HI HI HI here you guys go!!! thank you as always for the comments they make me smile and laugh and continue writing!!! this chapter is pretty dialogue heavy and i struggled with characterization so just bear with me!! Also it's been a few days - sorry I've been so busy w school so this is kinda short but enjoyy!!!! There will be 4 more chapters after this and then a brief epilogue :) xo mj
warnings: angst, mentions of drug use
ALSO HERES A QUICK SUMMARY OF WHAT HAPPENED IN THE LAST FEW CHAPTERS JUST SO YOU DONT HAVE TO GO BACK AND READ [unless you want to ;)]
After Y/N goes undercover and is almost killed by the unsub, she hides the bruises from Spencer because she knows he'd get all stressed out and treat her like a fragile little thing. She's given a few days off and sleeps at Spencer's house but wakes up to find out that fuckin DIANA DAMN REID's meds started working. So she was lucid and escaped the facility, showing up to Spencer's house in a moment of clarity and the 3 of them had a good night only to wake up the next morning and she didn't know where she was. Spencer was obviously in distress so Y/N was like "use me" so he could get his frustration out ~sexually~ but he is so lost in his own head that he chokes her without even thinking about the trauma from the unsub. She uses her safe word and he feels so bad but she tells him it's okay and they go to sleep. The next morning she wakes up to a note that he loves her so much but he's bringing her down more and he doesn't want to dull her shine and that he let his own emotions get in the way of her wellbeing so they need time apart. He said he's off of work for 3 weeks to lecture at Georgetown and they can talk when he returns to the BAU but after 17 days there's a case on campus and they come face to face. It's tense and Y/N still loves him but also hates him so much for breaking her heart like that and after the case Emily invites Y/N and Alvez [who are good friends lately] to the bar. They talk and end up smooching in the car but then both agree it was weird and they're better as friends. Y/N goes into the bar and Spencer is there with the rest of the team. And that's what you missed on Powerless.
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"I really didn't think it was a big deal," Rossi laughs, taking the final sip of his whiskey before standing from the booth, slipping on his oldies-style leather jacket. He's telling Alvez the infamous story about getting Hotch too drunk on purpose, a truth that was revealed during your consequential game of truth or dare. "He needed to loosen up a little bit!"
"He definitely did that on the island," Emily laughs, a knowing chuckle filling the circle. You all say your goodbyes to Rossi before turning back your attention to the impromptu gossip session about your boss. "Don't tell him I told you guys this, because he'll deny it, but he brought the dino float back with him. Said it's for Jack, but I don't buy that."
You slap the table in disbelief, an uproar of laughter filling the dark corner of the bar. "He doesn't even have a pool," Morgan points out, making you all laugh even harder.
"Cut him some slack guys," Spencer pipes in. You're two vodka sodas deep and finally able to look him in the eye, while not transforming into a total drunken mess. It's a delicate balance. You even find yourself chuckling at his joke. "Furniture is expensive."
As the conversations trickle into smaller side chats, you shift uncomfortably in your seat, desperately trying to avoid looking over at Spencer. His stolen glances tell you he's doing the same thing, too, neither of you sure of how to proceed after what happened this afternoon.
"I'm gonna go get another drink," you announce, tapping Luke on the shoulder so he can let you out of the booth. Making your way over to the bar, you hand the bartender money and order just a small beer, not wanting to get too drunk and make a fool of yourself. Which you would definitely do, given the emotions of the day.
"Hey," Spencer's voice scares you as you turn to head back to the table, a small splash from your pint glass getting all over your jacket. Or, actually, Luke's jacket. "Shit, sorry. Here let me get you a napkin."
"It's fine, it's not a lot," you brush it off, sighing when he hands you a stack of napkins anyways.
"I guess it's good that it's not your jacket," he comments, and you narrow your eyes at him, cocking your hip to the side. "Sorry, I don't know why I said that."
"You left me, Spencer," you remind him sharply, sipping from your frothy pint. "You have no right to be jealous."
"Oh I'm not," he responds cockily**, a barely noticeable flash of uncertainty in his eyes serving as confirmation he's bluffing. He's always been good at poker, his innate ability to read people and maintain a cool, composed exterior both giving him an advantage. Yet, you can read him like an open book. "He's a great guy. I have no problem with him. I thought it was really nice how he warmed you up in the car before you guys came in here."
You look up at him, dumbfounded. It's as if the man you've spent the last 6 months falling in love with, slowly and then with an intensity you've never felt before, was suddenly gone. The two of you were in a standoff of sorts, waiting for the other to crack first.
"What are you talking about?" you don't back down, posturing yourself a little straighter.
"You two pulled in right as I was walking into the front door," he starts. "But you didn't come in until 20 minutes later, hair messy and lips swollen. It doesn't take an IQ of 187 to put two and two together."
Why is he being like this?
"Not that it's any of your business," you snap back, voice cloaked in a steady rage. He's over the line, and from the look on his face, he knows it. "But we didn't have sex. We started hooking up but the spark wasn't there."
Because he isn't you. You want to scream in his face. You want to tell him that your relationship burned so big and bright that when he left all that remained was a charred mess that couldn't ever catch another flame. But instead, you say nothing, silently sipping your beer and looking up at the one person in the world you both fiercely love and passionately hate at the same time.
"And I'm completely fine with that," he shrugs. Another point for the 'hate' category.
"Oh thank god," you exhale sarcastically, throwing a hand up. "Can you move, please? I'd like to get back to our friends."
"Do you want to test any of them out too?" he comments, the words causing you to stop dead in your tracks. You pivot back around to face him, clenching your jaw and narrowing your eyes. Fucking asshole, you mutter. Placing your beer down on the bar with a loud clang, you storm out of the building, the tears falling as soon as the chilly night sky hits your face.
"Y/N please wait," the last voice you want to hear right now rings out behind you, his tall figure practically tripping over his feet to get out the door quickly. You shake your head, not even trusting your vocal cords, holding a hand up as he gets closer. "I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have said that."
"Go away," you walk down the sidewalk as he follows you, both of you unconcerned about the few drunken night owls who stumble past you. As you focus on the crunch of gravel underneath your feet, you inhale sharply and turn, pointing a finger at Spencer accusingly. "I don't know who you think you are, but that's not how you talk to somebody you claim to still love."
Only knowing Spencer for a year, you hadn't experienced much conflict with him, aside from petty arguments over a case and your tiny disagreements on the island. But between what you've heard from JJ and Emily during drunken girls' night gossip sessions, and seen firsthand in a heated disagreement with Morgan, you knew that he was no stranger to making cutting remarks in the heat of the moment.
Not that you blame him, you're also known to fight dirty with piercing words. But there was something extra harsh about being on the receiving end of callous comments spilling from the same mouth that used to kiss you so gently and whisper sweet devotions of love.
"Y/N-" he starts, looking surprised as you finally stop and lean against a building, thankful for the nylon jacket serving as a barrier for your back against the cold brick wall. When he doesn't continue speaking, you shake your head and run your hand through your hair.
"I don't understand how you could say that to me," you're shamelessly crying now, all of the anger that helped you keep your composure suddenly melting into a gut-wrenching sadness. He sighs, hand rubbing over his eye in the way it does when he's in distress. "You don't get to claim to still love me in one breath and then imply I'm a whore in the next one."
"That's not what I was saying," he defends quietly, avoiding eye contact. You both know it's exactly what he was saying, but you also can tell by the remorseful look in his eyes that he didn't mean it. "I was hurt, Y/N. It hasn't even been a month."
"You left me, remember? I don't have to wait around until YOU decide you have your shit together enough to be with me," you're getting angrier by the second. He was the one who ran out. As the great Meredith Grey once said, he can't criticize you for fixing what he broke. "It's not even like I'll be able to love anyone else in the way I loved you, Spencer."
The words are true. You don't think you're physically capable of letting another person in, only for them to leave you in an ocean of your own vulnerabilities. Without even so much as a kiss goodbye.
"I just hate the thought of you with him," he tears his eyes from yours and his voice trails off, sadness evident, but it fills you with a white hot rage rather than sympathy.
"I only fucking did it to get my mind off of you!" you practically scream, fully aware that you look like a pathetic mess right now but too emotional to care. "I thought if I could feel something, anything at all, maybe it would make me less terrified about continuing to survive without you!"
"Y/N, do you think this is easy for me?" he asks, his voice starting to crack. You glance up at him for a second, eyes darting away at the sight of tears brimming his eyes. No, you can't feel bad for him. He did this to himself. "I have thought about you 942 times in the 17 days we've been apart. I can't do anything without relating it back to you and it's fucking killing me. I love you so much that it hurts, and there's nothing I can do about it."
"THEN WHY THE FUCK DID YOU LEAVE?" you're full on screaming now, throwing your hands up in the air. You feel like you're in a movie or something, fighting with the love of your life under a flickering street lamp at 1 in the morning. Except this is real life. And real life doesn't always have happy endings.
"Can we please talk about this somewhere private?" he asks, eyes full of desperation. Part of you wants to slap him across the face and say no, not even caring to hear whatever sad excuse he came up with for shattering your heart. But the way his voice cracks and his hand reaches out toward you makes you nod hesitantly. "Your apartment is within walking distance, is that okay?"
"Fine," you shrug, pulling out your phone and texting Morgan so you two don't end up being the subjects of a federal search party. "But you're not staying the night."
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The walk home is silent, only interrupted with scattered sniffles and the occasional siren in the distance. You walk side by side, each street light illuminating his tear-stained face, and you have to stop yourself from grabbing his hand out of habit.
No, you think to yourself. Stop wanting him. He broke you.
Letting him into your apartment, you feel your cheeks flush at the post-break-up-depression-induced mess. A half eaten pot of mac and cheese sits on your sink, the spoon leaning against the edge completely exposing the fact you didn't even bother with a bowl. Three empty wine bottles line up on the counter, and a vibrant blue carton of cigarettes sits in your vacant fruit bowl.
In your soul-swallowing angst, you picked up a box of the vice, wanting to emulate the aura of Carrie Bradshaw sitting out on her balcony post-breakup. But a severe coughing fit and a stern Facetime lecture from Penelope quashed that habit on the first night.
Spencer walks over to the small box, picking it up and raising his brows at you. "Since when do you smoke?" he asks, voice tinged with disappointment. You consider lying, telling him some guy must've left them over, not that he has a right to care. But you just look down at the floor with a shrug, deciding that you're both hurt enough as is.
"I tried to pull off the edgy sad girl thing, but it didn't work," you laugh uncomfortably, walking over to the couch. You watch as he slowly walks over, eyes never leaving you as he sits slowly, only a few inches between you.
In another life, you'd be in his arms right now, humming happily as the two of you watch stupid Netflix shows. But instead, the room is cold.
"You deserve better than me," he speaks softly, voice devoid of any recognizable emotion. He's fiddling with his hands, avoiding eye contact, looking utterly ashamed. "I realized it that night, as I watched you cry in your sleep and wince in pain every time you moved."
"You didn't know," you cut in, sighing when he shakes his head.
"It doesn't matter, I should have," his voice is laced with self-loathing. You place a hand on his knee, tears spilling when he flinches away from you, only to immediately apologize and grab your hand. "Y/N, I know about PTSD. I just wasn't thinking, for some fucking reason all I cared about was letting my frustrations out."
"That's what I told you to do, Spence!" you argue back. He's making no sense. There has to be more. "We have - sorry, had - the safe word for a reason. Do not for even a second feel guilty because I'm fine."
"In that instance, yes you were fine," his thumb is tracing circles on the back of your hand. "But I can't even risk seeing you hurt - emotionally OR physically again, especially if I'm the one causing it."
"Do you think leaving me didn't hurt?" you inquire softly, pulling your hand back. You see a flash of pain in his eyes as he searches for the words.
"I did what I thought would cause the least pain," he confesses, voice shaky and unsure. "Y/N, when things get bad for me, I go into a dark place. I put up walls and lash out and behave selfishly. You don't deserve that. I was saving you from more heartbreak in the long run."
"We all do fucked up things when we're upset," you try and rationalize. He's holding something back, you can feel it in your gut. "But Spencer, I love you, we could've been there for each other."
"What if I'm no better than your father, Y/N?" he finally asks, the raw emotion evident in his words. You look at him with furrowed brows. Of course he is. By a fucking long shot.
"What are you talking about?" you ask gently. He must be losing his mind to think he's even in the same arena as that monster.
"I, uh, fuck. I wasn't even sure if I should tell you this," he starts, and you feel a shot of adrenaline coursing through your body. Where the hell was this going? "I know it's been mentioned before in conversation, but 13 years ago I was drugged and held captive by a man named Tobias Hankel."
"Yeah, the one with multiple personalities?" you nod, knitting your brows together. "I know about the dilaudid, Spence. Being forcibly injected with a drug doesn't make you a junkie."
"But using it for almost a year afterward does," he avoids your eye contact, nearly choking on the words. You feel the breath leave your body, immediately moving toward him and kneeling in front of him, desperately trying to meet his eyes.
"Spencer," you reach up to his face, grabbing his damp cheeks and making him look at you. This just makes him cry more, desperately trying to hide the emotion flooding out of him. "Stop. Stop thinking like that. You're human. You of all people should know that addiction is a disease, that wasn't your choice. My father wasn't a monster because of his addiction, Spence. He was a monster because of the psychopathic tendencies he had shown since he was a child, and nobody around him noticed. His drug use just stopped him from being able to control those urges."
"When we came back from dropping my mom off at the facility, I thought about using," he admitted shamefully. You let out a shaky breath, rubbing his cheek with your thumb. "I didn't, but I hate that the thought even crossed my mind. But what if I relapse, Y/N? When I was using, I was mean to those I care about, but it was harmless. But after prison -"
"Stop that," you tilt his head back up, shaking your head. "Spencer Reid, we study and hunt and interact with monsters for a living. You are the farthest thing from one, so don't you think even for a second that you're a bad person for doing what you needed to survive."
He's full on sobbing now, collapsing into your shoulder as you rub his hair, whispering soothing shushes. You realize there's nothing you can say to ease the turmoil in his complicated mind, just trying to provide some sort of comfort with your gentle touch.
"I just," he sniffles, sitting back up to look at you. He reaches for your hand, bringing it to his lips for a moment before squeezing it tightly. "Don't trust myself to be the man you deserve, Y/N."
"We're both broken people," you whisper it as if it's some empirical fact, proven by scientists years ago. "And we both have a tendency to shut people out in order to survive. But for the first time, with you, I stopped doing that. I want you to be able to do the same. I want to be there for you, Spencer."
You don't care that it sounds pathetic, literally on your knees practically begging for him to open up to you. It's all coming from love, every ounce of resentment you felt toward him suddenly dissipating at the sight of his tear-filled eyes.
"I'm sorry," is all he responds with, looking up at you. "I fucked it all up, didn't I?"
You shake your head. All you want to do right now is kiss his tears away. And the way his face is gravitating toward you, maybe he feels the same way. But he left you. He needs to be the one to put you back together.
"I don't love you any less than I did 17 days ago, if that's what you're asking," you whisper. He raises an eyebrow, as if he's surprised by the news. You softly bring your lips to his, every ounce of pain the two of you felt over the past two weeks and 3 days suddenly gone. He makes you feel the same way.
"I'm so sorry," he repeats. You nod, affirming his words while giving him one more kiss to ensure he knows that you mean it with every fiber of your being. "I love you so much, Y/N."
"I love you too," you say it like a promise. Because it is. "We both just need to learn to communicate our feelings better. It's not easy, but what we have is worth it, okay?"
"I know," he nods, forehead resting against yours. He pulls you up onto his lap, the two of you just holding each other, periodically placing tender kisses on the lips of the other. Finally, Spencer speaks, tone significantly less heavy than it was when he first entered your apartment. "I know you said I can't stay the night, but-"
"Shut up," you laugh, kissing him again. Just like your feelings for each other, it was deeper than before.