was a narcissist, and maybe even psychopath, but this, he wasn't capable of.

Or maybe, he was.

But James didn't do it, she was certain. Because if he had done it, she would've noticed. There wasn't any universe in which Natalie could've lived with a serial killer and not known; if James were the killer, it should've been her body that they discovered on the crucifix.

Natalie was her father's daughter.

If he killed them, that meant she was capable of the same thing. Capable of slaughtering twenty people, and capable of waking up each morning and living with that fact.

No. It wasn't him. It wasn't her.

The fact that Hotch—even for a single moment—thought otherwise caused an ache in Natalie's chest.

"It's standard procedure," he told her, and she knew he was lying through his teeth. It was more than that, and everyone in the room knew it. "There's no red flags with the families of the other victims, and frankly, Natalie, I wouldn't put it past him."

He wouldn't put it past him.

He wouldn't put it past her.

Natalie straightened her posture, and bit the inside of her cheek when her eyes stung. Crying only ever made things worse, which was why even in the darkest moments since joining the BAU, she didn't do it.

Didn't let herself.

Not when the team walked in on Hotch cradling Haley's dead body, or when she hugged Jack after it happened, or even at Haley's funeral. Not when she thought Emily died, or at her funeral, either. Not when they discovered a garbage bin full of shoes in Canada, and not when her own past came back to haunt her.

Tears are a weakness, James used to say.

Natalie believed him.

Despite her efforts to blink it away, Hotch seemed to notice the barely-there shine beneath her lashes. He averted his gaze when she responded with a soft yet desperate, "He couldn't."

Nervously, she looked to Emily and Derek for help, but neither said a word to back her up. Instead, they shared another glance, and the latter spoke up with a gentle, "Are you sure about that?"

"Yes," she lied emphatically.

Natalie was beginning to grow rageful at the amount of side glances and silent conversations between the three agents. She knew how it looked—of course she did—but they were wrong.

They had to be wrong.

Hotch raised his chin and asked, "Natalie, can I speak to you in my office?"

With a wary look back at him, she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood. Then, in an act of rare defiance, she shook her head.

"No."

Something flashed in his eyes; confusion, annoyance—violence?—hurt. Natalie briefly wondered if she'd flown too close to the sun, reached her limit on talking back. It wasn't like her, she knew, but something in her gut screamed at her to not allow anyone to get close.

They were all too close.

"Why?"

It was a simple question, not asked with any bite or anger. Honestly, she wished she knew the answer.

He was just—they were all too close.

(To close to what, Natalie didn't know. Or, maybe she did, but wouldn't let herself believe it. Maybe she knew from the beginning. Maybe she didn't know a thing at all.)

"I'm a little busy," she replied dryly, and from her seat a few feet away, Emily whistled under her breath. "Can it wait?"

Natalie knew she was testing the waters.

If she'd spoken to her father that way, she'd—well, she didn't want to think about what would happen. But Hotch wasn't her father, and if he kept treating her with such delicate hands as if he was, she was sure that she'd break.

Natalie needed him to yell. To get violent, to do something other than walk on eggshells as if she was still the 8 year old kid who he saved with CPR.

When he didn't, she was once again forced to blink away tears. Of course he didn't, because in his eyes, that was all she'd ever be.

Neither Emily nor Derek had moved a muscle, but they seemed to jump when Hotch turned his gaze onto them.

"Morgan, you and Natalie sort through the victims," he ordered quietly, too quietly, "Find out everything you can. Their families, relationships, everything. Prentiss, start a timeline. I need to make a call."

Natalie made eye contact with him before he pulled out his cellphone. It was only a split second, but long enough for her to catch a slight change in his breathing pattern.

He was holding something back.

As she moved to grab her share of the files, an unsettling pit grew in her stomach; Natalie watched Hotch's back as it disappeared through his office door, curious to what he would've said if she followed.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

It took Spencer less than two seconds to recognize the man speaking to JJ near the front door of the police precinct.

He'd never seen him before, but he recognized parts. The sunken eyes, the sharp cheekbones, the relatively short stature. Everything he found to be exceedingly beautiful in Natalie, he found to be intimidating in James.

Glancing away from them, only briefly, he spotted Rossi on the phone with Hotch. Presumably sharing their findings, based on the way Rossi's brows pinched in a subconscious, apologetic gesture.

Spencer couldn't imagine how his boss felt, being responsible for an innocent man living his life in a high security prison.

Surely, Natalie would be just as devastated.

With his mind now occupied by her, he looked back to James and JJ, forcing his feet to stay in place, to not confront the man who hurt his daughter so severely. Spencer didn't mean to profile her, really, but the fact that Natalie had never mentioned it only proved how awful it truly was.

James caught his eye, a smirk pulling at his lips, and Spencer found his resistance waning.

The two kept speaking about something—he couldn't make out the words—and soon after, JJ glanced back at him, her eyes wide and bewildered beyond doubt.

Spencer shifted his feet, and swallowed.

As usual, his curiosity got the best of him.

"Hello," he greeted as he approached, his words drenched in false confidence and even more false sincerity, "James, is it?"

James' eyes twinkled, the frosty blue sending a shiver down Spencer's spine. The man's pupils dilated, but quickly shrunk, which didn't help the unease he felt brewing between them.

"Mr. Blair, if you don't mind," Natalie's father gave him an empty smile, "You must be Spencer."

A hand reached out to shake his own, and despite not doing so for years—handshakes passed along so many germs, it was actually safer to kiss—Spencer took it, squeezing harder than was necessary.

In the corner of his vision, he watched JJ watch them with rapt fascination, visibly biting her lip in anticipation.

"Doctor Reid," Spencer corrected, forcing himself not to wipe his hand on his trousers as they parted, "If you don't mind."

Admittedly, it may have been a bit much.

James stared up at him, his lips still formed into a grin but a coldness in his eyes that made the sentiment useless. Spencer hadn't even tried to force a smile at all.

There was a stillness in the small space between the three of them, the air thick as blood.

JJ eyed Spencer, not shy about profiling him, until she finally broke the silence with a quiet, "Uh, Mr. Blair was just picking up the security footage for his... it's your Auto Repair Shop, right?"

"That's right," James flashed his teeth, his expression visibly softening when she spoke. "I'm not that great of a mechanic, but I'm the only guy who can fix an engine within 20 miles, so don't tell my customers."

JJ laughed lightly, and James winked.

Spencer, for some reason, got a strange feeling—some sort of ache in his gut, a rush of air through his head—when the man looked at her.

He knew JJ was only being polite.

The whole team knew what kind of man James Blair was. The unsub targeted women with abusive husbands, and Elaine's medical records backed up that fact; he didn't have access to Natalie's, which he was equally grateful for and resented.

Spencer knew she was being polite, but he desperately wished she wasn't. It would certainly make his crudeness seem more justified.

"Jennifer," he said under his breath, gesturing to Rossi, who'd just recently gotten off the phone, "You should..."

JJ nodded in understanding, sending James a tight smile before heading off towards the older man. Before doing so, she handed James the copy of his security tape, and it was impossible to miss how their fingers brushed against each other due to his slow approach.

Spencer watched the interaction closely.

Surely, it meant nothing.

He had a tendency to read too far into things, at times; the most recent example, Natalie's lack of communication about the case. It most likely wasn't just him that she was avoiding, however much it felt like so. Although, he had payed rapt attention to the way she dodged his every move to be near her, as well as every call since the day before.

He was certain she was just... busy.

That's what Spencer told himself, anyways.

He was snapped out of his reverie when the man next to him spoke, several inches closer than he'd been a moment before.

"I have to say, Doctor Reid, I'm a bit disappointed with your lack of candor. Considering you're in a relationship my daughter, and all."

Spencer choked on air.

"I—I don't—um—I—"

"You know, the sentiment of flowers is nice, but I'm sure Natalie would have appreciated roses, as opposed to those weeds you picked from the ground."

His heart thrummed, and he stuttered again.

(Had Natalie told her dad that she and Spencer were in a relationship before she told... Spencer?)

"The... the flowers referenced a play, actually."

For some reason, he felt the need to defend the oxlips and violets before he defended himself.

James seemed entirely unimpressed, if the curt raise of his brow was any indication. Spencer found his mind reeling in the brief silence, stunned at the fact that the man knew, but even more stunned that Natalie was still in contact with a man legally deemed abusive.

It wasn't a secret, that some victims blame themselves for the pain, rather than the perpetrators of it.

Natalie being one of them, however, was. Spencer knew so much about victims because of his job; the same job that Natalie had for the past four years.

They saw the same things, ran into the same types of people, saw first hand the emotional and physical abuse people can be put through while still defending the assailant who put them through it. Not because they excused their actions, but because they'd been convinced it was their fault, instead.

He should've seen the signs.

He wasn't sure that there were any.

"Well, reference or not, the audacity to kiss her with your seatbelt fastened and not even walk her to the damn front door is a bit off-putting. I'm sure you understand, Spencer."

How James knew that was a mystery to him; what he did know, was that when said out loud, his actions sounded almost ungentlemanly.

Spencer had planned to walk her all the way up, originally. He'd planned to carry her purse, and open the door, and press the elevator buttons. But Natalie had rushed off, after their kiss, almost like she was some place she didn't belong.

"I—I see how it may look, but I—" Spencer paused, briefly questioning why he felt the need to prove himself to a abuser, "I care about Natalie very much. I mean, we're not—I wouldn't say we're in a relationship, yet, but I—"

"You make a habit of kissing people you're not in a relationship with, Spencer?"

James had that look, again.

One of superiority, of callousness, of arrogance.

Of narcissism.

Instead of answering the question, Spencer narrowed his eyes down at the man, instinctively taking a step backwards.

Seven years of profiling experience was enough to know that James was a master manipulator. He'd managed to knock Spencer off his game for a few moments, someone who already knew what kind of man he was dealing with. He'd hate to know what he could do to someone who wasn't expecting it.

"No, and it's Doctor."

It shouldn't have made him proud that James seemed taken aback—Spencer didn't want to stoop to his level—but admittedly, it did.

All of a sudden, James made an expression that eerily mirrored one he'd seen on Natalie's face; his smile dropped, lips layed flat, as his eyelids lowered to a relaxed squint.

Slowly, the man broke eye contact.

"I have to get going," James told him, "It was rather... enlightening, to meet you, Doctor."

A flash of blue eyes hit his own once more, and then James was gone, abruptly stepping back from his place within the bubble of Spencer's personal space.

The doors to the precinct shut, and Spencer allowed himself to let out a sharp breath, watching through the glass until the other man could no longer be seen.

His relief didn't last long.

JJ tapped him on the shoulder, eyebrows practically raised to her hairline, and all of a sudden, Spencer remembered that she and James had been speaking long before he arrived.

He remembered the glance, and winced.

"It's not a secret, we just—"

"Couldn't tell your best friend?"

To her credit, JJ didn't sound the least bit angry. Slightly offended, and a little amused, maybe, but there was something else in her voice that he has trouble picking up; knowingness.

Spencer looked behind him, as if there'd be a guy with a big sign that said, Spencer and Natalie are dating!

"What! Did you—you knew?"

"Of course I knew," JJ practically laughed in his face, "Nat told me she liked you, it wasn't exactly a stretch. And I mean, she can keep a secret, but you? No way. Pretty sure the other guys are onto you, too."

Spencer ran a hand through his hair.

As much as he wanted to drown in embarrassment—or maybe mortification, hearing that Natalie liked him enough to tell her friend about it before the date—he knew it wasn't the most important thing at the moment.

"Right, but—her dad said something?"

JJ nodded, her smile dropping at the question as she recalled the way James had behaved.

"Yeah, I mean, he mentioned her boyfriend. I put two and two together. You think Natalie told him?"

"I have no idea," Spencer admitted through a mumble, when the sound of Rossi's continued conversation on the phone caught his attention. "What's going on?"

"Hotch wants us back at Quantico. The recent victim was killed at the sight of the mass grave, almost exactly 13 hours later, which means—"

"The unsub is in Virginia."

Sighing, JJ confirmed his suspicions. "Yeah. They're fueling up the jet now, but..."

But there's no guarantee he won't come back, he thought, quickly doing the mental math on a drive from Bethel to D.C.; a little under 12 hours, with average traffic.

"Have they learned anything about the—" Spencer choked on air again, "—the other victims?"

The blonde half-shrugged. "First murder was 10 years ago, and the most recent was last year, if you don't count the fresh body."

Rossi hung up the phone, and from across the room, he signaled for them to pack up and said something to the officer in charge of the case—Mary, if he remembered correctly—presumably, telling her to keep an eye out while they were gone.

Spencer swallowed dryly.

It was all too much.

Fresh bodies, birthday cards, innocent men, abusive fathers; they were always one step behind, and truth be told, he feared whatever may come next.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

Natalie felt sick.

It was easy, in her job, to forget that the people she dealt with were real. That behind every dead body, every mutilated corpse, every pair of drowned lungs, was a human being.

Twenty bodies. Twenty-five, if you count the original murders. Twenty-five human beings. Twenty-five corpses.

She wished she could go back to forgetting.

Emily had sorted the victims by date of death, earliest to latest. Derek looked into ten of them, and Natalie the other half.

They'd concluded that all of the victims ages at their time of death coincided with whatever age Natalie had been at the time, the youngest 18 and the oldest 27. All of them dyed their hair blonde, and all of them were single. Known for being good, quiet girls, who went to church and stayed out of trouble.

Everything Natalie was.

Well, everything she used to be.

Everything she tried to be.

Hotch hadn't come out of his office yet. His door was cracked open, an invitation for questions, but the window blinds were shut, asking for privacy at the same time.

Natalie handed the last file to Emily to sort, turning her attention to Derek, who seemed rather engrossed in whatever he was reading. Only a few words had been spoken between them, not nearly enough to cover the loudness of the elephant in the room.

(Derek broke the silence after a few moments, and she didn't know it at the time, but she'd eventually come to wish that he never did.)

"Guys, there's something off about the first victim. She doesn't fit the victimology."

Emily raised a brow, stopping her movements to offer an analytical, "Yeah, well, the first kill is typically the most personal."

Truthfully, Natalie wasn't entirely focused on the conversation at hand. The detachment returned, more intense than before, and it took all her effort not to float away completely.

"Yeah, but check this out," Derek continued, moving towards the timeline of murders Emily had mapped out, pointing at each of the pictures that Penelope had printed off. "All of them look alike. This guy's a sadist, he's not gonna stray from his preferred type for no reason."

That got her attention.

He handed the victim's photo to Emily, which Natalie refused to look at, because she didn't particularly feel like seeing another face which belonged to someone who died because of her.

"Woah."

Emily shook her head, putting the picture down onto the table, and Natalie couldn't avoid it anymore. At the same time, Derek finished his thought, and all at once, any sense of peaceful detachment was ripped away in favor of a violent, terrifying reality.

"All these women are white and have straight blonde hair, but this girl, Anna Parker... she was half African-American, and her hair was curly."

It's funny, really, how a single sentence is enough to make someone's stomach turn inside out.

Natalie didn't cry.

She knew how to stop the salty tears from making their way down her cold cheeks and frostbitten lips. She knew how to blink at a perfect rate to make them disappear. She knew how to choke down saliva, and keep her eyes from getting bloodshot, and keep her breaths at a steady pace.

Natalie didn't cry, ever.

It must've been a shock to them, when she did.

The smiling face of a girl she once knew all too well stared at her through the black and white ink of the old printer, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her dimples protruding.

In the photo right below, her hollowed skeleton did the same, and Natalie glared into the empty black holes which once held beautiful golden irises.

Natalie waited to float away, to be distracted from the knowledge that she was dead—oh, God, she was dead—but the feeling never came. She waited for the release, the gentle fade into the back of her own mind, the break from emotion that she often clung to when she needed it most.

Still, it never came.

It never came, and she felt it all.

Derek asked her if she was okay 4 times. Emily repeatedly questioned what was wrong, what happened, who Anna was, if she knew her, if they were friends.

Friends.

Natalie remembered praying to God for years that Anna could be only a friend. Begging to care about her less, to follow the right path more. Then, she remembered how He never answered.

This was the answer, she supposed.

She choked on spit at the back of her throat, and the bruise there pulsed with a sharp pain at the action.

Emily asked what she needed.

Natalie almost requested a knife to the gut.

Her chair scratched against the floor when she pushed away from the table, and Derek almost touched her arm, but she quickly ripped it away before he could. They kept asking what was wrong, what she needed, what they could do—

Lungs constricting, she stumbled down the thin hallway, perfectly aware of the eyes on her from below, and entirely uncaring of them at the same time—

What did she need, what could they do—

Aaron.

The door to the office swung open despite her minimal force, and he hung up the phone without sparing whoever was on the other end a goodbye.

He stood, almost immediately.

Natalie couldn't blink, afraid of more tears flowing over her cheekbones if she did. It was a futile effort, but it was all she could manage.

"Tell me what happened."

In an attempt to shake her head, her neck twitched, and salt streamed into the crevices of her cracked lip.

Aaron didn't sound angry.

Natalie knew he would be soon.

It wasn't a question, like the others, though. He didn't ask what happened, he told her to tell him. Like he knew how much she needed to be grounded, how much she needed his words to hit like a punch to the stomach.

When she couldn't get a word out, garbling around them whenever she tried, Aaron moved from behind his desk, rounding it to stand between her and the door.

One of his arms extended, Natalie moved backwards on instinct, and he dropped it right after.

He was going to be angry.

He was going to be so, so angry.

"I—I'm sorry."

Her voice cracked, and he moved forwards again, but Natalie backed away, moving across the room before he could hit her.

(No, Aaron wouldn't hit her—he wouldn't, no, no, he wouldn't—but he could, and so she pressed her back flat against the wall just in case.)

"Hey, hey, sorry for what?"

He was being gentle. He was too gentle—

"I'm sorry, I... I—I'm so sorry, I didn't... I promise I—I didn't know, I promise, I'm so sorry—"

Natalie didn't know what she was saying.

All she knew was that Anna was dead, all of those women were dead, she was alive, and she was going to fucking Hell when she finally croaked—and Aaron must've known it too, even though she apologized it wasn't enough—nothing she could do would ever be enough—

He raised his arm to slap her, and she flinched, balling her fingers into weak fists and covering her face so she wouldn't have to watch—

"I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry—"

The impact never came.

Natalie wanted it to. Waited for it.

What she got, was silence. Her own heavy exhalation, her own unprecedented sobs racking against her uninjured ribcage.

They'd been here, before.

Natalie only just remembered.

When she was 8, and Aaron had been giving her CPR, doing his job and expelling the liquid from her lungs, and she bolted awake, screaming and pounding at his chest because she thought he was him.

Back then, he'd placed his fingers around her wrists, just tight enough to get her to stop punching.

Now, he did the same, just enough to encourage her fists to unfurl, before he let go of her entirely.

Natalie hadn't noticed that she'd sunk to the ground until just then. Balled up on the floor like a petulant little girl awaiting punishment. In a way, she supposed that's what she'd become, when she entered his office crying like a child.

"Natalie?"

When she opened her mouth, another whisper of, "I'm sorry," made it's way through her lips, because she didn't know what else she was supposed to say. "I didn't know, please, believe me, I—I—"

It was instinct, when she reared back as she noticed his proximity. Her head hit the wall behind her, there was no where left to go, and just because he didn't hit her the first time doesn't mean he wouldn't—

"Natalie, look at me."

"I'm sorry—I'm sorry—"

"Look. At. Me."

It was an order, so she did.

Aaron was hunched in front of her, one knee on the ground and another bent partly in a squat. His hands splayed out in front of him, facing the ceiling, as if he were showing her his palms.

They were clean, she noticed.

Of blood. Of her.

"I didn't—"

"These are my hands," Aaron interrupted her, speaking with the conviction of a devout priest, "Natalie, these are my hands, that will never, ever, harm you."

Her breath caught, and finally, she gained the courage to look him in the eye. The redness there made her wonder if he'd been crying, too.

She looked back down at his hands.

Clean.

"I know," Natalie told him, even though she didn't, "I—I know that, I promise, I—I'm sorry, I don't know what's happening to me—what's happening to me, Aaron? Why am I—"

"Shh, honey, it's okay, okay?"

Choking on her words again, she eventually stopped fighting the urge to give up, falling into his open arms in a way that made her feel like a child crying to her father after a nightmare.

When Natalie realized she'd never felt that before, she cried even harder, burying her face into the tailored shoulder of his suit.

"I'm not okay," she disagreed with a hiccup, embarrassing herself even more than she already had. "It's not okay, nothing is okay, I can't—can you make it stop, please? Just—just make it stop, I need it to stop."

Aaron hugged her tightly, then, and Natalie couldn't remember the last time someone did so.

"It's okay," he repeated, but she couldn't help noticing that he didn't sound confident as he said it. "Just tell me what happened."

Natalie sucked in a sharp breath.

For the first time in 10 years, she said Anna's name out loud, muffled by sobs, just as it was the last time.

━━━━━⭒━━━━━

An hour passed before Natalie could face the others.

She'd managed to clean up, a bit; the puffiness under her eyes was obvious at best, and her makeup had rubbed off when she wiped her cheeks.

Now, she sat idly on the couch in Hotch's office, her knees pulled together and sniffling every few seconds.

Emily sat next to her, and it wasn't difficult to see why she specifically was chosen to handle this particular issue. Hotch doesn't mince his words, and there wasn't a doubt in her mind that he'd told them the full truth.

"It's just a few questions," the dark-haired woman told her, and she did her best not to cringe. "Just... start by telling me, uh, who Anna was, to you, if that's alright."

It wasn't alright, but Natalie did it anyways.

"Um, she, uh... she was my friend, I guess. She moved to Maine in our junior year, and... I don't know. We just... she was my friend."

"Friend?"

Natalie wanted to be pissed off, but lying to a profiler was one thing; lying about liking women to a lesbian was entirely hopeless.

"We weren't dating, we just..."

There were things she wanted to say, things that were ingrained into her from a young age that she still hadn't let go of. That two women, or two men, being together wasn't right. That it was unnatural. Even though she didn't think she believed it, the smallest part of her did, which terrified her.

It was a sin.

A sin, with terrible consequences, none of which were enough to keep her from engaging in the acts.

The thing about sins—rape, murder, blasphemy—is that they're supposed to feel wrong. Being with Anna never felt wrong, no matter how hard Natalie tried to convince herself it did.

"I get it," Emily said simply, like she could understand her inner turmoil. "Did anyone know about your... friendship?"

Natalie shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest as an act of subconscious defense. "I didn't... neither of us really... had anyone to tell."

Except each other, her mind supplied, we always had each other, until she left—until she died.

Biting the inside of her cheek to keep the tears at bay, she moved her gaze to the ground, focusing on the pattern of the thin carpet to occupy her thoughts. Across from her, Emily continued profiling, but she couldn't find it in herself to care.

"Your dad?"

Natalie's eyes snapped up. "Excuse me?"

Emily held her hands up in the air, continuing with a calm, "Asking as a friend, Nat. His alibi checked out, you were right. I'm... I'm just asking as a friend."

Cursing herself for snapping, again, she centered herself, before answering quietly, "Sorry. But no, he's not exactly... uh, open minded, about that kind of thing."

The scar imprinted on her back from his belt buckle was proof of that, not that she'd dare to mention such a thing.

Emily smiled, a bit sad.

"I get it," she repeated, and Natalie smiled back, begrudgingly accepting the squeeze of her hand that the other woman provided. "And Natalie?"

"Mhm?"

Looking into her eyes, Emily's own shone with tears she wouldn't let fall. "I am so sorry for your loss."

Natalie jolted, expecting anything but that, but Emily didn't let go of her hand. The air between them wavered, until Natalie gave in to the can of worms she'd opened earlier, allowing herself to grieve someone she loved.

Someone she lost.

"I just—" she stuttered, her fingers shaking, "I woke up one day, and her parents... they said she ran away, that she left a note... I—I didn't even look. I just... I moved on, and the whole time, she... she's been dead."

Rubbing Natalie's knuckles with her thumb, Emily shook her head. "You can't... blame yourself for this. It's not—"

A knock on the doorframe interrupted the moment.

Admittedly, Spencer was the last person she wanted to see, just as much as he was the one she needed the most.

It took one look, and she knew that he knew everything. There was sympathy in his eyes, one usually reserved for victims—maybe they all thought she was one, now, but being treated as if she'd break was far worse than being held responsible.

She was responsible.

For the tears in Emily's eyes, for the pity in Spencer's, for the stinging in her own. For the twenty dead bodies over twenty years, and maybe even for the five before that.

Natalie blinked, and Emily had left the room.

Spencer didn't say anything, which was okay. She took the time to look at him, instead of talk. She'd been talking so much, recently, and missed the days when she wasn't forced to.

But she watched him suck his lips in for a second, a nervous tick she recognized immediately, and the peace vanished as soon as it came.

"What aren't you telling me?"

The first proper thing she'd said to him in days, and it came out almost accusatory. Natalie blamed her tiredness from lack of sleep, which after the emotional exhaustion of the day, was becoming more and more prominent.

Spencer didn't seem surprised how quickly she caught on, nor her tone. Instead, he replied smoothly, "Liam Marlowe is innocent, Nat."

He didn't kill your mom, Nat, was what she heard. The real killer is still out there, Nat. It's all your fault, Nat. You're going to Hell, Nat. You're unlovable, Natalie.

She blinked.

He looked tired, too.

"Can you—" she paused, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, "—could you take me home, please?"

Spencer said yes without any convincing.

Soon, they ended up in his car, sitting outside her apartment complex, mirroring the first—and last—time they'd kissed. It felt different, now. Worse.

Natalie opened the door, and he followed her movements of exiting the car. The ride had been mute, only the soft sound of Fleetwood Mac coming from the old radio, so she was half-shocked why he'd want to say something now.

They stood a few feet apart, staring at each other from two separate squares on the sidewalk.

"Are you going to be okay?"

(Do you want me to stay?)

"I don't know."

(Desperately.)

Spencer took a hesitant step closer, and Natalie did the same. A line in the concrete was all that was between them; physically, at least. Natalie thought the line might mean something more.

"I—I've never seen you cry," he told her, which was unnecessary, both because she already knew and because it only served to embarrass her. "I don't like it."

Natalie couldn't help but to choke out a watery laugh. "Yeah, that's why I don't usually do it. I hate... I don't like to let things get to me, you know?"

Spencer nodded, his fingers fiddling with the air when he cleared his throat and replied, "I know, but... honestly, if this didn't get to you, I'd... probably be a little worried."

Faintly, he grinned, despite it all.

She wished he would never stop.

But still, it was funny how he said that, as if he wasn't visibly worried already. As if she didn't know his life had only gotten worse since she'd inserted herself into it.

Natalie watched his eyes absentmindedly flicker all over her face, profiling her, or studying her, or simply trying to read her mind while she was too tired to keep up her defenses. The moved down to her lips, after a few seconds, and she wet them with her tongue despite herself.

He noticed, and did the same.

Suddenly, she felt an unnerving tingle on the back of her neck, making her hairs rise and subsequently snap her out of of her Spencer-induced daze.

Natalie didn't move when she told him decisively, "You can't... Spence, you can't kiss me again, okay? Not until... okay?"

His smile fading despite the silent synonymous agreement not to move an inch, Spencer agreed with no hesitation. "Okay."

With a nod, she emphasized, "Okay."

She could still feel him close to her; his body heat, the space between them that was itching to close. And she wanted to, God, she wanted to close it, but it wasn't a good idea, so she didn't. Natalie wanted comfort, more than anything else, as pathetic as it was to say it.

She subconsciously longed for a kiss—it was Spencer, so of course she did—but a hug was what she needed.

In an act of bravery, she took it.

Natalie remembered a second too late that Spencer didn't like hugs—when she tried to pull away, though, he didn't let her. Then, she remembered that she didn't typically like hugs, either.

Hotch had given her one in the midst of her breakdown; a hug that felt like family, like safety. This one felt different, though; this one felt like home.

Burying her face into Spencer's chest, Natalie breathed in, and finally let herself go.

Surely, it was the lack of sleep.

Extreme tiredness can cause people to act out of character, she knew. It can cause such things as hallucinations, paranoia, high blood pressure, and everything in between.

Natalie must've been very, very tired.

At first, what happened next seemed like a dream, as there was no conceivable universe in which something of the sort would happen.

She'd dreamt of this, before.

Holding something close, allowing it to seep into her skin like the moss and bacteria from the lake; surrounding her, pulling her under until she could no longer float on the surface—

BANG.

...

No, this wasn't a dream at all—

Natalie had nightmares like this, too.

Her father forcing her to engage in damning acts, a dead woman's cold, blue skin placed haphazardly between her fingers. Watching from a window while he dragged corpses toward the lake, watching, watching, watching, but stuck in place, unable to do a thing.

Stuck in place, just as she was now.

It didn't register until Spencer collapsed into her arms, his blood spattering across her cheeks, just like her tears had not long before.

"Spence!"

Natalie ignored the scent of crimson red, falling to her knees to where Spencer lay bleeding on the ground. He didn't reply, only a gurgling sound leaving his lips when he tried, his flailing hand moving to cover his neck—

His neck.

The blood was coming from his neck.

The blood, because Spencer was shot.

By the time Natalie pulled out her gun from her waistband, wildly aiming it at the source with impaired vision, the unrecognizable car had sped away.

It skid around the corner, and she blinked.

A flash of a streetlight illuminated the interior, and for half a second, she swore she saw herself sitting in the front seat.

author's note ━━━━━━━━━━━━
the way this is 11.1k words of pure angst

you might be thinking ... bitch did you
just shoot spencer? and to answer your
question ... yes i did! also yes natalie is
bisexual but did you honest to god think
user fxllmoons was capable of writing a
straight oc? lol absolutely not

& lastly thank you to soph and grace who 
listened to me bitch and moan about this
chapter for a whole month!