Spencer Reid One Shots

Breathe (Until Tomorrow) - Two

Two days had passed by. Two days of you calling in sick to work. Two days of sobbing into your pillow. Two days of crappy take out food and vodka.

Two days without Spencer Reid, the love of your life.

You needed to get a grip. He didn't deserve you after what he'd done. Everytime you thought about it, you wanted to walk back round to his apartment and beat the living shit out of him. But you figured, he was clearly intent on ruining his own life so you'd just leave him to it.

You'd move on. First step was getting out of the clothes you were wearing. When you'd returned home from his apartment you'd just grabbed supplies from your kitchen and fallen into bed, only moving to go to the bathroom and to answer the door to the delivery guys. You smelt rank, your hair greasy as fuck and your make up ingrained into your face.

Fed up of Netflix asking if you were still watching you clicked it off hauling yourself out of bed, empty tissue boxes falling to the floor. You needed air, you needed to get out of your apartment. It was 8pm and there was a late opening supermarket near by. Needing more food anyway you dragged yourself into your shower washing the grime away.

You blasted your hair with your blow dryer, pulling on some clean clothes and retrieving your phone from the corner of your bedroom where you'd thrown it two days ago.

Clicking it on, a slew of texts messages came through. You didn't even read the ones from Spencer, just hitting delete.

It was only when you saw one from Penelope Garcia, his friend and work colleague that you started to worry.

"Is Spencer okay? Hotch says he's out ill but he's not answering his phone to me or Morgan."

You text her back. "When did Hotch last speak to him. I'm sure he's fine, I've been ill too." Lying through your teeth.

"Two days ago."

You didn't want to care but it was very un Spencer like to ignore his friends. Still, a lot of things he'd done recently were very un Spencer like.

You called him, intending on hanging up once he answered. You just needed to make sure he hadn't..........Hadn't done anything stupid.

Voicemail. Trying his landline you started pulling on your shoes. No answer.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Grabbing your bag you headed out, sprinting to his apartment fearing the worst. You still had his key, forgetting to leave it when you'd stormed out effectively ending your relationship.

Reaching his door, you started knocking loudly not wanting to just let yourself in. You could hear his TV on but no sounds of movement.

Fearing the absolute worst you unlocked his door, pushing it open.

The stench hit you first. Stale sweat and vomit. The room was dark, his shades drawn and you could see towels and water bottles strewn over his living room floor.

A shape huddled on his couch, wrapped in a blanket. You couldn't tell if it was moving or not.

Stepping into the room you started to walk towards it. Please please please, you begged silently.

"Y/N?" Barely a whisper.

Oh thank fuck. As much as you hated him, you didn't think you could have coped if......

"What are doing here?" His words were shaky, his mouth thick. As you inched closer you could see he was pale and clammy, dressed in the same clothes he'd been wearing when you'd left him. His hair was matted to his face and he was clutching an old hoody of yours you'd left there previously. There was a bucket at his side, obviously the source of the vomit smell.