When His Angels Don't Sing

Spencer

I sit in Stephie's apartment, the place that still feels like her, even though she's gone. I shouldn't be reading her journals, I know that. But it's all I have left. They're the last traces of her thoughts, her heart, the things she felt but could never quite say to me. The words she wrote before she could say them aloud, before her walls came down. Every page is a doorway into her mind, her soul laid bare. And now, it's all I can hold onto.

I keep coming back to this one entry, reading it over and over, as if somehow, if I read it enough, she'll come back. I trace her handwriting with my fingers, memorizing the curves of each letter, feeling the weight of her words sink deeper into me.

Dear Diary,I miss him so much it hurts. Spencer, with all his weird little stupid quirks that made me fall for him in the first place. The way he would ramble on about the most random facts, his mismatched socks, the way he scrunches his nose when he's deep in thought. I miss all of it.

It's so frustrating to love someone this much. To love him so much I hate him for it. For making me feel things I never wanted to feel. For breaking through my defenses with his awkward charm and brilliant mind. For being the one person who could see through my lies, the one person I couldn't fool.

Every day without him feels like a piece of me is missing. I hate that he's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I hate that I still look for him in the bullpen when I walk into work, I hate that I can't let him go, even when it's my fault he's gone. But most of all, I hate that I still love him. More than anything.

XOXO, Stephie.

The words are like a knife, twisting inside me. I miss her too. I miss her so much I can barely breathe. Flashbacks from that night flood my mind, invading every quiet moment, every second I try to close my eyes. It's like I'm stuck in that moment—replaying it over and over, trying to find a way it could have ended differently. Trying to believe that it's not real.

Three Days Ago: JJ walks out of the hospital room with Hotch by her side, her face pale, her eyes rimmed with red. She's barely holding it together, her expression haunted. I'm the first to stand, my body moving before my mind can catch up. Emily follows right behind me, then Derek. Soon, everyone is on their feet, tension thick in the air.

"How is she? Can I see her?" I don't wait for an answer. I try to push past them, desperate to get into that room. But Hotch grabs me, his grip firm, unyielding.

"Reid, don't." His voice is low, but there's something in it that makes my stomach drop.

No.

"She didn't make it." JJ's voice cracks, tears spilling over her lashes. Her words hit me like a sledgehammer to the chest, knocking the air out of my lungs. My world shatters. Everything in me screams, but no sound comes out.

"No." I shake my head violently. "No, you're lying!" I can feel the heat of my anger rising, boiling over. "You're lying! You're both lying!" My voice echoes in the hallway, but no one moves.

I couldn't believe it. I still can't. I was furious—screaming at them like they were the enemy. Yelling at JJ, accusing her of being a liar. Hotch too. They wouldn't let me see her body. They told me it was better this way—that she didn't look like herself anymore after the beating. They said it was better to remember her as she was.

But how could I? How can I let her go when I wasn't even allowed to say goodbye?

Her funeral is today. I woke up in her apartment, the bed still faintly smelling like her. I've been staying here, surrounded by her things, trying to keep the illusion alive that she's just...away for a while. That she's still out there, walking the Earth. That any minute she'll walk through the door, roll her eyes at me, and tell me I've been sulking too long. But the silence is deafening.

I stood in front of her closet this morning, staring at her clothes. My fingers brushed over her sweaters, her scarves. I wanted to bury myself in them, wrap myself in the last pieces of her. But instead, I got dressed and walked out of the door. It felt like leaving her behind.

As I step out of the car at the cemetery, I feel Emily's arm slide around my shoulders. She's quiet, her face unreadable, but the grief in her eyes mirrors my own. She was Stephie's best friend. No words are needed.

"I know," she whispers softly. "Me too."

We walk toward the casket together, our footsteps heavy. Hotch and JJ are already there, standing at the front, their faces solemn. Derek follows behind us, and Garcia wipes her eyes, sniffling as she clings to Morgan's arm. Rossi joins us last, his face a mask of quiet grief. A few other people are here too—people from the office, people Stephie touched in ways we'll never fully understand. And DeMarco. He stands off to the side, his eyes downcast.

It's still surreal. My mind keeps screaming at me that this isn't happening. That it can't be real.

"FBI Agent Killed: Stepheni Foster." That's what the headline read. She would've laughed if she saw it. She always said she wasn't important enough to make the papers. But she was wrong. She was important to us. To me.

The worst part is knowing that Samuel Vance—her father—is still alive. He's in a maximum-security prison, under constant surveillance until the trial. It'll be over soon, they say. He's guilty. He confessed. But it's not enough. It doesn't bring her back.

He had no motive except for his twisted desire to see her dead. He didn't care if he died in the process. He just wanted her gone. She was a threat to him, to his sick, twisted world. Maybe he couldn't live with the fact that she looked so much like her mother. Maybe every time he saw her, he was reminded of what he did.

"Thank you all for coming," Hotch begins, his voice steady but thick with emotion. "Stephie would've loved to see you all here for her."

I stand behind him, sandwiched between Emily and Derek. My chest tightens, the ache in my heart almost unbearable. The coffin is lowered into the ground, and it feels like a part of me is being buried with her. I can't imagine going back to the office without her. I can't imagine life without her. But this is real. She's gone.

And I miss her so much.

"I'm suppose to say a few words but I think we all know nothing could ever be enough to describe Stephie Foster." Hotch gives a comforting light smile.

"Stepheni Foster was many things. She was one of the most skilled agents I've ever had the privilege to work alongside. Her instincts were razor sharp, her dedication unwavering. But more than that, she was a daughter, a friend, and to many of us, family. Stephie had a tenacity about her, a fire that pushed her to fight for justice no matter the cost. She never backed down from a challenge, no matter how insurmountable it seemed. Whether it was facing down criminals or working late into the night to make sure every detail was perfect, she gave everything she had. And she always made sure her team—her family—was safe." He pauses and looks around. Almost as if Stephie is about to pounce out from behind the tree.

"But what I'll remember most about Stephie is her heart. Beneath that tough exterior, she cared deeply for those around her. Even when she didn't always show it, she was there for us, each of us, in ways we'll never forget. She had a way of knowing what people needed before they even knew themselves. Whether it was a shoulder to lean on or a swift push in the right direction, Stephie was always there. Losing her feels like losing a part of this team—a part of our family. The work we do will never be the same without her. But I know she wouldn't want us to stop. She believed in the fight for justice, and if there's one thing we owe her, it's to keep fighting. To remember her strength, her courage, and her unwavering belief in what's right."

No matter how mean, or rude, or sarcastic Stephie was, she always meant well. She was always there. I feel the tears slip from my face.

"Stepheni was taken from us far too soon. But in the short time she was with us, she left a mark on all of us. And for that, we will be forever grateful."

As the funeral service ends, I remain rooted in place, staring at the freshly turned earth. The others are leaving slowly, murmuring words of comfort to each other, but it feels like I'm in a fog, a bubble where everything is muted and distant. All I can hear is the sound of my own heartbeat, pounding in my ears. My legs feel like they're made of lead, like I'm physically unable to walk away from her. Leaving would mean accepting that she's really gone.

Emily lingers nearby, her hand brushing my arm gently. She doesn't say anything, and for that, I'm grateful. There are no words that could make this better, no words that could fill the void Stephie has left behind. Emily knows that. So she stays, silent and steady, like a rock I can cling to.

I look at the headstone again, at the cold, unfeeling letters etched into it. *Stepheni Foster, beloved daughter, friend, agent.* It feels wrong. Incomplete. There's so much more to her than a few simple words could ever express.

I feel Emily squeeze my shoulder, a silent reminder that we need to go. Slowly, reluctantly, I take a step back from the grave, my heart wrenching with every inch of distance I put between us. It feels like I'm leaving her behind all over again.

"Spencer, you ready?" Emily asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper. I can't bring myself to answer, so I just nod, wiping my face quickly with the back of my hand.

We walk back to the car in silence. The ride to the apartment feels longer than it should. I sit in the passenger seat, staring out the window, watching the world blur by, unable to shake the image of her grave from my mind. The whole city seems too loud, too bright for what today was. Life is continuing around me, indifferent to the fact that mine has crumbled.

When we get back to her apartment, the sense of loss is suffocating. Her things are everywhere, like she's still alive. Her coat hangs by the door, her shoes neatly lined up on the mat. Her favorite mug is still on the kitchen counter, the one she used every morning for coffee. The scent of her lavender perfume still lingers in the air, and for a brief moment, I let myself imagine that she's still here, in the other room, just out of sight. Maybe she'll walk out any second now, with that wry smile on her face, and tell me I've been brooding too much.

But she doesn't.

Emily puts her keys down on the counter, and I hear the rustle of her coat as she takes it off. She glances at me but doesn't say anything, just gives me a small, sad smile before disappearing into the living room. I know she's giving me space, but I don't want space. I don't want to be alone.

I walk into Stephie's bedroom, the room I've been sleeping in for the past few nights. The bed is unmade, just the way she left it, the sheets tangled like she'd just woken up. I stand in the doorway for a moment, feeling like I'm intruding on something sacred. But this is where I need to be. This is where I still feel closest to her.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and pick up one of her pillows, holding it tightly in my arms. It still smells like her—lavender and something uniquely Stephie. I close my eyes and bury my face in it, trying to hold onto the scent, as if that could somehow keep her with me a little longer.

The journal is still sitting on the nightstand where I left it. I pick it up, flipping through the pages again, reading her words, hearing her voice in my head as I do. The entry I've been obsessing over is there, the one where she wrote about how much she missed me. How much she hated loving me because of how vulnerable it made her feel. I read it again, even though I've practically memorized it by now.

Dear Diary,I miss him so much it hurts. Spencer, with all his weird little stupid quirks that made me fall for him in the first place. The way he would ramble on about the most random facts, his mismatched socks, the way he scrunches his nose when he's deep in thought. I miss all of it.

It's so frustrating to love someone this much. To love him so much I hate him for it. For making me feel things I never wanted to feel. For breaking through my defenses with his awkward charm and brilliant mind. For being the one person who could see through my lies, the one person I couldn't fool.

Every day without him feels like a piece of me is missing. I hate that he's the first thing I think about when I wake up and the last thing on my mind when I go to sleep. I hate that I still look for him in the bullpen when I walk into work, I hate that I can't let him go, even when it's my fault he's gone. But most of all, I hate that I still love him. More than anything.

XOXO, Stephie.

I run my fingers over her handwriting, tracing the lines of each letter, trying to feel closer to her. The words blur in my vision, and I realize I'm crying again. My shoulders shake, and I can't stop the sobs from breaking free. I clutch the journal to my chest, wishing more than anything that she was still here. That I could hold her, tell her that I miss her too. That I love her just as much as she loved me, maybe even more.

I stay like that for what feels like hours, curled up on her bed, the journal pressed against my heart. Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I drift off into a restless sleep, haunted by dreams of her.

In my dreams, she's alive. She's laughing, teasing me about something inconsequential, her eyes sparkling with mischief. But then the dream shifts, and I see her face as it was the last time—bruised, broken, her eyes lifeless. I reach out to her, but she's already gone, fading into the shadows.

I wake up with a start, my heart pounding in my chest. The room is dark now, the shadows long and deep. I glance at the clock—it's after midnight. Emily must've gone to sleep hours ago. I sit up, rubbing my eyes, trying to shake the nightmare from my mind.

The journal is still clutched in my hands. I set it back on the nightstand and stand up, pacing the room. I feel restless, like I need to do something, anything, to get out of my own head.

That's when I see it—the tiny hat on the shelf. The one we never forgot but didn't talk about. The idea of what could have been, the very thing that fixed our broken relationship. The baby we never had. I walk over to it, picking it up gently, and turn it over in my hands. It feels heavy with the weight of memories.

As I hold in my hands I feel like im having a part of her with me, even if it's just for a moment.

As I stand there, something shifts inside me. The weight of my grief is still there, but beneath it, there's something else—a quiet resolve.

I take the hate and set it back on the shelf, carefully placing it just as it was. Then I walk out of the bedroom, out into the living room where Emily is sitting, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone.

"I'm ready," I say, my voice stronger than I expected.

Emily looks up at me, surprised. "Ready for what?"

"To go back," I reply, my heart steady now. "To the office. To work. Stephie wouldn't want me to stay here, hiding. She'd want me to keep fighting. For her."

Emily gives me a small nod, her eyes soft with understanding. "We have two weeks off. And if anyone needs more time than that, Reid, it's you."

Emily's eyes soften as she continues, "But I get it. Stephie wouldn't want you to sit in grief. She wouldn't want any of us to. But don't think you have to be strong right now. It's okay to take time to heal."

I want to argue, to insist that I need to get back to work, that if I don't, I might lose myself completely. But Emily is right. The grief is raw, like an open wound, and pushing through it too soon might make it worse. The weight of losing Stephie won't disappear if I rush back to the office.

I sit down beside Emily, the silence hanging between us heavy with understanding. We've both been through too much to waste words on false comfort. We know the weight of loss, the way it changes everything.

"She wrote about you a lot, you know." I say after a long pause, breaking the quiet. "In her journal. She trusted you with things she couldn't tell anyone else."

Emily glances at me, her expression unreadable at first. Then her lips press into a thin smile, but it's sad, filled with the same pain I'm feeling. "Stephie had a way of carrying everyone else's burdens," she says softly. "Sometimes I wish she hadn't done that so much."

"Yeah." I look down at my hands, suddenly feeling the ache in my chest expand. "I wish she didn't either."

The air feels heavy again, like there's too much we want to say but can't find the words. Emily's phone vibrates softly on the table, but she doesn't look at it. Instead, she leans back into the couch, her head resting on the back as she stares up at the ceiling.

"Do you ever wonder if this job takes too much from us?" she asks suddenly, her voice so quiet I almost miss it.

I think about it. The endless cycle of cases, of danger, of losing people we care about. How it wears us down, piece by piece. How it takes more than just our time, our energy—it takes parts of who we are.

"Yeah," I whisper. "I do."

But despite that, I know I can't walk away from it. The job is part of me now, woven into my very identity. And Stephie was the same. No matter how much the job took from her, she never stopped. She kept going because she believed in it. In the fight for justice, even when it cost her everything.

"I don't know how we're supposed to go back," I admit, my voice breaking slightly. "Without her."

Emily turns her head to look at me, her eyes filled with the same grief, the same uncertainty. "I don't either, Reid."

I nod, though it feels like an empty gesture. Because the truth is, I don't know if I'll ever really figure it out. I don't know if I'll ever be able to move forward without her. But for now, the best I can do is take it one step at a time.

"Let's just... take it day by day," Emily suggests quietly. "We don't have to have all the answers right now."

And she's right. We don't. I don't have to know how to survive this yet. I just have to make it through today.

I nod again, this time with more conviction, and the two of us sit in the quiet for a while longer, neither of us needing to say anything more. It's enough to know that we're not alone in this, that even in our darkest moments, we have each other.

Eventually, I get up and head back to Stephie's room, the weight of the journal in my hands once again. I sit on the bed and open it, flipping through the pages, letting her words wash over me one last time before closing the cover. Her thoughts, her heart—it's all still here. And it will be, as long as I hold onto it.

Stephie's gone, but she's still with me, in every memory, every moment we shared, every word she left behind.

As I lay the journal down on the nightstand, I take a deep breath and close my eyes, letting the silence of the apartment settle around me. Tomorrow will come, and with it, the world will move on. But tonight, for just a little while longer, I'll hold onto the pieces of her I still have.

I'll hold on to the memory of Stephie Foster—my friend, my partner, the love of my life.

The weeks that follow blur together, one after another. I wake up in her apartment, surrounded by her things, the lingering scent of her still in the air. It's comforting in a way, but also unbearable, a reminder of everything I've lost. My body moves mechanically through the motions—eating, showering, occasionally answering the phone—but I feel like I'm not really there. Like I'm floating above it all, watching myself from a distance.

Every moment I'm not at the apartment, I'm back at the office. But even there, the weight of her absence hangs heavy in the air. Her desk is still untouched, just as she left it, a silent reminder that she's never coming back. I can barely stand to look at it, yet I can't stop myself from glancing over every time I pass by. It's like some part of me is still hoping she'll walk in, roll her eyes at how disorganized it is, and plop down in her chair like nothing's changed.

But everything's changed.

At night, when the world is quiet and the others have gone home, I find myself drawn to her journals. I know I shouldn't, but I can't help it. They're all I have left of her. Every entry feels like a piece of her soul, a window into the parts of her she never let anyone else see. And even though it hurts to read them, I need to feel close to her.

Her handwriting is a mix of elegant script and hurried scrawls, depending on the day, depending on her mood. Some entries are short, almost like bullet points of her thoughts. Others are long, rambling passages where she poured her heart out onto the page. I read them over and over, committing each word to memory.

March 17thI hate my job sometimes. Not because of the work, but because of what it does to me. It makes me cold, makes me put up walls. I keep pushing people away, and I don't even know why. Maybe I'm scared. Of what, I'm not sure. Maybe of letting people in. Maybe of letting him in. Spencer. He's so... good. Too good for me, anyway. I don't deserve someone like him. He's seen things, been through things, and yet he's still kind. He still cares. And that terrifies me because I don't know if I can be what he needs. What if I mess it up? What if I lose him like I've lost everyone else?

I close the journal, feeling the familiar ache settle into my chest. She was always so hard on herself. Always questioning, always doubting. She never realized how much she was worth, how much she meant to all of us. How much she meant to *me*.

The journal stays open on my lap, and I glance at my phone. I've been keeping a close eye on the news, waiting for updates about Samuel Vance. His execution is set, just a few weeks from now. They don't need me to be there—I'm not even sure if I should be—but I can't imagine not going. Not after everything he's done. I need to see it, need to know that he's gone, that he can never hurt anyone again.

More than anything, I need closure.

I've been keeping track of every development, every tiny shift in the case. His lawyers tried to appeal, but it was rejected. The evidence was overwhelming, and his confession sealed his fate. I should feel relieved, but I don't. Not yet. Not until I see it with my own eyes.

When I finally drag myself out of bed in the morning, I go through the motions of work, but my heart isn't in it. The team notices, of course—they've noticed since the beginning—but they don't push. Hotch told me to take as much time as I needed, but I couldn't stay away. Not entirely. It's the only thing that keeps me from drowning in my own grief.

Emily watches me carefully, her eyes filled with concern every time she looks my way. I can tell she wants to say something, wants to help, but she doesn't. I think she understands that I'm not ready. Not yet. So she waits, silently offering her support from a distance.

Most nights, I return to Stephie's apartment, falling into the same routine. I pull another journal from the stack, flipping through the pages, letting her voice wash over me.

April 2ndI think I might love him. I've been trying to deny it for so long, but it's getting harder. I feel like I'm losing the fight, like he's worming his way into my heart whether I want him to or not. And maybe I don't want him to. Maybe I'm scared of what that means. I've never let myself love anyone like this before. But Spencer... he's different. He makes me feel things I've never felt before, and that scares me more than anything.I don't know what to do.

I stare at the page, her words echoing in my mind. She was always so guarded, always holding back, but she let herself be vulnerable here. She let herself feel.

I close the journal and set it aside, the weight of her words pressing down on me. I lean back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, trying to make sense of the mess of emotions swirling inside me.

I miss her. God, I miss her so much.

I cut my hair today. I don't know if I like it. I didn't want to cut it because now this is hair you've never touched, never seen. I miss you.

The weeks drag on, each day feeling longer than the last. The execution date draws closer, and with it, a strange sense of anticipation builds inside me. I don't know if it'll help—if seeing him die will give me the closure I need—but I have to be there. I have to know that he's really gone.

When the day finally arrives, I find myself standing in front of the mirror, dressed in the same suit I wore to her funeral. It feels wrong, like I'm preparing for another goodbye, but I can't bring myself to wear anything else. This is for her. It has to be.

I drive to the prison alone, the weight of what's about to happen pressing down on me. My hands grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white. I don't know what to expect, don't know how I'll feel when it's over. All I know is that I need to be there.

When I arrive, the air feels thick, heavy with anticipation. There's a small group of people gathered—family members of Vance's other victims, a few reporters, and of course, the guards. I'm led into the viewing room, my heart pounding in my chest. The others file in silently, their faces drawn and tense.

I take a seat at the back, my eyes fixed on the small window that looks into the execution chamber. Vance is already there, strapped to the gurney, his face expressionless. He doesn't look at us, doesn't acknowledge the people watching. He just stares straight ahead, his fate sealed.

The warden steps forward, reading the sentence aloud, but I barely hear the words. My mind is somewhere else, lost in memories of Stephie. I can almost hear her voice, feel her presence beside me.

When the lethal injection is administered, I feel my breath catch in my throat. I watch as Vance's body stills, his chest rising and falling for the last time. It's over in a matter of minutes, and then he's gone.

Just like that, the man who took her from me is dead.

But the emptiness inside me doesn't go away.

—————————AN: Dead Isn't Dead. (iykwim) 😟😕😉