Chapter Text
One of them should say something. Spencer suspected it was supposed to be him. He had the most to explain; he should be reassuring Emily that this was a fleeting moment of him grasping for some sort of self-determination, but he would be fine now, and he got it all out of his system, so she didn’t need to worry. Then she might ask him to promise he’d never do it again, and he never liked making those kinds of promises. It only ever ended in disappointment.
He should at least tell her that he was growing cold as they stood on the bridge, her holding onto him as if he’d blow away with the wind, which did little to shield him from the chill, and he wasn’t quite dressed for the weather. He didn’t think to check the forecast before leaving his flat. He remained silent. As much as he felt the expectation to say something, he felt just as strongly that she desperately needed this moment to confirm this wasn’t a horrible dream, and with how much trouble he’d caused for as of late, the least he could do was wait for her to get her fill.
Eventually, Emily pulled away and cupped his face, searching for something, although he wasn’t sure what she was looking for. All he knew was she hadn’t found it in his gaze. She blew out a few long, deep breaths until they stopped hitching in the middle and wiped away the tears that hadn’t stained Spencer’s jacket. The evidence was still clear, her foundation having parted like the Red Sea not only for her tears but for the mascara that tagged along with it, but it seemed rude to mention that now.
“Your home?” she clarified.
Right, he’d asked to go home. It didn’t feel like much of a home. It was a storage locker or maybe a meat locker, given that he was the stock being held inside. An exceedingly clean meat locker. He briefly regretted the suggestion, knowing how she’d very quickly put two and two together, making his potential excuse of a moment of madness go down the drain. He was clean, but he wasn’t that clean.
Spencer wouldn’t be surprised if he suggested her home, she would just nod and take it in her stride. He knew for a fact there was no way he was going to be alone for the foreseeable future. It would be nice to avoid his apartment for as long as he could, purely so he could prolong having to come to terms with how close he’d come to never returning. Who had he been expecting to turn the key, letting themselves into what he’d once considered his safe space, and begin packing up what he had? Would they be in any way comforted to know he’d deep-cleaned the apartment, and in that time, he didn’t have second thoughts?
“Yes,” he settled on. “I don’t think it’s far.”
“Do…do you know how far you walked?” she asked, and suddenly he wasn’t so sure. He was tempted to lie. It wouldn’t take much to make up some random fact, pretend he’d misread a street sign, or that there’d been extensive work on pavements and roads whilst he was in prison. She stared at him, her eyes still glossy from crying and her lips pinched in a fragile, thin line. He shook his head. “You’re like three hours away on foot.”
“Oh,” he said. There wasn’t much else to comment on. “Why weren’t you home?” he inquired. He didn’t really know what to do in this situation, given it was the first time he had ever failed to kill himself and, in the process of his attempt, been caught red-handed by a long-time friend and coworker. It was far too specific to have some sort of status quo, but by the look on Emily’s face, he guessed there was a common-sense way to act that he didn’t know about.
“I went on a walk.”
“So did I.” Nearly flung myself off a bridge by the end of it. “It’s quiet.”
“Always is around this time.” They stared at eachother until Emily became antsy. “Let’s get you home.”
“I don’t have anything to offer you,” he stated. He’d poured away all the perishables and thrown out whatever was left. You’re supposed to offer refreshments when people visit. Especially when they drag you back from the edge. Figuratively. It would’ve been another level of awkward to have her manhandle him back to the right side of the bridge.
“There’s a gas station on the way. It’s the only place open, but there should be some half-decent coffee.”
“I don’t have my wallet.”
“Spencer just- don’t worry about it, okay? You’ve got enough on your plate.” He let her grab onto the crux of his elbow and guide him further away from the edge of the bridge as they walked back to her car. The rushing water seemed to mock him, growing more rabid for its stolen pound of flesh, mourning another body being fished from its depths. Somewhere, somehow, he felt a sense of relief for depriving it.
Emily made their stop at the gas station quick, as if he was going to make a mad dash to jump from whatever high point was closest if he were left alone for more than a few minutes. He caught her anxiously peaking at the car a few times as she stirred the cups and waited in line to pay. They had each other’s coffee order memorised by now, obviously Spencer found that task a little easier. Something about it made him feel special, knowing they struggled a little more and did so willingly.
He wouldn’t need to know Derek’s anymore, and it would be pushed to the back with Elle’s, Jason’s, Alex’s, Aaron’s- sitting with the rest of the retired information on his coworkers. Shouldn’t call them coworkers. Family was better, but it seemed like he was crossing a boundary doing that. It would explain why they kept leaving. Spencer couldn’t sit high and mighty on that horse, though, when he’d nearly abandoned his mother. In his defence, at least he was sure she wouldn’t remember it. He wished he could see her healthy one more time, just enough for him to get some half-decent guidance on what the hell he was supposed to do now that nothing felt right and it all seemed so hopeless. Maybe she would come back to him, but it would always be short-lived and far between.
It couldn’t have taken Emily more than ten minutes to get back in the car, so he didn’t have to sit by himself for too long. It was for the best, really. He was only making himself worse in his own company, and at least in hers, the awkwardness should outweigh the morbidity. She put the cups in the cupholder, and they drove to his apartment in relative silence save for the radio playing at a low volume. Maybe she kept it low as an invitation for him to speak, but he didn’t take it.
He maintained the silence as they entered the old apartment building and scaled the stairs to his home. It was dead silent, and Spencer cringed upon triggering the motion-detecting light overhead. Everything he did seemed too loud, even the involuntary rustling of his arm brushing past his torso as he walked. Had he been a wild child in his youth, he probably would’ve developed some skill in sneaking around, but alas, he’d spent his time with his nose in a book and would have to live with the embarrassment of hearing himself exist somewhere he shouldn’t be.
His hands shook slightly as he brought the keys to the lock, his eyes darting towards Emily before he pushed the door open. It was like he was offering one last out for it. Her final opportunity to admit she was out of her depths handling his suicidal ideation, or that she simply didn’t have time for it, amongst her own healing from Scratch’s crimes. She met his gaze easily with a sort of determination she held toward particularly tricky cases. Maybe he was a tricky case. Something to pick apart, twist and unfold until things made sense.
She set their paper cups of coffee on his small living room table, taking two coasters from the neatly stacked pile in the middle underneath the cups beforehand, and sat herself down on his freshly deep-cleaned couch. He was a little surprised to see she was making herself comfortable, but he didn’t know what he was expecting. Whatever conversation they were bound to have would be better had in a comfortable position.
If she noticed how clean everything was and how all the signs of the place being lived in had been swept away, she didn’t show it, but then again, he couldn’t see her face. He finished locking his door before joining her, his pristine apartment feeling almost oppressive as he sat by her side. It’s an imitation of his living space, a vague, exaggerated memory of it.
This is definitely when he should say something, and yet again, he couldn’t think of anything. She must know why he’d gone to the bridge, so there was no point in explaining it. He’d already apologised for scaring her, and he couldn’t muster up an apology for wanting to end it all in the first place. Part of him wanted to rush off to bed, feeling tired beyond his years, but that was rude, and she’d gone as far as to drive him home and buy him a coffee. The least he could do was entertain her for a short time. Besides, his pyjamas were in a clothes bin.
“Why didn’t you call me?” she asked quietly, but in the already silent space, it seemed to echo like a scream. Spencer owed her an answer as much as he didn’t want to give one. Up until the words finally left her mouth, he’d been hoping that she’d sweep this under the rug.
“I didn’t know if it would go to voicemail.”
“No, I mean before all this. When you first thought it was even an option to consider. Why didn’t you call me then?” He shrugged. “We’ve been friends for years, Spencer. I know I haven’t been there as much as I should have in the past; I get that, I really do, but I- I don’t know, I thought we got there. I would’ve thought I’d be someone you called if you were struggling after everything we’ve been through this year alone.”
“In all fairness, I didn’t call anyone. You, and anyone else, would’ve tried to stop me if you answered. If you didn’t then,” he trailed off with a shrug.
“Would I be wrong to stop you?” she asked, exasperated. He didn’t answer, and she pinched the bridge of her nose as her head dipped between her shoulders. “I knew you were struggling. I should’ve checked in,” she confessed to the floor.
“I would’ve lied,” he assured her, knowing it wasn’t the least bit reassuring. If anything, it would ruin any chance he had of reassuring her in the future. There’d always be that little voice in the back of her head questioning if he was lying this time, last time, or next time.
He wasn’t sure it would’ve stopped him today. He wondered if one text from someone, one call or an unexpected visit would’ve been enough to stop him in his tracks. Part of him felt like it would only prolong the inevitable. Even he wasn’t sure how long this had been building up until it became as big as it did. At some point, suicide had been out of the question. They needed him at work, his mum still needed him to help with medical appointments, there were books to read and new seasons of shows to watch, and all these had stopped the thought before it could become all-consuming. Now it felt like the next logical step.
“Where’s your mum?” she asked, belatedly noting the lack of her pottering around.
“She’s in a memory care facility, like she should’ve been this entire time. I don’t know what I was thinking, dragging her out here.” Giving her unapproved drugs, which honestly could’ve been anything. He rubbed at his face anxiously, unwillingly reminded of his relapse. It was still all a blur. Having a memory so recent, so foggy made his skin crawl, and he desperately tried to sharpen the lens to no avail. There’d be some things he’d never know despite having a front row seat to it all.
“You were trying to help.”
“And I made it all worse,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I-I tried to look after her again. I really did try because I stayed alive for her, and I just wanted to be with her until the end, but we kept…” he tutted at himself for getting choked up, “We kept triggering each other. She’d scream in the middle of the night, and I’d hide because we’d forget where we were. I missed giving her medication because I was having a panic attack in the bathroom. She’d ask who I was, and I found it too hard to answer more often than not.”
“You did everything you could.”
“Did I? Or did I make everything worse trying to prove something?” he asked through gritted teeth. The strongest emotion he’d felt in a while was despair, but now an uncomfortable newcomer was making their way onto the scene. Frustration. Burning hot, paired up with regret so strong it made his stomach threaten to get rid of the tiny bit of coffee he’d sipped.
“Desperate people do whatever they can to help. In this case, you were just desperate at the wrong time. No one blames you for what happened.”
He did.
He’d been overzealous, desperate to be the hero he’d always been in his mother’s eyes. Desperate not to lose someone else forever. He’d never forgive himself for ever putting himself in the precarious position he had. Maybe it wouldn’t have ended in prison time, but what if someone had been in the right place at the right time when he crossed the border and reported him? He had enough money to support them for a little bit, but he’d probably still waste precious time one way or another, either searching for another job to pay for medical bills or in and out of court fighting his case. It was just so stupid and so unlike him to take risks. He hated himself for it. He always would.
“Did you talk to anyone?” He gave her a look. “They would’ve stopped you,” she sighed. “I just- I never would’ve thought you’d do this.” She watched him expectantly, fuelling his frustrations further.
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,” he snapped sharply.
“That’s not-”
“What did you want me to say? I didn’t talk to anyone because I didn’t want to put that burden on anyone. I’ve done my best to limit the harm I would do, but I wanted to kill myself more than I wanted to save your feelings. I don’t feel like I deserve saving, and I don’t think there’s enough of me left worth saving,” he admitted.
His fingers found their way to his hair as he searched to ground himself, sharply tugging at his greasy curls. He needed a shower, but that would mean catching himself in reflections, because despite his greatest efforts not to look, he’d still catch himself in the edges of his vision, and he knew once he did, he’d struggle to tear his eyes away. New scars, old bruises, ribs pressing against skin like they’re going to claw themselves out. It was all so wrong. Before, he could make the excuse that he couldn’t leave his mum alone for that long. Now, he was just pathetic. One of the smartest people around, and he couldn’t take a shower.
“I’m wrong. Fundamentally, I feel. I can’t help but want to get worse, but also want to feel better. I went with whatever was easier.” And it’s so insanely easy to make himself worse. It’d been so logical to have it all end at his hands. “What’s left? I could rejoin the BAU, but I’m so much slower now. I got so mad when I couldn’t figure it out that I threw a book. I haven’t done that since Maeve passed. I don’t know if I’ll ever get better either. I could lose it all again like I always do.” His face twitched up so he could make brief eye contact with her. “I could quit, and then what? My life has been the BAU for too long, and yeah, I know you can say we’ll still be friends whether I stay or leave, but would we actually see each other? What do I do until then? What’s the point?”
“You’d be alive.”
“For what?”
“For yourself. You deserve to be happy again.”
“But will I be?”
“You always find it again.” She held his shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze so he actually gave her his attention. “But you won’t get there if you keep punishing yourself. I meant what I said on the bridge. I’ve messed up my life so many times, but there’s always an after. I get there eventually. We all do.”
“What do I do until I get there?”
“Stay alive for long enough that you don’t have to ask that,” she answered, as if it were that simple. “Therapy helps.”
“Does it?”
“When you let it, yeah.” He shrugged dismissively, so she gave him another squeeze. “Don’t act like it’s impossible, Spencer. You’ve pulled yourself out of the gutter before, hell, you got sober all on your own, so I know you’re capable of helping yourself get better even when it feels impossible.” He tilted his head, too tired to think of all the arguments he wanted to make. He was too tired for everything right about now. “If you can’t do it for happiness, do it for spite. Don’t let that bitch get the last laugh. Make it a goal to outlive her until you don’t need the goal anymore.”
“I would’ve thought you’d suggest doing it for you.”
“What good would that do? God forbid if something happened to me, where’s your motivation then? If you do slip, if something bad happens, you’d just feel worse about yourself, and it’d be one more reason why you wouldn’t call. I won’t put that pressure on you when you put plenty on yourself already,” she responded. “I want you to still be here tomorrow. Everyone wants their genius back to tell us stats we could never make a stab at guessing, but what good does that do for you? You’d burn yourself out getting back before you’re ready, and I might not be there the next time it gets overwhelming. So use spite for now until you don’t need it.”
“I…I can do that,” he sighed.
“Fuck her,” Emily stated. He nodded once.
“Fuck her.” She smiled, halfhearted and lopsided, but it brought him some sense of assurance.