Grace [Criminal Minds fic]
Title: Grace
Author: heroes_and_cons
Pairing: Reid/OFC (Reid dad!fic)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,512
A/N: this is my first CM fic. ever. go easy :)
“The child must know that she is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn't been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like her.”
- Pablo Casals
Every day, Reid walks into the BAU feeling as though he’s seen and been through every level of horror that exists in the world; that his experiences will give him a leverage that no one else has, one that he will harness to catch the bad guys and return home at the end of the day feeling vindicated.
And every day, Reid is somehow proved wrong. “There’s no way to become numb to dead bodies or make them all seem universal,” Morgan had once told him, after they had caught a serial killer who systematically stripped the flesh off of his victims and ate it.
“Conference room, five minutes,” Hotchner says, just as Reid sets foot in the headquarters. He slings his satchel off of his shoulder, pausing long enough at his desk to fix the slightly crooked framed photo of his family.
“What are we dealing with?” Morgan asks as Reid slips into the conference room.
Garcia sighs heavily, in the kind of way that makes Reid shiver. He’s the youngest, technically with the least experience behind him, and seeing the others so much as cringe instinctively sends him into a fleeting panic.
“Mass infanticide,” she murmurs. “Just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“What do you mean?” Hotch asks, furrowing his brow.
Garcia reluctantly hands him the file. He fans out the photos across the table, and the entire room falls into a deadening silence.
“All of the victims are between six and twenty-four months old,” Garcia whispers, twisting a pen in her hands and averting her gaze. “All of them had…had their throats slit open.”
Reid feels as though he might vomit, and he closes his eyes for a moment and swallows until the urge is repressed. He reaches for one of the photos, not because he wants to see but because he needs to.
“They’re still fully clothed,” he points out quietly. “There probably wasn’t any sexual assault involved. And it looks like they were placed in the fetal position, with their arms and legs tucked in.”
For the first time since Reid can remember, no one else in the room speaks. No one asks questions - any geographical similarities? Any constants between the families, something that could point to victimology? - and no one makes a move to stand. The photos simply circulate around the table, until even Hotchner can no longer look at them.
Morgan slides another photo towards Reid. At this point, his head is spinning; he’s trying to focus on everything that he has become instinctual with this job, trying to completely detach himself from the victims sprawled across the tables. But when the photo of a little girl reaches Reid, he suddenly feels as though his lungs are far too big for his ribcage.
She looks to be about two, maybe two and a half years, with pale skin and soft auburn hair that curls around her ears. Her hands - still the plump peapod fingers of an infant - are folded just under her chin, as if in prayer. There is a long, jagged gash across her throat, exposing the major artery.
But what catches Reid’s eye is her pink and purple striped pajamas, with a smiling rainbow sewn into the top left corner, just above her heart.
“We need to get moving,” Hotchner says, his deep voice permeating the silent room. “Everyone be on the plane within half an hour.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Spencer?”
Charlotte is one of the few people who actually calls Reid by his first name; it seems to define his two spheres of life. At home, he is Spencer, or Daddy. At work, he is Dr. Reid. The two never seem to converge.
“Charlie? It’s me.” Reid leans against the wall of the building, pressing his forehead against the cool plaster.
“Is something wrong?”
Reid swallows. “No,” he says, repeating it again with what he hopes is more confidence. “No, we’re just leaving to go to Nebraska. I might not be home for a few days.”
Charlotte hesitates. “It’s bad, isn’t it,” she murmurs, her voice thick with concern.
It’s always bad, Reid wants to say. But Charlotte is a little bit of a hypochondriac, and the last thing he wants is for her to be worried. “Everything will be okay,” he says instead, which is somewhat of a lie. Maybe they would get there in time to stop the unsub, but in the end, five children had been murdered. There was no fixing to be done.
“Listen, do you think…could you do me a favor?” Reid asks. It’s cold out, high 30s and cloudy, and his breath escapes his lips in thick, translucent clouds.
“Anything.”
“Is, um…” Reid clears his throat. “Is Grace still in her pajamas?”
There’s a pause, static over the line. “Yeah, the pink and purple ones you got her for Christmas. Why?”
“Change her.”
“What? But she loves -”
“Just do it.” Reid runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain anything right now. But please, just promise me you’ll get her out of the PJ’s.”
“Okay. Okay, I promise,” Charlotte murmurs. “Do you want to talk to her?”
Reid smiles uncontrollably. “Yeah, put her on.”
He can hear the phone being passed from one hand to the other; Charlotte’s voice telling Grace to say hello.
“Hi Daddy!” Grace says, her voice bright and bubbly.
“Hey, Gracie,” Reid grins. “Listen, I have to leave soon. But I promise you I’ll be home really soon, okay?”
“Okay.” For a moment, there is nothing but crackling static, and Reid can hear Charlotte in the background - “No, Gracie, hold it to your ear.”
“Grace? Can you hear me?”
“Hi Daddy,” she repeats, as if they’re starting over.
“Hi,” Reid sighs, closing his eyes. “Grace, be good for Mommy while I’m gone, all right?”
“Yes. Tell me a fact, Daddy.”
Sometimes, in lieu of bedtime stories, Reid would tell Grace random facts - things he’d learned at some point and stored away in his memory, but had yet to see the light of day. At first, Charlotte had encouraged him to go back to reading her tales of princesses and white horses - “She’s not going to remember the size of a Neanderthal’s brain in the morning, anyway” - but Grace discarded her picture books and asked for more facts, and in the morning she would tell Charlotte all about how babies are born colorblind, or that “Vodka” is Russian for “little water” (Charlotte was not pleased with the latter).
“Okay,” Reid concedes. “Solomon Islanders believe that when people die, their souls inhabit the bodies of sharks.”
“What are Somon Inders?”
“Solomon Islanders,” Reid laughs. “They are the people who live on the Solomon Islands. It’s near Australia.”
“Can we go there?” Grace asks, her voice eager.
“Tell you what,” Reid breathes, hugging his free arm around his body, “when I get home, we’ll start planning a vacation to the Solomon Islands.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Grace.”
Reid says goodbye and hangs up, and for a moment feels as though he cannot breathe.
“When were you thinking of taking a vacation?”
Hotchner steps towards Reid, arms folded across his chest. Though the worry lines between his brows seem permanently embedded into his skin, the faintest beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his lips.
Reid sighs and bows his head. “Right now, I’d give her the moon if I could.”
Hotchner nods; he understands. “Listen, Reid…being a father is the hardest job anyone could ask for. Being a father while being a member of this team is exponentially harder.”
Reid’s head snaps up, an almost instinctive reflex. “I can do my job, sir, I just-”
Hotchner raises a hand. “I know,” he says. “I wasn’t questioning your ability. Just some sage advice: I’ve made a few mistakes at work. And I’ve made a few mistakes at home.” His dark eyes meet Reid’s. “If I could go back and do anything over, I would. But no matter what, I would move heaven and earth if it meant protecting my son.” He pauses, glancing at Reid’s cell phone. “They’re going to be okay,” he murmurs. “They’re safe. But there are parents out there that we need to help so they don’t lose their children.”
“Right,” Reid nods, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’ll meet you on the plane,” Hotchner says, clapping a hand over Reid’s shoulder before walking away.
Reid slips back into the building, half-runs back to his desk. He pulls a coat on over his sweater vest and grabs his satchel. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then grabs the photo of Charlotte and Grace and slips it into his bag, carrying them with him as he leaves.
Author: heroes_and_cons
Pairing: Reid/OFC (Reid dad!fic)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1,512
A/N: this is my first CM fic. ever. go easy :)
“The child must know that she is a miracle, that since the beginning of the world there hasn't been, and until the end of the world there will not be, another child like her.”
- Pablo Casals
Every day, Reid walks into the BAU feeling as though he’s seen and been through every level of horror that exists in the world; that his experiences will give him a leverage that no one else has, one that he will harness to catch the bad guys and return home at the end of the day feeling vindicated.
And every day, Reid is somehow proved wrong. “There’s no way to become numb to dead bodies or make them all seem universal,” Morgan had once told him, after they had caught a serial killer who systematically stripped the flesh off of his victims and ate it.
“Conference room, five minutes,” Hotchner says, just as Reid sets foot in the headquarters. He slings his satchel off of his shoulder, pausing long enough at his desk to fix the slightly crooked framed photo of his family.
“What are we dealing with?” Morgan asks as Reid slips into the conference room.
Garcia sighs heavily, in the kind of way that makes Reid shiver. He’s the youngest, technically with the least experience behind him, and seeing the others so much as cringe instinctively sends him into a fleeting panic.
“Mass infanticide,” she murmurs. “Just outside of Lincoln, Nebraska.”
“What do you mean?” Hotch asks, furrowing his brow.
Garcia reluctantly hands him the file. He fans out the photos across the table, and the entire room falls into a deadening silence.
“All of the victims are between six and twenty-four months old,” Garcia whispers, twisting a pen in her hands and averting her gaze. “All of them had…had their throats slit open.”
Reid feels as though he might vomit, and he closes his eyes for a moment and swallows until the urge is repressed. He reaches for one of the photos, not because he wants to see but because he needs to.
“They’re still fully clothed,” he points out quietly. “There probably wasn’t any sexual assault involved. And it looks like they were placed in the fetal position, with their arms and legs tucked in.”
For the first time since Reid can remember, no one else in the room speaks. No one asks questions - any geographical similarities? Any constants between the families, something that could point to victimology? - and no one makes a move to stand. The photos simply circulate around the table, until even Hotchner can no longer look at them.
Morgan slides another photo towards Reid. At this point, his head is spinning; he’s trying to focus on everything that he has become instinctual with this job, trying to completely detach himself from the victims sprawled across the tables. But when the photo of a little girl reaches Reid, he suddenly feels as though his lungs are far too big for his ribcage.
She looks to be about two, maybe two and a half years, with pale skin and soft auburn hair that curls around her ears. Her hands - still the plump peapod fingers of an infant - are folded just under her chin, as if in prayer. There is a long, jagged gash across her throat, exposing the major artery.
But what catches Reid’s eye is her pink and purple striped pajamas, with a smiling rainbow sewn into the top left corner, just above her heart.
“We need to get moving,” Hotchner says, his deep voice permeating the silent room. “Everyone be on the plane within half an hour.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“Spencer?”
Charlotte is one of the few people who actually calls Reid by his first name; it seems to define his two spheres of life. At home, he is Spencer, or Daddy. At work, he is Dr. Reid. The two never seem to converge.
“Charlie? It’s me.” Reid leans against the wall of the building, pressing his forehead against the cool plaster.
“Is something wrong?”
Reid swallows. “No,” he says, repeating it again with what he hopes is more confidence. “No, we’re just leaving to go to Nebraska. I might not be home for a few days.”
Charlotte hesitates. “It’s bad, isn’t it,” she murmurs, her voice thick with concern.
It’s always bad, Reid wants to say. But Charlotte is a little bit of a hypochondriac, and the last thing he wants is for her to be worried. “Everything will be okay,” he says instead, which is somewhat of a lie. Maybe they would get there in time to stop the unsub, but in the end, five children had been murdered. There was no fixing to be done.
“Listen, do you think…could you do me a favor?” Reid asks. It’s cold out, high 30s and cloudy, and his breath escapes his lips in thick, translucent clouds.
“Anything.”
“Is, um…” Reid clears his throat. “Is Grace still in her pajamas?”
There’s a pause, static over the line. “Yeah, the pink and purple ones you got her for Christmas. Why?”
“Change her.”
“What? But she loves -”
“Just do it.” Reid runs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I can’t explain anything right now. But please, just promise me you’ll get her out of the PJ’s.”
“Okay. Okay, I promise,” Charlotte murmurs. “Do you want to talk to her?”
Reid smiles uncontrollably. “Yeah, put her on.”
He can hear the phone being passed from one hand to the other; Charlotte’s voice telling Grace to say hello.
“Hi Daddy!” Grace says, her voice bright and bubbly.
“Hey, Gracie,” Reid grins. “Listen, I have to leave soon. But I promise you I’ll be home really soon, okay?”
“Okay.” For a moment, there is nothing but crackling static, and Reid can hear Charlotte in the background - “No, Gracie, hold it to your ear.”
“Grace? Can you hear me?”
“Hi Daddy,” she repeats, as if they’re starting over.
“Hi,” Reid sighs, closing his eyes. “Grace, be good for Mommy while I’m gone, all right?”
“Yes. Tell me a fact, Daddy.”
Sometimes, in lieu of bedtime stories, Reid would tell Grace random facts - things he’d learned at some point and stored away in his memory, but had yet to see the light of day. At first, Charlotte had encouraged him to go back to reading her tales of princesses and white horses - “She’s not going to remember the size of a Neanderthal’s brain in the morning, anyway” - but Grace discarded her picture books and asked for more facts, and in the morning she would tell Charlotte all about how babies are born colorblind, or that “Vodka” is Russian for “little water” (Charlotte was not pleased with the latter).
“Okay,” Reid concedes. “Solomon Islanders believe that when people die, their souls inhabit the bodies of sharks.”
“What are Somon Inders?”
“Solomon Islanders,” Reid laughs. “They are the people who live on the Solomon Islands. It’s near Australia.”
“Can we go there?” Grace asks, her voice eager.
“Tell you what,” Reid breathes, hugging his free arm around his body, “when I get home, we’ll start planning a vacation to the Solomon Islands.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“Love you too, Grace.”
Reid says goodbye and hangs up, and for a moment feels as though he cannot breathe.
“When were you thinking of taking a vacation?”
Hotchner steps towards Reid, arms folded across his chest. Though the worry lines between his brows seem permanently embedded into his skin, the faintest beginnings of a smile tug at the corners of his lips.
Reid sighs and bows his head. “Right now, I’d give her the moon if I could.”
Hotchner nods; he understands. “Listen, Reid…being a father is the hardest job anyone could ask for. Being a father while being a member of this team is exponentially harder.”
Reid’s head snaps up, an almost instinctive reflex. “I can do my job, sir, I just-”
Hotchner raises a hand. “I know,” he says. “I wasn’t questioning your ability. Just some sage advice: I’ve made a few mistakes at work. And I’ve made a few mistakes at home.” His dark eyes meet Reid’s. “If I could go back and do anything over, I would. But no matter what, I would move heaven and earth if it meant protecting my son.” He pauses, glancing at Reid’s cell phone. “They’re going to be okay,” he murmurs. “They’re safe. But there are parents out there that we need to help so they don’t lose their children.”
“Right,” Reid nods, tucking his phone into his back pocket. “Thanks for reminding me.”
“I’ll meet you on the plane,” Hotchner says, clapping a hand over Reid’s shoulder before walking away.
Reid slips back into the building, half-runs back to his desk. He pulls a coat on over his sweater vest and grabs his satchel. He hesitates for a heartbeat, then grabs the photo of Charlotte and Grace and slips it into his bag, carrying them with him as he leaves.