Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

37. Wild Nights! Wild Nights!

The ground was frozen in the cemetery out on Long Island, frigid winds blowing by and forcing chills down Spencer's back, but despite the cold weather, the sky was clear. The sun glittered off the crests of small leftover piles of snow.

Spencer wished it was raining. Or hailing. Or at least cloudy. He thought it would be more fitting.

Instead, he helped hoist the casket out of the hearse alongside Christopher Preston, Hotch, Derek, Rossi, and Emily. JJ and Garcia trailed behind the rest of them as they carried your casket across the grass to the prepared grave. They were all dressed in black—even Garcia.

And they couldn't get you a plot beside your family; those plots had already been taken years ago. The best they could get, especially on such short notice, was a few rows down.

Spencer hated that it was the best they could do. He hated that he had to carry your casket down an aisle between tombstones to get to your grave. He hated that just a few days ago, he was imagining what it might be like for you to walk down an aisle of a different kind, not towards a grave, but towards him, surrounded by friends and family alike.

In those fleeting hours of bliss, when he fell asleep with you tucked into his side, he wondered if he should just ask you to marry him then and there. But between your child (Spencer's jaw clenched in agony at even the mere thought of what might have been), and Boucher's capture, he figured that it would be better to wait. To ease into this new confirmed thing between the two of you. To handle one thing at a time before twining your lives together in a way that no one could ever deny. And now...

And now he was here.

And though you were gone, you were still the only thing that occupied his thoughts—an echo that would never fade.

Then he heard Garcia let out a shaky sigh and JJ murmur something he couldn't make out to her, and Spencer swallowed thickly. His grip around the handle tightened.

He'd cried enough at the hospital.

And then the eight of them arrived at your grave. The lowering device was already set up above the plot.

They gently placed the casket on the device and took a step back. It wouldn't start lowering until one of the graveyard staff came and unlocked the breaks. So instead, the eight agents stood around the grave and stared at your casket.

Several moments of silence passed.

Then Hotch quietly asked, "Does anyone have anything they'd like to say?"

No one responded—not even Preston, who always had a well-timed quip ready for any occasion.

But the rest of the team took quick glances between Preston and Spencer. And Spencer hated that too, that they expected something from him.

After several moments of silence, Garcia sighed, "She was just starting to be a part of the family." Her bottom lip wobbled as she spoke, and a tear rolled down her cheek. She quickly brushed it away.

"She's still a part of it," Derek answered, lifting a hand to place on her shoulder. His eyes, narrow with exhaustion and regret, were fixed on the casket.

Another silence settled over the eight of them.

Then Rossi asked Hotch, "You think the DoJ will ever let us help catch this bastard?"

Hotch didn't respond at first. Then, so quietly that Spencer nearly had to lean forward to hear him, Hotch finally answered, "It's unlikely. But that's never stopped us before."

He'd been staring at your casket, too, but his eyes flicked up and scanned the faces of each of the agents. They settled on Preston.

Preston shoved his hands into his pockets. "I won't say anything as long as I'm in on it, too. I wanna make that son of a bitch pay just as much as the rest of you."