north//spencer reid

chapter fourteen

genre: angst

pairing: season twelve spencer reid x female oc

warnings: description of physical assault, prison, just all of the bad prison arc stuff

word count: 4.7k

summary: spencer and amelia feel the effects of being forcibly separated and it impacts them in similar ways.

honestly, spencer's pov in this chapter is one of my favorite things i've ever written so i hope everyone enjoys it <3

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AMELIA

"Come on! You don't even have to do anything! Just go and clean up. We'll go with you and help!" Yaz pokes my shoulder incessantly, trying to get a reaction out of me. But I just keep my eyes on the tv in front of me, bundled up under a blanket.

"Lia," Michael sighs and slings his arm over my shoulder. I want nothing more than to shove it off. "It's been like, three months since-"

I'm quick to speak up to correct him. "Two and a half."

Michael and Quinn exchange a tense look. "Okay," Quinn nods, "two and a half months. It's been two and a half months since you've drawn, or painted, or sketched, or done anything even related to art. We know you're upset about Spencer but you can't let yourself be so upset. You need to find something that's gonna bring you happiness, and art has always done that."

"I don't wanna," I answer like a stubborn child, an answer that any of my siblings would have given me about things like going to bed early or eating vegetables. I pull the blanket up to my chin and stroke my thumb across my newest tattoo, tucked away and out of the sights of my nosy, annoying friends.

Frankie turns and shushes Quinn. "Like I said, Lia, why don't we go and just clean up your studio? We can drive over and just clean up? That's it. You don't have to do a photoshoot or create anything new. Just clean. Sound good? An hour tops."

I look around the faces of my expecting friends and tighten my jaw. I try to steal Spencer's skills and profile what their ulterior motives could be. They all hated Spencer before meeting him, and even after they met him, they weren't completely fond of him. So why are they trying so hard to get me to feel better? Why does it feel like they're trying to get me to forget about my boyfriend in prison? I should be worrying about him every second of my day instead of prancing around town, cleaning up my studio, and going about my life as if Spencer isn't suffering. But I'm sure they mean well. And I'm absolutely positive that my legs are sore from sleeping on the couch and from being in that same position all day.

"Fine," I concede, and they all silently cheer. "But I'm driving myself."

The drive to my studio is nearly insufferable. It's silent and overwhelmed with a tension that I created but can't seem to let go. The sights around me are familiar but blurry, like I can't even tell which stores are which without someone in my passenger seat spitting out fact after fact after fact as I drive. I can't drive down the street and try to recall all the good times and all the dates and all the drunken stumbles back home with the love of my life on my arm. It's far too painful to constantly remember that I can't go home and see Spencer and I can't spend hours on the phone with him like I do when he is away on a case. I can't see him.

When I arrive at my studio, I realize why they were so insistent that I come out to clean up. I can't remember the last time I was actually in here to work but it's an absolute mess. There are canvases everywhere, bottles and tubes of paint on the floor, splashes and splatters of paint on the walls, brushes everywhere, crumbled up sketches in the trash, and way more. The studio needs much love and I guess now is the time to give it.