Wild Nights, Wild Nights || Spencer Reid x Reader

14. But Holiday Excludes the Night

Like most kids growing up, you had always found something magical about snow. The world would go silent as it fell, a weighted blanket lulling the ground to a peaceful slumber like nothing else could even endeavor to do. And, as a child, you had fond memories of catching white powder on red mittens, of looking up at a monochrome sky that blinded the earth with its splendor and feeling infinite, of finding unspeakable joy in that silence. You could recall days spent sledding and ice skating and sipping hot chocolate on park benches, your nose and cheeks rosy from the bite of frost.

To you, snow meant that Winter had truly arrived. It meant the beginning of pine trees being sold on busy sidewalks, saturating the air with a scent that you'd never forget. It meant the beginning of Christmas markets popping up across the city. It meant the beginning of the holidays for your family, of presents and of a rare respite from your busy day-to-day life. You'd always been busy, even in your youth.

And you loved the holiday season more than anything else. You loved December more than anything else. From an annual family tradition to see The Nutcracker at Lincoln Center to holiday parties where you got to dress up and show-off your latest tricks to all your parents' friends, you relished in the festivities and in the delight that seemed to permeate through the air itself.

Now, though, when you walked down streets covered in fresh powder, you didn't see peace incarnate, nor the beginnings of merriment, but warm scarlet stains that melted down to the dirt beneath. You saw flashing red and blue lights and heard sirens cutting through the once quiet beauty of snowfall. You saw darkness instead of light.

Red had once been your favorite color to wear during the winter. Your young self liked to stand out—loud, bold, and vibrant against the world silenced by snow.

Now, when you wore that color, you sometimes saw familiar crimson blood drying on your skin instead of plain red fabric.

So you tended not to wear red very often anymore.

Garcia had told you all to "dress up" for her Christmas party. After standing in front of your closet for several minutes, trying to decide on an appropriate outfit, you finally settled for an above-the-knee, low cut black wrap dress—classic, chic, and extremely versatile depending on how you accessorized.

You'd driven to Garcia's, parking just down the street, but now found yourself frozen in her courtyard. Your hands were dug deep into the pockets of your overcoat, your chin nuzzled into the scarf around your neck. You'd been standing out there for ten minutes trying to work up the nerve to actually enter the god damned building. It was freezing outside, the weather forecast predicting snow later in the evening, but you couldn't seem to motivate yourself to get out of the cold and into her home.

Connecting with the rest of the BAU was going to be more difficult than you anticipated, for no reason other than your own inability to simply let it happen. More than anything, you wanted to stride into Garcia's apartment and be a part of their family. But that gaping hole in your chest whispered insidiously to you, calling you selfish, weak, a failure for not spending your time tracking down your family's killer. How could you be here, building a surrogate family, when your own family lay in the dirt, still without justice even after fifteen years?

You wondered if the hole would fill once you had the killer behind bars. Or once you killed him with your own hands. Whichever came easier.

You suspected the latter would.

With one final deep breath and then a sigh, you spurred your legs forth, forcing them to carry you up the steps and into her building.

When you arrived at her front door, you didn't allow yourself time to pause, and instead, rung the doorbell before you could overthink it.