![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Criminal Mind AU
Summary: Spencer/Xander's one of those super rare cross-ships that there's almost nothing. Most of my finally admitting defeat (going back through fic that I haven't worked on in years) has to do with not knowing how to write a Criminal Minds case. It would probably help if I watched more, but it's hard to find the time to watch everything, and I a) don't know how to psychology in Buffy (lol insert Walsh joke here) and b) am slightly intimidated by the quality of some of the Twisting the Hellmouth crossover fics in this category. Along those lines, I'd like to apologize to Garcia for the job I've done with your dialogue, because you're great and I officially don't know how to write the way you talk.
More a collection of scenes than anything, but I think it works. I'm not tagging everyone, mostly because I doubt I'll be using a lot of the tags again. It's the Alex|Xan thing again, like in the Deadly Premonition inspired drabble series (of The Willow Tapes fame) and the one where he's Abby's bro (NCIS) and the recent also abandoned fic Cosmic Castaway. Alex is the one who can cast spells, Constantine-style. Xander should not speak in front of the books. I think Dr. Reid's first meeting with Xander was supposed to be at Oxnard. Also, Alex|Xander's referencing Mr. Fantastic, which is why he keeps calling him Dr. Reid.
Word Count: 3728
Rating: Teen
“We’re all mad here”
“Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence– whether much that is glorious– whether all that is profound– does not spring from disease of thought– from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect.”
― Edgar Allan Poe
“Eight deaths? How was this not caught?”
“It’s a psychiatric hospital. The deaths were suspicious, but just ruled off as suicides. Nobody paid any attention until…” A click, a slide. A little girl, smiling, perhaps a little unfocused, but adorable all the same. “Ashlee Jensen. She had severe schizophrenia, but according to the caregivers was sweet and had no tendency to suicide. In addition, there is no possible way that this,” the next slide showed a horribly disfigured body, “…was suicide.”
“Well, there are cases of provoking police officers or occasionally others into killing the suicidal individual, or using sophisticated setups to make it appear like a murder, but 93% of these cases are white males. There are no known cases of a child this young using either method. The preferred method in either case, over 98%, involves gunshot wounds or quick-acting poisons, preventing the kind of suffering this victim felt.” Dr. Reid was a little more tense than usual, but glanced up anyway. “How did the other potential victims die?”
“Most died from an overdose of their treatment drug—Dixie Burris, Lois Waller, Dalton Pope, Dylan Hampton, Norman Baird, and Jonathan Sykes. One, Ezequiel Young, hanged in his room.”
“Why was this not thought to be a case of malpractice?”
“That’s the strange part. Careful inventory is taken at four every day, and none of the stores were lower than expected or missing. It was thought that perhaps one of the patients had been getting and selling medicine from outside, or perhaps they’d been taking less than they needed every day and hoarding it somewhere. A thorough investigation was conducted into where the extra medicine might have been coming from after the third death, but nothing was discovered.”
“The victim profiles are all over the place. It’s a mixture of races, sexes, and ages. Reid, what’s the statistic on ____?”
“Hell,” Alex swore, ducking around the corner. He was half tempted to glance back, make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him, but he had to stop second guessing himself and get on with it. He’d know that face anywhere. And he could guess why his Doctor Reid was here. He’d been watching the boy genius’s career from a distance, pleased. One of them had been doing well for himself, anyway.
How he wanted to run up to him. Hug him tight enough to make the breath rush out in a pleasant gust, tell him everything that’d been going on, about his suspicions. About why he was here. Explain himself, why Xan wasn’t here at the moment, but that they both were really, really happy to see him. It’d been a while since he’d been tempted to pour his heart out in a nice cuppa and share it with anyone. If anyone could draw that out of him, it was Dr. Spencer Reid.
That’d be the best way to get them both killed. And the entire team to boot.
“Like either of us get our happy reunion,” he snorts, padding further up on quiet feet to find a nice spot to perch and watch the action. He had to be even more on his toes than before.
A figure darted at him. Spencer didn’t have that much time to react, but he threw up his arms to try to protect himself, certain it was the murderer. Prentiss thought so, too, or she wouldn’t have trained her gun on that shape. It’s too fast, too close; she can’t fire without possibly hurting him.
Hands were insistently tugged away from his head before he was slammed into the wall. He’d almost think that this was an attack, except…
Except a hand had interposed itself between his head and the wall, to cushion it, protect him. The body pressed against him was male, aggressive, but the tone in the stance…held violence, but not the kind of violence meant to kill.
And then came the kiss.
Searing, intense enough to shut down entire parts of Spencer’s brain with fizzling like a thousand fireworks at night, dazzling, comforting, familiar and awe-inspiring. Enough remained, though, to remind him that he’s felt this before. The way the lips press against his gently, insistently, the caress at his neck and the hand on his hip grounding the two of them, the insistent devouring, promising bliss, a healthy mix of sin and purity…he knows it intimately, and for a moment he’s in the past, a lazy summer night with nothing but the two of them, teenagers searching blindly for something real, something them, some connection. They’d found it, fleeting as it was. It was back. So was he.
The slight nibble, the smirk against his lips, is new. But then, they’re both adults now, aren’t they? Even as they’re the same, they’ve changed.
The man pulls away, hands lingering, and manages a grin. “This is hi. We don’t have time; you’re in danger, my pretty genius. If you think about it, you know exactly why I’m here, and what kind of killer this is. And if you let this be goodbye, I’ll drag you out of the grave m’self.” Most of his brain is still fizzing, but he has a moment to notice the slight hint of an accent and the eyepatch, neither of which he remembers, before the speaker flees.
“And then one of the patients ran up and kissed him.”
“What, no, really?”
Spencer is fidgeting in the chair like he’s ten. Eventually, he looks up with a sheepish expression. “Yes?” It’s hesitant, a question.
“So, what kind of girl likes our Pretty Boy?” Morgan asks. Okay, this is officially humiliating.
“A guy,” he answers flatly, trying to wipe all of the emotion out. He didn’t enjoy it. And there was no recognition. None. He doesn’t know the guy. So far, Xander’s acting the most suspicious, so of course they’d latch on to him, but still. Maybe it’s wrong, but he can’t see Xander as the killer. Maybe he’s too close to this, maybe Xander’s changed. He’s an inmate in an asylum, after all. But it’s far more likely that this has to do with the things that go bump in the night, with the things in the dark that are the one and only thing he hasn’t even hinted at with his team, because they’d either think he was insane or believe him and go and get themselves killed.
The guy’s a patient. So writing him off as crazy, as not actually knowing him but it’s all just in his head, won’t be too hard. After all, Harris didn’t actually say his name. Just warned him that he was in danger. Which was useful, in a way. They’ve discovered something.
Or maybe they’re just in the way. Them running around is seen as dangerous to the operation; they might discover something if they poke around long enough. That’s not helpful.
Morgan’s surprised. Falters for a few seconds, then comes back stronger than ever. “Well, did you like it?”
“I…” Why is he even considering answering this? Oh, right, because Prentiss had seen him kiss back. “I think I’d need to experience more, to be sure…”
“Stop teasing him, Morgan.” It’s Garcia, surprisingly enough. He’d expected Hotch.
“Sorry, Baby Girl.” He actually does sound apologetic, but he’s apologizing to the wrong person. Not that he expects anything else. “Well, my beautiful oracle, what did you find?”
“I’m pretty sure I went down a rabbit hole. There’s a lot of weird on this guy.” Even Garcia doesn’t know what do make of it. Not that that’s surprising, with Sunnydale. A deep breath. “Okay, Alexander Harris, checked in to ________ Psychiatric Hospital. Only he didn’t give his real name. I only got him through the fingerprint discrepancy.”
“They’re required to undergo fingerprinting?” Dr. Reid asks. That’s not common procedure.
“They don’t want to be dealing with criminal cases. And it’s not something patients know about. Fingerprints are collected without their knowledge or consent. Which is squiggy, but isn’t necessarily murder-worthy. There’s some weird stuff in the fine print they or their psychiatrist signs when they first come in that lawyers would probably bring in at this point.”
“I have to give this Alexander person some paranoia points, though. There’s a mark on his file—apparently they’d only finally managed to collect fingerprints a month or so ago, and it took them longer than it did me to track him down.”
“Of course it did.”
“He went through jobs a lot when he was a kid. There’s a couple of psychological reports after he graduated—apparently there was a gas leak and the school blew up. Twenty-three people died. And then, two years later, one of his best friends died, a ‘Buffy Summers’.”
Don’t react, Dr. Reid. Don’t react. You don’t know this person. Or his friends.
“But apparently something was weird for that, because she was working a year later. He ended up working construction fairly consistently. He didn’t go to college.”
Dammit, Xander. We talked about this. You’re not an idiot, no matter what you like to say.
“After his friend died, or possibly died, he showed symptoms of a dissociative mental disorder, so was required to visit a psychiatrist. He was given a clean bill of health. I think. In any case, the psychologist, an…Amanda Walker?...decided he was fit for being back in society, so he wasn’t required to attend anymore.”
Is that why he’s here?
“There was an announcement an upcoming marriage to one Anya Jenkins.”
O-okay, that’s definitely not something he’d known about.
“But no marriage certificate. About a year later, she’s on the list of those that didn’t make it out when the town dropped into a sinkhole in 2003.”
No.
“He kind of dropped off the map until here. But he was only wandering around for about three months before he checked in. Given the circumstances, I can totally understand.”
There’s something that she’s not saying. “It sounds fairly normal so far,” he ventures carefully.
“Yeah. Except the Army was apparently conducting some sort of operation in the town, and he has a classified file.” What. “It gets weirder.”
“Hit us with it, beautiful.”
“Getting to it, handsome.” Not as elaborate as usual. Weird. “Sunnydale itself is a pile of weirdness. It had a population of about 38,500 people. It had 43 churches and 12 cemeteries. The school paper had an obituary, and nobody batted an eye.”
Frowns.
“The police department was a joke. They just wrote down the names of the missing. It seems they never even attempted to find anyone. Their death certificate had checkboxes for ‘wild animal’, ‘death by barbeque fork’, and ‘gangs on PCP’. They don’t have a list of suspects for the gangs, an arrest record of about 5 per year. The highest is 17.”
With a crime rate that high?
“And nobody noticed?”
“He and his friend Willow Rosenberg ended up in the hospital a lot for young teens, more than the rest of the population, even. Buffy Summers, another friend, seems to have mostly kept out of it. There are reports of domestic disturbances and possible abuse at the Harris household, again, not looked into. The reports seem to have stopped around 15, but given that he’d filed for minor emancipation status soon after, that’s not surprising. The pattern of ending up in the hospital doesn’t seem to have stopped, though. Another best friend, Jesse McNally, is on the lists of the disappeared.”
“So it’s possible that they ended up some sort of vigilante force?”
“Ding ding ding! You win a brand new car!” “Given that their friend Buffy earned the one and only Class Protector Award, and that the mortality rate was the lowest it had ever been after young Miss Summers showed up in Sunnydale, you’re probably on the money. Further suggested by the fact that the Killer Priest showed up in town shortly before it fell into the ground, that the Summers home turned into a home for potential targets fleeing the man, and that there’s a note here…”
A little shuffling. “…About Alexander losing his eye. Officially it’s labeled as an accident, but a couple of overheard remarks were noted, and apparently young Mr. Harris stood up against the Killer Priest and…” Okay, it’s bad, whatever it is.
“Come on, beautiful, what is it?” Morgan’s gentle, now.
It’s a half sob, but the words come out anyway. “…got his eye poked out. With a thumb. Though given the picture I’m looking at, it’s not pretty and I’m not sure how a thumb could do that much damage anyway…”
When Spencer wakes, the first thing he sees is Xander, stretched out and chained down. They had an altar in an asylum? That’s not a standard feature. This must be a hidden room, what they were searching for.
The second thing he sees is the blood. He lets out the yelp before he can stop himself. It echoes, reverberates, and then silence suddenly blots out everything else.
Xander’s head shakes dazedly, before his eye opens and he glances in Reid’s direction. The smile is exhausted, like the man barely has the strength to do that, but it’s all for Reid and it’s dazzling. “You do realize, they know you’re awake now. They’ll be coming.”
It takes him a second to work through the fact that it’s Xan and he’s real and he’s here. Another to realize that yes, that’s an actual English accent from Xan, who was completely incapable of it, even to make fun of Giles. Then, he’s pulling at bindings he didn’t even know he had. “Willow and Buffy know you’re here, right?”
There’s a slight hesitation before Xander shakes his head. “Nope, they’re not going to come rushing to the rescue.”
Something’s a little off about that statement. He is lying. Not about them not coming, that’s true enough, but he didn’t answer the question, either. Probably deliberately.
Which leads Spencer through the rest of the train of thought, and he swallows. If they know he’s here, but aren’t coming to the rescue…this might not even be a job. Not directly. Which means Xander must be here for another reason, which, coupled with the accent, might mean… “Why are you here?”
“Why? You don’t want me?” It’s joking enough to be serious. With Alexander Harris, it usually is. Another misdirection.
“Xander.” He’s not going to let this slide, like he’s being coerced to do.
The voice turns slightly panicky. Even with an accent, even changed, it’s still there. He can still read this man better than most of the people he’s known for years. “I know it’s a sore subject, so why don’t we turn to actually survi—”
“You will have to dig me up.” It’s a threat. Spencer likes surviving, sure, but, like with his team, he cares about the schoolboy he met, even though he probably no longer is one. “Tell me.”
“What’s going on, Reid?” It’s Prentiss. So he wasn’t the only one caught. The two of them ignore her for the moment.
A sigh, eventually. Then, “It’s Alex at the mo. Not Xan.”
Reid immediately starts an exorcism, which earns a deranged laugh that echoes off the walls and goes on and on. Eventually, Alex pulls himself together with a gulp. “Not a demon or spirit, or anything of that sort. Just…another personality hanging around Xander’s head. I don’t have time for the full story, but yeah, it was Sunnydale stuff. Figured you wouldn’t want ought to do with me, given the family history an’ all. It’s how I got in, that, and the story of how dear ol’ Sunny’ell became a crater. Again, no time for that story. Prophecy an’ all that, an’ figured it was time to clear out the ol’ belfry. Problem was, I couldn’t get out. Checked in, but the gates were barred to me leaving. And then the patients started dying. Warlock, I think, drugs keeping me weak so I can’t use anything to get us out, and he’s going to sacrifice me, which with my blood could be a bad thing. So, why don’t we put our heads together to figure out how we’re going to get out. That all right? …Not that it’s not great to see you, mate, but time’s not on our side.”
Reid couldn’t answer for a few seconds. Instantly his brain is alive with statistics about dissociative identity disorder. It’s rare, with 0.1 to 1% of the population experiencing it. 73% of individuals undergoing a traumatic experience end up with some form of dissociative disorder, but for most it fades in a few months to a few years. Is Xander the main host identity? Is he aware of the presence of Alex? What had prompted it, what kind of trauma? 97% of dissociative identity disorder cases are caused by severe abuse. He’s not aware he’s babbling the questions until Alex responds with another laugh.
“I told you it was Sunny’ell related. Not abuse related. Which would probably explain the fact that we share most of our memories, or at least have a vague idea of what happened when we were out. If not, we tell the other what happened while they were out. We’re aware of each other. We talk when we’re not in control. We’ve got different views on things, yeah, but it’s more like we’re seeing from a different point of view than having a strict blackout.” Another smile. “Now we’re going to get out of this one alive, yeah? You know the protection spell, right?”
“Eidetic memory,” Spencer answered immediately, smiling back.
“That’s my Dr. Reid. I’d join in, but I’m a bit drugged right now and don’t want to mess it up.” The eye closed. Spencer would’ve panicked if he hadn’t felt the other’s strength gathering. A bit shocking, as Xan wasn’t good with magic at all. He would’ve asked, but the protection was probably more important. This was something he was good at, though. He had the mind, the will, and it wasn’t hard to memorize a bit of Latin.
“Seriously, what’s going on? Reid?” Prentiss was panicking. But he wasn’t going to stop, not if they were dealing with something a little worse than their usual.
“Something a little outside your usual mayhem, luv.” Alex took it upon himself to answer.
The doors exploded inward. Apparently the UnSub was done with this place, but then, he’d drawn a lot of attention, and that probably rendered the place less ideal. Reid wasn’t surprised to see the doctor. He had better access and was more intelligent and arrogant than the other suspects. He was in robes so typical of cultists, but the dagger he was holding was long, ancient, and considering Alex thought he was probably a warlock, he really didn’t like the look of it.
“You can’t keep up that chant for long, boy!” He raised the dagger above his head as he reached the altar and plunged the point down.
The scream was heart-rending, and for a second Reid thought he’d messed up somewhere, but he didn’t dare stop the chant. The doctor staggered back, furious, and that’s when he caught sight of the dagger buried in Alex’s shoulder. It hadn’t been where the warlock had been aiming, he was sure, which meant that his protection spell had worked. Sort of. Maybe he wasn’t putting enough belief in it? But it’d worked, so he could use that to strengthen it further. Instantly, it expanded to a shimmering blue dome.
(Prentiss)
Alex had started a spell of his own, but he couldn’t pay attention to that. He had to keep up the protection. Despite his words, none of them were dying today.
He’d messed up somewhere, though. Because the warlock picked him up, one handed, and began strangling him. The force lifting him broke the ropes, which was something, but the sudden panic about not being able to breathe was less so. Definitely inhuman strength, but Alex would’ve noticed if the man had not actually been a man but a demon so a spell had probably been used.
Suddenly the hands on his throat were gone, and he was falling. He glances up, and it’s Alex, a fond if fierce look in his eye. The dagger is still in his shoulder. There’s blood still dripping. He’s never seen a more beautiful sight. “Warlocks have bad habits of leaving their grimoires around their sacrificial altars,” the man explains, and Spencer makes it to his feet. He’s tempted to kiss Alex again, but then there’s a yelp.
Alex moves with a grace that isn’t Xander. He takes the dagger from his shoulder, throws, skewering the demon scampering towards Prentiss.
“So…” It comes out a harsh croak, and he swallows and tries again. It’s still hoarse, but it’s better. “So they die normally?” Not that he has his gun. At least the Warlock, trying to move at his feet but dazed enough, was smart enough to remove their guns. Not, probably, that he thought they’d end up having a chance to use them.
“Bakemono? Yeah.” Alex kicks the Warlock for good measure and retrieves the dagger, wrinkling his nose at the black ichor on it before cutting Prentiss’s bonds. “They run in packs, but a good exorcism or whatever should do the trick.”
Reid nods and turns to look at the door. Of course, they could port in from anywhere, really. If that even really is the term. It’s unusual, but this is something he’s actually not an expert in.
“Who are you?” she asks, and she’s recognized Alex from the kiss earlier. He’s really not looking forward to explaining that. It’d been bad enough when it’d been brought up in the briefing.
Alex is saved from having to answer. “Morgan!” He had his gun out, which was good, but he also didn’t notice the Bakemono jumping at him from behind. Luckily, he’s a good shot, and turns around and shoots the demon before he even realizes what he’s shooting.
