morgan boss

My Boys...Part 9

For those of you waiting for the reader to rip into Spencer…here’s your chapter!  I hope that you enjoy how it’s written, because here it is, comin’ ‘atcha!

(Part 1  Part 2  Part 3  Part 4  Part 5  Part 6  Part 7  Part 8  Part 10  Part 11  Part 12  Part 13  Part 14  Part 15  Part 16  Epilogue)


As Spencer opens his car door, Morgan still in the process of slowing down the vehicle, he quickly unlocks his seat-belt and goes barreling towards the house, with Hotch quickly at his side as his boss shoves his cell phone back in his pocket.

“Garcia?” he asks him breathlessly as he draws his weapon, his foot raising up as he kicks the front door in.

“FBI!” Hotch roars into the house as he clicks on his flashlight.

“Yes,” Hotch says in a lowered tone of voice.

“W-wh…wel,l what did she say!?” Spencer harshly whispers at his boss as Morgan flies up behind them, gun drawn as he moves to the right, clearing the rest of the downstairs rooms.

“Garcia thinks their in the basement,” Hotch says as he eyes a door hanging open.

“FBI!” Hotch roars again as he shines his flashlight down the stairs.

But when Spencer quickly descends the stairs, his eyes settling on the sight of you poised, ready to bash this man’s head in, he aims his weapon not at him…but at you.

“Ma!” DeShawn shrieks again as his father groans at your feet.

“Ma…don’t be like him…” DeShawn begs.

All of the words…words of love and comfort…words of devotion and reassurance…they were all replaced with spit-fire words of fury and fear.

“He took you two…from your beds…” you glower.

“Y/N…?” Spencer asks lightly, his gun trained on you as you slowly pan your head towards your colleague.

“Really, Reid?  You hate me so much you’re willing to kill me over him?” you ask, nodding your head to the man at your feet.

“I don’t hate you…” he says desperately, shaking his head as Hotch stays in the shadows, training his gun on DeShawn’s father in case he makes a move for any one of his teammates.

Or your sons.

“Save your heroic speech for someone who cares,” you lull, turning your head back to the man at your feet.

“I won’t let you kill him,” Spencer says as he takes another step down the stairs.

“But you were willing to let him kill my sons, right?” you ask, whipping your head back towards a blind-sided Spencer.

“You were willing to place your tender, broken heart in front of the well-being of my boys.  Right!?” you ask, your voice getting louder as Wilder groans again in the background.

“You were willing to place your selfish, hurt little feelings in front of figuring out how to save my sons’ lives…right!?” you bellow.

“And now!?” you shriek as you turn your entire body towards him, your thought process scattering itself across the continents of your mind as you slowly lower the crowbar from above your head.

Now you’re willing to shoot me instead of the serial killer who has ripped apart 7 different families!  All in the name of trying to get his back!”

And it was then, at your weakest and most vulnerable, that DeShawn’s father made a move for you.

Flying up faster than anyone would have assumed possible for a man his size, he hits you in your stomach, causing you to gasp for air as DeShawn yells in the background, his voice growing hoarse as he begs his father to let you go.

And just as your head made contact with the solid wall, you hear multiple gunshots ring out, your body hitting the ground with a thud as you feel the warm, thick blood that you were so intent on drawing just moments before of your own volition trickling up under your legs as you pan your gaze over to the source.

DeShawn’s father, his eyes wide open and his jaw unhinged, his lifeless stare wildly accusing you of taking his son from him as your emotions finally begin to regulate themselves.

Murderer.

You almost became a murderer.

Scurrying to your feet as you fly to your boys, you make quick use of your hands, your tears blurring your vision as Morgan finally finds a working light, the illuminating presence flooding the room as realization hits your mind.

DeShawn.

He can’t see his father like that.

Ripping the last of Wilder’s bonds away, you stand up quickly, ready to throw your body in front of his line of sight until your eyes take in Spencer’s body fluttering a blanket he had found quickly over the dead, bleeding form.

“I’ve got it,” he says comfortingly, looking at you as his eyes glisten.

Hearing the paramedics traipse down the stairs, tears stream from your wide eyes as you help Wilder into their arms, the medics working with an IV and some pain medication as they try to discern all of the pain that has been inflicted upon him.

Your son.

Your little baby boy…

“Ma…” DeShawn croaks.

Whipping your head around, you drop to your knees as you begin to work at his bindings, freeing his appendages one by one before taking his face in your hands and planting a long, deep kiss upon his forehead.

“Hey there, sweet cheeks,” you whisper, your breath quivering as you try to swallow your sobs.

“Ma…” he croaks, throwing his weakened arms around you as you pull him close, your legs straddling his wide form (that he apparently gets from his father) as you rock slowly side-to-side, your 17 year old son sobbing into the crook of your neck as the blood dripping from his face begins to soak up in the fabric of your shirt.

“My big, sweet boy,” you tremble, pressing another kiss to the side of his head as you feel a hand come down on your shoulder.

“The medics are here for him,” Spencer coos, squeezing your shoulder lightly as you nod against your son’s head.

“He kept insisting, Ma…” DeShawn whines.

“Who kept insisting what, sweetheart?” you breathe as Hotch appears behind your son, dipping into your line of sight as he puts his hand on DeShawn’s back.

“W-…Wilder.”

Furrowing your brow, you pull back as you cup your son’s face, lifting his bruised, swollen, bloodied face to yours.

“He kept insisting what?” you implore lightly.

“To hurt him.  He-…he kept telling m-…my dad-”

“That man is not your dad,” you say sternly, “…your father, yes.  But most certainly not your dad.”

DeShawn’s good eye finally peeled open, flickering up to you as you get off of his lap, standing in front of him as the paramedics begin to help you get him off of the chair.

“He kept telling my father to hurt him instead,” DeShawn says, your sobs finally wracking your body as the audible sounds of pain and fear finally begin to waft from your throat.

“Ma?” DeShawn asks as they begin to set him an IV.

“Ma!?” he says a bit louder as they begin to move his gurney.

“I’m right here,” you soothe, reaching out and grasping his hand as your tears begin to drip down your neck.

“I’m right here, and I’m following the two of you to the hospital.”

“You can ride with us, Mom, if you want,” the paramedic tells you.

“Please, Ma…” DeShawn asks weakly.

“Alright, baby boy.  Alright,” you say, turning your head to look back at Hotch as he nods for you to go.

And just as everyone was emerging from the house, the team watching you as you hop up into the ambulance behind your son, J.J. grasps Spencer’s arm as she yanks him over to the SUV you had driven here, the trunk door open as she holds the recording device in her hand.

“What, J.J.?” Spencer asks, slightly annoyed.

“You need to listen to this,” she urges, holding it out for him as the team begins to gather around.

“What’s this?” he asks as he takes the device in his hands.

“A lot of things,” she breathes as she tentatively looks over at Rossi standing beside her.

“But mostly?” Rossi interjects just before Spencer presses the play button, “it’s how she feels about you.”

And with a deeply furrowed brow, Spencer looks down at the device as he presses play, your voice wafting through the small speaker on the side as you begin speaking.

“I, Y/F/N Y/L/N, being of sound mind and body, do hereby give full and complete guidance and medical decisions of my two songs, Wilder Y/L/N and DeShawn Y/L/N, over to Dr. Spencer Reid of the BAU…”