✓ | sick of losing soulmates [SPENCER REID]

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( meeting and re-meeting. )

☆ ★ ☆

authors note:
disclaimer before u read:: i wrote this fic when i was fifteen. it has a lot of mistakes. a few cringey moments. probably a few spelling errors (its a long story, its gonna happen lol) but i am overall proud of it. im slowly editing it, so that might cause some plot holes.

its been 2/3 years ish since this was written and published, and its getting to the point where a lot of people are reading and commenting some things. honestly i love the jokes, but some people have been a little judgemental. so yeah, just a warning, this is a 15 year old's writing, so hate isnt appreciated. ive only had a few comments here and there, and i delete them usually, but they really are upsetting sometimes. other than that, i hope u enjoy

spencer

Some say that, by the time you're twenty-one, you've met your soulmate, but he meets her for the first time on the day of his twenty-fourth birthday.

Beachwood, Maine, is a record-breaking-ly small town (he's sure he's read somewhere that it is the smallest in the entire state with only five-hundred or so residents) with an even smaller Sheriff Department; in such a small, remote place, there was no need — and no funding from the snooty, white, elderly locals — for an actually police department, so the Sheriff's station is the only option they have.

Gideon leads their group of six, followed by Elle and then Spencer Reid himself, as they enter the squat brick building, emerging in the warm glow of lamps and the dreary, tired atmosphere of those working the night shift. It seems larger than it did on the outside: desks and chairs sprawl out across the linoleum in front of them, and then beyond that a corridor splits off to leave to their holding cell and storage rooms for weapons and evidence. At the centre of the room, desks have been cleared to leave an empty space, where three boards have been wheeled up and stand, littered with photographs and notes on what this tiny town would call the crime of the century.

Almost with tunnel vision, Spencer, with his briefcase under his arm, heads straight for the boards to take a look at what's been found. He's been briefed on the case by Hotch, but he remembers things better when he reads them, not when it's auditory. Even still, he approaches the board with much pessimism, despite being eager to see its contents; he's well aware that in small, suburban, and most likely racist towns like this, collecting of evidence isn't as big of a deal as it is in larger towns. It's like they're in a world of their own out here, and that world is living back in the 1920s taking nothing all that seriously.

On the centre board, which is a rather large glass pane supported on beams and positioned on wheels, are photos of the victims. So far, there's been six — in the past three weeks. All women. And two within the past two days.