genre: angst
pairing: season twelve spencer reid x female oc
warnings: prison arc, blood, implications of being drugged, self harm under implications of being drugged, physical violence, mentions of abuse
word count: 8.2k
summary: spencer's post-mexico hardships continue on and get much worse, while amelia has a concerning experience in her own apartment.
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SPENCER
The feeling of abandonment is one that I'm far too familiar with. I hadn't expected to be completely abandoned by the FBI and to not have their support in this battle. I know that I have the support of my team and of Amelia, but when the FBI says that they won't support me and help me stay out of jail or prison, it's disheartening. It's crushing. It leaves me feeling cold as I sit against a cinderblock wall.
Sitting in jail is boring. It is, by far, the most boring thing I've ever done in my life. I sit and stare at the wall all day while I regret my decisions and listen to the detainees around me scream and shout. The team individually comes by the visit but it's only for a short amount of time because they're working so hard. They're working on my case at the same time they're working on other cases that they would normally take and I know that they can't come to entertain me. I fully understand why, but I wish it didn't have to be this way. I wish I could be home.
But Amelia never comes. I told her not to come. She doesn't need to see me like this. She has seen enough. I'm a completely broken mess, rotting away in a jail cell and I don't need her crying over me or providing more content for her nightmares. I asked Emily to relay this message to her and I was told she cried and didn't speak to anyone for a few hours. She's been staying in a BAU interview room and will only go home for a few hours every few days, and I don't blame her. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn't want to go home. But it breaks my heart to know how much Amelia is hurting without me and that I can't help her. I choose to pretend like she doesn't exist so I won't think about her. I pretend like I'm living the way I was before I met her. Alone, work-obsessed, with nobody but myself to confide in. It's easy to forget her during the day when there's a stream of sunlight flooding in from the tiny window to my right. But then I lay down at night and reach for her waist, or wait to feel her hand on my cheek, or crane my neck to kiss her, I crash back down to earth and remember that I can't be with the woman I love because of my idiotic decisions.
Emily manages to get me in touch with an old friend hers who is willing to be my lawyer, a wonderful woman named Fiona. She's blunt and she knows what she's talking about and I appreciate that. And now that I have representation, we can move onto the trial and maybe I can go home. I try to absorb some of Amelia's optimism and stay hopeful that I'll be released on bail, but my own nasty pessimism rears its ugly head and pulverizes any sign of hope.
Fiona wants me to plead guilty to a crime I didn't commit. I'll only get two to five years as opposed to twenty-five to life, but how could I plead guilty? My memories may be blurry for the first time ever but I know I would never kill that woman. That medicine she was providing me with helping my mom. Why would I kill her? There was another person in that motel room and if my brain would just cooperate and just confirm that it was Scratch, this could all be over.
If I plead guilty then Fiona says I can be released on bail pending trial. Rossi said he would be willing to post my bail, no matter the cost. I'm grateful for him and his generosity but as I spend my time sitting and staring at the wall and the ceiling and the concrete and the mold, the more I don't want to plead guilty. I want to fight this. I have complete faith in my team and their abilities to find Scratch. We found him once and we'll find him again.
"I'm gonna fight it."
That's what I tell Fiona. Being the supportive lawyer she is, she nods and goes on her way, but she comes back far too soon. She doesn't return with a suit for my trial or a date for my trial or handcuffs so I can be transported to my trial. She comes back with Emily.
"Spencer," Fiona sighs, "the Mexican authorities found the murder weapon in the desert. The theory is that you threw it out the window in the car chase. The previous offer you didn't want is off the table. The new offer is to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter and get five to ten years."
"Gosh," Emily breathes, hanging her head. "There's nothing you can do?"
"Your DNA is on it and the blade matches the blade that cut your hand," Fiona explains. "Spencer, if you don't take this offer, there will be no more offers. And if you lose your trial, you're going to prison. I need to know what you're going to do."
"I'm-"
"Spencer," Emily cuts me off. "Can we talk privately?"
Fiona nods and collects her things, leaving the room and Emily takes her spot. As soon as the door is closed, I shake my head at Emily. "I can't plead guilty to something I didn't do."
"You could do life in prison," she whispers, and I can see her eyes start to tear up. I ignore them.
"You guys will find Scratch. I know you will." I nod stubbornly, falsely confident.
"Yes, we will. We will never stop looking for him. But what if we can do that this month? Or this year? Or this-" she shutters, "decade? Because we sure as hell can't do it before your trial."
I look down at my hands, observing the bandages over my hand. It stings and burns constantly and I wish it would go away. "How's Amelia? Is she still staying at the BAU?"
"Mostly," Emily responds. "Her friend- Jenna, I think- has come by a bunch to take her home and back. She's stayed at Jenna's a few times but she stays mostly in the interview rooms and in Garcia's room. She's, um, well, she's mad at you, Reid."
I scoff out a laugh, rolling my eyes. "Because I won't let her come here?"
"Exactly," there's no humor in her voice. "She just wants to see you. She wants to see that you're okay and it might help you feel better to see her and talk to her a bit. You can talk out decisions like this with her. She's your girlfriend and you were planning on moving in with her and JJ told us you were supposed to go buy an engagement ring for her. She deserves to be involved in this and not at the BAU, suffering and crying and having panic attacks-"
"She's having panic attacks?" My eyes widen, my back straightening up as the red flags start popping up in my head. Is she okay? Have her attacks been so bad that they have warranted a hospital trip? How is her breathing? Has she gone nonverbal? "Wha- is she-"
"Yeah, she's had some. She obviously had that one with JJ and Garcia and she had one on Monday and she couldn't speak for an hour."
"She usually goes nonverbal," I murmur, bringing my hands to my face and trying to avoid biting my nails out of nervousness. "Okay, okay, don't ever touch her until she can speak again. Keep a really calm and low voice and don't freak out because that makes it worse. Get her head between her knees and keep her sitting and get her water and-"
"Spencer, I know how to help a panic attack. We need to be talking about your trial," Emily protests.
"And after her attacks, she usually needs physical attention and she needs comfort and sometimes-"
"You're gonna go to prison, Reid!" Emily shouts, effectively shutting me up. "It's scary to accept but we have to talk about it! You could go to prison for a very long time if you don't accept this deal! Stop talking about your girlfriend's panic attacks and talk about the situation at hand."
My face hardens and I drop my hands again, sighing. "I can't plead guilty. I just can't."
It's the answer she should have expected, and I'm sure she knew it was coming. Before I even finished, she was out of her seat and banging on the door for a guard to take her away. And yet again I'm left to myself and my thoughts, playing the blurry images over and over again, trying to make out faces and events and names. But there's nothing and I'm left to wonder if I'm going to die in a prison cell.
///
AMELIA
///
My dress has bunched up around my thighs but I can't find it in me to pull it down, even in a courthouse. My legs are full of goosebumps from the air conditioning and my denim jacket isn't doing much to help. I stare down at my lap, my hands resting there with Spencer's medallion between my fingers. The empty space on my hand between my pointer finger and thumb looks too empty and it makes my heart beat faster. I look from the medallion to my hand and back, and I suddenly want to rush out of this goddamn courthouse.
"Amelia," I hear Penelope's voice coming closer, and when I look up, the whole team is approaching.
"Hi," I smile weakly, standing and finally adjusting the hem of my dress. "You guys made it. How was the case?"
"Did they call Reid's case yet?" Luke asks, ignoring my formality question about the case.
"No, but they're about to," I shake my head, gesturing to an open door a few feet away.
They all start walking that way, but I don't follow. I make the decision to choose the horrible wooden bench over the even worse pew-like benches in the court. I had been so upset about not seeing Spencer, but maybe it was a blessing in disguise. Now that I'm faced with the idea of seeing him, I don't want to. I don't want to see him in handcuffs again, or sleep-deprived, or being told off by a judge or prosecutor. I know the BAU has virtually no evidence to support Spencer and that the judge isn't going to rule in his favor. I know that, the pessimist in me knows that. I don't need to see that.
"Amelia?" Dave is standing in front of me and I know it's him from his expensive looking shoes. "You're not coming in?"
"No, I don't need to-" I choke on my words, clutching the medallion in my hand, "to see this happen. I don't want to hear it."
"This doesn't have anything to do with the fact that you're not on Spencer's approved visitor's list?"
"Maybe," It's taken me two years to learn not to lie to a profiler. "I don't know. But I don't want to see him, Dave. Please go. I'll be here."
I don't even need to ask. The look on their faces tells me everything. The way everyone holds themselves when they walk out and the way they glance around tells me what I need to know. Nobody looks up at me and nobody is running to me for a hug. Spencer isn't at my side.
I chew on my cheeks and choke down my tears as I stand, meeting them in the middle of the hallway when they walk toward me. "So how bad was it?"
Stephen is the first fearless one to speak up. "The judge decided he was a flight risk,"
I furrow my eyebrows. "A flight risk? Seriously? My Spencer?"
Tara nods shamefully. "He didn't use his FBI passport, he didn't inform the bureau, the prosecutor claimed he had connections all over the world and could get a fake passport and go on the run if he was released on bail. The judge agreed."
"So what now? What happens to him?" Penelope moves towards me and grabs onto my hand, enlacing our fingers. If she didn't do that, I might have fallen to the floor in a puddle of tears.
"He's gonna go back to the federal jail," Luke answers. "His trial is in three months and that'll determine if he goes to prison or not."
"Penelope?" I whisper and she just hums in response. "Will you come with me?"
"Of course. Whatever you need," Penelope nods, giving everyone a soft, slightly concerned smile before I lead her away.
///
"Um, seriously?"
"Yeah."
"Now?"
"Yeah, now."
"You or me?"
"Me. Why, do you want one? I'll draw whatever you want."
"No thanks."
I pull open the door and let Penelope walk in first, even though she seems incredibly hesitant, practically tiptoeing through the threshold. She manages to get me to crack a tiny smile, but that's the most she gets before I just revert to my sadness.
"Zav!" I call, noticing the front desk is empty. Nonetheless, I walk up and grab a post-it and a pen, starting to scribble little drawings.
Zav comes wandering from the back of the tattoo parlor at the sound of my voice, smiling. "Oh, hey there! Been a while since I've seen you. Here for some new ink? It's about time you added to your sleeves."
"Just something really quick," I tell him, picking up the post-it with the sixth design I'd drawn. "Not on my arm. On my hand, right here," I gesture to the empty space between my thumb and pointer finger.
"Sounds easy enough," Zav nods, then smiles at Penelope. "Hi, friend. Do I get the pleasure of inking you today?"
Penelope's eyes widen and she hastily shakes her head. "No, no, I'm just here with-- with-"
"No tattoos for her, just me." I save her from more stuttering and Zav puts his hands up in surrender. He winks at Penelope before sitting me in a chair and starting on the stencil.
"So," Garcia asks over the buzzing of the tattoo gun, "what does this one mean? You've said that all your tattoos mean something. What's this one? And why is it so important that we do it now, after the trial?"
Careful not to disturb Zav's work, I reach into my pocket and pull out Spencer's medallion. I hold it up and show Penelope the compass, and she nods in a confused understanding. "When Spencer was in recovery, he was always told that north is the right way to go and obviously, going the right way is the road to recovery and being clean. Well, he told me that ever since he met me, he considered me to be his north or his reason to go north. I've been wanting this tattoo for a long time. Just never got around to getting it."
"That's really sweet," Penelope whispers, smiling at me. "How much pain are you in?"
"A lot," I answer through gritted teeth. "This one is right on my bone and those are the worst, but it's small so it's fine. It'll be done soon."
As anticipated, the tattoo is done within another few minutes. A compass rose with north labeled. Simple. But it's beautiful and it's the perfect reminder of Spencer while he's gone. Temporarily gone. He's going to come home. Soon.
He's going to jail. He's going to be sitting in jail for three months and I won't be able to see him, and then after that, he still might go to prison. No matter how much he reminds himself that I'm his north, and no matter how much time I spend at the BAU, no matter how many of his shirts I wear, no matter how many times I visit Diana and Cassie, it means absolutely nothing. The justice system is horrible and I know they have a job to do but why can't they see that my Spencer is innocent? Sure, he broke some protocol but all he was doing was trying to help his mom. It's not his fault that a serial killer was targeting the team and decided to sabotage his trip. He should be at home on bail and he should be searching for Scratch so his name can be cleared.
"Amelia?" Penelope's voice breaks me out of my trance and I notice that Zav has already walked away, probably to the front desk to ring me up. She rests her hand on my shoulder and gives me that same pitiful smile that everyone keeps giving me. "We're gonna get him out. We know he didn't do this."
"I miss him," I admit shakily, eyes locked on my new ink. "I know that I spend all my time at the BAU but everything reminds me of him. When I go home with Jenna, we pass by the cafe that me and him went to almost every day. Whenever I see someone carrying a revolver on tv or in the building, it makes me think of his gun. God, P, whenever I braid my hair, it makes me think of him. I functioned before I met him but with him, I was living and actually enjoying my life for the first time. But now that he's gone again," I look up at her, my lips quivering, "how am I supposed to live?"
Penelope opens her mouth to answer but then closes it again. She drags me into a hug, tighter than any hug we've had before. I let her squeeze the life out of me because it's the only thing that feels similar to the way Spencer scoops me up and hugs me after being away on a case. "I wish I had a good answer. We're all hurting and we're all trying to get through this. As long as we lean on each other and you leave the crime fighting up to us, we'll get through this."
///
I stir awake, bundled up beneath a scratchy, knitted blanket and my head resting on a flat pillow. A yawn escapes my mouth before I even open my eyes, my body begging me to go back to sleep. I blatantly ignore it though, swinging my legs over the side of the couch and yawning again.
"Good morning, sunshine," Jenna comes wandering into her living room, holding out a cup of tea for me, "sleep well?"
I shake my head, sipping the not-well-made tea. "No," I keep myself from scrunching up my nose at the odd taste, "I didn't."
Jenna gives me a tiny smile as she sits on the couch beside me. "Maybe you should try melatonin. I heard you watching tv at three in the morning." When I don't respond to her really smart and helpful suggestion, she moves on. "How's the tattoo?"
"Itchy," I glance at the covering of my tattoo, then shrug. "It's whatever. I'm used to it. What are you doing today?"
"Well, me and Frankie were gonna go do a shoot today. You should come. You haven't done any shoots in a while. I'm sure Frankie would love your help," Jenna encourages softly.
I shake my head yet again and take the last drink of my tea, then put the mug on the floor. "Thanks but no thanks. I'm gonna go to the BAU today. But I'm gonna shower first. I'll let you know what I'm doing tonight. Thanks for letting me stay here." And without another word, I stand and walk off to the too-bright bathroom.
Going into the BAU used to always be a fun experience. I looked forward to seeing Penelope and lounging around in her lair, and I looked forward to leaving little gifts for Spencer on his desk, and I looked forward to greeting the team when they arrived home from cases. The BAU quickly became like a second home to me when I started dating Spencer and I went there at every chance I could. But now the BAU is a reminder of the situation at hand, and despite the fact that I'm spending so much time here, I wish I didn't have to. The constant reminder is painful. Seeing Spencer's desk and all of his belongings arranged in the perfect way he needs them to be is maybe the hardest part. Every time I look through the glass doors, my heart breaks a little more.
I've come to learn that seeing the team huddled up and speaking in hushed tones is never a good thing. But it's the first thing I see when the elevator doors open. My eyes are locked on them before I even open the glass doors to the bullpen. Penelope's eyes are wide and she's clinging to Luke's side and everyone is just looking concerned. That's never a good sign. They are federal agents and have seen the worst of the worst. They should be able to have some kind of poker face, no matter the situation.
JJ is the first to notice me, and when she looks up, she almost grimaces. "Amelia."
Okay. They didn't get a case. This is about Spencer. Something happened with Spencer. Did he get beat up in jail? Did they find more evidence? If they found more evidence, then it's surely not in Spencer's favor. What did they find? What are they hesitant to tell me? Why does everyone look like they'll burst into tears if I say one wrong word? What the hell happened?
I keep a few feet between me and them, clutching the straps of my backpack, my breath caught in my throat. "What's going on?" I ask, my voice quieter than I expected it to be. "Is Spencer okay?"
The team shares glances and Penelope bows her head, and all the horrible thoughts in my head intensify. Emily clears her throat and my eyes dart over to her. "Spencer," she speaks strongly and confidently, "was transferred to prison this morning."
Spencer likes to put a mountain of sugar in his coffee. Spencer can only fall asleep if he's read at least two books while lying in bed. And, of course, only after he has received what he deems as a sufficient amount of kisses from me. Spencer prefers to take the train to work instead of driving. Spencer likes to hold my hand when we walk the street. Spencer orders swirled soft serve at every ice cream parlor. Spencer wears purple whenever he gets the chance.
Spencer doesn't fight. Spencer isn't violent. Spencer isn't a criminal. Spencer hates shooting his gun and he wouldn't even walk around with it on his hip until I told him it didn't bother me. Spencer doesn't resort to violence to solve his problems. He's the one who puts the violent people where they deserve. Those killers and rapists deserve to be in prison. Not the man who thinks it's bad luck to wear matching socks. Definitely not the man who mumbles my name in his sleep and whines if he reaches over and I'm not sleeping beside him.
My Spencer doesn't belong in prison.
I'm stunned into silence for a moment and it's almost like I'm waiting for someone to tell me this is a joke. Spencer's not in prison with the worst of the worst. That he's not with the people that he has spent his life hunting and putting away. He isn't locked inside with people who could be sentenced to life in prison, or in a cell people who will kill him just to have a new pair of shoes, or people who have nothing left to lose.
"He's-" I gulp but my saliva tastes sour and it burns my throat, "he's in prison?"
"There was overcrowding in the jail," Tara explains softly. "I know it's not ideal but-"
"He's-" I cut her off, my voice sharp, "he's in prison? He's in prison with the same people that you guys put away and he's-" my hands fall from my backpack and tears start to fall down cheeks, my eyes darting around until they land on Rossi. "He's with people like my-"
"Why don't you come with me?" Dave cuts me off, stepping forward, holding his arm out for me.
As I break down into sobs, he leads me into his office, sitting me down on a couch as he closes the door. I curl up into myself and cry, and cry, and cry for my boyfriend who is suffering immensely for a crime he didn't commit. He's locked inside a cage with horrible people like my father and he can't escape.
"Amelia, we're gonna get him out," Dave pulls up a chair in front of me, letting out a sigh that doesn't do much to convince me. "We're spending every second we can on his case and searching for evidence that will-"
"He's gonna be in a fucking prison," I sneer, lifting my head, revealing my smudging makeup and tear-stained cheeks, "with people like my father!" Dave sighs again, ducking his head. He doesn't say anything and I don't know what to make of that. "He's gonna be with killers and rapists and abusers and men who kill their wife and son and leave their orphaned daughter to be abused in foster homes!"
"Amelia, I don't know if this will help you at all but, just so you know, serial killers are not held in general population. Serial killers have their own specific wings and they don't get mixed up with the other inmates."
I scoff, staring down at my lap, watching as my tears drip onto my clothes. "Inmates. I guess that's all he is now, right? An inmate?"
"No, Amelia, he's not just another inmate," Dave shakes his head and leans forward, trying to offer me comfort by proximity, but it just makes me feel cramped and overwhelmed. "We're going to get him out of there. I promise."
His promise only makes me cry more. I'd do anything to hear Spencer make another promise to me. I'd do anything just to see him again, but Spencer didn't want me in a jail and I can't imagine he'd want me in a prison. I won't be able to see him, or hear him, or feel him until he gets exonerated. That's going to take days, weeks, months. It could take years. Could go years without seeing his smile and feeling his touch and listening to him ramble on and on about whatever random factoid surfaces in his brain.
"You should go back to work," I whisper, wiping my cheeks. "Sitting here and watching me cry doesn't help anyone. I'll go somewhere else and worry by myself."
I stand and adjust my backpack, but the whole world just seems wrong. It seems like it's spinning and it feels like I just don't belong here. It feels like I've slipped into a different dimension that I don't belong in. It feels like I should just be able to take a nap and wake up and Spencer will be right next to me, kissing my neck and telling me he has to go to work. I'm waiting for the day that I can experience that again.
///
SPENCER
///
I never thought I'd be in prison. Maybe that's a dumb statement, but it's true. I thought my closest relation to prison would be sending criminals there, occasionally going in to interview inmates, and seldom breaking up riots and breaks. I never thought I'd be forced into blues and shower shoes and thrown into my own cell. I never thought this would become my life. I never thought I'd be sitting out on the prison yard, surveying my fellow inmates and wondering who I should avoid and who I could trust enough to keep me alive long enough for me to return home.
"Sup?" A group of three men I recognize from previously stroll up to me, their hands tucked in their pockets, and that alone makes me more nervous than their confident aura. I rise to my feet when they approach me, not out of obedience, but just because I don't want them to hold too much power over me in height. "Got any bats?"
I furrow my eyebrows in the slightest. "Bats?" Maybe I should've listened to Amelia when she rattled off her slang. Amelia.
"Cigarettes," the same guy clarifies as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, glancing towards his buddy next to him. I fight the urge to jump as the redhead slings his arm over my shoulder, standing uncomfortably close to me. If I wasn't in a prison, I'd rattle off how many germs he passed on to me just by doing that, but I know I'd get beat up for doing so. I keep my mouth shut.
"No, sorry, I don't smoke," it's my honest answer, but I almost instantly regret it. Will they kill me just because I don't have any cigarettes to give them? Is that how it works in here?
"Yeah," that same inmate keeps speaking, "I think I'm gonna quit." But then he narrows his eyes at me and takes a step closer. "You okay, man?"
"Yeah," I answer, but I know my unsure sounding voice has completely betrayed me, "I'm o-okay, thanks."
The third man chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. "Does he look okay to you?"
The redhead leans in closer to me and it takes all my self control not to cringe. "Looks like he's gonna cry."
"Or wet his pants," the first man laughs, and the other two join in with their own chuckles. "Hey, we're just messing- out of respect, you know? It's all over the yard that you stole from Milos."
I quickly shake my head, finally gaining the confidence to shake the redhead's arm off of me. Well, if they said they respect me, I might as well. He doesn't put up a fight when I do so. "But I didn't steal from Milos. That was my stuff."
"No," Redhead interrupts, "that was a tribute. Everyone has to pay when they join the group."
I glance between the three of them and they're all stony-faced, but I'm confused. I don't get it. What are they talking about? It's clear to them, but not to me. "What group?" I dare to ask the question.
The third man scoffs yet again. "You're kidding, right? Take a look around. They outnumber us."
"So we gotta stick together," Redhead goes on, and it all starts to make sense. A gang. They want me to join their gang. Am I gang material? Is this a compliment? Is this some weird, sick, twisted, prison-style compliment? "In here, we're the minority."
They're serious, and it's obvious. There are no chuckles. There are no side eye glances. My profiler skills aren't going off and telling me that they're lying. They're serious. They want me to join a gang.
What would happen if I accept? Does that make me a target by the majority? Will that make the majority look at me and want to take me out? I have to survive three months, at most, in here and that's it. I have to do whatever I need to stay alive for three months, and that's it. But what if I reject them? Will that make me an even bigger target if I say no? Will they take that rejection lightly? I can't imagine they would. Which is the lesser of the two evils? Do I really want to join a gang during my three month prison stay? Would I want to join a gang at all?
"I'm not interested," I say quickly, and attempt to make a quick exit. "Thanks anyway."
Before I can even leave, they catch me. "No, no, no," the first guy shakes his head, his arm now around my shoulders, his jaw clenched, "that's not the way this is gonna go."
"Hey," the third guy interrupts, "Tony-O is over there and he's waiting for us,"
The first guy pats my chest and, thankfully, lets me go. "Okay, my man, we gotta go. But," the three start to back away with devious smiles that I've seen far too many times on psychopaths, "no worries, we'll catch you tonight."
They'll catch me tonight. That can't be good. My eyes follow them as they approach someone else, but when they start chatting like friends, I look away. But then my eyes land on someone I can't look away from because he looks familiar. I know for a fact I didn't see him in the room of cots, but I know I've seen him before.
Ever since the situation in Mexico, my brain has been a little bit slow to react and recall faces and facts, but suddenly, it comes to me. I squint my eyes as a name flashes in my head. Calvin Shaw. He was an FBI agent who killed a criminal agent who was working for a Russian mob. He turned himself in and he's been here ever since, but I studied his case in school and he's become an example at the bureau of what not to do.
He's here? At this prison? And why is he staring at me like that? Does he know who I am? Do I radiate federal agent energy? Amelia talks about people's energy's all the time. Maybe I should've listened to her. I'm realizing that maybe I should have appreciated her more than I did. If I get out of here, I need to lay down all my love for that girl as soon as possible.
The guards blow their whistles and shout for us to line up so they start the process of corralling us back inside. Some inmates are brought back to their cells while others, like me, are brought to rooms with a bunch of cots lined up.
Time takes forever to pass by in prison. There's nothing to do and there's no type of stimulation. I just sit on my bed and try to tune out the chatter surrounding me. I try my hardest not to let my mind wander off to my friends or my girlfriend or my mother because I'll go crazy if I start worrying about them. They're fine without me, I bet.
I sit on my bed with my knees to my chest and guard the box of things I'd fought to get back from another inmate, making sure they don't get stolen yet again. That decision to reclaim my things almost got me killed once and I don't feel like getting in that situation again.
It's nearly impossible to tell what time it is because there are no windows but eventually, a few guards come by to scream at us to shut up. Wilkins looks around as the room falls silent and then informs us that it's lights out.
My heart starts to pound when the lights go dark and the guards walk away because, despite the darkness, I see three familiar men rise from their cots and stalk over to me. Like on the yard, I rise to my feet just so they don't get too much power over me. I know that I've made the right decision to do so when one man pulls out a makeshift knife he's clearly made from a bed frame or something he smuggled in. The panic and unfiltered fear settle in. My instincts tell me to run, but there is nowhere to go. I don't have a gun to defend myself, there is no way to talk these men down like I've done to others in the past, there's nothing I can do. I'm all on my own.
One guy smirks, stepping up to me. "It's party time."
The two other men quickly grab my arms and tie my wrists behind my back, then shove a sock in my mouth to keep me quiet and muffle the sounds of me screaming, just so a guard doesn't come in and interrupt. Is that good? Does that mean they're not planning on killing me? They're just going to beat me up?
They start dragging me off, into the connected bathroom and my screams echo even louder off the wall. I'm doing what I can to get out of the grasps of the men but I've never been physically strong. Maybe I should've taken the fit tests more seriously. Maybe I should've gone training when Morgan asked me to go. Maybe I should've taken my life more seriously.
"So," there's another man with a thick accent standing there already, his arms crossed over his chest, "you're too good to be with us? We offer you friendship and what do you do? Spit in our faces."
The redhead tightens his grip on my arm. "Thinks he can survive in here without our help."
"You," the man with the accent grabs the knife, "you need to show some respect," he brings the knife up to my face and traces the blade across my skin. I'm not sure what they're planning on doing to my face but I know it won't feel good.
"Do it," one guy encourages, smirking.
"Back off," there's another voice now, and the four men holding me stop in their tracks, "now." I turn my head to see who my savior is, and it's none other than Calvin Shaw. "Untie him," he says, and the guys behind me quickly do so, and take the sock out of my mouth. "Now get out of here," he tells me and gestures back into the main room. I hesitate, but Calvin gives me a pointed look. "Go on. Go."
I high tail it out of there, my heart pounding harder than it ever has before. I think it could positively burst out of my chest as I return to my cot. It dawns on me now how many people are in this room, and not a single one of them stepped up to help me. Nobody yelled for a guard or helped me fend off the gang or did anything at all.
So I sit down on my cot and I don't even lay down. I don't dare to go to sleep and I barely even blink. I'm even paranoid that, due to the position of my cot, there are people behind me that I can't see. I'm too freaked out. I'm too scared that those men will come back and kill me for real.
I've faced the scariest men and women in the world. I've witnessed things that I never should have and I've talked myself out of horrible situations. I can't escape this. I can't flash my identification or shoot a few bullets and then go home to Amelia. I can't do that. I have to spend every second of my life with my guard up, watching my back at the same time I'm watching my front and my sides just to make sure no one is coming for me. It's day one and I'm already panicked and I'm already lost. I just want to go home.
///
The next two days are like walking on eggshells. I'm constantly watching my back, front, and sides and I'm making sure to keep everyone in front of me at all times. I can't move my cot without risking a fight so I'm barely sleeping at night. I force myself to stay awake to guard myself and protect myself from any possible attacks.
I get to have a talk with Calvin at a time when the cell blocks are open, and he shows nothing but compassion for me. He believes my innocence, shares the story of his sentence, and gives me a book I've never read before. It feels good to have someone I can trust. I can tell he's powerful in this prison, judging by the way he told those gang guys to stop beating me up and they immediately complied. Sitting in his cell is the only time I allowed myself to relax in the slightest.
But that relaxation is short lived because soon the guards are telling us to get back to where we belong. We get cuffed and shoved along to our cells or wherever else, and I get back to my cot. I sit with my knees to my chest and prop my eyes wide open, despite how utterly exhausted I am. I've barely slept in the three days I've been here and I don't know how much longer I can stand this.
"Reid," my name is called by a guard along with a few other names, and we all quickly rise to our feet. "Grab your things and let's go."
I quickly grab my little bucket of belongings that I've been guarding with my life and hold it close to my chest as I approach the guards. I'm thankful that they don't cuff us as they take us one by one into different blocks.
Wilkins, of course, is gripping my arm harder than he needs to be as he shoves me along a corridor. I keep my eyes forward and no matter how badly I want to see what prisoners I'm walking past, I don't let my eyes wander. I've already seen a guy beat someone else up on the yard just for looking at him and I'm not wanting that to be my future.
"Hold," Wilkins snaps, and I force my feet to freeze in their spot. Then I feel him shoving me inside with, again, more force than needed. "Now get in there." Once I wiggle my way through, not really fitting with the tray I'm holding, Wilkins shouts for the door to close. He gives me another look before stomping away, leaving me all alone in my new home.
I set my tray down on the little table beside me and immediately notice the book on the bed. It's the one that Calvin had told me about yesterday, and I guess he arranged for it to be in my cell.
"Hey," I suddenly hear Calvin's voice from the cell beside mine, "welcome to the neighborhood!"
///
AMELIA
///
I throw my backpack onto the floor of my apartment, locking the door behind me, groaning in pain with every step I take. I dread when I'll eventually have to walk up to my room, but I plan on avoiding it as long as possible.
I start on my walk to the kitchen for a drink, probably a huge glass of wine, but then I stop in my tracks when there's a small, cold breeze against my legs. I shake it off and drag myself into the kitchen. The window is closed and the plants on the windowsill are half dead. Of course, they are. I haven't been home enough to water them.
I grab a wine glass from a cabinet that's far too high for me, definitely placed there by Spencer, and fill it almost to the brim. I toss the entire drink back in seconds and then pour another drink. Once I have my second glass in my hand, I fill a new glass with water and start to feed my dead plants that are probably past the point of return. Once I've quenched the kitchen plants, I move to the bigger one beside the balcony door.
As I approach it, I roll my eyes. I've located the source of the breeze and it's coming from the cracked open balcony door. I've left the door open for two days straight. I shake my head at myself and pour the rest of the water into the plant before closing and clicking the lock on the balcony door.
I barely even realize that my hand starts to shake while I pour the water into the plant. I'm blinded by tears that I don't feel coming and something in my mind tells me that the more wine I drink, the less I'll cry. Drink more wine. Drink more wine. So I gulp down the rest of my wine glass and ignore it as my head starts to get fuzzy.
I throw both glasses into the sink and then grab the cracked open wine bottle, taking a long sip. Drink more wine. Drink more wine.
It smells sweet in the kitchen. Did I light a candle? What in the kitchen smells like bubblegum?
My body is moving around the kitchen and through the living room, but my brain is so fuzzy and everything is so blurry that it doesn't even feel like I'm moving. I feel like I'm floating with my lids drooping closed, hands moving like they're being told to. I nearly collapse against the couch, but it feels like I'm pulled back up and pushed back to my feet. Drink more wine. You want to drink more wine.
I grab the bottle and chug down the rest of the contents, my trembling hand dropping it to the ground. I barely even jolt when it shatters at my feet.
The glass, it feels like I have a voice whispering instructions in my ear. Pick up the glass. I fall to my knees and grip a piece of jagged glass in my hand, watching blood come to the surface and stain the clear surface. Tighter. I oblige, watching a drop of blood fall to the floor. A drop stains my jeans. Go to the stairs.
I toss the glass aside and crawl to the stairs, collapsing at the bottom and dropping my head onto a stair. I bring my knees to my chest, my cries fill the apartment as I slump down, my whole body shaking as I sob. I'm not sure how long it takes me to fall asleep on the staircase, but I do, and the alcohol keeps me asleep the whole night, something I haven't been able to do in a while.
///
"Amelia? Hey, are you here? I hope you are, the door's unlocked."
I whine as I'm roused from my sleep, and as I start to move, I'm expected to be comforted by my duvet. But instead, I go sliding down two steps of my staircase, groaning as I hit my hip. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes as I process the intense pounding in my head.
"Are you-" Penelope comes and stands in front of me, freezing when she sees me, "whoa, you look awful."
I let out a humorless laugh, rolling my eyes. "Gee, thanks."
She observes my surroundings- bloody hand, smudged makeup, messy hair, wrinkled clothes, tear-stained cheeks, sleeping on the stairs. It's not hard to tell what's going on, especially for someone who has been hanging around profilers for over a decade. I'm sure everyone on the team can see that I'm spiraling, and it's obvious to Penelope too.
"How'd you get in?" I ask, shakily pushing myself to my feet and grabbing onto the railing to steady myself.
"Well, I knocked and you didn't answer but the door was unlocked. I came to check up on you because I know you were really upset yesterday. I, well," she pauses, wringing her hands together, "I'm not really sure what I say but I'm really sorry if I-"
"No," I cut her off, shaking my head, hugging the railing and trying to hide my bloody hand from her view. She looks utterly heartbroken, but I'm not sure what the cause is. If it's because of Spencer or because I lost my cool at the BAU, I'm not sure. "I should be the one apologizing. It was my fault. I overreacted. Um," my eyes wander down to the ground and I ignore the few pieces of random broken glass that have trailed towards the stairs, "I was just kinda upset. Then when Dave was talking to me, he promised that you guys would get him out of prison. Promising was kind of mine and Spencer's thing. Him saying that just made it so much worse."
"O-Oh," Penelope's eyebrows pop up, "I had no idea."
I nod and fall back onto the stairs. "When we first met and he told me he didn't shake hands, I went home and I just thought about how we could do something similar to shaking hands but not actually shaking hands. One of the options I presented to him the next time we saw each other was pinky promising. He liked it and it just stuck. Promising just became our thing." Penelope stares at me, her lips turned downward and her hands laced in front of her, head bowed. "Well, I'm gonna go take a shower. Thanks for checking up on me."
"Yeah, of course," Penelope just slightly perks up now, lifting her head and giving me an attempt at a smile. "If you need anything, let me know. And make sure to double check that your door is locked."
"I will, thanks," I turn on my heel and start stumbling up the stairs, clinging to the railing for support. My brain is pounding against my skull and I can't keep a thought in my head for more than a second. My hand is throbbing.
"Hey," Penelope pauses at the door, looking up at me, "did you light a candle?" I shake my head. "Hmm. It smells like bubblegum in here."