Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

1. When I Hoped, I Feared

In your line of work, you were often reminded that the world was bleak, rotating on an axis of darkness that kept it from ever dancing into the light. It was filled with individuals who infected the Earth with evil, and no matter how many killers, rapists, and kidnappers--no matter how many corrupt souls--you helped lock behind bars, there would always be a million more lurking in the shadows and dragging others into the dark with them.

    When the plane touched back down in Quantico after this latest, grueling case, you knew you couldn't return to your empty apartment yet. Not when images of molested and battered children were seared into the backs of your eyelids. No, you wouldn't be sleeping any time soon.

    There were small victories in this case, of course: the pair of killers (a brother duo who got off on torturing prepubescent girls) were found and apprehended. You were able to give closure to seven grieving families. You saved countless future children from falling victim to these twisted fucks.

    But small victories often came at the price of larger losses--as in, the last girl they abducted, the girl you were desperately racing against the clock to save, was already mutilated and deceased by the time you got to her. You kept replaying the image of her parents as you had to break the news to them, how the hope faded from their eyes slowly at first, like the sun dipping down over the horizon. And then, absolute darkness followed, without even a single star to offer a shred of light.

    You knew it wasn't your fault, that you had done everything in your power to try and save their little girl. But the sound of her mother's sobbing and the sound of her father's screaming "you let her die" roared in your ears as naturally as blood pumped through your heart. 

    So now you were sitting at your favorite bar, nursing a beer, planning on getting so wasted that you would hear, see, and remember nothing, at least for a little while.

    Because of how brutal the case had been and because of how defeated the entire team was, Hotch had given you all the following day off (provided that nothing urgent came up).

    "A day to recuperate," he'd said. Though he showed nothing, you knew he was just as shaken as the rest of you.

    You would have laughed at the comment if you felt like you even had the ability to do so in that moment. "A day to recuperate," as if a day could erase the feeling of failure that shouldn't have coated you as much as it did.  You got the killers; that should have been enough.

    But it was never enough--not for you.

    You were debating on whether or not to order another drink or to head home and continue your bender there when a man stopped by your table. You didn't have to look up to know it was Spencer. His gait, posture, and mannerisms as he approached cued you in enough.

    "Hey, Y/N," he said, one hand gripping the strap of his messenger bag, the other posed in a half wave.

    You scoffed a laugh and flicked your eyes up to him. "What, were the libraries already closed, or something?" You didn't mean to come across so harshly, but you couldn't stop the bite in your tone.

    If he registered it, he didn't say anything. Instead, he chuckled and said, "They are, actually. Though, I typically head straight home after a case, anyway."

    "So what are you doing here?"

Spencer wasn't one for bars or clubs or any other place where the patrons danced through an alcohol induced haze. He'd come out with the rest of you if you ever got together, but seeing him there out of his own volition, unprompted, meant one of two things to you: either he had followed you here (and waited outside for six minutes: the amount of time it usually took you to finish your first drink) out of his own concern, or he was royally fucked up by this case, too, so much so that he was finally turning to the bottle.