The Keeping of Words | Spencer Reid

47| Flight Risk

"Holding on is believing that there's a past; letting go is knowing that there's a future." - Daphne Rose Kingma

Each time she saw him walk out from behind the wall that blocked the view of the cell blocks, her heart dropped a little more. Garcia sat in the hard plastic chair, clutching her bag tightly, as if its presence could somehow stabilize her shaking spirit. Reid slumped down in his chair across the desk. He looked utterly defeated. Vacant eyes, hair that was badly in need of a good wash and trim.

"You shouldn't be here," he said. "I told Tara already, it's best if everyone stays away from me right now."

And the bruises. His face was painted with various shades of yellow, purple, and blue. He had a black eye, huge bruises on either side of his jaw, and the remnants of a suture bandage barely visible from beneath his messy hair. What had happened to him?

"Nonsense," she said, feigning confidence as best she could. "You need us know more than ever. We're family, we're going to be here for you no matter what."

"You don't know what it's like in here. The things I've done – the things I've seen. I feel like I'm losing my mind. I don't want you to..." Reid trailed off, quickly averting his eyes to the ground. Those unspoken words were so loud.

Garcia inched her chair a little bit closer to him, trying to focus just on him. Blocking out the sights and sounds – and smells – of the prison around them. "Not even Bianca?" At her name his lip quivered, and he blinked back tears. She braced herself, knowing it was a touchy subject, but if anything would be able to reach him right now, in the distant land he'd forced his thoughts to, it would be her.

"She came once," he replied, voice flat. "When there weren't many other visitors. I can't have them know about her. The other prisoners. I don't want them to see her, not when I know what they're thinking about her – or you, or JJ, or any of you. It's not safe. I can't trust anyone. Not even myself."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"The guys on the wing. I have to do whatever it takes to get back to her, and so I had to, they were going to m-" Reid stopped himself, then added, "I don't want to talk about it." Oh, not her Boy Wonder. It wasn't hard to guess what had happened. Walker said his friend had been killed in front of him, something about passing drugs. Whatever it was he'd done, Garcia didn't want to hear about it. She refused to let his reaction in the absolute worst of circumstances taint her image of him. Violence, that wasn't Spencer Reid, he was good and kind and gentle. Whatever this was, it just him surviving. Staying alive, as they'd asked him to. Head down and mouth shut.

"We're going to get you through this," she promised. But the way he looked at her – no smile, no flicker of acknowledgement. Just those distant, tired eyes, unblinking. Like they both knew it was a fairy-tale falsehood she'd spoken solely to sooth him.

"Is she okay?" he asked, changing the subject abruptly. There was no need to clarify who he meant. Reid looked so on edge, and she could tell it was killing him to be trapped here when his family was elsewhere.

"Yeah. Yeah, we've all been checking in on Bianca. Just like we do for you. Rossi brings food by so she doesn't have to worry about cooking all the time, I think he invited her over for dinner on Sunday. Tara helped her get to her last doctor's appointment."

"Thank you," he sighed, relieved. Over two weeks without seeing her or hearing her voice. Two weeks without only brief moments of contact with the any of the outside world. He was hurting. He was hurt. He wasn't going to last much longer in there. They had to get him out.

They had to.

"Give you give this to her when you see her next?" he asked, sliding her folded pieces of notebook paper with a letter B scrawled on the front. "And tell her I love her?" His voice wavered on that four-letter word.