Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

16. For That Old Faded Midnight

Your favorite holiday growing up was New Year's.

New Year's meant restarting. It was a way to challenge yourself to be better than you were, to achieve more than you already had. New Year's washed away the failures of the past year and gave you the chance to try again and succeed. And your parents' New Year's party was the highlight of it all. Gathered in your townhouse, your family and your parents' friends, all dressed in some sort of gold and silver, all tipsy from the champagne, would watch the Times Square ball drop on television and count down all the way from sixty together, toasting and kissing and cheering when they finally got to zero.

You loved running around that house with Elizabeth during those sixty seconds, making sure everyone was watching and participating. The two of you would have sparkling white grape juice in your hand to pretend like you were just like all the adults.

You wanted to be an adult so badly so you could celebrate the holiday properly with them. You couldn't wait to grow up.

Now, New Year's was the bane of your existence. It was impossible to escape the New York City ball drop celebration; every public television on the east coast had it playing on their screens, Ryan Seacrest's face smiling at you in mockery. And you hated watching everyone's face as they cheered along with the festivities on the television. You hated hearing their screams as the ball began descending down the pole on top of One Times Square. You hated seeing happy couples kiss each other to bring in the new year and people pretend like they could ever be better than they were.

No one ever became better than they were. That was what you learned once you finally became that fabled adult.

Your New Year's tradition now went as follows: put the New York City celebration on your television to see if you could tolerate it this year, immediately turn it off because you couldn't tolerate it, drink so much champagne (usually three to four bottles, depending on the day) that you literally pass out on your couch well before midnight so you don't have to watch the world pretend to "reset."

When the jet touched back down in Quantico after this latest case at 10:27pm on December 31st, you were already thinking about how many bottles of champagne you had in your wine fridge and wondering if the liquor store around the corner from your apartment would have any Veuve Clicquot left, even as you checked your phone to find three missed calls from the same number with a Manhattan area code. You had rolled your eyes and thought nothing more of it; the New York division had been calling you daily at this point. They just wouldn't let up. Now, you just resolved to ignore their calls.

And then Rossi, after you all had returned to the bullpen to grab the rest of your things and file away papers, cleared his throat on the steps to call all of your attention.

"Alright," he said, holding his hands up, "I have a case of vintage Dom Perignon champagne in my wine cellar and enough cured meat to whip up a mean charcuterie board. All in favor say 'Dave, you're a godsend.'"

"Dave, you're a godsend," Prentiss sighed as she walked past.

"Seconded. Might as well try to salvage this holiday somehow," Morgan muttered bitterly.

On and on, the rest of the team, all in various states of discontent, nodded or grunted their agreements. None of you had anticipated getting back before New Year's day, and so, everyone had cancelled their plans as soon as the case came in. The case had ended abruptly, however when the unsub turned herself in. She had been posing as a nurse in various local hospitals and stealing and murdering newborns as a way to cope with the stillbirth of her own child. You had narrowed down her identity fairly quickly, but she had disappeared; none of you were able to track her down.