Work Text:
Whumptober Day 12:
Red | Insomnia | “I’m up, I’m up.”
Red, like the apples of her cheeks. She had brown hair, pulled into a braid that fell over her shoulder. Her eyes were a little lighter, like coffee with a splash of cream. Her teeth were a little crooked but she smiled so broadly he could barely tell.
“What can I get started for you?” She wipes the back of her hands on her apron. She has a ring on her index finger: a plain metal band, and she fiddles with it as she speaks.
“Oh no, sorry,” he says, still a little timid. Last time, Morgan had been with him. Now, he’s all alone, squinting against the flashing lights. “I'm Spencer — with the FBI. I was wondering if you could answer some questions?” He flashes his credentials.
She leans over the bar. Her breath smells like chewing gum. “‘Course. What do you need to know?”
Spencer gnaws on the inside of his lip as she studies the sketch he slid over the counter.
Recognition flickers over her face. “He was here not too long ago. Real shady, that one. Followed this girl around and cussed her out when he got rejected.”
He nods. “Did you notice anything else strange about him?”
She thinks about this for a moment.
“Oh. He walked funny, kept on patting his hip. Carried a pack of cigarettes in his breast pocket.”
Spencer frowns. “Where’d he smoke, if he did?”
“The alley out back, I’d guess,” she replies.
“You’ve been a huge help,” Spencer says earnestly. He fishes out his business card from his back pocket. “Give me a call if you see him.”
She pockets it with a grin. “Will do.”
“Thanks again,” he continues, turning to leave.
“Anytime, handsome.”
His steps falter a bit.
Morgan swoops out of nowhere, patting him on the back. “You’re getting pretty good at that,” he laughs.
“Shut up.”
Red, the flash of sirens.
“Stay on the line,” Spencer orders as he buckles his seatbelt. He angles the phone away from him as he yells, “Morgan, drive!”
He pinches the cell between his shoulder and face, using his hands to pull his gun out of his belt.
“Is he armed?”
“No, I don’t— I don’t know.”
They profiled that he wouldn’t be. Spencer rests the gun on his leg just in case.
“Spencer?”
“You’re gonna be okay.”
She sucks in a breath. “I’m scared.”
He turns to Morgan. “Morgan—”
“I’m going as fast as I can, kid. We’re almost there.”
“You’re okay,” Spencer assures with confidence he doesn’t have. “It’s going to be okay. Talk to me. What’s your name?”
A pause. All he can hear is the frantic drum of his heart.
“I don’t… I— My name is—”
The dial tone blares loudly.
Spencer swears. The bar comes into view.
He’s out of the car before they’ve even stopped.
Red, like the man’s shirt. It’s glaring, even in the darkness. He’s looking over her, face curled in an ugly sneer.
“Don’t touch me!”
He steps forward. “I swear to god, I’ll fucking kill—”
Spencer levels his gun at him. “FBI! Get away from her and put your hands behind your head!”
For a brief second, the man’s hand darts behind him, reaching for something tucked in his waistband. But Morgan runs at him, and he makes a break for it.
Spencer rushes to the corner and helps her up.
“He was going to—”
He pulls her into a hug. “I know. You’re okay now. You’re okay.”
He keeps the bartender tucked close to him, running a hand up and down her back.
It clicks suddenly.
“He walked funny, kept on patting his hip.”
The uneven gait. Reaching behind him.
Recognizing when someone’s armed is one of the first things they taught him at the academy.
“Clear his gun!” Spencer yells to Morgan, who’s wrestled the man to the ground, but hasn’t taken the firearm from his waistband.
She sobs, and Spencer cups the back of her head. Her braid’s come undone.
“What gun?”
Bang!
He swears his heart stops.
The bartender stiffens.
Did the bullet hit her but miss him? What happened? What happened?
The chances are low, almost zero. But probability doesn’t stop her from crumbling to the ground, hands still in a vice grip around his forearms. Spencer falls with her.
Blood — there’s so much blood; and he’s used to it, he’s an FBI agent for fuck’s sake. But there’s so much, and not even half an hour ago she was winking at him. Now her eyes won’t even open.
Her death isn’t prolonged, isn’t cruel, and for some reason that makes it so much worse. She slips away so fast.
Morgan shoves the unsub into a cop car. Emily shouts for a medic.
Time slows to a crawl. Her collarbone is smeared with red where Spencer fumbled for a pulse and found nothing.
He’s not sure how long it is when someone pries her out of his arms, he doesn’t know who helps him up (though he eventually recognizes the voice as Hotch’s).
The paramedics load her into the ambulance and drive off, though there’s no real urgency because the bartender is already dead.
That’s when Spencer realizes that he doesn’t even know her name. To him, she’s just a bartender. A witness. A victim.
A victim. Because of him.
And he doesn’t even know her name.
Spencer’s knees give out then. Hotch stumbles to keep him upright, but he just slumps, awkwardly propped against his boss.
This morning, he had put on a new gray sweater vest. He’d thrifted it for eight dollars. It was soft, and he really liked the pattern.
Now, it’s red. All red.
(Red is Emily’s favorite color, he thinks.)
His head pounds. Hotch helps him stagger to an ambulance. They give him a damp rag and a shock blanket when he doesn’t answer their questions.
Spencer wipes his hands mindlessly. (The rag is red now too.) Hotch drives him home.
And that’s that.
Red. The corner of his eyes, bloodshot and droopy.
He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. He still spouts out facts, but his shoulders are hunched.
When he can get away with it, he stays at the office all night. Sometimes, no one notices.
Tonight is not one of those nights.
“Spencer?”
He’s dozed off, face propped on the back of his hand. He’s splayed over a desk full of files.
“What are you still doing here?”
(Morgan, clear his gun!)
“Spencer!”
His eyes fly open. His palm gives a little and his face nearly hits the desk.
“Sorry, I’m up, I’m up.”
The bullpen is dim. Light radiates from the singular lamp (his); the muffled noise of the custodian vacuuming downstairs is the only sound.
Hotch stands at the side of his desk, briefcase in hand, tie crooked. His mouth is downturned.
“I’m sorry, sir.” Spencer can feel Hotch’s stare as he pushes the files into something resembling a pile.
It’s silent for a beat, but not for very long. A chair drags across carpet. The soft sigh that people seem to do when they settle into chairs.
He feels bare like this, sitting before his boss with red under his eyes and shirt buttoned all wrong. He’s hungry, hollowed out.
“You’re not in trouble, Spencer.”
“I never said I thought I was.” He’s quick to defend, to throw up his guard; even when he’s not quite sure the other person is on the offense. It’s a terrible habit, a lingering remnant of the little boy with buck teeth and coke-bottle glasses and an armful of books and an earful of people who didn’t like him a whole lot.
“You only call me sir when you think you’re in trouble.”
Damn profilers.
“Why did you think I was upset?”
Spencer can’t reply. He’s had a fair share of these late night talks. He always ends up crying like a fucking baby. He’s pathetic. He’s pathetic.
He swallows his grief.
“I was just trying to be polite, Hotch,” he lies, standing abruptly and clutching his messenger bag. “I ought to be going. It’s late.”
Hotch doesn’t get up from his chair. He makes a beeline for the door anyways. His boss’ voice stops him right by the door.
“Derek blames himself, you know.”
Spencer steadies himself on the door frame.
“What?”
“He blames himself. For not realizing the unsub was armed.”
He scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. There’s no way he could’ve known. He was focused on taking down the unsub and we didn’t profile him to be armed. That’s not his fault.”
Hotch meets his eyes, a silent challenge.
Spencer hates when he does that. When he tricks Spencer into explaining something but when he hears it out loud he realizes that it’s for himself to hear and not for Hotch at all and then he sees how stupid he’s being.
It’s not enough to snuff out the guilt, though. The nagging doubt. Spencer drops his gaze.
“I was right there, though. She was right there.”
His voice doesn’t break, but it gets awful close. He can hear the tears in his voice and it makes him angry, so angry — angry that he’s here crying about her when he didn’t even know her name until her face went up on a victim board. Angry that it’s getting to him like this, angry that everyone who crosses paths with him gets hurt in some way.
He grits his teeth. The childish urge to stop his foot appears for some reason, but he settles for hanging his head, eyes shining in the lamplight.
He hears Hotch stand. The strap of his messenger bag creases under his trembling hand.
“I’m not gonna cry,” he seethes, more for him than for Hotch.
Shiny black shoes come to a stop in front of him. His stare is fixed on the ground.
Hotch hasn’t said anything yet, but Spencer knows it’s going to be undeservingly gentle, and this makes him even more angry.
(“He was going to—”
He pulls her into a hug. “I know. You’re okay now. You’re okay.”)
Spencer flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, but the guilt is monstrous in his chest, with talons that tear through tendons and a poisonous kind of breath.
Hotch places a hand on his back.
A tear slips over his waterline. Like a wave, the guilt has already crested; it starts to recede.
Silence, a shaky breath. The hand stays, quiet and firm. When Hotch finally speaks, it’s soft:
“Let’s get you home.”
Hotch drives him home for the second time this week, but this time, Spencer’s hands are steady and the red is gone.