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etherrealoblivion · 4 years

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Chapter Two: Crude Awakening

Table Of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Reader

Words: 1,191

MASTERLIST

When you woke the next morning, you knew immediately that something was wrong. The air didn’t smell like a Saturday morning. There was a distinct aroma that you could only classify as . . . man.

Fuck, you thought, getting out of bed as quietly as you could. You’d only had someone break in once before, but that was enough to scare you now.

Heart pounding softly, you tiptoed to your bedroom closet, withdrawing the bat kept just inside. Feeling a bit ridiculous, but scared, all the same, you crept into the living room, holding your phone with 911 pre-dialed, ready to press at the slightest threat.

“AH!” you shouted as you jumped forward ready to swing at—

—your empty living room.

You sighed, dropping the bat and making your way to the bathroom. It was probably just the landlord smoking again, blowing in through the vent.

Nearly out of bitter toothpaste and barely any money left from last week's paycheck. Great. It’s not like you could give yourself a raise, that’s not the kind of business owner you were. If you gave yourself a raise, you’d have to give one to your employees. And you certainly couldn’t afford to give Claire and Caleb a fatter check.

Stale coffee and a migraine was a horrible way to start a weekend. Not to mention you actually thought someone had broken into your apartment. Thinking back on it, it was rather far-fetched. You had nothing of value here. Your TV was years old and your computer probably held the world record for the slowest system ever. The only thing of value you had was cash and your Grandmother’s locket.

You reached up to your neck to hold the locket for comfort but all you felt was your clavicle.

Rushing to the bathroom mirror, you pulled off your pajama top and scoured your neck and chest for the pendant.

Instead, you were met with your shirtless self staring back at you, no necklace in sight.

You ran to the bed, stripping it of all covers and scrambling to find it. You had surely had it on last night, you remembered!

But the locket was nowhere to be found. Anywhere in your apartment.

Thinking you might have left it at the bookstore, you slipped on some shoes and made to unlock the front door . . . only to find that it wasn’t locked.

You froze. There was no way you hadn’t locked the door last night. It had become such a part of your habit you didn’t even notice doing it anymore. Fear settled in the pit of your stomach like a stone.

Within 10 minutes you were on the phone with the police, trying to explain your situation.

“No, it’s more than a feeling,” you said, annoyed, “I locked my door last night and when I woke up this morning, it was unlocked and my necklace is gone and I can’t find my hairbrush, just. . . . Send someone over here . . . please.”

The voice on the other end of the line was patronizing and bored, spiking anger in your gut.

“Are you positive that you locked your door last night?”

“As positive as I am that you’re an asshole!”

Before the man could retort, you slammed the phone down on the receiver and dropped your head into your hands. The bourbon in your kitchen cabinet was calling your name, but you weren’t ready to let your guard down yet. The situation was too unnerving.

Deciding that an in-person confrontation would have a stronger impact on the police, you grabbed your purse and took the elevator down to the lobby. You only lived ten minutes walking distance from the police station. A brisk pace would get you there in five. And after that exchange with the idiot on the phone, you didn’t feel like wasting any time.

“And when did you first notice something was off?”

The cop taking care of you was a woman, thank god. All the men you’d spoken to were so dismissive. This lady was a nice change of pace. You could do without the interrogation room, though.

“I guess the moment I woke up? I just sorta knew something was . . . off,” you said, shivering at the thought of someone being in your apartment while you slept.

“Don’t worry, Miss. I’ve taken your report and sent a unit to your apartment. In the meantime, is there someone you can stay with? A friend? A family member?”

Maybe Steve would let you crash on his couch. Claire was out of the question. Other than those two, you didn’t have any friends in the city.

“No,” you responded sadly, “There’s no one.”

The door to the interrogation room slammed open and five people wearing thick vests that said FBI barged in, quickly moving the officer with you away.

“Officer Lombardo, if you’d come with me,” a tall skinny man said, escorting her from the room.

You slid your chair back, alarmed, and stood against the wall, hands up in a defensive position.

“What’s going on? I don’t—“

A neat woman with black, pinned-back hair came up to you and put a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Hello, hi, I’m Emily. Everything’s alright.”

She had soft eyes and her tone was gentle but you could tell this was a front she was putting on to comfort you.

“What’s going on Emily?” you asked, voice wavering.

She spoke calmly, trying to keep you distracted from the men holding guns behind her.

“The report you just filed came up flagged on our database — in reference to an alleged new serial killer. The second it was in the system we were called over here to. . .”

But everything had gone silent. You watched her lips move but no sound came out. Why is the room tilting? was the last thought you had before you hit the ground.

Bright light hit your eyes. Squinting, you tried to take in your surroundings. There were tubes in your arm and you weren’t wearing clothes. Ok. Hospital.

To your left, the woman from earlier, Emily, was talking quietly with a muscular bald man.

“Emily?” you rasped, still foggy from sleep.

Both of them looked at you, Emily stepping closer and holding your hand.

“Hey, how are you?” she said, then, to the man behind her, “get Hotch.”

“Who’s that?” you were confused and your head hurt. I just want to go home, you thought.

“That’s my boss, he’s gonna help you. We all are.”

Head pounding, sick to your stomach, you managed to get up out of the hospital bed and yank out the IV.

“Hey, woah. Slow down,” Emily tried to block your path, and you would have given in but for some reason, you kept pushing past her.

“I need to know what’s going on!” you said, a little too loud. “Please, just let me go home.”

“We can’t.”

You turned to a tall man with sharp facial features and a set jaw. He wasn’t smiling. The lack of lines on his face hinted he’d never smiled.

“Why not?” you whispered, unsure if he’d be able to hear you.

“You’re a target for a serial killer.”

taglist: @aperrywilliams @mjloveskids666 @dolanfivsosxox

#spencer reid smut #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid gifs #fluff #smut #angst #fanfiction #fanfic #criminal minds #matthew gray gubler #slow burn

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