He was home, but she was still waiting for him to come back to her. It wasn't as simple as him being released and their world continuing as normal. It was happening in small pieces, little by little. She was going to have to be patient with him. This wasn't something that could be rushed. At the same time, she needed him to be there. They needed each other.
To her relief, Spencer agreed to start seeing a therapist. Twice a week he would be going to Dr. Robert Kessler, who came highly recommended by the Bureau. There was plenty to be discussed. The day after he came home, she'd asked him what he wanted to make for dinner. The question had stunned him, he set down the pencil he had been furiously scribbling away with and stared ahead, eyes blank as his mouth fell open ever so slightly, a space created by silence rather than words.
To see him so completely lost had scared her. Not wanting to prolong the heavy quiet, she had jumped in, asking, "You know, I think I have everything for butter chicken. Maybe some rice and naan. How's that sound?"
"That... that's good," he'd said, nodding slowly.
Decisions were his to make again, and that would take adjustment. She tried not to overwhelm him, giving him suggestions rather than leaving him with open-ended options. For food, for clothes, for things they could do. In that first week, she often caught him staring at the closet in their bedroom and would make passing remarks like, "I bet that purple shirt would look really good on you," or, "it's chilly out, you should wear a sweater." Narrow things down just a little bit. Make the world smaller, more manageable.
The nightmares would require other strategies. That very first night, she felt him thrashing and shaking beside her. When she gently shook him awake, he yelped, staring at her with wide eyes, his skin slick with sweat. The color had drained from his face and he'd slipped off to the bathroom, saying he needed a moment. When she woke up the next morning, she found him asleep on the living room couch. For a few nights that pattern continued. Bianca would wake up alone and find him fast asleep downstairs.
One night, she awoke around 1 AM, and saw he was gone. Unable to fall back asleep, she crept downstairs to where he lay, muttering to himself in his sleep. He looked so terrified, even with his eyes closed. Whatever world he'd been transported to in his dreams, she wanted to bring him back. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she gently roused him. Sleepy brown eyes blinked at her, confused.
"Come back to bed," she said. He started to protest, but she cut him off. "The baby keeps moving, so I'm not getting much sleep anyways. I'd rather have you next to me. We'll get through this together." So they would.
It didn't long to become accustomed once more to waking up next to him every morning. It was a continuous comfort, to hear the soft sound of his breathing and inch closer to him. So when she again found herself jolted awake by the baby, she was startled to find herself alone in the bed. It had been a week and a half since he slept on the couch, despite the bad dreams that sometimes kept him up. Where had he gone? Had something happened? His absence sent her heart racing, recalling too many nights when he'd disappeared on a case, all the weeks she slept in an empty house worrying about him in that prison. What if whoever was responsible for Rosa's death had found them? What if it was Scratch?
"Spencer?" she cried out into the dark. Seconds later, there was the sound of rapid footsteps, and he appeared in the doorway. Messy-haired and with a pajama shirt buttoned slightly askew, but otherwise unharmed.
"What's wrong?" he asked.
"I... just didn't know where you were," she said, her voice breaking. The sudden wave of emotion that hit her was unexpected, and she felt her lip quivering, on the edge of tears. "I'm sorry, I don't..." She had convinced herself it was all fine now, that she was over all the fears and the doubts. Having him back was supposed to make it better, and she'd been able to shoulder through their days without losing her composure. Suddenly that calm had vanished, in a single moment of irrational panic.
He crossed the room quickly, climbing up onto the mattress and hugging her close as she clung to him. "I'm sorry. I just went to get some water. I'm here. It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here. I'm home."
"I know." He was home. She couldn't explain why that particular moment of absence had frightened her so. Maybe it was the months of fighting back the fears and the loneliness, or the thought of losing him again after everything that had happened recently. Maybe she just missed him, needed him more than she was aware of. But he was here now. He wasn't going anywhere.
They crawled back under the blankets together, fingers interlaced, not quite ready to let go.
[ || ]
Freedom took adjusting to. He could remember how strange the world had felt for the first couple weeks after being trapped in the Hankel shack in Georgia. This was entirely different. Routines in and out of cells. Unpredictable danger around the corner. The strange safety of a metal cage. Solitary confinement. For a month, his world had been sterile and cold and unforgiving. Everything harsh and hard.
To come home, to come back to their home with its blankets and sunlight and fresh coffee was a jarring shift. He had his own bathroom again. He had his own clothes. He could eat when he wanted and what he wanted. And she was there.
It still surprised him for several days after, to turn the corner and find Bianca there. In prison she'd been a dream, a hazy hallucination. She was the exact opposite of the Milburn Correctional Center. Warmth and softness and color. He could fall asleep with her body against his, wrap his arms gently around her. But there were still times when he would wake up in a panic in the middle of the night, terrified that it was only a dream and he was back in his cell. Shaw or someone else around the corner, waiting to attack him.
Though Bianca cut back on her hours, she was still working. When she was home, they would spent almost every minute together, making up for lost time. Painting the walls of the nursery, flipping through books of baby names, curling up in bed to watch old movies while he kissed the crook of her neck. Little by little they were rebuilding their home. He was rebuilding himself. Even seeing a therapist therapist, though he'd always brushed off such appointments by giving all the right answers. This time was different, it had to be. Reid knew he needed to put in the work if he was going to be a good husband and a good father. Dr. Kessler had worked with psychologists and therapists before, and had he had developed quite a skill for detecting BS. Funny, how telling the truth really did help. They talked about prison, his arrest, his mother's condition. Every now and then, Kessler would toe the line and push into something a little deeper, asking questions that he couldn't answer without mentioning his childhood or his team. For once, he didn't fight it. Reid opened up, sharing the details he usually kept tucked away neatly in a stray corner of his mind. Bianca was the only one he usually let that far in, but Kessler could actually recommend behavioral techniques that were proven to help those in fields like his to deal with trauma and guilt.
Things were getting easier. Though his life still felt tilted sideways, so different from what had been his routine for the last fourteen years, it didn't hurt quite so much. It was the vacation he'd rarely taken, a break from all the horrors and monsters. Small comforts were to be found, like falling asleep next to her and knowing that he would be able to do so tomorrow night. Making plans and not having to worry about whether or not work would steal him away. When she was away at work, he would go to therapy, or sit outside with a book or some knitting. He talked to the neighbors more than he ever had before. It wasn't perfect, and it wasn't quite happiness – maybe if he could still see his mother and his friends, it would be. But it was contentment, at the very least.
It was the opportunity to just be Spencer Reid, no titles or expectations to uphold. He had always imagined that leaving work would be unbearably miserable, that he would be bored and lonely. A few years ago, the notion would've terrified him. Times had changed though, they were changing still, and while the situation wasn't ideal, it was far from miserable.
There were little joys, small pockets of genuine happiness. The moment they had been sitting in bed and she'd put down the book she was reading to grab his hand and place it over her stomach. Before he could ask what she was doing, he felt it. Just the tiniest flutter. So slight he nearly missed it. But there it was again. A little kick against his hand, and he gasped, a wild grin spreading across his face. How had he been so unnerved by this eight years ago, when JJ was pregnant with Henry? It seemed now to be the most miraculous thing on the planet.
"Wow," he said, completely lost for words. It suddenly felt real in a way it hadn't before. Knowing they were having a baby was one thing, seeing the ultrasounds and the changes in her body was another, but this was something else entirely. Something tangible, concrete proof that this baby was alive and real and theirs.
One afternoon, on the way home from a visit with Dr. Kessler, he stopped on a whim upon seeing a familiar bright blue logo. It felt like fate. Bianca was in the kitchen when he came home, setting a pot of water on the stove when he burst through the door.
"Was your session good?" she asked, confused by his excitement as he set a box down on the counter.
"It was great," he said. And it had been. By unpacking his troubles with Dr. Kessler, he had more space to focus on her, on helping her through this. "But even better, I found something on my way home." She tilted her head, bemused, as he took her hands into his. "Do you remember the first time we said I love you?"
Bianca smiled, and he couldn't help but think she looked so radiant standing there. Her eyes alight, a slight blush to her cheeks he found adorable. "Of course I do. I don't have that eidetic memory, but I would never forget that."
"I just keep thinking about how much I love you, and how that love we have is growing and then today – you'll never guess where I passed by today." With all the eagerness of a magician about to reveal the correct card, he tapped the label on the box.
When she read it, she laughed, delight dancing in her eyes. "Captain Cookie and the Milkman." Taking care not to tear the label, she opened it up. "Are these ice cream sandwiches?"
A shrug, as he attempted to downplay his own mirth, a warmth in his chest that was only just beginning to be familiar again. "I had to stop and get some. That was the first time you said it. And I said it back." Reid brought his hand to her cheek, and the warmth became soft, a gentle flicker of candlelight, nostalgia for the past and for the present. "And I'm never going to stop saying it. I love you, I love you, I love you."
"I love you too." She leaned up to kiss his cheek. How many nights had he lain awake on a hard cell cot, imagining that very gesture? All the while he had wondered if he'd ever be able to feel her lips against his skin once more, or if he would be trapped in that space where touching was never allowed, and where love could hardly survive. "Did you buy a whole dozen?"
"A baker's dozen," he amended. "We didn't have anything like this at... at Milburn." It always came out a little awkwardly. He still wasn't sure how much he wanted to say, or how much she should know. If he would, he would wipe all memory of that godforsaken place from his mind.
"You're going to make yourself sick," she said. It was only half-teasing, mocking his constant need for sugar. After going so long without it, he was steadily building back up, adding a little more to his coffee each day. But her voice was still gentle, ever-aware of what he'd been through. There was no way she was going to stop him from eating ten or so cookies, if that's what he wanted.
But what wasn't what he wanted. Not right now. Not when she was standing there looking at him like that. Reid gently shut the box, slipping it into the freezer before it could melt on the counter. Then he leaned in to kiss her properly, lips against lips. "Have I told you lately that you're beautiful?" he asked, pulling away. One hand gliding down her arm to catch her hand.
"Only all the time," she giggled, closing the distance between them again. It was true. That was another thing he couldn't seem to get enough of, saying over and over how lovely she was, how much he adored her. An attempt to fill the silence she had heard in his absence. It felt like an eternity, not being able to speak with her, to tell her those things. Not being loved by her, that was lonely. Not being able to love her, that was what truly hurt. Kept him up wondering what would happen if he never made it out. What if he never had the chance to say it again? One had to consider the possibility that every time had been the last time when they were in prison. Nothing else seemed to exist beyond the cell walls and the barbed wire fence of the yard.
It had been so long. So lonely. He moved his mouth lower, kisses pressed to her neck. "I love you."
"I was about to start dinner," she said, making no move to pull away.
"It's okay. A watched pot never boils, anyways." His hands on the curve of her back, bringing her closer. The warmth in his chest slowly spreading. The heat of desire.
"You know that's not scientifically accurate statement."
"Shh," he murmured. "I'm trying to be spontaneous." She kissed him again.
It had been so long.
This was the end of waiting. This was reunion. Many of the other prisoners talked about 'freedom' as a tangible thing. It was a cold beer at their favorite bar. Sitting in their own house with their friends, watching the game. Visiting a park with their child. A tattoo parlor. When they spoke of freedom, they always spoke of that thing.
The pot was abandoned, to boil without an audience.
He found he still knew every inch of her, despite the ways her body had changed in his absence. That she still had the wonderful, dizzying talent of clearing his mind when she touched him. This was his freedom. In solitary confinement, in the infirmary, he thought of her. He dreamed of what it would feel like to hold her again. Freedom. Her, in his arms. Nothing else but they love they shared between them.
[ || ]
The file folders spread out on her desk seemed to stare back at her as she sighed, leaning back in the desk chair. It was hard enough to prioritize cases, but now she was having to decide which ones to focus on herself, and which to pass on to other attorneys. She had never been skilled at saying no or turning down a challenge, but with maternity leave on the horizon, she didn't have much of a choice. Dr. Molina had already cautioned her that she might need bed rest for the last few weeks, and there was no way she could keep up with her current workload in that situation.
Things were changing. She would have to learn to adjust. Although she had to admit, there had been far more changes this year than she was expecting. A baby was one thing, but Diana was getting worse, Spencer's legal status was uncertain, and Scratch was still out there. Stability seemed a far-off dream. Around every corner there was some new terror waiting for them, to throw them off. The future was shrouded in darkness, and it was all she could do to keep moving forwards and hoping there was a light at the end of it. They had come too far, been through too much to give up now.
"Bianca, hey." Salma, one of her coworkers, brought her back from her thoughts. "Damian and I are going to grab lunch downstairs. Wanna join?"
"Absolutely." She grabbed her wallet and ID, following them down two flights of stairs to the small café in the bottom of the building. It housed several different law firms and consultants, and it wasn't unusual to run into other tenants there. On days like this, when it was rainy and colder, most people preferred to pack a lunch or eat there, rather than drive somewhere else. Not that she minded the company, Bianca liked nearly everyone at Darcy & Alam, their field tended to draw like-minded people who wanted to do good in the world. There were exceptions, like Alexander, the egotistical hotshot who was already gunning for partner.
His desk was right next to Damian's and the two quarreled over just about everything. Cases, printer use, language in emails. Damian was sarcastic, which Alexander claimed was unprofessional. Damian was narrating to her and Salma their latest feud over a stapler as they made their way to a little table in the lobby. "It's the fifth time this week he's left it on his desk, knowing full well it's the communal stapler. I'm telling you, he's trying to start something."
Salma laughed, adjusting a loose end of her hijab back over her shoulder. "And I'm telling you you're reading into it too much. He's probably just not thinking."
"Or he just thinks that because he's a lawyer and I'm a paralegal that he's somehow got something on me. I've been here six years, he's barely made it past six months."
"He's a human rights lawyer," chimed in a voice from the table beside him. "How much difference does it make?" They turned to see two men in pressed suits who they recognized from the corporate firm on the floor above them. Though most attorneys in other practices weren't unkind towards them, it was inevitable that meetings with those who frowned upon their area of work occurred. Human rights lawyers often faced persecution abroad, a fact that earned them respect, though there were still many who claimed human rights law was useless and unenforceable. One of the men, wearing a striped tie, leaned in closer. "You're just a firm of Amal Clooney wannabees."
"Really?" Bianca sighed. "Amal Clooney. Is that the best you've got? It's not even an insult."
The other man, in a bowtie, shrugged. "Well, while you're trying to keep your clients out of solitary confinement, we'll be keeping ours out of prison altogether." He and his partner stood, gathering their lunch bags.
"Your corporate psychopaths are the ones we'll be putting in prison someday," Salma shot back. The two shrugged, unperturbed, and walked off. Salma stabbed her salad with her fork, muttering about airhead attorneys.
"Was your husband ever in solitary?" Damian asked, turning to Bianca.
"Damian!" Salma chided, elbowing him. "Bianca, you don't have to answer that."
"No, it's okay." She understood the curiosity. After all, it wasn't often your colleagues spouses went to prison. People wanted to know how prisons really worked, what it was really like on the inside. There were always questions, glances that turned her way when they thought she wouldn't notice. It was subtle, the shift in treatment when news quietly spread. It wasn't judgment. Something more akin to pity. "He was, for his own safety. He doesn't like to talk about it much."
Damian and Salma were people she could trust not to spread gossip, and she knew the question came not from nosiness but from a desire to understand prison conditions. Even so, this was Spencer's information to share, and while he was willing to discuss it with her, she wasn't quite ready to talk about it with her coworkers. Everything was too fresh and too uncertain. There were too many details too explain to make sense of the mess. All people knew was that it was related to the Bureau, he'd been in prison, and he was out until further trial took place.
Exceptions for the "need-to-know" policy the Reids had adopted existed. Outside of the team, Eva and Lorenzo knew, as did Tanvi, and her boss – who she had needed to explain it to in order to procure time off for the arraignment and explain why she might need more time to work from home.
"So," Salma said, quickly changing the subject, "have you almost finalized the amicus brief for the travel ban?"
Bianca had been charged with finalizing the firm's amicus curiae to the Supreme Court, and she was determined to do it well. "I should have it finished by the end of the day. Thanks for copyediting the last draft. I've had my hands a bit full with research on the Rohingya crisis and the ICE cases."
"Don't we all," Damian sighed. "The detention centers, potential healthcare repeals, pushbacks on LGBT rights."
Salma shook her head. "Not to mention the border wall. And that's just within the US." It seemed like cases were piling up faster and faster these days. Abuses in Russia, migrants dying in Greece and Turkey, North Korean prison camps, executions in the Phillipines, Zika in Brazil. There were so many people hurting. It was moments like this when Bianca couldn't help but wonder if now was really a good time to bring a child into the world, when everything in the world seemed so unstable. And their world was unstable.
She was over halfway through the pregnancy. It would only be a few more months before they were taking care of a small person. What would their lives look like at that time? Without thinking, she placed her hand over her belly, as if that motion alone would be enough to protect their child.
"Everything okay?" Salma asked.
"Yeah," she replied. "I was just thinking about, um, how I'm going pass cases if I have to leave early."
"Don't give any of them to Alexander," Damian insisted. "He's the enemy now." When the trio finally made their way back up to the office, she and Salma had to stifle laughter as Damian hurried to snatch the stapler back from the lawyer's desk. Bianca settled back in at her own desk, pulling up the amicus brief once more on her computer. At that moment, her phone buzzed. Upon seeing it was a message from Spencer, she couldn't help but smile. It wasn't unusual for him to send her a text at work, updating her on whatever he was doing to pass the time or typing out some sweet words to brighten her afternoon.
This particular one had a photo of their kitchen stove, a pan sitting on it. In the pan was what she assumed was once a sandwich, but it was so blackened she could barely tell it apart from the pan. In the foreground was Spencer, wearing a peacoat and purple scarf, as well as a grimace.
His text read, The good news is that I didn't set off the smoke detector. The bad news is that I had to open all the windows to air out the kitchen, so the house is cold. The other good news is that I found the scarf you made me for my birthday.
She covered her mouth with her hand to keep from giggling. That was her Spencer. A genius in every sense of the word, equipped with more degrees than he could count on one hand, and yet utterly incapable of making lunch without a culinary disaster taking place. Not that she minded. These little moments were proof of progress. He was smiling more often. He didn't look as lost around the house. He was sleeping through the night more often. He was coming back to her.
I'll bring Chinese home for dinner. Stay warm. I love you, she typed back. ps- the scarf looks good.
The world was too big for her to hold everything together. There was too much hurt for any one person to heal everything. But she could start here. Start with the work in front of her and the people in her life. Start with their home and this child. Spencer was free, and she was here. For now, that was enough. She had words at her disposal, her courage, and a great determination.
If the world felt dark, she would make her own light. That was the way to keep moving forward.