Chapter Text
“mir, bambina, i’m going to be late for work—” the words came out soft, worn smooth by sleep and strain, caught somewhere between affection and quiet despair.
reggie was crouched in front of his daughter, still half-buttoned shirt clinging faintly to his collarbone, the morning light cutting sharp and pale through the blinds. his tie hung loose around his neck, a thin silk thing the color of midnight.
miriam, small and disheveled and loud in the way only a three-year-old could be, sat on the floor beside his shoes, fat tears pooling on her cheeks as she wailed into the sleeve of her stuffed rabbit.
“shh, it’s okay, baby. i know. i know…”
he murmured it like a mantra, voice steady even as his hands trembled faintly—one holding the knot of his tie, the other brushing through her dark curls. she reached for the tie immediately, tiny fingers curling around the moving fabric like she might anchor him there, keep him from leaving.
“no, no, none of that,” he whispered, smiling despite the tightness in his chest. “you’ll make me look ridiculous, tesoro. and the people at the bureau don’t take kindly to ridiculous.”
his humor fell flat against the sound of her crying, soft and unrelenting. he let out a breath, closing his eyes for a brief second, gathering himself.
the apartment smelled faintly of coffee and lavender detergent. clara had arrived half an hour ago. she’d dropped by early to help, to leave breakfast in the kitchen, to kiss miriam’s forehead and say papa’s big day. and cheer him on when he needed it most. he was grateful, though gratitude always came tangled with guilt when it came to her.
today was the first day. officially.
he’d been to quantico before, of course—consulted on two cases when the bureau had needed help with behavioural reconstruction. they’d called it profiling then, though it was far more like dissection.
one had been a series of murders in virginia, the other a missing persons case that turned cold too quickly. reggie had offered a psychological map so detailed the local paper had described it as clairvoyant. it wasn’t. it was methodical. mathematical, almost. empathy carved into data points. that was what he was good at. listening without letting it touch him.
reggie twist was, by no means, famous. he didn’t care to be. but at twenty-eight, his name had already circled quietly in professional spaces, whispered in recommendation emails and late-night calls between agents who wanted someone that could see through the fog.
he’d earned his degrees, plural, too early, too fast. a bachelor’s and a master’s in psychology and criminology, then his md. seven years in italy, under the care of his uncle alessandro, who’d taught him the language of restraint, of fine suits, of old european melancholy.
it showed in the way reggie carried himself: tailored and composed, always a shade too calm. people often mistook it for arrogance. it wasn’t. it was survival.
he looped the tie one last time, knot perfect, and checked his reflection in the hallway mirror. there was a smear of something just below his jaw—miriam’s tear or his own coffee, he couldn’t tell. he wiped it away with the back of his hand and looked down again.
miriam had stopped crying, though her lip still trembled. she’d gone quiet in that heavy, watchful way small children sometimes did, studying him like she understood something beyond words.
“i’ll be back before dinner,” he said gently, lifting her into his arms. she fit against him perfectly, warm, soft, impossibly small. “you’ll stay with mamma for a bit, okay? she’ll draw with you. she’s better at it than i am.”
miriam’s tears had dwindled into soft, hiccuping breaths. she pressed her face into the curve of his neck, murmuring something half-italian, half-dream. he smiled, the sound of her voice wrapping around his chest like something fragile and fleeting.
clara stood a few feet away, leaned against the counter in her loose cardigan, mug of coffee balanced in one hand. she was watching them, that quiet sort of fondness in her gaze—the one that had never really faded, even after everything between them had. her hair was pulled up haphazardly, strands escaping to frame her face in the morning light.
“you’ll be fine, reg,” she said softly, as though sensing the churn beneath his calm. “you always are.”
he huffed a quiet laugh through his nose, shifting miriam in his arms so he could look at her properly. “hm. i’m not sure fine is the word. i don’t think anyone’s fine on their first day at the fbi.”
“you’ll charm them,” clara replied, teasing lightly, a hint of warmth in her tone. “you always do.”
there was affection there, but no claim to it. they’d stopped being something years ago—amicably, almost gracefully. what had remained was familiarity, a thread of old love rewoven into something quieter. the kind that didn’t demand, just existed.
he set miriam back down, smoothing her hair once before reaching for his briefcase by the door. a dark leather thing, weathered at the corners, filled with his notebooks, his case files, a photograph of her tucked between the pages. clara moved closer as he adjusted his tie again, the same nervous motion he’d done half a dozen times already.
“you look good,” she said. “like you actually slept.”
“i didn’t,” he admitted.
“didn’t think so.”
she smiled, faint and knowing, then reached out to fix the collar of his shirt. her hands brushed against the edge of his jaw, cool from the coffee cup. he didn’t think, just leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, a gesture carved out of habit more than impulse. she didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away.
“good luck, reg,” she murmured. “really.”
“grazie,” he said, voice low. “for everything.”
she shrugged like it was nothing, though her eyes softened. “go on. before miriam decides you’re not allowed to leave after all.”
he looked down at his daughter, who had gone quiet again, standing near the window where the early sun spilled in gold. she was watching him with the solemnity of a much older child, thumb in her mouth, her other hand gripping the ear of her stuffed rabbit.
“ciao, bambina,” he said, crouching to her height. “be good. i’ll see you soon.”
she didn’t answer, only lifted her arms once more. he hugged her tight, the scent of lavender shampoo and sleep heavy against his chest. then, slowly, he pulled away.
by the time he reached the door, the apartment felt smaller. quieter. the morning air that met him in the hallway was cold and clean, full of that particular stillness that comes before a day decides what kind of day it wants to be.
he paused there, key in the lock, listening to the faint hum of life behind him—miriam’s small voice, clara’s gentle reply, the soft clink of ceramic on countertop. it was domestic, fleeting, almost unreal.
when the door clicked shut, the sound echoed.
the hallway stretched before him, pale and narrow, leading toward a world that would demand the sharpest parts of him. there was no dread in his chest, not really, only that thin, quivering thread of anticipation that comes with stepping into something long-foretold.
reggie twist had spent his life learning the minds of others. today, for the first time, he would have to let others learn him.
the stairwell smelled faintly of rain and old wood, one of those narrow, echoing spaces that carried the sound of footsteps long after you’d gone.
reggie descended quietly, one hand sliding along the banister, the other gripping the worn handle of his briefcase. the building was still waking up; somewhere below, a door slammed, someone cursed, a radio murmured in a language that wasn’t english.
his shoes clicked against the stone, each step measured, deliberate. he’d always been like that—unrushed, even when he was late. it wasn’t vanity, just control. a way of keeping the world from seeing the small fractures beneath the polished surface.
outside, the air was cool and bright. a few early commuters crossed the street, coffee cups in hand, the town just beginning to stir. his car waited at the curb—a black cadillac he’d bought secondhand when he returned to the states. something about it reminded him of home, of his old professor’s taste for dark, expensive things that didn’t ask for attention but commanded it anyway.
the engine coughed once, then started smoothly. he let it idle for a moment, hand resting on the steering wheel, the morning light cutting in pale slants through the windshield.
his mind drifted, as it often did, back to italy.
he’d gone there at sixteen, half-boy, half-shadow, running away to live with his uncle alessandro in rome after a fight that had left his father’s ‘love’ fractured beyond repair. the years there had shaped him into something unrecognizable to the small-town boy he’d once been.
italy had a way of doing that—bleeding warmth and melancholy in equal measure. the language had softened him, the culture had disciplined him, and the city itself had given him both solitude and understanding.
it was there, at twenty, in a café near piazza navona, that he met clara coppola. she’d been studying art history, endlessly curious and prone to laughter that carried across the narrow street. she was light, in the way he wasn’t. she’d teased him for his seriousness, for the way he read at breakfast, for the way he ordered coffee like a ritual.
their love had been quiet, slow, made of long afternoons spent in libraries and apartments that smelled of turpentine and rain. she’d paint, he’d write; sometimes they’d say nothing for hours. and when they finally did, it was always something soft.
miriam came later, unexpected, but never unwelcome. clara had been twenty-four, he twenty-five. they’d built a kind of fragile domesticity that worked until it didn’t. when reggie received the offer to assist on a series of case studies back in the states, he’d hesitated. clara had seen it coming long before he had.
she’d told him, one night, while miriam slept between them, that some people were meant to love quietly, not forever. and he’d understood. he’d always understood.
so he left. not completely—he never could. she followed, a year later, when he decided to stay in quantico.
they lived in separate apartments a few blocks apart. she still came over in the mornings, left coffee, folded his shirts, helped miriam pack her small backpack. he still kissed her cheek, out of habit or gratitude or something unnamed.
theirs wasn’t a tragedy. it was just unfinished.
reggie turned the radio on, more for the company than the sound. a low murmur of music filled the car, the animals, probably, or david gilmour. he drove through the quiet streets, past the bakery that opened too early, past the playground where miriam liked to swing when clara brought her after school.
as the highway opened before him, the bureau came into view in the distance, a pale shape rising against the soft morning haze.
he exhaled slowly.
it wasn’t the work that frightened him. it was the thought of what it might require, the slow unraveling of himself in front of strangers, colleagues, superiors. the quiet dissection of the mind he’d spent years building walls around.
he adjusted his tie again, though it didn’t need fixing, and let his hand rest against the steering wheel.
“new beginning,” he muttered to himself, half in english, half in italian. “let’s see how long it lasts.”
and with that, he drove on—toward the bureau, toward the unknown, toward the slow unfurling of everything that would come after.
the bureau was colder than he expected. not the kind of cold that came from air-conditioning or the steel bones of the building, but the institutional kind. the kind that hummed beneath the fluorescent lights and settled into the walls like residue.
reggie paused just past the entrance, credentials tight in his hand, the low murmur of conversation filtering through from the bullpen beyond the glass doors. the space was vast, humming, alive in that restless way only government buildings could be, phones ringing, printers spitting paper, agents in crisp suits crossing paths without ever quite colliding. the air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and ink.
he straightened his tie, again, and forced the smallest exhale through his nose. he’d been here before, a few times, when he’d consulted on those earlier cases. but it was different now. he wasn’t visiting. he belonged to the machinery.
the security guard nodded him through, and he stepped into the bullpen.
the sound hit him first—voices, laughter, a shuffle of urgency that filled the room. and then, before he could orient himself, someone was already calling his name.
“dr. twist?”
he turned.
gideon was approaching from the upper stairs, that signature intensity already locked in his gaze. even before he spoke, reggie could feel the weight of being known. gideon had that effect on people—he carried the awareness of others like a second skin.
“sir,” reggie greeted, voice low, steady. “it’s good to finally meet you properly.”
gideon’s mouth curved, just faintly. “i’m not sure properly is the right word. i feel like i already know you.”
“i’d hope not too well,” reggie said, half a smile tugging at his mouth. “that usually means i’m in trouble.”
gideon’s laugh was quiet, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “no trouble yet. i read your file. all of it. italy, your work in forensic psychiatry, the consultation notes on the henley murders… impressive.”
reggie inclined his head slightly, though there was a flicker of unease beneath the gesture. gideon’s voice had that strange mix of warmth and scrutiny that reminded him of old professors, one in particular.
“i sat in on one of your lectures once,” reggie admitted, following as gideon began to walk toward the conference area. “at georgetown. behavioral patterning and moral inversion in serial typologies.”
gideon stopped mid-stride, glancing at him. “that was—”
“—eight years ago,” reggie supplied. “you used a case study about a man who killed his brother but claimed it was an act of mercy. i remember because you said something i wrote down. ‘mercy and violence are often siblings who grew up in the same house.’”
gideon looked faintly surprised, then amused. “i don’t remember saying that.”
“you did,” reggie said simply. “it stuck.”
they reached the edge of the bullpen. agents moved around them in organized chaos. reggie could feel the eyes, some curious, some assessing. he knew how he looked: young for the title, dark suit tailored too neatly, the faintest trace of european cadence in his speech.
gideon gestured for him to follow toward a desk at the corner. “this will be yours for now. we’re still figuring out where to put you that’s not next to our technical analyst—she’s wonderful, but she talks.”
“talking’s fine,” reggie replied, setting his briefcase down. “i don’t mind noise.”
gideon studied him for a moment, head tilted slightly. “you’re not nervous.”
reggie gave a quiet huff of air, almost a laugh. “i am. i just hide it well.”
gideon’s smile flickered again, this time more genuine. “good. that’ll serve you here.”
he motioned toward the upper level. “hotch will want to meet you before the morning briefing. he’s been through your case reports, and he’s… particular.”
“so i’ve heard,” reggie said, glancing up toward the frosted glass office where the name a. hotchner was etched faintly in gold.
gideon followed his gaze. “he’ll like you,” he said after a moment. “you think the way he does—only quieter about it.”
reggie’s eyes lingered on the office door, the shadow of a figure moving behind it. his heart ticked once, slow, deliberate, the anticipation unfurling in his chest like smoke.
gideon clapped him lightly on the shoulder. “welcome to the bau, dr. twist.”
reggie sat down, the chair creaking softly beneath him, and reached for the nearest pad of yellow sticky notes. his desk was still mostly bare, just his briefcase, a pen, and the weight of a new beginning, but he’d never trusted his memory when it came to practical things.
his mind could hold entire case histories in sharp, painful detail, but dates and times? those slipped through the cracks like water through his fingers.
he uncapped his pen and quickly scribbled:
patient — a. lawrence, 18:00, thursday.
he underlined it once, tore the note free, and stuck it to the corner of his monitor. his handwriting was quick, slanted, unmistakably European in its flourish.
“did you know,” a voice behind him began, light, rapid, and distinctly youthful. “that people who write down things to remember them are often considered to have higher metacognitive awareness? it means they’re consciously compensating for the limits of their short-term memory. which, ironically, means their self-awareness is better than average.”
reggie froze, pen still in hand, before turning in his chair.
the man standing behind him was slender, sharp-featured, and too awake for the hour. messy brown hair, tie slightly askew, and a stack of files clutched in one arm like a shield. his eyes were a kind of relentless, bright, quick, darting across reggie’s face as if cataloguing every micro-expression in real time.
“can i help you?” reggie asked, tone polite but cautious.
“spencer reid,” the man said immediately, extending a hand before seeming to remember he was already holding too many files to offer it. he nodded instead, awkwardly but not self-conscious about it. “dr. spencer reid. i, uh, work here. obviously. iq of 187 and eidetic memory.”
“obviously,” reggie echoed, one brow lifting as he shook his hand anyway, balancing between amusement and curiosity.
spencer nodded rapidly, already continuing without prompting. “i read your dissertation—well, one of them, the one about psychopathy and identity detachment in adolescent offenders. it’s not an easy paper to get through, but it’s brilliant. your argument about self-constructed morality systems being rooted in a form of narcissistic empathy. i think about that a lot.”
reggie blinked, slow, measured, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite himself. “you read it?”
“i read everything,” spencer said simply, as though that explained everything. “gideon mentioned you were joining. said you’d probably fit right in, but i didn’t realize he meant that literally.”
reggie turned slightly in his chair, studying him now, really studying. the fidgeting fingers against the folders, the rapid-fire cadence, the lack of filtering between thought and speech. a certain rhythm to it, precise and unpretentious. not nerves. just… speed.
he leaned back, tapping his pen once against his knee. “you memorize things compulsively, don’t you?”
spencer tilted his head. “i—what?”
“numbers, facts, details,” reggie continued, not unkindly. “you catalogue them. probably arrange them in patterns, too. helps you make sense of the noise.”
spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “that’s… accurate.”
“occasional difficulty filtering sensory input, overfocus on structure,” reggie added, more to himself than aloud. then, as if catching the look spencer was giving him, he offered a faint smirk. “sorry. occupational hazard. i profile without asking permission sometimes.”
spencer blinked, taken aback but not offended. “most people don’t notice that quickly.”
reggie shrugged lightly. “most people aren’t as open books as you are, dr. reid.”
spencer hesitated, then, almost challengingly, said, “and what about you, doctor? what do you do when your mind gets too loud?”
reggie’s gaze flickered to the note still stuck to his monitor. his voice, when it came, was quiet, almost reflective.
“i write things down,” he said.
and for the first time that morning, spencer smiled. small, bright, a little surprised.
“huh,” he murmured.
reggie huffed a low laugh under his breath, spinning back toward his desk. but as he wrote a second note, remember lunch, he found himself smiling, too.
in another life, he might’ve been a pilot, or a poet, or something softer. instead, he was ours—the quiet mind in the corner office, who could read you like scripture and still make you feel forgiven.