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The rain didn’t fall on Quantico—it attacked it.
It came down in brutal, unrelenting sheets, a cold, punishing deluge that turned the narrow service alleys into sluiceways of filth and shadow. Water slammed against brick and concrete like thrown gravel, ricocheting off rusted fire escapes in sharp, metallic cracks before pouring from warped gutters in roaring cascades. The alley flooded by inches, oily rivulets surging past Spencer Reid’s boots—thick with grit, soggy flyers, cigarette butts, and the faint, coppery tang of blood dissolving into pale pink spirals beneath the downpour.
The sound was deafening.
Rain on metal.
Rain on stone.
Rain on glass.
A single, endless roar that swallowed everything else. Footsteps vanished. Breathing vanished. Even thought felt waterlogged—sluggish, drowning—like his mind was being shoved under again and again with every pounding drop.
Spencer ran anyway.
His coat soaked through almost immediately, the fabric heavy and unyielding, clinging to him like a sodden second skin, dragging at his shoulders and arms. Each stride felt wrong—wet cloth slapping against his legs, stealing momentum, pulling him back inch by inch. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, stinging his eyes raw. His glasses fogged instantly, then smeared uselessly when he swiped at them with shaking fingers, fracturing the world into bleeding streaks of yellow light and warped shadow.
His breathing came apart.
Short, sharp gasps tore in through clenched teeth and rushed back out too fast to be useful. Lungs burned like they were being scraped raw, every inhale shredding his throat. The air tasted of rust and rain and fear—adrenaline sharp and metallic on his tongue.
Too fast. A distant, rational part of his mind warned: You’re hyperventilating.
He ignored it.
He and the team were too close now. Three days chasing Nathaniel Crowe.
Thirty-six hours without real sleep. Coffee, protein bars, and sheer stubborn momentum holding him together by threads already fraying.
Crowe was a former Army MP, dishonorably discharged after a court-martial quietly buried his escalating violence. Narrow face. Hooked nose broken at least once. Pale, constantly scanning eyes. A thin scar splitting his right eyebrow, giving him a permanent, mild look of surprise. Dark hooded jackets. Tactical boots. Gloves—always gloves, no matter the weather.
A man who planned for blood long before it spilled.
He hunted the defenseless. Couples. Federal employees. Analysts. Clerks. Administrative staff—names that never made headlines. He isolated them, punished them slowly and meticulously for what he believed the government had stolen from him: his career, his pension, his identity. Every crime scene staged with military precision. Every body marked with the same injuries, the same careful degradation.
Each kill escalated.
The BAU had ID’d him less than twelve hours ago.
And Spencer had spotted him first.
Crowe bolted the moment he realized he’d been made—cutting through crowds, vaulting barriers, vanishing into side streets with the desperate speed of someone who had done this a thousand times. Derek went wide with backup. Spencer had followed on foot.
Now every step was a gamble.
The cobblestones beneath him were slick with oil and rain, uneven enough to betray him without warning. His foot skidded—once, twice—heart lurching violently, arms windmilling to catch balance before he nearly went down. Calves screamed, tendons tight and trembling. A sharp stitch flared beneath his ribs, twisting with each breath until it felt like something inside his chest was tearing loose.
Slow down, his body begged.
He couldn’t.
Not after the bodies.
Not after the smile Crowe had given him—small, knowing, indulgent—when their eyes had locked across the street.
He forced his legs faster, vision narrowing, rain blinding him as he rounded the corner—
—and stopped dead.
The alley ended in a dead-end.
Brick rose on three sides, close and suffocating. The space felt suddenly too small, air thick and wet, heavy in his lungs. At the far end, beneath a flickering streetlight, Crowe stood waiting. Rain streamed off his shoulders in dark rivulets, silhouette carved into jagged angles by the stuttering yellow bulb overhead. Shadow stretched long and distorted across the flooded ground.
He hadn’t been running.
He’d been herding him into a trap.
Crowe’s hand glinted.
A knife. Short. Thick. Unadorned. No serration, no flourish—just practical steel meant for close, efficient work. Rain slid along the blade like quicksilver.
Too bright.
Too close.
Panic detonated through Spencer—sudden, absolute, and all-consuming. It slammed into him like a physical force, hollowing his chest and setting his nerves alight. His heart battered against his ribs, too fast, too hard, each beat reverberating in his skull. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out thought. Muscles trembled around his gun, fingers stiff and unreliable, overloaded with adrenaline, fatigue, and the creeping certainty that he was already a step behind.
“FBI! Crowe, drop the knife!”
The words tore out of him, ragged and hoarse, instantly shredded by the storm. Rain hammered down in unrelenting sheets, stinging his eyes, plastering his hair to his face, turning the ground into a slick, hostile surface that offered no mercy.
His legs wobbled. Knees threatened to fold beneath him. The cobblestones shifted treacherously underfoot, slick with rain, oil, and grime. Every instinct screamed that one wrong movement would send him down—and if he fell, Crowe would be on him before he could recover. The world narrowed, vision tunneling until there was nothing left but Crowe’s hand and the knife it held.
Crowe smiled.
Not wide. Not manic. Not the grin of a man reveling in chaos.
Just the faintest upward curve at the corner of his mouth—controlled, measured, deeply satisfied. The expression of someone watching a long-calculated equation finally balance. Rain slid down his face, tracing the lines of that smile, but it never reached his eyes.
“Look at you,” Crowe said, his voice almost gentle beneath the roar of the storm. It carried easily through the alley, smooth and intimate, as if they were standing in a quiet room instead of ankle‑deep water and blood. “All that intelligence.”
He took a slow step forward.
Boots splashed deliberately through standing water, the sound unhurried. Unthreatened. Each step landed with intention, ripples spreading outward like a countdown.
“Still ran straight into a trap.”
Spencer swallowed hard. His throat worked painfully, raw and dry despite the rain pouring down his face and into his mouth. His heart was no longer just beating—it was slamming, each удар violent enough to rattle his ribs, to make his chest ache as if it might fracture from the inside out.
“They always do,” Crowe continued, pale eyes locked onto Spencer’s, unblinking. “People like you. Brilliant. Convinced you’re the one doing the hunting.”
Another step.
He was closer.
Close enough now that Spencer could see the scar slicing through Crowe’s eyebrow, a pale seam that split skin just enough to catch rainwater. Droplets gathered there, clung for a moment, then spilled down his cheek like something deliberate. Like punctuation.
“They never realize,” Crowe said softly, “when they stop being the one in control.”
Spencer took a step back.
The motion was instinctive—automatic—but the alley betrayed him. His heel struck a loose cobblestone hidden beneath a murky puddle.
For half a heartbeat, the world tilted.
Balance slipped. Traction vanished. His stomach lurched as gravity yanked sideways, cruel and sudden. And then the ground simply disappeared beneath him.
He went down hard.
Stone slammed into his spine with a jarring, cracking impact he felt more than heard. Pain detonated upward in blinding, electric waves that rattled his teeth and scattered coherent thought like shrapnel. The breath was ripped clean out of his lungs, punched from him so violently his chest seized in reflexive protest.
His gun flew from his grasp, skittering across the flooded stone, disappearing out of reach.
He tried to inhale.
Nothing.
No air rushed in. No relief followed. Just a thin, useless wheeze that scraped raw out of his throat, his lungs spasming uselessly as they refused to obey. Panic surged sharp and immediate, compounding the pain into something overwhelming.
Stars burst behind his eyes.
Cold water soaked into him instantly, seeping through fabric, through skin, shockingly cold as he lay half-curled on the stone. Rain hammered down relentlessly, loud enough to drown out everything else—his own broken gasps, the frantic thud of his heart, the ragged whine clawing its way out of his throat.
Black crept in at the edges of his vision, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. The world narrowed, tunneled, reduced to pain and sound and the terrifying absence of air.
His body trembled uncontrollably against the ground, shock already threading icy fingers through his limbs, making them heavy, distant, slow to respond.
Boots splashed closer.
They were slow.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Crowe didn’t rush him.
That was the worst part.
Spencer barely registered the shadow falling over him before pain tore through his arm.
The knife came down—not wild, not frantic—but precise. Controlled. A practiced thrust guided by experience and intention. His arm had come up on instinct, a reflexive, desperate attempt to shield his face.
The blade buried itself into the meat of his forearm.
Steel slid through soaked fabric and skin with sickening ease.
White-hot heat flared first—blinding, all-consuming—followed immediately by a deep, grinding agony that felt like his arm was being torn apart from the inside. His vision blew out completely, the world dissolving into white static and ringing noise.
He screamed.
Raw. Shredded. Unfiltered. The sound tore from his chest, jagged and animalistic, stripped of every shred of restraint, stripped of dignity. Rain hammered it apart, scattering it into the storm—but Crowe heard it. Oh, he heard it.
He didn’t pull the knife free.
He twisted it.
Just a fraction.
Just enough.
Spencer convulsed violently, a broken, hoarse sob ripping free from somewhere deep in his chest as his back arched off the stone. His fingers clawed at the slick ground, nails scraping against wet stone that offered no purchase, useless against gravity and pain. Blood poured freely now, dark and slick, frothing pale under the downpour.
Every nerve in his arm ignited simultaneously, firing chaos straight into a brain already drowning in shock. Pain eclipsed thought, identity, time itself—until there was nothing left but the sensation of being ripped open, split from the inside out.
“There it is,” Crowe murmured, almost tenderly. “That moment.”
He leaned in, close enough that Spencer could taste the iron in the air, smell rain mixed with something metallic and sharp, feel the heat of his presence like a predator circling wounded prey. His voice dropped, intimate, meant for Spencer alone.
“When it stops being theoretical,” Crowe whispered, “when it’s just you… and what your body can’t hide from.”
Then—slowly, deliberately—he drew the blade out.
It wasn’t clean.
The knife dragged through muscle with a wet, resisting pull, each millimeter sending a nauseating, profoundly wrong sensation screaming through Spencer’s arm—as if something essential had been torn loose and stolen. His lungs betrayed him, sucking in air violently, too fast, too deep. The oxygen burned, ripping down into ribs that flared with new waves of pain. He coughed, choking on wet air, chest spasming as agony radiated outward, jagged and relentless.
Blood soaked his sleeve almost instantly, spreading in dark, glistening patches, the fabric growing heavy against skin. It poured over his wrist in thick rivulets, splattering across stone, then thinned into pale streaks under the rain that washed away every mark of the violence, leaving only the cold and the shock. He shuddered uncontrollably, exposed and trembling, every nerve screaming, the brutal truth settling in: he was slipping, losing control fast.
Crowe watched, clinical fascination etched into every line of his face, head tilted slightly, letting rain slide over him like a curtain he didn’t bother to brush aside.
“You see?” he said softly. “It doesn’t even take that much. Everyone breaks eventually.”
“Sh—shit—” Spencer gasped, voice ripped to fragments by the violent spasms wracking his chest. His lungs seized, then jerked back to life, gulping in too-fast, too-shallow air that burned all the way down. His ribs screamed in protest, muscles clenching and twitching as if his body had forgotten how to breathe. Every heartbeat was agony, every inhale a reminder that he was painfully, horrifyingly alive.
Instinct took over where thought failed.
He scrambled backward, palms slapping down hard against rain-slick stone, heels skidding uselessly as water and grime robbed him of any real traction. His injured arm screamed the moment he put weight on it—pain no longer sharp or clean, but deep and devouring, a bone-deep throb that radiated outward in sickening pulses. His fingers tingled, numb and buzzing, grip weakening with every heartbeat as warmth continued to leak down his sleeve. His limbs felt sluggish, delayed, like his body was answering his mind through molasses—every frantic command arriving seconds too late.
Crowe followed.
No hurry. No wasted motion.
Just the steady, inevitable advance of someone who knew exactly how this ended.
A fist slammed into Spencer’s ribs.
The impact crushed what little air he had left from his lungs in a thin, helpless wheeze. Pain exploded outward from the point of contact, bright and overwhelming. Another blow followed immediately, driven into his side with brutal, practiced precision. Something shifted beneath the strike—wrong, unmistakably wrong—and nausea rolled violently through his gut as white-hot pain flared, shredding what little coherence he had left.
Crowe crouched in front of him, invading the last scraps of space Spencer had, close enough that Spencer could see the pale, focused intensity in his eyes. There was no rage there. No frenzy. Just calm attention. Assessment.
“Still thinking?” Crowe asked quietly, almost conversational. “That’s what gets you hurt. You think pain is a puzzle.”
Then he kicked him.
Spencer flew backward, body lifting off the ground before slamming into a dumpster with a hollow metallic clang that echoed down the alley. The bin rattled violently, trash collapsing inside, sparks detonating behind his eyes. Whatever fragile air he’d clawed back vanished instantly, leaving him gasping, lungs burning, mouth open, terrifyingly empty.
He slid down the slick metal, coughing violently, water, blood, and grime flooding his mouth all at once. Each attempt to inhale stabbed through his ribs like jagged glass grinding bone. Dizziness shredded his skull, rain blurred his vision, and the world spun in a chaotic whirl of sound and pain. Every nerve screamed. Every fiber of him demanded relief he could not give.
Move! You have to move!
The thought barely registered—faint, weak—as he rolled onto his side. His palms scraped raw against the rough stone, skin tearing as grit ground deep into the wounds. Rain washed thin red trails from his fingers almost as quickly as they formed, a cruel, fleeting mercy.
A boot slammed down on his knee.
Pain detonated.
The joint buckled instantly, ligaments shrieking in protest as his leg folded at a sickening angle it was never meant to take. A torn, helpless cry ripped from him as his body pitched forward. His face hit a puddle hard, freezing water flooding his mouth and nose, stealing the little breath he had left.
Crowe ground his heel down. Slowly. Methodically.
Spencer choked, coughing violently as water gushed down the wrong way. His chest seized, ragged, panicked breaths tearing through his ribs, each inhale sharp enough to make stars explode behind his eyes. His body shook uncontrollably, trapped between the impossibilities of screaming and drowning, caught in a spiral of pain and helplessness.
“Yes,” Crowe said calmly, almost approving. “That’s it. Stay with me. Don’t check out yet.”
Everything inside Spencer screamed.
His glasses sat crooked on his face, one lens spiderwebbed and useless, fracturing the world into jagged, distorted shards. His arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat, each thud sending another wave of agony down to his fingertips. Warmth—blood—spilled relentlessly down his sleeve. His ribs burned and ground together with each shallow breath. His knee throbbed violently, unstable, screaming sharp warnings up his spine with every small movement.
He tried to push himself up but his arm gave out instantly.
He collapsed back onto the cobblestones with a broken, breathless sound. Pain flared so blindingly that his vision vanished in a white-hot flash. Rain pelted him mercilessly, cold and punishing, soaking through clothes and skin, each drop another cruel reminder of how exposed—how utterly helpless—he was.
Crowe loomed over him, a shadow swallowing what little light remained in the narrow alley. Rain streamed down the man’s face as he adjusted his grip on the knife, angling it downward with deliberate, almost clinical care.
Precise.
Final.
Spencer pressed shaking hands to his arm, fingers slick and useless. Blood poured through them no matter how hard he tried to stop it, warmth escaping drop by drop, pooling beneath him only to vanish in the relentless rain. His hands trembled uncontrollably. Teeth chattered—cold, shock, or both—and it didn’t matter anymore.
It was too much.
The world collapsed inward: rain, pain, and the suffocating awareness of how small, how utterly alone he was in this narrow, merciless alley.
Then—a blow snapped his jaw.
His head whipped back, teeth clashing painfully, white-hot sparks detonating behind his eyes. Knees buckled beneath him. He slammed onto the cobblestones again, mouth filling with the sharp, metallic taste of blood, dizziness roaring like a hurricane inside his skull.
His chest seized as Crowe yanked him up by his hair. The knife pressed hard against his throat, steel biting deep enough to carve a thin line, a tiny rivulet of blood already oozing, warm and slick against his skin.
“Say goodbye, Dr. Reid,” Crowe spat, manic glee dripping from every syllable. “It’ll be my honor killing you.”
Then—
A roar split the alley, sudden, violent, impossible to ignore, tearing through the storm like a living thing.
Headlights flared at the mouth of the alley, white-hot and blinding, turning the downpour into molten sheets of silver. Each raindrop became a weapon, exploding off brick, twisted metal, and slick cobblestones. Tires screamed as they hit standing water, brakes locking hard enough to shudder the air. The sound ricocheted through the narrow space, bouncing off walls until it felt like the alley itself was screaming in protest. Mist and grit hung in the air for a heartbeat before gravity dragged it down in choking, icy arcs.
Crowe barely had time to turn before Derek Morgan hit him like a freight train.
His shoulder slammed straight into Crowe’s chest with brutal, bone-deep force, lifting him clean off his feet and hurling him backward into the brick wall. The impact cracked through the alley like a gunshot—sharp, concussive, final—reverberating off wet stone and rusted metal.
Crowe’s breath tore out in a violent, explosive burst as his back collided with brick hard enough to rattle teeth and send flakes of mortar raining down. Pain twisted instantly into rage. He snarled—pure animal, feral, unfiltered—and swung.
The blow clipped Derek’s jaw. Pain flashed white-hot behind his eyes as his head snapped violently to the side, rain spraying from his hair. Boots skidded dangerously on slick stone, balance pitching for a heart-stopping instant. Teeth rattled, shoulder jarred against the wall—but he didn’t go down. With a furious jerk of his head, he forced himself upright, rain dripping from his lashes, eyes burning with icy, focused fury.
“You picked the wrong one,” Derek growled, voice thick with rage and something colder, darker beneath it.
He drove a brutal right hook into Crowe’s face.
The punch landed with a wet, meaty crack that echoed down the alley. Crowe’s head snapped violently to the side, a brief spray of blood arcing into the rain before the downpour swallowed it whole. The impact rocked him, sent him reeling—but only for a heartbeat.
Crowe recovered fast. Too fast.
He slammed an elbow into Derek’s ribs with savage precision, driving it into the narrow space beneath muscle and bone. Derek sucked in a sharp, involuntary breath as white-hot pain flared along his side, muscles screaming in protest. Crowe shoved off the wall and lunged—and they crashed together into the dumpster, metal shrieking under the impact.
The dumpster tipped with a violent, ear-splitting crash.
Trash tumbled out in a chaotic torrent—soaked cardboard collapsing into a pulp that clung to itself in slimy folds, plastic bags tearing with wet, jagged rips, glass bottles clattering and rolling across the flooded cobblestones. Rainwater carried everything into twisting, shifting rivulets, turning the alley into a slick, treacherous trap. Derek’s boot struck something that burst underfoot with a wet, shocking pop, sending him sliding sideways. Arms flailed uselessly as the slick, grimy surface robbed him of balance. Every movement was a gamble, each step a threat; one slip could send him sprawling, and the danger amplified with every heartbeat.
Then—the knife flashed.
Silver, sudden, lethal, its tip cutting through the dark, rain-choked air with merciless precision, arcing straight for Derek’s throat.
Derek reacted instinctively, yanking Crowe’s wrist mid-swing. The impact jolted both their arms violently, teeth rattling and muscles screaming as a shockwave of pain shot up to the shoulders. Tendons stood stark beneath rain-slick skin, flexing and straining under the force. Rain plastered their clothes to their bodies, adding oppressive weight that tugged at every movement. Every inch of leverage was a battle fought against both Crowe and the slick, flooded ground. Inches were life or death, a single slip catastrophic.
Crowe twisted with vicious cleverness, relentless, trying to turn a defensive block into a killing strike. The knife shivered as it edged closer, rain streaking down the blade, each drop tracing a path to the tip like a warning in miniature.
“You think this ends with cuffs?” Crowe rasped, breath ragged, manic. Blood streaked his face, mingling with the rain, soaking the folds of his hair. His eyes glowed with unhinged delight, alive with cruel anticipation. “He’ll remember me every time he breathes.”
Something ugly, incandescent, and blinding ignited in Derek’s chest.
Rage flared hot, white, and all-consuming, but beneath it simmered a sharp, focused terror—for the broken, bleeding figure behind him. Every instinct screamed to protect. Teeth bared, muscles coiled like steel springs ready to snap. With a snarl, Derek forced Crowe’s arm down and back, strength drawn from pure fury and unrelenting refusal. Knuckles burned, white-hot from the grip; shoulder and bicep protested violently, joints screaming under the strain. Pain became a tool, something to lean into rather than resist. Every fiber of his body ached, every sinew screamed—but he did not relent.
Then—a sharp, cruel pop echoed.
Crowe screamed—a raw, guttural sound that shredded the air, ripping apart whatever shred of composure he had left. His body convulsed violently, trembling in the rain-slicked alley, fingers spasming uselessly as the knife slipped from his suddenly numb hands. It clattered across the stone, spinning once, twice, skidding through puddles before vanishing into the rain-choked darkness. But he didn’t stop.
He surged forward, head smashing into Derek’s with bone-crushing force. The sickening crack echoed like gunfire, sending stars exploding behind Derek’s eyes. Crowe’s brow split instantly, blood gushing, plastering hair to his face and dripping in rivulets that rain tried—and failed—to wash away. Pain sharpened his reflexes instead of slowing him, each movement wild, desperate, unrelenting, like a cornered predator with nothing left to lose.
Derek’s body tensed, muscles coiled like springs ready to explode. He reared just enough to absorb the impact, jaw clenched, teeth grinding. Then he drove a merciless knee into Crowe’s gut.
The impact folded Crowe in half. A strangled, breathless grunt tore from his chest as his lungs expelled air violently. Derek didn’t pause. Another knee slammed into Crowe’s thigh with bone-jarring force, and the leg buckled. Crowe collapsed to one knee in the pooled, icy water. Cold shock surged through him, numbing his extremities even as his muscles screamed under the sudden loss of leverage. Rainwater soaked his clothes, plastered them to his skin, and he sagged forward, every breath sharp and ragged, body trembling from exhaustion and pain that felt endless.
Crowe lashed out blindly, a desperate, uncontrolled swing born of agony and fury. His fist clipped Derek’s shoulder in a glancing blow, a flare of pain shooting through bone and muscle—but it did nothing. It didn’t slow Derek. It didn’t buy him a single second.
Derek grabbed Crowe by the collar and shoved him forward with ruthless precision. Rain and blood splattered around them as the fight escalated. Each movement was more violent than the last. The narrow alley rang with the sounds of wet impact, ragged breaths, and the storm’s relentless roar, echoing off brick and metal like a funeral for sanity.
The first impact slammed Crowe’s face into the brick wall with brutal force. Skin tore raw, bone jarred. A wet, choking grunt ripped from his throat as his forehead cracked against the rough surface. Rain and blood sprayed outward in a dark, glistening arc that clung to every surface.
Derek didn’t let him fall. Not for a fraction of a second.
He hauled Crowe back with unyielding force and slammed him again. Teeth collided painfully, a sickening crack echoing as blood spurted into the rain, mixing with the dark sheets soaking them both. Crowe’s head snapped sideways; his vision erupted into white sparks, jagged shards of shadow cutting across his eyes. His ears rang, the world tipping violently as if the storm itself had detonated inside his skull. Legs trembled beneath him, quivering like fragile pillars threatening to collapse entirely.
Again.
The third impact crushed the last remnants of defiance. Crowe slumped heavily against the brick, chest heaving, forehead slick with blood that rain carved into angry streaks down to his jaw. Knees wobbled, barely holding him upright. Each ragged inhale rattled wetly through his chest, sharp and jagged, a brutal reminder that his body had betrayed him long before his mind had.
“Stay down.” Derek growled, voice low and lethal, each word slicing through the storm like a sharpened blade driven straight to bone.
Crowe tried anyway.
Pure, feral desperation hauled him forward, even as his body betrayed him piece by piece. Muscles screamed in open revolt, spasming and shaking violently as he bucked and twisted, the movements sloppy and uncoordinated. Blood flecked from his mouth as he spat hoarse, slurred curses through ragged, uneven breaths that burned his throat raw. His fingers clawed uselessly at the rain-slicked pavement, nails scraping stone that offered no traction, no mercy—only cold resistance. Every frantic surge of will slammed headlong into exhaustion, pain, and the immovable reality of Derek’s grip. Nothing he did mattered. He was already finished—his body just hadn’t accepted it yet.
Derek moved with brutal, methodical precision.
He swept Crowe’s legs out from under him in one clean, decisive motion. Crowe went down hard, face-first into the cold, jagged stone. The impact drove the breath from his lungs in a wet, choking grunt, teeth clicking painfully together. Water exploded outward in dark, splintering arcs, soaking them both, plastering hair to skin, rain mixing freely with blood until everything gleamed slick and red beneath the flicker of the alley lights.
Crowe tried to rise. His palms slid. His arms buckled. He barely managed an inch before gravity and pain crushed him back down.
Derek’s hands found his arms and wrenched them behind his back with unrelenting strength. Shoulders screamed as joints were forced past comfort and into sharp, tearing pain. Muscles trembled and strained in futile resistance, shaking violently as Crowe gasped, body jerking as he fought leverage he no longer had. His breath came in panicked, broken pulls, chest stuttering beneath Derek’s weight.
Derek pinned him completely—no wasted motion, no hesitation. A knee drove hard between Crowe’s shoulders, full weight pressing him into the icy stone. The impact rattled through Crowe’s spine, driving a raw cry from his throat. Rain stung his face, blood ran freely into his eyes, blurring the world into red and shadow—but Derek didn’t ease up. He ground Crowe down without mercy, forcing the last of his fight from him in ragged, furious gasps as his limbs shook, failed, and finally went slack beneath the relentless pressure.
Metal cuffs clicked around Crowe’s wrists.
Cold.
Unforgiving.
Final.
Crowe lay sprawled and broken, chest heaving violently as rain plastered his face to the stone. Blood and water mingled into slick, glistening rivulets beneath him, washing away the last traces of resistance. Whatever defiance had fueled him burned out at last, leaving only a shaking body pinned beneath the storm’s relentless roar.
The alley—moments ago chaos incarnate—fell into a grim, brittle quiet, broken only by the relentless drumming of rain on brick and pavement.
Derek stayed there a beat longer, ensuring it was truly over.
Then he exhaled.
The breath tore out of him, long and ragged, dragged from deep in his chest. Every muscle screamed in protest, nerves pulsed hot and sharp, his heartbeat thundering in his ears—a visceral reminder of just how close it had been.
And then, without a second thought, he was gone from Crowe’s side as he rushed toward Spencer.
“Hey—hey, I’ve got you,” he called urgently, dropping to his knees in icy puddles. Rain plastered his clothes to skin, seeped into boots, but he didn’t flinch. “I’ve got you.”
Strong, steady arms wrapped around Spencer’s trembling frame. One braced his back, the other steadied his quaking limbs. Pain screamed through every fiber as Spencer stiffened, releasing a broken, strangled sound as his ribs protested violently, his injured arm dragging uselessly against his side.
Derek adjusted immediately, slow and deliberate, murmuring low reassurances as he shifted Spencer slightly. His body became a shield, cutting off the worst of the rain, creating a small, concentrated pocket of warmth and solidity amid flashing lights, distant sirens, and the relentless hammer of water against stone.
And then Spencer broke.
Control shattered. Violent shudders tore through him as he sagged against Derek’s chest. Breath faltered, catching halfway through each inhale, jagged and uneven. His injured arm hung useless, sleeve dark and heavy with blood that continued to seep despite Derek’s firm, protective pressure. Each breath sent knives through his ribs—sharp, grinding pain that made drawing air without gasping impossible.
Glasses crooked, one lens cracked, vision fractured and blurred. Rain sluiced into his eyes and over his cheeks, but he had no strength to blink it away.
His fingers clawed weakly at Derek’s coat, nails digging into the fabric, smearing it dark with blood and rain. Desperate, unsteady—a grip that said letting go might mean collapsing entirely.
“I’ve got you,” Derek repeated, voice lower now, solid and unyielding, an anchor cutting through the storm. “I’ve got you. Stay with me, alright?”
Spencer tried to nod, but dizziness slammed into him, the alley tilting violently as vision tunneled and black edges crept inward. He sucked in a shallow, sharp breath as Derek carefully shifted him upright, cradling him against his chest, each movement precise yet gentle, calibrated to reduce the agony.
Every step toward the car was a crucible of pain. His arm burned with a white-hot intensity, ribs screamed with every breath, knee throbbed violently under him. Pain layered upon pain, merging into a single, overwhelming throb that drowned out everything else, leaving only the brutal reality of his body rebelling against him.
“You can take a break,” Derek murmured close to his ear, one hand firm on his shoulder. “Just tell me if it hurts.”
Spencer’s lips trembled. His throat worked futilely before fragile words escaped.
“It… it really does,” he whispered, voice shredded by exhaustion and agony. “I can’t—I can’t fight it anymore.”
Derek’s grip tightened, solid and unyielding—a promise made flesh.
“That’s okay,” Derek said, voice rough with emotion. “You don’t have to. I’ve got you now.”
The car door opened. Derek eased Spencer inside, painstakingly supporting him until he slumped onto the seat, curling protectively around his injuries. The door closed, muting the storm slightly. Rain streaked violently across the windshield instead of pounding directly.
The engine roared to life.
Red and blue lights blurred behind them, reflections smearing across wet glass.
Spencer trembled uncontrollably as shock and exhaustion dragged him down. His breaths were shallow, uneven, his body struggling to keep pace with itself. Pain and fear coiled tightly inside him, sending tremors through limbs that refused to obey.
Derek rested a steady hand against Spencer’s leg—warm, solid, unmovable.
A promise.
He wasn’t going anywhere.
Spencer finally let himself slide completely against Derek, surrendering to the tremors, the agony, the terror—and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, he allowed himself to feel safe.
By the time they reached the hospital doors, Spencer’s legs were barely functioning at all.
The last scraps of adrenaline burned out of his system in a sudden, merciless collapse—like a fuse flaring once before dying completely. There was no gentle taper, no warning tremor. Just a sharp, hollow drop as whatever had been holding him upright finally let go. His knees buckled outright, joints folding as if they’d forgotten their purpose, strength draining from him in a nauseating rush that left him cold and hollow all at once. The polished floor surged up toward him, the world tilting violently off its axis, and for one breathless, terrifying second, he wasn’t standing at all.
He was falling into nothing.
Derek caught him.
An arm locked hard around Spencer’s back, iron-strong and unyielding, hauling him upright before gravity could finish what Crowe had started. Spencer sagged into him immediately, dead weight for a heartbeat, his body shuddering violently as pain detonated everywhere at once. It wasn’t one clean sensation—it was everything at once, overlapping and jagged, his arm screaming, his ribs burning, his knee sending sharp, nauseating pulses straight through his gut. His breath fractured, stuttering high and useless in his chest, refusing to settle into anything that resembled air.
“I’ve got you,” Derek said, steady and absolute, even as Spencer’s full weight dragged against him. He adjusted instinctively, boots braced hard against the tile, stance widening to ground them both as another tremor ripped through Spencer’s frame. “I’ve got you. You’re not going down.”
The automatic doors slid open with a hollow whoosh, and cold fluorescent light spilled out over them, stark and unforgiving after the storm-darkened night. It felt too bright, too sharp—like it was stripping the world down to bone. Color drained away, leaving everything bleached and hostile. The air inside hit Spencer like a physical blow—antiseptic and ozone, with something faintly metallic underneath it all. Clean. Clinical. Wrong in a way that made his stomach twist.
Medics surged forward immediately, voices colliding and overlapping, shoes squeaking sharply against the tile.
“What happened?”
“He’s bleeding—”
“Sir, can you hear me?”
“Get a wheelchair—”
Hands reached for him—too many, too fast—and Spencer flinched weakly, his body tightening on pure instinct, every nerve screaming threat. Derek didn’t let go. Not when Spencer’s soaked coat was stripped away, fabric clinging stubbornly to blood-slick skin and tugging painfully at his arm. Not when gauze was pressed against the gash and a fresh, white-hot spike of pain ripped through him so violently it stole what little breath he had left. Not when Spencer swayed again, vision glazing as his skin went ashen and his breathing turned shallow and frantic, barely skimming the surface of his lungs.
The hallway warped.
Spencer’s vision tunneled violently, the edges of the world dimming and stretching, white walls bending and blurring into meaningless shapes. A high-pitched ringing swelled in his ears until it swallowed voices completely, everything sounding distant and submerged, like he was sinking underwater and the world was drifting away above him. The smell of antiseptic mixed with iron and rain and blood, sour and overwhelming, turning his stomach and making bile burn at the back of his throat.
“Sir—Dr. Reid, can you stay with us?” someone said, closer now.
Spencer tried to answer. He felt his mouth open. He knew words were supposed to follow—he could almost feel them hovering somewhere behind his teeth.
Nothing came.
His tongue felt thick and heavy, unresponsive. His chest refused to draw in enough air to make sound. Panic flickered weakly in his gut—dull and sluggish, more reflex than thought—before exhaustion crushed it flat, smothering even the fear.
Derek’s grip tightened, fingers digging in just enough to anchor him to the moment, to keep him from slipping any farther away. “He’s here,” Derek said firmly, his voice cutting cleanly through the chaos. “I’ve got him.”
They guided Spencer down the hallway, Derek moving with him step for step, never letting him drift or falter without catching it immediately. Every few feet something went wrong—Spencer stumbled, one foot dragging like it no longer belonged to him; his knee buckled without warning; his balance slipped sideways as dizziness rolled through him in heavy waves. Derek compensated for all of it on instinct, tightening his hold, shifting his grip, bracing his body like a living brace to keep Spencer upright.
The hallway stretched on mercilessly, fluorescent lights blurring into a smeared, pulsing line overhead. Each step felt borrowed. By the time they reached the treatment room, Spencer’s legs were shaking so violently he could barely feel them beneath him at all, nerves buzzing and misfiring, sensation dissolving into heat and static.
The instant Derek eased him down into the chair, Spencer’s body seemed to understand it no longer had to pretend.
The collapse was immediate—and vicious.
Violent shivers tore through him from shoulders to knees, muscles seizing and trembling uncontrollably as everything he’d been holding together finally gave way. Pain didn’t return so much as explode, blooming everywhere at once. His arm burned and throbbed, heat pulsing in sickening time with his heartbeat. His ribs ground viciously with every shallow breath, sharp enough to rip a broken gasp from his throat. Beneath it all, his knee screamed with a deep, nauseating ache that curled his stomach inward and made his vision swim.
He folded in on himself instinctively, shoulders caving as if he could curl around the pain and contain it. One arm clutched weakly at his chest, fingers digging into fabric as though holding himself together. His head dropped, chin nearly brushing his sternum, breaths hitching in short, jagged pulls that never quite filled his lungs.
Derek was in front of him instantly, crouching down to block out the room—the lights, the movement, the chaos. His eyes swept over Spencer with fast, practiced intensity, cataloging damage in seconds. The deep gash on his arm, still seeping stubbornly through the gauze. The sleeve dark and stiff with drying blood. The livid bruising already blooming beneath pale skin along his ribs. The unconscious way Spencer guarded his chest, every inhale cut short, aborted before it could fully form.
“It’s worse than you think,” Derek murmured, low enough that only Spencer could hear. There was no panic in his voice—just grim, unvarnished honesty. Then something softened in his expression, fierce and protective. “But we can handle it. You hear me? You’re going to be okay.”
Spencer swallowed, and the motion dragged painfully through his throat and chest, everything inside him tight and raw, like he might tear apart if he moved wrong.
“I hate…” His voice came out thin and shredded, barely recognizable. He had to stop, swallow again, force air into his lungs. “I hate feeling like this.”
Derek didn’t rush him. He stayed quiet, steady, waiting.
“So helpless,” Spencer whispered at last, the word heavy with shame and exhaustion, barely louder than a breath.
Derek’s hand closed over Spencer’s shoulder—solid, warm, unmistakably real. The pressure grounded him in a way nothing else had since the alley, since the knife, since the rain. “You’re not helpless,” Derek said quietly. “Not here. Not with me.”
A medic stepped closer, gloves snapping into place. “Alright, Spencer. I’m going to clean this first. It’s going to sting.”
The antiseptic hit the open wound.
Pain detonated in a blinding flash of white.
Spencer flinched violently, breath hitching so hard his vision fractured into sparks. A sharp, broken sound tore out of his throat before he could stop it—half gasp, half cry. His hands curled uselessly in his lap, shaking uncontrollably, nails biting into his palms as if pain could anchor him to the room.
Immediately, Derek took his hand.
Fingers threaded through Spencer’s with deliberate care, warm skin against cold, solid and grounding. Derek squeezed—not crushing, not tentative—just firm enough to be undeniable.
“Hey,” he murmured, leaning in close so Spencer could hear him over his own ragged breathing. “Breathe with me. Slow. I’ve got you.”
Spencer tried.
His breaths stayed ragged anyway, shallow and uneven, ribs protesting viciously with every inhale. Tears burned behind his eyes—hot, humiliating, uninvited—and this time he didn’t have the strength to fight them. A few slipped free, tracking silently down his cheeks and disappearing into his collar.
The stitching started.
Each pull of the needle sent a deep, sick ache through his arm, pain radiating outward in hot pulses that made his stomach clench and his shoulders tense. Spencer winced again and again, jaw trembling, fighting the instinct to jerk away, to curl inward, to escape his own skin.
Derek never let go.
“Rest,” he murmured steadily, thumb brushing slow, grounding circles against Spencer’s knuckles. “You don’t have to be strong right now. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
Spencer squeezed back weakly, the effort costing him more than it should have. His grip was clumsy, uncoordinated—but it was real. Derek felt it and answered with a squeeze of his own, wordless and sure.
Slowly—so slowly it barely registered—something inside Spencer loosened.
He stopped bracing for the next blow. Stopped waiting for pain to ambush him from nowhere. The sharp-edged memory of the alley—the knife, the rain, the terror—blurred and dulled, pushed back by exhaustion. Blood, storm, fear all faded into a distant haze.
What remained was Derek.
Solid. Fierce. Unmoving.
Spencer’s breathing finally evened out—still shallow, still painful, but no longer panicked. His head dipped forward as exhaustion settled heavy and unavoidable across his shoulders, dragging him down inch by inch.
And for the first time since the alley—since the fall, the knife, the instant he’d been absolutely certain this was where it ended—Spencer finally let himself breathe.
The scars healed slowly.
Spencer learned that truth in fragments, the way you learn anything that hurts too much to absorb all at once. He learned it long before the paperwork stamped him “fit for duty”, long before the doctors stopped asking him to rate his pain on a neat little scale, long before the team stopped watching him with that careful, quiet concern that tried—and failed—not to look like fear. He learned it in the lonely, grinding reality of mornings that began before dawn because his body refused to let him sleep any longer.
Healing was not a straight line. It zigzagged and faltered. It doubled back on itself with cruel enthusiasm whenever he pushed too hard, whenever nightmares stole rest from him, whenever stress coiled too tightly around his ribs and refused to loosen its grip. Some days it felt like progress. Other days it felt like punishment.
Healing lived in the small, intimate rituals of survival.
It lived in the way he woke gasping, shoulder locked stiff and burning as if it had been wrenched out of place again, pain sharp enough to jolt him fully awake before his mind could catch up. It lived in the careful stretch of his arm, inch by agonizing inch, jaw clenched, breath held as he waited to see whether the tight pull would ease—or snap into something white-hot and dangerous. It lived in the way he tested his ribs every single morning, slow inhale, slower exhale, counting heartbeats, bracing himself in case the ache flared into something that would steal his breath and leave him folded over himself.
It lived in the exhaustion that crept up faster than it ever had before—heavy, insistent, settling deep in his bones and behind his eyes, demanding rest whether he had time for it or not. Fatigue no longer felt like an inconvenience. It felt like gravity, like his own body quietly dragging him back toward the ground.
Some days were deceptively easy.
On those days, he almost felt like himself again—sharp, quick, unburdened. His thoughts snapped into place cleanly. His hands were steady. His body responded when he asked it to, obedient instead of resentful. The world felt normal, as if the alley and the rain and the knife and the panic had all been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare he’d finally managed to wake up from.
Those days were dangerous in their own way. They tempted him to forget.
Other days hurt in ways that felt profoundly unfair.
Days when his knee throbbed with a deep, nauseating ache for no discernible reason, pain blooming slow and relentless until it made him sweat. Days when his ribs flared just enough to steal his breath mid-sentence, leaving him dizzy and shaken, heart racing while he pretended nothing was wrong. Days when exhaustion hit so suddenly it felt like gravity had doubled, crushing down on him until his limbs felt heavy and unresponsive, like they belonged to someone else.
On those days, it felt as though his body were punishing him for surviving—resentful of being dragged forward when it would have preferred to collapse and stay still.
The visible injuries faded first.
Livid bruises bled into sickly yellow before disappearing entirely. Stitches dissolved, itching maddeningly as the skin pulled itself together, nerves firing in sharp, uncomfortable reminders that something had once torn him open. The cast came off. The sling was folded carefully and shoved into the back of a closet, an artifact from another life he wasn’t quite ready to throw away.
What remained were quieter reminders. Subtler ones. Stiffness that lingered on cold mornings. A faint tremor in his hands when he was overtired or overwhelmed. The thin white scar along his forearm where the gash had once been angry and raised and furious, now smooth beneath his fingertips but no less real.
Rain no longer made it ache—but storms still hummed faintly beneath his skin, a ghost-memory vibrating through muscle and bone, as if his body never quite forgot what it had survived.
He came back piece by piece.
The first day he ran again, Derek didn’t say a word.
He stood across the gym with his arms folded, jaw set, eyes never leaving Spencer as he stepped onto the track. Spencer felt that gaze immediately—felt it like a steady pressure between his shoulder blades, grounding and unyielding. It wasn’t doubt. It wasn’t fear. It was something fiercer than either. Something protective. Something that wrapped around him like a tether, keeping him upright even when his body wobbled and protested.
Three laps.
That was all Spencer managed before his lungs burned and his knee sent up a dull, unmistakable warning. His breath came ragged, scraping too shallow in his chest. He slowed, then stopped on his own, hands braced on his thighs as he dragged in air that didn’t feel like enough. Sweat cooled too quickly against his skin, leaving him chilled even as his pulse hammered violently in his ears.
For a terrifying half-second, the world tilted—and he was back in the hospital, legs giving out beneath him, fluorescent lights blurring overhead.
Derek was there almost instantly.
Not crowding. Not grabbing. Just close enough that Spencer knew—absolutely knew—he wouldn’t hit the ground. Derek handed him a towel without comment, steady and solid. Their fingers brushed, fleeting contact that sent a quiet shock through Spencer’s chest. Derek didn’t pull away. His grip lingered, warm and sure, anchoring Spencer in the present in a way that had nothing to do with physical support and everything to do with trust.
“Still slower than you,” Spencer managed between breaths, pushing his glasses back up his nose with a crooked, breathless smile that took more effort than it should have.
Derek snorted softly, eyes warm. “That was never in question.”
No lecture. No disappointment. No impatience.
Just presence. Just the quiet, unwavering reassurance that Spencer wasn’t alone—even when his body betrayed him.
Normal returned in fragments, almost imperceptibly, and that startled Spencer more than the pain ever had.
Briefings where no one watched him like he might shatter. Paperwork piling up the way it always had. Late nights fueled by bad coffee and worse takeout. Arguments over statistics and profiles that ended in laughter instead of tension—laughter that didn’t feel brittle or forced, laughter that lingered.
But some things were undeniably different.
Spencer noticed them in the margins of his life.
In the way Derek positioned himself just slightly closer during arrests, body angled protectively, blocking threats Spencer hadn’t even consciously registered yet. In the way Derek’s eyes flicked toward him during tense moments—not anxious, not hovering—just checking. Always checking. Always present.
And in the way Derek touched him now.
A hand at the small of his back when crowds pressed too close. Fingers brushing his wrist when passing a file, thumb lingering just a fraction longer than necessary. A quiet, grounding pressure on his shoulder when Spencer’s thoughts threatened to spiral, when memory pressed too sharp against the inside of his skull.
Spencer never commented on it.
He didn’t need to.
Months later, on a rare quiet evening when the bullpen was nearly empty, Spencer sat cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by case files he didn’t need to reread. The overhead lights hummed softly. Outside, dusk bled into night, rain threatening but not yet falling.
Derek leaned against his desk, coffee forgotten and cooling in his hand, watching him with that familiar mix of fondness and restrained concern.
“You know you’re cleared,” Derek said eventually. “You don’t have to prove anything.”
Spencer looked up.
Really looked.
Derek’s face was softer than it had been in the alley, softer than it had been in the hospital—no blood, no rain, no raw terror carved into his features. But the steadiness was still there. The same man who had knelt in filthy water and held Spencer together when his body had given out completely.
“I know,” Spencer said quietly. And this time, he meant it.
He stood, stretching easily now, movement fluid where it had once been careful and guarded. No hitch. No wince. Derek tracked the motion anyway, eyes sharp out of habit before he caught himself and smiled—small, proud, unmistakably affectionate.
Spencer hesitated, heart picking up speed, and finally said the thing that had been heavy in his chest for months.
“You stayed.”
Derek blinked. “Yeah.”
“No,” Spencer said softly, voice tightening. “I mean… you stayed. Through the worst of it. When I wasn’t exactly—” He swallowed hard, throat burning. “Functional.”
Derek set his coffee down. The room felt suddenly smaller. Warmer. Charged.
“That’s not how it works,” Derek said, voice low.
“How what works?”
“This,” Derek replied, gesturing between them—honest, unguarded. “You don’t disappear when things get hard. You don’t have to earn being worth staying for.”
The words hit Spencer harder than any diagnosis ever had.
His chest tightened painfully, emotion sharp and overwhelming, cutting deeper than any wound. Derek stepped closer, slow and deliberate, giving Spencer every chance to pull away.
Spencer didn’t.
Derek’s hand came up, tentative for the first time Spencer could ever remember, fingers brushing his jaw. The touch was reverent. Careful. Like Derek was afraid of hurting him all over again.
“You’re not broken,” Derek murmured. “You never were.”
Spencer’s breath hitched. He leaned into the touch before he could stop himself, forehead pressing briefly against Derek’s chest, right over his heart. Derek’s arms came around him immediately, strong and sure, holding him like he had in the hospital—only this time there was no panic, no blood, no fear. Just warmth. Just safety.
They left together that night, stepping into cool air that smelled faintly of rain. The streets glistened, quiet and empty. Spencer paused, tilting his head back to watch clouds crawl slowly across the sky, then turned to Derek.
“I don’t feel broken anymore,” he said.
Derek smiled—slow, warm, achingly tender. His thumb brushed lightly over Spencer’s wrist, right over the scar, acknowledgment and promise wrapped into one simple gesture.
“You never were.”
They walked to the car side by side, shoulders brushing. Derek’s hand slid into Spencer’s without ceremony, fingers warm and certain. Spencer leaned into it, letting himself feel the weight of it—the safety, the devotion, the quiet, fierce love forged in pain and survival.
It wasn’t dramatic.
It didn’t need to be.
Recovery hadn’t erased the alley. Or the rain. Or the moment Spencer had shattered in Derek’s arms.
It had woven it all into something stronger—trust, intimacy, love born from seeing each other at their worst and choosing to stay anyway.
Some bonds were forged in quiet moments.
Others were forged in blood, pain, and the fierce refusal to let go.
Those bonds endured.
And whatever came next, they would face it together.