Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

34. Life Is But Life...

CONTENT WARNING: IN DEPTH DISCUSSION OF SUICIDAL IDEATION, PAST SUICIDE ATTEMPT, DRUG ADDICTION, AND PAST MISCARRIAGE

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The drive to Quantico took just over six hours, and when you finally arrived home after dropping off Preston and Penelope at their respective houses, you were ready to pass out. You had all taken turns driving at various points throughout the trip, switching drivers at rest stops along the way as you refueled and picked up food.

There were two unmarked cars with tinted windows sitting idly outside your apartment. The make and model were consistent with those used by the bureau.

Derek was right; they had sent agents.

A hopeful part of you thought that it was for the safety of everyone in the BAU, but realistically, it was likely to keep tabs on all of you. When the higher ups decided to call all of you back in, whether for debriefing or investigation, you had no doubt that you'd likely be a person of interest. It didn't matter that Boucher and the Marseilles had committed atrocities to your family; you had been and were "close" with them. That was enough to warrant an in-depth dissection into your life.

But, for now, after parking your car and heading into the building (where Thomas greeted you and Spencer with wide eyes at the still visible injuries you'd sustained—his left wrist, the bruise on his cheek, and the strangulation bruises still wrapping around your throat, as well as bruises from the harsh injections of ketamine on both of your necks), the two of you headed up to your apartment.

When you walked over the threshold, you closed and locked the door behind you, and you led Spencer into your bedroom. He paused in the doorway, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.

And you realized that the last time he'd been here was the night you'd found out that he'd gone digging into your life with Garcia. A part of you felt that you should still be angry about that, but it was hard to hold it against him when you were just glad that both of you were alive.

But you had forgotten about the disarray in which you'd left your room after kicking him out. You'd cleaned up the glass from the shattered picture frame a few days afterwards, but your bookshelf was still on the ground, the surrounding area littered with fallen books. You didn't have the energy to clean it up in the past two weeks.

Your face grew warm.

But Spencer didn't comment as he walked into the room and placed his go-bag down by the door. He leaned against the wall and just waited for you to say something. His face was haggard with both exhaustion and pain.

Wordlessly, you walked into your bathroom and swiped the bottles of ibuprofen and acetaminophen from the cabinet beneath your sink. You filled a glass up with water before returning and giving him a fairly strong dose of both.

"This won't help with severe pain, but it should take away some of the discomfort and help with swelling." Then, as he nodded gratefully and downed the pills and the water, you gently added, "If it gets really bad, I think you should take the narcotics. Pain-control aids in recovery."

He handed the glass back to you. "I know, but..." The strained look on his face told you everything.

You gave him a soft look to tell him you understood.

Then you stepped away and placed the empty glass on your nightstand. "Before we... get into everything, I want to shower. I feel... disgusting." You looked down at his wrist with a frown. "I'll get you a plastic bag to wrap that in. You can use my shower since it's bigger, and you'll have more room to move. I'll shower in my office bathroom."