#drowning on the edge | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

awordsmith · 15 hours ago

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drowning on the edge 𝜗𝜚 s.r

۶ৎ in an attempt to help each other move on from the death of your previous lovers, you and Spencer unknowingly form an unhealthy relationship.

who? spencer x unknown!reader when? s8 category: angst content warnings: (was suppose to be angst to fluff lol) happy–open–ending (kind of), loss of a significant other, maeve!spencer, heartbreak, therapy-cemetary-funeral-depression-anxiety mentions, friendship breaking, slight dissociation, toxic relationship, i urge you, cara, to reid with care... word count: 12.1k a/n: i was going to add reader suicide attempt, but i lowkey forgot to look at my notes while writing and well, i don't want to mess with this because i love it too much, so maybe i'll attempt it later lol enjoy cari...

In the shadowed corner of a midnight room, emotions overpowered the scent of a candle burning. You lay across your bed, tear-stricken and zombie-like. The day’s events replayed in your mind, though your thoughts seemed to only care about recalling one scene. One that would no doubt haunt you for the rest of your life. You couldn’t eat or sleep–when you closed your eyes he was there. You didn’t have an ounce of peace.

How was it fair? You kept asking yourself. You couldn’t be thankful for the lives saved because it took his. You tried and said you were, but it wasn’t how you truthfully felt. You flipped onto your side as M—, your friend came into the room. “Hey…” she whispered, hanging on the door, “you okay?”

You bit your lip, though it trembled and your face scrunched up. You didn’t want to cry in front of her. You didn’t want anyone to see you like this, but how were you supposed to say that when you hadn’t said one word to anyone since the news had reached you?

“Okay…” you could hear her frown, “your parents should be here by tomorrow…” she took another breath as if she was going to elaborate, but paused and thought she ought not to. “I’ll be in the living room if you…if you need anything.”

You stared at the wall, clutching the picture frame in your hand tighter–oh you should have hugged him like that this morning! And why the bleeding hell didn’t you? Why? Why? You–you should of–if you had known–your silent screams filled the room–if I had just known, you thought, your body shaking with the pain of understanding he was gone, and there was absolutely nothing you could do to bring him back.

To touch him, to hug him, to breathe him in just one last time–to tell him you loved him. You couldn’t move, once you’d found your bed a few hours ago, your body seemed to deflate. There were so many things you had to do, had to cancel–so many things–just–so many–and oh, your brain hurt. Your head was throbbing and you tried massaging it and oh gosh why did this happen? Why? Why couldn’t you have just had a day like any other? One where he picked up a snack for you on the way to your apartment? One where he made it through the first few hours of work?

Being a firefighter–yes, you knew–was a dangerous job–but you didn’t think it would get him freaking killed–

Your face scrunched together and a new wave of wails escaped your throat and you were shoving your head under a pillow, trying to un-hear the words–trying to reverse time. You weren’t a superhero, but maybe, if you prayed hard enough, one would swoop in and rescue you from the torturous reality that was now your life.

You didn’t care what they looked like or what powers they had, “please, God,” you begged, “please don’t make me go through this again. I can’t–I wouldn’t be able to take it.”

In the other room, M— found herself in a daze. She was trying to do her best for you, but she was grieving in her own way. She’d known your fiancé, L—, she’d grown accustomed to him in the last few months you’d brought him around, he wasn’t perfect, but no one was. He smoked; she didn’t like smoking, but you didn’t mind it and he did his best to hide it from her, so she didn’t mind it too much either.

And now–now L— was gone. She wasn’t a wreck like you, but she felt the weight of everything else. You were her soul sister. Everything you felt she felt tenfold because she didn’t know what to do and she was questioning everything in her right mind. If things like this could happen to you and L—, what was to say it couldn’t happen to her? It was like a slap in the face, a wake-up call. M— could barely function with the information, she couldn’t imagine what you must be going through.

She slept over that night and you awoke to the smell of breakfast. Your stomach rumbled and the scent wafted through the apartment, but your mind wasn’t hungry, and just the idea of eating made you want to throw up. Your lips smacked and you knew you needed water. You forced yourself out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

The curtains were pulled shut in the den, your nose guided you into the kitchen where dim lighting highlighted M—’s figure. “Hey,” she smiled upon seeing you. You noted the bags under her eyes and thought–by the expression on her face–could see similar ones under yours.

You didn’t say anything, you didn’t feel like you had anything of importance to say–so why waste the time? Your stomach gurgled again, but you ignored it and headed for the fridge.

“Look, —, I have some errands to run so I’ll be gone for a few hours…” you pressed your lips into a thin line, unscrewing the lid on the bottle of water. “...will you be okay by yourself? I can call someone,” she jabbed her thumb in her phone's direction on the counter near the microwave. “You know what–yeah, I–I’ll do that.”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” your icy tone and narrowed eyes were not at all how you’d intended to respond, but you couldn’t control it. You felt it best to keep everything to yourself, that way you didn’t say or do things you didn't mean. M— watched you avert your eyes, your hands lowering the bottled water and cap, “...sorry…”

She sighed, her shoulders relaxing a bit, “Don’t be, I know you didn’t mean it like that.” Your lips pressed into the thin line from before as you watched her fix a plate for you and set it on the counter, “I’m going to clean up and head out.” You nodded, and sat down, staring at the plate. You were still in your clothes from yesterday, so perhaps you should get in the shower…you just...didn’t have the energy right now. Later, you thought, I’ll do it.

“Alright, you sure you’ll be alright?” M— frowned at your nod, “Call me if you need anything and please–if not for you, for me, eat.”

Again, you nodded, but it felt forced. Maybe, you told yourself, definitely.

You put the plate in the fridge and in the fridge is where it stayed the rest of that day.

Spencer sat in Maeve’s blood, he knew there were others around–knew that there should be sound he was hearing right about now–screaming, maybe shrieking?–but every function he’d developed throughout all his years of living seemed to evade him now. All he knew was pain–the throbbing in his head, the pounding in his chest. Someone was trying to pull him away–and just like that anger overtook him. He was aggressive–Spencer was seldom angry–the term was in his brain to be sure, but it was never used to describe him.

Why? Why? He brought his hands to his ears, closing his eyes as if it’d all go away–he just wanted everything to go away–why couldn’t everyone go away? His broken screams drowned out any sense of the world around him as paramedics hauled Maeve off somehwere–not, not Maeve–her b–her body.

Spencer woke up in his work clothes, he was in his bed and the curtains were drawn. He groaned and ran a hand down his face, his heart stopped–before the memories of the day before rushed through his mind, he thought he might have done something stupid–like take Dilaudid again. He shuddered and shot upward.

That’s when it hit him, he gripped the edge of his bed and grabbed a fist full of his hair. He was sweaty, his head ached, and he couldn’t focus his mind on any singular thought; his vision was clouded and verything around him wasg grey.

He didn’t even think of it, he just knew. Maeve was gone. She wasn’t on a beach somewhere in Malibu or on a cruise going around the golf of Mexico, she wasn’t ever going to text or call him back–he would never hear her voice again–never get to hug her–to touch her.

She was there, and then she wasn’t. He felt his entire world come crumbling around him as the actualization of what had happened struck him. Swallowing, he felt a thickness in his throat. He couldn’t remember what happened after Maeve was taken away–he must have blacked out. He slid back under his blankers and pulled them over his head. He felt tear after tear pool in the corners of his eyes, but he didn’t have the energy to wipe them.

He didn’t have the energy to do anything. He closed his eyes, his heart clenching as he saw Maeve, standing, then shot, and on the floor–he forced his eyes open, not wanting to see what happened next. He wanted to give up on sleeping, but he couldn’t move. What could he do? For all he cared he could die right here and now and he wouldn’t think twice about the consequences.

The ringing of his phone cut through the silence that had come over his tiny space under the covers, it was Penelope, he ignored it and turned the screen back off. A knock sounded down the hall of his bedroom, someone was at the front door. He didn’t want to open it, it was probably one of the other team members. A text notification convinced him to click the phone on again.

It was Penelope, again.

She was leaving a basket for him at the door. He didn’t care and he didn’t feel bad for it. He wasn’t going to answer the door, he wasn’t going to do anything for a while. He just wanted to sit with his–everything.

And sit did he, for the next week he didn’t leave his apartment, but he didn’t sleep either. He barely ate and when he did, he couldn’t bring himself to clean up. He kept reading the quote she’d left in the book she’d gifted him. He was going to give her the same book, The Narrative of John Smith. It wasn’t mathematical or anticlimactic like the genres he typically preferred, but it was a genre Maeve liked and through her, he’d grown a love for fictional mystery literature.

Though they’d discussed the book, Spencer had not yet read it, and neither had Maeve, which is why he’d wanted to give it to her upond there first in person meeting. It would have been sentimental and she would have loved it–Spencer just knew she would have.

He cried. He didn’t wail or whimper, he simply cried. Tears streamed down his face for what could have been, and in a desperate need to blame someone he could still sort of speak to, he latched onto one of the most well-known deities across the world.

He cursed God, then he asked God why, and though he was certain there was no one listening, he pleaded with God; he pleaded for another chance.

If there was even a smidgen of a possibility that Spencer could ever be happy again, he’d put his trust in the almighty being, because logic would not help him this time around, he needed to have some other realm of force backing him because this type of pain–this type of pain was something only faith could mend.

A week went by, then two, and Spencer got a call from Morgan. He’d ignored everyone and had let the messages go to voicemail and in turn, build up–until Morgan called with a question–not about him, but about the case they were currently working on, and so, in an attempt to subtlety clue everyone in on the fact that he wasn’t dead, he called back.

Of course, Penelope butted in and asked if he was alright and at this time he didn’t know, he couldn’t decide if he was dying from some internal wound he didn’t know about or if it was simply a ghostly feeling.

“I have to go,” was his response, then he hung up and as he did so, the urge to take a shower overwhelmed him. He felt cleaner, but not better. He’d run out of mugs and he didn’t want to wash a single one. Instead, he threw on a hoodie and a pair of sweats and headed for his door.

He smelled better than he’d gotten used to, though his apartment covered up the fresh smell with one of mildew. He opened his door hesitantly, and a few seconds later he was shoving Penelope’s baskets out of the way, disregarding the thought to haul them inside before leaving. He wanted to get coffee, he had to get coffee, he didn’t know why, but this was the strongest urge to do something he’d felt in a while. It was both calming and tiring, he wanted to go back inside, but he was stubborn and determined. He wanted to prove something, maybe to the team, maybe to himself. He felt if he did this, this one thing, he’d be able to do anything and everything again. He’d regain control over himself.

So, Spencer stepped into the elevator, listing off what he wanted in his coffee order as each minute ticked by.

You were given time off, but it seemed like all the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to accept what you had to. Getting up and moving wasn’t the hardest part, it was the acting–acting like you weren’t still in a war with yourself, fighting for every second you didn’t break down, taking it day by day.

Your black mary jane’s clicked on the sidewalk as you rushed toward your regular coffee shop, you were already running late to your appointment, but if you didn’t have this coffee, you didn’t know if you coud get through the day. You’d begun doing your makeup again upon your mother’s pestering and M—’s nagging. You wondered if L— could see you, what would he say if he could? Would he judge you for the coffin you were about to pick out? For being late to such a significant meeting for a single cup of coffee?

No, no he wasn’t like that. He had never been like that…

A shuddering breath escaped you as you blinked back tears. You hadn’t been able to go one day without crying and though you barely slept–each time you did you cried yourself to the brink of splitting your head open before the dratted dreams came.

It was always him, always that morning–always ‘what could have been’ if you’d only made him late that morning. Had something gone wrong with your toaster or coffee pot. Had you kissed him just a bit longer so that he wasn’t on duty when his station got that call–so that he wouldn’t lose himself in the fire trying to make sure everyone else got out.

His face was always blurred, you thought it was due to your grief and the fact that your mind simply could not put you through that for fear of altering your brain permanently. That was just your guess, though.

The sound of your steps dislocated every other sound on the street. It was around eight, the meeting started at eight thirty, you had less than 20 minutes to order, pay, and get to your destination on time. “Oh,” your shoulder collided with a strangers. “I–I’m so sorry,” your voice cracked and you had to take a moment to control it before turning to meet the other’s gaze. “I really–” you cut yourself off, noting the dead gleam in his eyes.

It was like he wasn’t there at all, like he was over the day or the world, or both. It had only been for a second, then he was blinking and apologizing, trying to assess the situation.

“I–I am so sorry,” you repeated, reaching out, wiping his brown sweater vest–now drenched in coffee–off, like it’d do something.

“It’s alright, you’re just spreading it.” He stepped back and held up a hand.

You nodded, pulling your hand back, frowning at the mess and inconvenience you’d cause this poor man, “I truly am sorry, I–is it expensive? I’ll buy you–” you paused, with the cost of the every cancelation fee from vendors, the wedding planner, the makeup artist, the venue, and the funeral that you now had to plan, you had to start considering your budget.

“It’s fine, don’t cry,” he shifted, looking uncomfortable. You gasped, though it was low and not worth commenting on.

Swiping at the tears streaking down your cheek, you whispered, “sorry, I tell myself I’m not going to cry and then I just–” you shook your head, you were mostly talking to yourself, but you heard how odd it might have sounded to him.

He uncrossed his satchel and shrugged the sweater vest off with one arm. “It’ll be fine if I take it to the dry cleaners,” you cringed–so it was expensive–dry-cleaner expensive.

“Let me buy you another coffee, I can at least do that,” you figited with your sleeves, the man noticed.

His eyes tracked up to yours, searching your person, but for what you couldn’t say, maybe he saw in you what you saw in him, maybe that’s why he agreed, maybe you were just trying to make yourself feel better, pretending you weren’t the only person in the world grasping onto every shred of anything that made you feel some semblance of sane.

He was quiet, you shared no diologue after your offer. He nodded and followed you inside. You weren’t nervous, you didn’t know why you thought you should be. You figited with your sleeves as you stood in line. You ordered first and waited for him. His order wasn’t one you’d expect from someone who looked like him–or rather dressed like him. You expected pure black espresso, maybe a few dashes of sugar, certainly not a latte with extra sugar. You shook your head, filing the thought away.

You swiped your card and followed Spencer, taking up a small barstool table with two seats in the corner of the shop. You crossed your arms, folding in on yourself as if you were trying to become as small as possible. Spencer noticed this too, but couldn’t find it in himself to really care, though as he thought this, he was already trying to determine is you had anxiety or if you were just having a bad day.

He cursed the profiler in his brain, wishing it’d listent to him just once. You figited, but he discarded anxiety upon recalling your brash reaction to spilling coffee over him, so then it must be something else, he thought, frustrated that he’d gone down a rabbit hole and now he had to know the source of your agiation. Even still, he didn’t want to ask you: a) he didn’t want to be rude, b) he didn’t care enough to ask, and c) it’d be too easy.

It’s something, at least for the time being, he considered, to take my mind off of everything else going wrong in my life. The barista called your name and you stood. Damn, Spencer faultered, what now? He couldn’t let you go without knowing, it’d bug him too much, though a part of him wanted it to bug him. It’d be considerably easier to fall asleep thinking about what was wrong with the stranger he’d met at the coffee shop than about anything to do with Maeve. He could barely get through saying her name and still–every time he thought it, bile built in the back of his throat and anger coursed through him–then right after, he’d want to crawl into a ball and waste away.

“What happened?” He cursed himself, why would he just outright ask you that? Why couldn’t he act normal?

“What?” You raised a brow, handing him his sickeningly sweet beverage.

He took it from you, shaking his head, “no–nothing, nevermind.”

You frowned, averting your eyes to the floor, the bustle of the shop turning tranquil, “if I tell you you have to tell me.”

“Huh?” He heard himself say before thinking. His eyes widened slightly as he thought of an answer, though it wasn’t long before he said, “Okay.”

But you couldn’t sit with him now, you had somewhere to be, just as he did. You parted ways after you’d exchanged numbers. “I’m Spencer…by the way…”

You acknowledged it but found it strange, he didn’t look like a ‘Spencer’, then he held out his hand for an awkward handshake and you nodded, yeah, that’s something a Spencer would do. “—,” you hesitated only an instant before allowing his hand to tangle into yours. They were warm–his hands–despite the weather, and you thought he smelled nice. Like applecrisps…

…

It wasn’t that Spencer was looking forward to his meeting with you, but it allowed some normality to enter his life again. He’d met you two days after he’d gone back to work, three days of powering through, and just when he thought he might not be cut out for working in the BAU anymore, just when he’d felt all was lost, you spilled his coffee all over him. His own coffee on top of that.

He’d been looking at different job listings when he’d bumped into you, so it was not entirely your fault. “What’s up, Pretty Boy?” Morgan approached his desk, pushing some things aside to sit atop it.

“What do you mean what’s up–nothing’s up.” Spencer’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Morgan sighed, “Fine, I won’t push, but I’m here if you need me, you know that, kid.”

Spencer rolled his eyes, pushing Morgan off his desk and reorganizing his things, “While I appreciate the ten-hundredth notice and gesture, I don’t appreciate being called ‘kid’.”

Morgan huffed and uncrossed his arms, “Whatever you say,” he began walking away, but turned his head back and murmured, “kid.”

Morgan noted a small smile dawning on Spencer’s face while he simultaneously shook his head.

The ceremony was tough, you and L—’s parents decided on a closed casket because of the burn marks. He didn’t even look like your L— anymore and seeing him–even with heavy amounts of makeup–would break you, and you’d been getting better–well, you were opening up in therapy now, and instead of starting out the window, fidgeting with your sleeves and pushing your hair out of your face, you occasionally glanced around the room–it was dull but homey in its own right.

You hadn’t mentioned Coffee Guy to anyone, though it was partially because you doubted he’d even text you, and you weren’t obsessing over texting him either. It might have just been a curiosity thing, you didn’t want to think about it much–thinking still hurt your head.

You were taking aspirin at least three times a day–ibuprofen if you were having an extra awful day. You had just grabbed the bottle of pills from the bathroom and walked to the kitchen when your phone pinged. You sighed and glanced at your phone. It was Spencer.

You set the bottle down and took up residence in one of the stools at the bar table. You read over the text a few times before remembering you had to reply. Yeah that works for me, see you then. You sent the message, your chest aching with a nostalgia, this would be the first time you went out alone, or at least with someone who hadn’t known you before L—’s death–someone who instead of babysitting would be living with you. Well, if you could consider grabbing coffee ‘living’. But it was more than you’d had in the past month.

He wouldn’t give you sympathetic eyes because he had no idea he was supposed to; because you wouldn’t tell him, but then you’d recalled the question you’d asked him, the agreement you’d made, and your heart sank.

For a moment, you mind wandered to thoughts of why he’d looked so angry that day–no it wasn’t anger. It was like…helplessness. That was the only way you knew how to describe it. But why? You asked yourself, a pang–sharp and squeezing–shot through your head. You huffed and dropped your phone onto the couture, gripping your temples, debating on what to say or do should he follow through with the promise.

You rubbed circles into the sides of your forehead until you felt you could let go, and soon after, you swallowed a pill.

Three days passed, it was Saturday, the day in which you were meeting Spencer. You didn’t know why you kept it a secret still, but you did, and heading out alone took a bit of convincing. “I’ll be an hour tops–I’m fine,” you huffed, crossing your arms when you saw M— narrow her eyes.

“Are you sure?”

“For the fifth time,” you frowned, holding up a hand, “I. Am. Fine.”

She nodded, running a hand down her face, “Okay, but…text me or respond–I’ll text, okay?”

You took in a breath, “Look, M—, I appreciate you worrying, but if I ever want to live a normal life again, I need to start leaving the house by myself.” You didn’t want to be mean, you knew she meant well, but at the same time–you were not a child and you couldn’t depend on her forever. More than needing to start doing things independently again, you wanted to reclaim being your own person–not one that was overshadowed by the things you’d gone through or the things you’d gotten over. Just–you–you and your persistent actions, you and your obsessive hobbies, you and your favorite things. Talking to new people–to strangers, you thought, might just be the first step toward reaching your goal.

Though the afternoon sun was still out, wind swept past your face as you crossed the street. You bit the inside of your cheek, wincing at the bell that rang, alerting the people inside to your presence. You glanced around, but couldn’t find him.

A few people left just as you decided to take a seat. There were two barista’s but one had moved to the back, now you were left with the quiet ambience of classical jazz and a few fellow customers. You thought about texting him but then shoved the idea away as soon as it popped into your head. You did not want to seem as desperate as you were feeling, so you set your purse down and made yourself as comfortable as you could be in this situation.

A few minutes went by with you scrolling your phone, Spencer had noticed you the moment before you’d opened the door and stepped inside. He’d been waiting for you, but a part of him had doubted you’d show. He didn’t know why he didn’t simply wait a few minutes before leaving, actuallyno, he did. Spencer despised being late, so instead of going agains his personal morals, he’d taken up residence in the very back corner of the coffeehouse at the high table, using a newspaper to cover his face as he cataloged every patron that wasn’t you.

He was just about to stand and call it a day, seemingly have been right about you standing him up, when he noted you.

Spencer couldn’t pinpoint what exactly had caught his attention first, just the fact that your presence seemed to draw him in was enough. He watched you for a few moments. You were fidgeting with your hands as you often did when you were uncofortable. You were scared he wasn’t going to show, it should’ve been a horrible thought, but Spencer cracked a small smile–which is when his phone pinged with a message.

So wrapped up in his thoughts, that he didn’t pick up on your texting. Just got here, it read. It widened his smile, and so he stood and made his way toward you, dumping the newspaper on the table. “Hey, sorry to keep you waiting.”

Your breath caught and your eyes widened, if he didn't know any better he’d think you saw a ghost or something of the sort–maybe a poltergeist? He shook his head, “Don’t be, I got here a few moments ago.” He nodded, accepting the obvious lie–but who was he to talk? He’d hid behind a newspaper in a corner because he was afraid you weren't going to show. He’d gotten here before you. How lame is that?

“Have you ordered yet?” He switched the conversation, disregarding his satchel on the chair across from you.

“No, I was waiting for you.”

“Well, did you want something? It’s on me–since you bought last time.”

“Yeah, but last time I spilled your coffee, so it wouldn’t be fair would it?” He raised a brow at your sudden confidence and cracked a smile.

“I suppose not, but I wouldn’t mind.”

You hesitated a moment, then nodded, “Okay,” you weren’t as stupid as to turn down free coffee a second time.

Spencer stood and headed for the counter, the barista that had gone off to the back now returned, you followed him, your movements slow and careful. You mumbled your order, neglecting to hold back on your extra ristretto shot, and instead came forward with your entire order. Spencer didn’t say anything to stop you, but perhaps he was just being nice.

Upon sitting back down, Spencer took to gazing out the window. You registered the way the grayed sunlight outlined his features, defining his side profile. The side that wasn’t hidden in white, you analyzed. His eyebags had depleted a little since the first you saw him, you wondered if yours had as well. Almost unconsciously, you lifted a hand to the bridged of your nose and traced it down to the corner of your eye.

Spencer glanced at you, shifting so that he was leaning on his arms that were splayed out in front of him. “What’s your favorite type of weather?” You sighed, fiddling with your fingers under the table as you passed over the question in your head, “you seem like a gloomy person.”

You raised a brow, “is that projection?”

He shrugged, but a smile tugged at the corner of his lips and despite your offended response, your expression micked his. “You don’t really hold back, do you?”

You huffed a laugh, covering your mouth with one of your hands. Spencer watched you, wondering what had you looking the way you did when you’d first met him; wondering why–despite the casual visage–your eyes had rivaled his in hopelessness. “So, do you?”

“Do I what?” You calmed your racing heart.

His face scrunched together a moment, but his smile didn’t falter, “do you like gloomy weather?”

A heavy sigh left your throat and you turned to watch the wind pick up outside again, tugging everything south. Your eyes landed on a church bell in the near distance, you drafted it in your head, “As of lately, that seems to be the case.” He wanted to comment on it, to ask what you meant by it, but you spoke first, “and you? Do you prefer gloomy weather, you sure look like you do.”

He scoffed, his eyes twinkling with something both sad and lovely, “Yes, I’ve always preferred Autumn.”

“Any specific reason?” You titled your head, trying to find any topic to latch onto so that the conversation didn’t go dry.

“Not really,” he shrugged, “I mean, I love Halloween, but that’s about it.”

“Really? Nothing else?”

“Well,” he started–but was distracted by the bell that rang. The barista called his name and he pushed his chair back. You were in the middle of standing when he turned around and held out a hand, “don’t worry, I got it.” You wavered only a second before sitting back down.

Alone with your mind–the atmosphere drowning out every other insignificant noise–you took a breath. You were doing this, you told yourself you could–and you didn’t know him all that well yet, but you had a feeling Spencer–the Coffee Shop Guy had entered your life for a reason, whether it was to stray your mind from the pain of losing L— or to help bring him to the forefront of your mind, you weren’t sure. But he was nice and he didn’t ask even though you’d seen the question in his eyes. You wondered if you small prayer had been answered, perhaps he wouldn’t ask at all, perhaps, you could live in a world with him where neither of you spoke of the things that pained you.

You could ask him, as he’d stated earlier, you were bold, but wouldn’t that be childish? Though, for some reason, you had the idea that Spencer wouldn’t really mind it.

As he approached the table again, setting your cup down in front of you before taking up his seat again, you wondered if maybe he wasn’t asking because he didn’t want you to ask, because you didn’t need to, because he didn’t want to talk about his demons either–and with that, you thought maybe you were more alike than first glance would have left you to believe.

It was almost like a new agreement had been made, voiceless and silent, but as loud as the speed of rivers–and as your quiet afternoon coffee dates increased–begining with one every other week to one every Saturday–so did your need to be near each other.

It was a safe place, one you both kept from your normal life. When you were together it felt like you were in your own little universe. One where L— didn’t exist and spencer had never met Maeve. You weren’t dating, but you weren’t not intimate. I was better than dating. Dating required labling and labling ensured one person if not both would eventually get hurt–physically or mentally, or both. What you had now, it was more of a fantasy.

One in which you could both pretend things were alright in the world even if you both felt like you were at the edge it. Where one was sumberging, the other was sinking–but both were pulling each other to the bottom, drowning one another in falsehood.

A month had disappeared right before your eyes, your casual, Saturday coffee dates had turned into texting each other good mornings and goodnights, and then the texting in the middle of the day started when you’d sent him a message, it was small, a simple good luck today!

But he’d replied within seconds, thanks, you too :).

Something was wrong, you could feel yourself straying. You hadn’t mentioned Spencer to anyone, for all they knew: you stayed home Saturdays. You were sure Spencer had kept you a secret from his everyday life as well–and though neither of you spoke much about your personal lives, it didn’t harm your relationship in the slightest. It was the fear–you were sure–that speaking about something the other wasn’t a part of would break the illusion you’d created together, so you kept away from the topic, pretending like you knew what was going on while most of the time you had less than when either of you clocked in.

You could feel the logical part of your brain telling you what you were doing wasn’t normal, but you thought if you could just keep them separate–it wouldn’t hurt anyone. You’d grown attached to Spencer, you wanted to keep him all to yourself, he was your secret and yours alone. You didn’t want to hear about the people who got to see him every day, the people who got to interact with him at work or when he went home–you didn’t want to know just how much you were sharing.

It was small things at first, like forgetting you’d made plans with M— or work friends, canceling on them last minute in favor of staying home and texting Spencer. The first time he’d called you it was late, around 3 am because he couldn’t sleep–he’d said–and upon seeing his name slide across your phone for the first time as a call, you found you weren’t that tired anymore either.

Your room was dark, almost two months had gone by, you’d stopped keeping track of the days, honestly, only aware of it for events at work, but barely. M— still came around sometimes, checking up on how you were doing, but you’d stopped replying to her messages so much that they’d built up, and when you did respond, it was, thanks, I’m fine, and then you were dead for a few days more until she heard back from you again or came knocking on your door without warning.

The few times she’d stopped by unannounced, it hadn’t been too bad, but on two specific occasions, you’d let a few choice words slip up. She was worried about you, she’d told your parents–and they had called you to make sure you were alright, asking if you’d wanted them to come back down–of course you said no, why would you? You were an adult, you were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself.

You were going to therapy and you hadn’t called into work once since you’d been back. And besides all that, you had Spencer. It wasn’t like you were alone–even when you physically were, Spencer was a simple text away, and he always responded within the first few minutes.

“Are you there?” Spencer pulled you from your thoughts.

“Yeah,” you smiled into the phone, switching your bedside lamp on, you shifted your body upward and pulled your knees to your chest as you leaned against your bed’s headboard. “Yeah, Spencer, I’m here, what’s going on?” You were giddy with feeling, you had never spoken over the phone with him–this was new territory altogether. You were terrified of the excitement it enlisted within you.

“I–I can’t sleep.” He huffed, his voice groggy with yearning.

You frowned, “are you an insomniac?”

A low chuckle came from the other side of the line, “blunt as always.”

“It’s my best quality,” you chirped, your voice croaky as you fought the urge to yawn.

“Did I wake you up?–I woke you up didn’t I–I’m sorry–I’ll–”

“Don’t,” you shook your hand, though you knew he couldn’t see it, and rubbed your eyes, giving into the yawn, “I’m always here, Spencer.”

“Yeah, but… we don’t…do this,” by this, he could mean a million different things. You didn’t call; you didn’t call at night–certainly not this late; you didn’t wake each other from slumber; you didn’t say things like you were saying now; you didn’t talk about your struggles or issues; you just–you talked about the good things. It was like catfishing in real life, only you were catfishing your lives and you both had been completely aware of it from the beginning.

But maybe you could.

Maybe…, “it–it’s fine…” you spoke softly, attempting to sound casual, but your voice wavered slightly as if you had no idea what you were doing, and maybe you didn’t–but maybe…

Spencer caught your hesitation–and he should have cared–he should have changed his mind, he should have hung up right there. But he didn’. And now here he was, spilling his guts to his…whatever you were.

He didn’t know if he could call you a friend, he didn’t know if what you were could even be considered friendliness–it was more or less a mutual…a mutual bonding? He didn’t know, when you were together it felt like you were more–like you could be more–but then there was Maeve in the back of his head, and he knew–he knew you had your own affairs.

He kept Mave to himself, but he divulged everything else. He was giving his most personal self away and he wouldn’t know if it was a mistake until after he did it. It was a chance he was willing to take because–well…what the hell else was there left? Maeve was gone and he was okay with pretending he was fine with it, that he was fine with moving on, but he couldn’t lie to himself. She took up every corner of his mind, he still carried her damn book with him. He knew it was an issue–his therapist had recommended shelving the literary work–but he just couldn’t. He couldn’t shelve her away like a book he’d never read again.

“I’m fine.” The shattering of a plate sounded throughout your kitchen. M— flinched, “I–” you huffed, averting your eyes.

“You’re sorry, I know,” M— narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “Look(—what is going on with you? I know–” she held up a hand, “you keep saying nothing, but it sure as hell doesn’t seem like nothing.”

“Yeah, well that’s not really any of your business, is it?” you scowled, grabbing the broom to sweep up the mess you’d made.

“Here,” M— sighed, seeping forward and holding out her arm, “let me do that.”

You stared at her for a long second, assessing her. She jerked her hand, motioning for the broom. You rolled your eyes and placed it in her open palm.

“All I’m saying,” she began, her voice softer this time, “is that I miss you…I know L— misses you too.”

“L— is dead.” Your voice sliced through the tension like an avalanche coming down after waiting dormant for years.

“—…” M— mumbled, tilting the dustpan into a bag. When she finished she connected the pan to the pole and set it against your mop. She leaned on the counter near where you were, corning you in your own kitchen, “You haven’t visited his grave since the funeral… Not once.”

You turned away, unable to hold her stare any longer. Tears pooled in your eyes as you let the words slip from your throat, “I’m not ready.”

“Oh sweety…” she came up around you and pulled your hands before her, “I…I don’t think you’ll ever be ready. But I’m here, L—’s parents are here if you want I can call your mom, your father?”

You shook your head, “no–I–” you resolved, “I’m fine.” You met her gaze, “I swear it.”

She frowned, you could tell she didn’t believe you, but you couldn’t find it in you to tell her the truth–you couldn’t even admit to the truth yourself because, in all honesty, you didn’t know what the truth was. You knew Spencer had something to do with it, but you were ignorant of just how big of an impact he had.

“You’re still planning to move out, right? I can help you start looking at listings again.” You cringed and tried not to roll your eyes as you braced your arms against the counter near the stove.

“I… I don’t know just yet.”

“You don’t know?” M— almost scoffed, turning away, “See, this is what I’m talking about–you were so set on moving two months ago–what–what happened?”

You shrugged, trying to deflect from her piercing gaze, “I–I just haven’t had time.”

“Haven’t had time?” M— shook her head, distaste curling on her lip, “—, you’re a bad liar, you always have been.” She sighed, running a hand over their face, “I… I know you might be coping in your way, but I don’t think it’d be healthy to–

“–Oh and suddenly you’re an expert on everything now?”

M— paused, taking a step back, “Are you being serious right now?” Your face contorted into a sneer, leading to M— nodding, “Alright, well maybe I should just leave…” You kept quiet and your head down as she began walking away. She hesitated, you saw her jerk her movements a split second before making up her mind and continuing toward the front door.

Your heart was breaking in your chest as you heard her feet shuffle away from you. When was the last time you’d fought like this? When was the last time you shoved each other away? But it wasn’t really her fault, was it? You were to blame for this–this was your doing–your responsibility. And why were you in this situation in the first place? Why couldn’t you run to her, let her pull you in her arms, and week on her shoulder?

You knew the answer, but you didn’t know why the answer was what it was. You didn’t want to voice it either–you wanted to indulge in being with him, you wanted to indulge in continuing your relationship for better or for worse, you didn’t care. But it was for worse, and you knew this and upon the few conversations over the phone you had with him in the days passing, you knew he knew it too–and eventually, you began calling out of work, you began to hide away from the world, obsessed with one thing and only one thing: Spencer.

Spencer was there and then he wasn’t. He faded in and out of consciousness during the day, he’d barely be any help to the cases at present. To him, it seemed like he had no reason to be at work, and just like that, the progress he had made the past two months caught the first train to regression.

Morgan and Blake were there, Penelope too–checking up on him regularly, but he couldn’t very well tell them what was going on–what he was feeling because they’d think he’d gone crazy. But maybe he had always been crazy–he’d never thought too long about it, but what if he was a psychopath? Just one with controlled impulses? Though he never had thoughts of gutting anyone or how their head would look like on a stick–he now had this obsession–one like none he’d ever dealt with. It was almost compulsive with how he checked his phone every few seconds, ensuring he hadn’t missed a message from you.

His heart ached when he found you hadn’t, but when you did–oh that was a rush he could not explain. He didn’t feel like he should have to, either. You just got him–he ignored Maeve’s gaze on him. She was with him more often now, she wouldn’t leave him alone, it was torture worse than he’d ever been through–worse than death–worse than Tobias.

His brain couldn’t process that Maeve was a ghost, that what he was seeing wasn’t real because she was in the back of his mind–all. The. Time. He couldn’t tell what was rality and what was fiction–not with you, not with Maeve. He didn’t know how he put you in the same league as her, deep down he knew no one could ever even hope to compare.

But you–there was something–something about you even his brain couldn’t explain.

“Look, Spencer, you know you can come to any9 of us if you ever need to,” Spencer avoided Hotch’s gaze, tapping his fingers on the table before him.

“Yeah, I know.”

Hotch eyed his pupil silently for a moment, lips pressed into a thin line as he tried to assess the situation. Eventually, the man sighed and folded his hands, “Alright, as long as you know that.” Spencer nodded and stood, taking Hotch’s words as a cue to leave, “Hey, Reid–”

Spencer paused and turned around, eyes finding Hotch’s with hesitation, “yeah?”

Hotch sighed and it sounded fatigued, though Spencer couldn’t deduce if it was from staying late at the office most nights or all the stress that had been plaguing Spence–that he now brought down on the team. Not on purpose, never on purpose, but he didn’t know how to stop it.

“Nothing, go home, get some rest, take the day off, maybe.”

Spencer thought to protest, but then he thought he’d have more time to text you, to call you, and maybe if you weren’t busy you could spend the day together. Most nights he stayed awake, texting, calling you. A few of the team members had caught him smiling at his phone when he was on it and his face morphing into angst and annoyance at the world when he wasn’t.

Whatever it was–whoever it was: it wasn’t healthy. And Spencer knew that. You knew that. But neither of you wanted to admit it–not yet at least.

Spencer had told you to meet him in five minutes outside of your apartment, he’d planned a day away from everything, though as he’d come to learn, he’d been doing that for a while. He knew you had been the victim of it as well, whoever you had lost, you’d loved with your whole heart, whoever he was competing with, he could never measure up, but he didn’t care. He didn’t want to be alone but he didn’t want to be at work, he didn’t want to think, and in that sense, he’d grown lazy. He didn’t care about consequences, all he cared about was you and what you could provide. He didn’t feel guilty about it either, because he knew you thought the same.

You ignored L—’s presence as you flipped over every picture frame he was in, and had began taking down everything in your apartment he’d bought or contributed to, you didn’t want to be reminded of what you had lost when you were gaining something new.

You met him outside in five minutes, just like he’d said to. “Hey,” the bustle on the street went away when you saw him. He was close, but there was always something between you two. It wasn’t a spark like it had been with L—, it wasn’t friendship like you had with M—, but it wasn’t like your coworker’s either. You didn’t know what it was, it felt both tangible and unattainable. It was a shell of a relationship almost, but you were doing it to yourselves. To punish? To force down? To repent?

Maybe it was because you both thought you deserved this kind of love, the half-filled kind.

Maybe it was the only love you could provide for anyone else because when you loved fully, people died and hurt were the people they left. You couldn’t be too sure, but you didn't like thinking about it much. You hid the thoughts and moral parts of yourself, shouting that this was wrong, what you were doing to yourself, and enabling Spencer to do to himself could be considered abuse. Torment in which you were both willing participants.

The day waned, you picked up coffee and then you headed to the bookstore downtown. He’d picked out a few psychological and physics novels and you selected a single thriller. He’d snorted at the title when you’d read it to him and said after reading the synopsis on the back, “It’s going to be–” he paused and focussed his eyes again, “Sorry, no spoilers will come from me.”

You frowned, “but you haven’t read this one, how can you tell who the killer is?” When you saw him hesitate you squinted, trying to figure out why he couldn’t answer. “Are you just guessing?” You raised a brow.

He laughed nervously and began rubbing his nape, “Yeah, kind of.” You smiled and clicked your tongue, “seriously? Come on,” you smacked him on the shoulder, pushing him forward when one of the registers opened up and called the next person forward.

“Do you want to call it a day?” You asked as you exited the shop with him on your heels.

“Erm…” he frowned, looked around, his bag in hand, “What about cornetto?” He motioned to the vendor across the street at the child playground.

You chuckled, “Seriously? Spencer, it’s like–the beginning of January?”

“Yeah, so?” he tilted his head, allowing a few strands of his shaggy brown hair to fall into his face. You sighed, biting your lip as you considered.

“Alright, then, come on.” You picked a flavor for each other and upon tasting his choice, you were surprised it wasn’t as bad as you'd expected it to be.

You were quite content, for the most part anyway–a bench caught Spencer’s eyes and he asked to sit, so you sat. You were speaking, merely enjoying the other’s presence. But that sinking feeling in the back of your head began to bubble up again. It’d been happening ever since you and M— had that fight. She hadn’t messaged you and you hadn’t done anything to contact her. It always seemed most present when you were with Spencer. Or when you were texting or thinking about him. He seemed to be at the pinnacle of all your stress and yet, he was the only one that could make it go away.

“Spencer…” you murmured, noting the dying sun in the sky, taking its color with it. The clouds turned gray and you knew it would start raining soon.

“Yeah?” he threw the last of the cone into his mouth and stood to toss the wrapper in a nearby bin.

You watched him, waiting and wondering what you wanted to say. You closed your eyes because you could not acertain what exactly it was you wanted to say. Upon turning around and finding you with your eyes closed he looked away, and stuffed his hands into his pocket, as if you’d passed your feelings onto him.

“—)”

“–No, Spencer, I need to say it.” You stood, still gripping your cornetto.

“Say what?” He all but squeaked, throwing his hands up, “—, what is it you have to say?”

“You say it like that,” you frowned, taking a step toward him, “but I think what you really mean is, ‘why do you have to say it’”

He averted his eyes, you were right and you both knew it. You took another step forward, but he met it by taking one back. You looked up at him and in a moment of vulnerability, you reached for him. Your heartbeat pulsed as he did just what you expected him to do, he pulled away and turned his back to you.

Your heart was breaking, but not for him. He was shattering you fantasy. Your ‘everything is okay’ world. You had given up practically everything to feel like this all the time and he was shattering it each second he didn’t turn back around.

“Spencer,” you whispered again.

He spun around with a force you had never seen and shouted, “NO —, no–we can’t–we can’t do this. We–we can’t do that.” The question broke the illusion, your day together that hadn’t felt real, felt no less than a slap of reality.

“But why?” Came your plead.

“Because!” He shouted, “Because–because people die, and when people die, they take every soul with them! I don’t–don’t you get it?” He scoffed, eyes crazed, yours glistening with almost tears, but not quite.

“Be real, Spencer,” you narrowed your eyes, your voice dripping with venom. You looked tired despite the amount of days you’d taken leave from work, “I’m probably the only one that gets it.”

“Then you should know better” he shot back, jabbing a finger in your direction, his eyes coming down on you like a storm, and in this moment, you felt quite like Dorothy.

You nodded, a grim smile quirking up your lips, “wow, Spencer, just wow.”

“—)”

“–Do you really think I give a damn?” You scoffed, facing him for possibly the last time, “Screw you, Spencer.” You launched the rest of your cornetto at his face, watching it hit his cheek and fall to the floor.

He grimaced, and as you walked away, trying to make sense of everything, you felt the bubbled feeling disappear. No, you didn’t love Spencer, but you loved the feeling of being with him, the feeling of being with someone who felt just as you felt. Who could give you just as much as you could give and nothing more.

You didn’t understand why you could be together and not in this strange limbo you’d been in since meeting.

Now, though, every sound seemed amplified by the loss of your relationship. You decided as you exited the park, watching the clouds move together, the when you got home, you’d call M— and tell her everything you’d kept a secret.

And you were ready to do exactly that when a message from Spencer came through your phone. You hesitated, you’d already changed out of your day clothes and had slid into some pijamas.

Old habit must die hard, you thought and you clicked the notification.

Let me come over. Was all it said and cursing yourself, you texted back, okay.

An hour later Spencer was entering your apartment, you weren’t sure why you’d both had the urge to speak to each other in person. Over the phone seemed too…careless you supposed, and well, this wasn’t a careless topic.

“Do you want something to drink?” You tried to lessen the tension, but he shook his head and answered no.

You sighed and followed him to the couch. You avoided sitting too close to each other, some unknown force separating you from making that mistake. “We need to talk.” Your heart sank, but you knew it was coming. You knew he was right. You’d told yourself the same thing–but you weren’t ready. This was too soon.

“Spencer–”

“No, —, we need to have it out.” His voice was firm and offered no room for protest. A sigh escaped his lips and it was guttural. He was shuddering and you hate how it made you feel better about yourself. You hated how you were grateful this was just as hard for him as it was for you.

“I know…” It was the hardest admission you ever said, you should have been saying ‘I do’, today was your wedding day after all–or at least it would have been had things turned out different. You fought the urge to cry and turned away, “I know.”

He took a breath and swallowed, eyes gleaming over, “—, look at me.” You pressed your lips together and squeezed your eyes, trying to slow the fast pacing of the blood pumping through your veins. Across the dim lighting of your apartment, the TV muted, but on, you met his gaze, and there it was–everything neither of you had ever said out loud was there, it was pain and grievance and ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘I love you but I don’t love you like I should’ all wrapped into one.

There was no doubt in your mind that your expression mimicked his, and he traced every line of your testimony, appreciating and accepting it as he accepted his own and allowed you to look into his mind for a few seconds–the last few seconds he had of you. He didn’t want to leave you crying, he didn’t want to remember you like that, and he didn’t want you to remember him in that way–so he smiled. It was sad, but it was warm, and for that, you smiled back.

You only cried once the door shut behind him. And you cried and cried and cried, and when you were done, you deleted his number, hesitating over the button before pressing your eyes together and clicking it–your heart and mind working together to tell you you’d be okay. To tell you that you were always going to be okay, and then you finally cried for Spencer and his mystery lover whom he’d never spoke about, but knew he’d lost. He never had to say her name, she was there in the corner of his eyes. She was there perched on the edge of his desk, when you walked into his home library and ran your fingers along his titles, she was there, a ghost, a whisper, but she was there, L— never seemed to be too far behind.

For what it was worth, you were glad you got to know him, even if it was only half.

The light fading into your living room found its way wrapped around your neck and highlighted your face, creating a certain glow. “You look great,” M— smiled, “but are you sure you’re ready?”

“It’s been a month,” you frowned, “and didn’t you say I’d never ‘be ready’?”

She laughed softly, “Yeah, I think I did say something like that, but seriously, are you sure?”

The apartment was practically empty with boxes straying to and fro, the only thing you still had out was the full-length mirror that sat near your front door, the one in which you spun around in now. “I’m fine, I have to be, right? To move on, or something?”

“Is that what they say in therapy nowadays?”

“Quit acting like my grandmother.” She rolled her eyes but met your smile with one of her own.

“So,” she said as you locked the door behind you, “what did they say?”

You huffed, heading toward your car in the parking lot, “Well, they said that I need to be on my very best behavior, but,” you grinned, showing a bit of teeth, “I am not going to be fired!”

“That’s really great, —, I’m happy for you.”

“Yeah,” you bit your cheek, “me too.”

The cemetery wasn’t lively, though you didn’t expect it to be, there were a few single people, mostly old relatives, likely visiting late lovers, a few younger kids, likely visiting late parents or maybe they were just like you, visiting youtheir would-be husband or wife, going over all the things that could have been.

“There he is,” M— pointed.

“I remember,” you nodded, sure, it was almost five months ago, but you recalled every moment you spent here. You hated this place, it was gloomy and it sucked the color out of everything living. But L— was here and you had to see him, you had to explain that what you had been doing wasn’t on purpose and that you were surely on your way to getting better. You told him you had started to look forward to your therapy sessions again and that you and M— had made up. You were active at work more often now and you called both his and your parents regularly.

You also wanted to tell him about Spencer, even though he’d entered your life and left it like a blitz snowstorm, it wouldn’t be fair to not include him, it wouldn’t be fair to ignore the relationship you had with him. Not saying anything would be lying.

“Do you want some privacy?” M— asked, looking around.

You nodded, “yeah, please?”

“Okay, I’ll be over there.” She pressed her lips into a thin line, watching as you smiled sadly and nodded. “Just…right over there.” She walked toward the trees that surrounded the yard and leaned against a great oak., pulling out a pack of cigarettes for L—, lighting, but not smoking it–her little tribute to the friend she’d lost.

Spencer got home from work rather late, well–early, if he took into account the time. He was tired, but something kept him awake. His insomnia had decreased somewhat, his dreams of Maeve were ever present, but they’d begun to deescalate. His mind was no longer recounting the affairs of her death nor the circumstances leading up to it.

He’d become more active at work, his brain working faster than it had on the case he’d just closed than it had in the past few months. He showered, then made his way to the kitchen, thinking to brew some coffee. But his satchel caught his eye, not his satchel in particular, but one of the items hidden within.

He hesitated a moment before making his way toward his couch, where it lay. Upon opening the flap, he found what he knew to be concealed. He didn’t have x-ray vision–though if a thing like that existed in humans, he was sure he would’ve–he knew he hadn’t taken it out yet, and some part of him was ready to–not to move on just yet, but to begin the process of letting go.

He smiled and tugged the book into his arms. He made a decision right then. So, Spencer brewed his pitcher of coffee and headed toward his stationary desk, settling The Narrative of John Smith to the side. He poured the pure brown liquid into a mug, making sure to add ten to eleven sugar cubes and ¼th cups of creamer before mixing..

After taking a sip and apporcing it, he grabbed a coaster right and settled back at his desk.

He took another sip and savored it, placing it back down in exchange for a pen and paper, readying himself to write.

The words came out uncertain at first, but as he figured out what he wanted to say, it became a little simpler. ‘I’m sorry’ and ‘thank you’ he wrote more than a few times and he was sure if he read it back to himself he’d find he’d become illiterate. And he mentioned her. How could he not? She was enough to make him go crazy, the reaction he’d had that day at the park with her–it had meant something. Even if it was anger. Not like the one he’d shown Emily, where he was angry because she was right. It was more than even she had seen; more than his mother.

He referenced the quote by Thomas Merton, her last thought to him before everything went wrong, and responded with a quote he belived fit perfectly.

“It is not violence that best overcomes hate–nor vengeance that most certainly heals injury,” Charlotte Brontë. And so, I leave you, not with hate for abandoning me, nor vengeance for loving my soul. I leave you with tenderness, my once-in-a-lifetime.

Spencer folded the letter in half after signing it and sealed it within an envelope. He slipped the casing into the front of the book, where her quote resided, and stood, shelving it between his favorite authors, right in the middle, and then Spencer cried. His wails nearly shook the building, a neighbor came by later on that morning to ask if he was alright, and Spencer replied that, yes, he was alright. And he felt alright. Something he hadn’t truthfully felt in a very long time.

Time passed like the hours in a high school day; with each month, you felt better, your head clearer. The month was January and perhaps you shouldn’t have been thinking about it, but you couldn’t help it. You were human after all.

Merely human.

With hands stuffed into your coat, you pushed through the crowd of people and crossed the street. You weren’t hoping for anything, not even closure. The sky grayed but it made you smile–a year ago it would have made you grimmer. You closed your eyes and sucked in everything you could, the smell of freshly baked goods in a nearby shop, the dozen’s of perfumes from people as they circled you, the noise of everyday society buzzed in your ears, and that familiar jazz singer’s voice strained to hit that familiar note as you stepped into the coffeehouse.

You thought about ordering first, but you wanted to sit and enjoy it for a minute, something you didn’t have the chance to do when you still lived on this side of town. You tugged out your phone and brushed back a lock of hair behind an ear.

Scrolling social media for a minute, you smiled when you noticed the case Spencer and his team had just closed. You’d found him on accident when a coworker you often spent your lunches with sent you an article about some serial killer and the man that had brought him to justice–who just happened to be a guest speaker for one of younger brother’s professors.

Spencer Reid, FBI agent. You had laughed at the irony, but you then took to following the cases here and there, happy he was moving on from whatever had pained him so.

You read over the short article, then replied to a few text messages from people you had yet to get back to. When you finished, you rolled your neck from side to side and stretched, pulling a book out of your purse. It was new, a gift from Christmas from L—’s mom. It wasn’t your favorite genre, but it was romance and the beginning was just heartbreaking. You were so enhanced by the words on the page, that you didn’t notice the man sitting in the corner of the shop, using a newspaper to hide his head, though he wasn’t hiding it this time, he was reading it.

Spencer spotted you the moment before you stepped into the coffee shop, right before you pulled open the door and made the bell at the top jingle. He didn’t try hiding his face, but he tried not to pay too much attention to you.

The year for him had gone by rather quickly compared to the time he’d fought against his addiction. He felt better, a lot better–whereas a year ago he couldn’t imagine where he’d be in a month.

Spencer had found his thoughts drifting toward you this morning, something he hadn’t expected. He thought about you not often, but at times, he’d wonder about you, about where you were, and if you ever thought about him. He’d wonder if you–by chance–ever saw him on TV, wonder if you ever kept up with him–which was a dumb question, of course, you’d moved on with your life. Why would you care?

But you were here, you were here and he wondered too, if this were a coincidence, or simply the power of an unseen force.

He debated with himself, scared he would make the wrong decision either way he chose. Eventually, he closed his eyes, sucked in a breath, and let it out, a slow, gentle smile replacing the once-before strained expression. He decided and if this decision damned him, then he could ask for forgiveness, but leaving without saying anything, felt like a crime in its own right, apart from that, a part of him missed you.

So, Spencer stood and walked in your direction, setting the newspaper on the table as he’d done a year ago, although this time he folded it neatly, a happy reflection of what his life had become.

He would have sat down, but he didn’t know if you wanted to see or speak with him, so he ramined standing and awkwardly said, “Hey…” his voice cracking had him clearing his throat right after.

You looked up and for a moment, he was sure you would sneer, but you didn’t, you smiled, and you said, “Hey…” back.

“Mind if I sit?” he motioned for the chair in front of you.

You shut the cover of your book, using the string to save your place and waved a hand,“not at all.”

He took up residence calmly, and upon noting the book, raised an eyebrow and asked, “What are you reading?”

“Jane Eyre, funnily enough,” because a year ago, you wouldn’t have ever thought to tackle something as classic as that.

His eyes widened slightly as his mind reminisced about the end of his letter to Maeve, tucked securely within The Narrative of John Smith. “Really?”

“Yep,” you nodded, running a hand over the cover, “it was a gift from L—’s mother.”

“L—?” He raised a brow, wondering if you were seeing someone now. He was happy for you, but he couldn’t deny the slight sinking of his heart.

“My late finacé,” you smiled brightly.

“Oh…” his chest contracted, your fiancé, your late fiancé–the finacé who was no doubt the reason for your diminishing essence a year ago, when you’d met.

“She said I’d like it, and I do–so far.”

“I kind of feel like Mr. Rochester,” he said abruptly. “Right now… Just a bit.”

You tilted your head, your smile reaching your eyes and it was the most beautiful thing Spencer had ever seen. He didn’t remember you smiling like that. He didn’t recall the sheer happiness of being here, of being alive–of living. “I haven’t gotten that far, so I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean.”

He chuckled, “Right, sorry.”

Your heart fluttered at his tone, it wasn’t like the stoic, grim one he used when you used to know him, but maybe this was the real Spencer–the one before he’d lost whomever he had. The question sat at the tip of your tongue, but you couldn’t quite force it out. “Don’t be, I’ll know eventually.”

He smiled and by everything–that smile was one you could get used to. But you didn’t want to get too ahead of yourself, so you simply sighed.

“I am strangely glad to get back again to you: and wherever you are is my home–my only home.”

You thought.

Charlotte Brontë.

a/n: 100 post–uhm, gasp?