Phoenix | S.R.

Ch. 3 | White Iris

Summary: The team attends Spencer Reid's funeral, and Reader continues to struggle with saying goodbye.

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My funeral dress was never supposed to be worn. At least, not like this.

When I bought this modest black dress two years ago I had always intended for it to sit in the back of my closet and never be used. I had definitely never wanted to wear it to the funeral of Spencer Reid.

But there I was, clumsily stumbling into a funeral home smelling like the bottle I'd drained immediately before coming. I didn't even remember how I'd gotten there. I didn't have my keys, so I could only assume I hadn't driven. The Marine Memorial Church felt so much larger than it used to seem. It towered over me with a menacing solemnity.

It didn't get any better when I crossed the threshold. The simple architecture swallowed everything else and reminded me that he was but one of hundreds of thousands to give their lives for the country. It hardly felt worth it the way I'd hoped that it would.

I tried to put on a brave face, but apathetic was the best I could manage. Even that numbness dissipated when I saw the first familiar face. Immediately, I had to look away. I couldn't stand the sorrow displayed by William Reid. It took everything in me, every ounce of remaining willpower not to scream at him for daring to show his face.

It figured, that he'd only be there for his son when it didn't matter anymore.

Then again, I was one to talk. At least he looked sober. 

My legs were unsteady as I tried to make my way through the next set of doors. I could see the people lining up to write words that he would never read. I could hear the condolences whispered to his weeping mother, and I tried to remember any part of my training on how to handle grief.

Again, the apathy took over. The training seemed so stupid, so meaningless in a world where he couldn't benefit from it. My mourning would be no more dignified than his last moments spent spitting blood and begging me not to cry. I could feel the bile rising in my throat in the same way, threatening to spew every regret in the form of sharp, unrepentant curses for a world that never showed him any such mercy.

I marched forward like the soldier they'd trained us to be, but it didn't take long before I felt a firm grip on my arm that stopped me from going any further.

"(Y/n)... What are you doing?" Derek asked with an obvious undercurrent of hostility that I didn't appreciate.

I bit my cheek as I teetered on unsteady feet. I looked up at him with what I wanted to be a glare, but I couldn't manage to follow through. Because Derek was looking at me with so much pity and heartbreak that I couldn't help but empathize. But that was the same reason that I begged him to let me go. He was one of the only people who was able to understand the pain.

"Don't, Morgan. Please, just..."

I tried to take my arm back, but began to stumble in my heels. He caught me again. With more sympathy than I'd expected for such a disaster, he held me close to him. He kept his embrace light on a pained, exhausted figure. He guided me with a steady hand on my back until we were away from the somber music.

Once we were out of the way, he let me rest my back against the wall because we both knew I couldn't stand on my own. I cursed the hallway for spinning so badly. I blamed the dizzying patterns of faith for the nausea rather than admitting that it was a product of my own choices. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I was running out of reasons to try.

I had almost forgotten where I was, almost slipped into the blissful abyss before I was rudely forced back to the present by Derek's gentle urgency.