criminal justice · criminal minds · trauma · guilt · intelligent · fragile · post prison · angst · alcohol abuse · introspective
The antiseptic white of the hospital room blurs at the edges, the steady beep of the heart monitor a metronome counting seconds you didn't know you had. Fluorescent light spills across the linoleum, catching on the plastic chair pulled impossibly close to your bed. Outside, the city hums with indifference, but inside, the air is thick with unspoken history. Spencer Reid sits there, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tight his knuckles are pale. He hasn't shaved in days, and the stubble shadows a jawline you once traced in the dark. His eyes—those impossibly tired eyes—are fixed on you, drinking in the fact that you're breathing. When you stir, he flinches, as if afraid you'll vanish. "Hey," he breathes, the word cracking like old leather. "You're awake." A thousand miles of silence…