Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

9. I Measure Every Grief I Meet

 Your vision was full of flashing lights, of raining ash, of searing flames. You were coughing, smoke infecting your lungs, and when you looked down at yourself, you found a layer of soot and ash coating your body. You felt lighter than normal, like you were watching yourself from above. You were holding something soft.

Morgan had his arm wrapped around your torso, practically hauling you out of the doomed building. But you resisted. Struggled. Fought.

"I need to get them," you rasped. Then louder: "I need to get them out!"

Morgan's other arm clamped down on you. "It's too late," he shouted back. "We need to go!"

You didn't know when you crossed the threshold of the front door, or when you stopped clawing to get back into the building. But eventually, you ended up sitting on the back edge of an ambulance down the street, an oxygen mask to your face. Back by the burning home, with flames licking the sky, there were four firetrucks and dozens of firemen scrambling to put out the inferno and evacuate the rest of the street.

An EMT had to hold the mask to your face. You couldn't get your arms to listen; they were too busy trembling around the object in your lap. You didn't want to breathe. You didn't deserve to. But your body wouldn't listen to your loathing and selfishly gulped down the oxygen from which it had been deprived as the EMT murmured soothing words. It was only then that you realized what you carried: a brown teddy bear with a purple bowtie. An ear had been burnt off, leaving nothing but a black tinge in its wake, and it was coated in ash.

Bile rose in your throat.

"A minute longer, and you could've been caught in there too," the EMT said softly. She was younger than you. New to the job, clearly.

I should've stayed, you wanted to say. I should have tried harder. I could have tried harder.

But instead, all that left your mouth was a quiet whine. You couldn't even cry. All you could do was sit and stare at the flames and clutch the teddy bear to your body.

You heard Hotch's voice before your eyes registered him: "Y/L/N? How are you?"

You didn't respond.

The EMT said, "She's in shock. Hasn't said anything."

You wanted to punch her lights out.

Then, softer, Hotch said, "Y/L/N?"

You continued to stare.

In your peripheral vision, you saw Spencer running over. Hotch stopped him from getting closer with a raised hand, but his eyes never left your frame. You felt so small sitting in that ambulance. It felt familiar.

For a brief moment, Hotch's dark eyes and black hair morphed into icy blue eyes and sandy brown hair. Instead of soot blanketing your skin, it was blood--not yours, though. Someone else's. It covered every inch of you, saturating your hair, dripping into your eyes, soaking you down to your bones.

You squinted at the man standing in front of you.

Sandy brown hair. Blue eyes.

You blinked and the features reverted to their original colors, away from that familiar face. The sticky feel of blood returned to the gritty texture of ash.

Hotch. That was Hotch. Aaron Hotchner, your boss.

Yes, that's right.

You were on a case. A serial arsonist was locking families in their homes in a wealthy neighborhood and setting off IEDs in the house, either blowing them to pieces or leaving them to burn alive.