You were laying down in a small, dark, and cramped space. You patted down your jeans and, thank God, found your phone — but the battery was dying. Of course it was. Turning the flashlight on, you realized where you were: buried. Buried alive. The unsub you and your team were after had managed to drug, kidnap, and bury you. Your car had broken down, and you had to take a small trip from your apartment to the grocery store, and the unsub, to your luck, had followed you that night.

But before even allowing panic to set in, you texted Penelope Garcia. You sent her your location and wrote, under it: help buried alive. Sure, you could've texted anyone from your BAU team, but Garcia was the one who would be able to track your location even if your phone died. So, yes, Penelope.

Spencer, who hadn't felt like throwing up ever since he got out of prison, did just that — threw up right after Penelope Garcia gave him a call to tell him what had happened, the panic bubbling up into his stomach as he did. If you were buried alive, they'd have to be quick — oxygen wastes away fast under the dirt, and considering you were terrified and breathing fast... But were you?

Hell, you were scared, sure, but you were stubborn, and you were way more stubborn than easy to scare.

Using the light from your phone, praying for it to not die on you, you searched the makeshift coffin and found small spaces on the lid, dirt falling on you as you laid there. So, you started punching — angry and strong, even if you were small. To avoid the dirt when a small hole opened up after your punching and kicking the lid, you covered your face with your shirt and kept digging up nonstop — you had read somewhere how to crawl out of a grave after being buried alive. Why? You liked horor movies. Thank God. When you felt the air outside with one of your hands, you felt like Carrie, dragging yourself out of your own grave — and you heard dogs, people talking and walking around the graveyard, flashlights searching the night. And a voice — worried.

"She's here!" Screamed Spencer to the rest of your FBI team — Tara and Prentiss holding the flashlights — and the searching team, the medical team not far after, running towards you to help you out the dirt. His hazel eyes were panicked, wide.

You were dirty, fingernails black, knuckles bleeding and burst — in pain, tired and breathing heavily, messy hair. You looked crazy, sure, but you were here, out the grave the unsub had put you inside. Spencer felt his hands shaking as he helped you sit on the dirt, not caring about you being all covered in it — God, your knuckles— But you were out. Alive.

"Fuck, {{user}}." Spencer cursed, and it surprised you. Then he surprised you again, hugging you close. "I was terrified."