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The thing about having too many good days in a row is you get complacent. Ten years since he joined the BAU, six years since Derek asked him out, cup of jello in hand, voice dripping with relief when Spencer had woken up safe after his stint with anthrax, four years since they bought their house in the suburbs, three since Derek finished restoring it, one year since he'd breathlessly popped the question while Derek rapped along off key and without rhythm to Illmatic and Spencer couldn't contain himself.
One month since they got married in Rossi's backyard with their families in attendance. Spencer had thought he was happy and in love, before. Then he saw Derek at the altar and how could anything before compare to this? Surely this was the happiest someone could feel.
His mind had stopped feeling like a mausoleum of forgotten hopes and impossible fantasies a long time ago. He's no stranger to bad days, but the years have gotten kinder, and Spencer has learned to meet a bad dream like an old friend he's outgrown. Familiar, yes, but temporary in his life and the way its taken shape. Difficult cases still led to nightmares, and he's not sure that will ever change. But with nightmares comes the steady comfort Derek offers. His easy acceptance, the careful way he holds Spencer, the lack of hesitation after all these years when Spencer holds him, they'd built this life brick by brick, memory by memory. Every kiss, every kind word, every fight, every laugh etched into a tapestry he surrounds himself with.
He should've known better than to let himself feel content. He does know better. Its hubris to think this could've ended any other way with the lives they lead.
One month ago he remembers stumbling through their first dance, too distracted by the look in Derek's eyes and the smile that never fell of his face. One week ago he remembers lamenting coming back to work even as they pulled into the parking lot at Quantico. One hour ago he'd made a grocery list. Now, he clenches his fingers into a fist to stop the shaking and tries to look at Hotch but the ring on his finger feels like it weighs a ton, and Spencer can't hear anything except the dull roar of the blood rushing in his ears because it couldn't– no, not like this, not now.
"Spencer."
The sound of his name and the squeeze of Hotch's palm on his shoulder brings Hotch's office back into office and he swallows roughly.
"I'm sorry, Reid, Morgan didn't make it," Hotch repeats.
He blinks furiously but the tears escape anyway even as he tries to get something, anything, out.
"You said he didn't need backup," he whispers, hating how his voice sounds – plaintive, and weak.
Hotch flinches at his words but Spencer can't bring himself to take them back.
"It was an assessment Morgan and I made together," he says, chagrined. "I'm sorry, Spencer–"
"Can I see him?"
He must make a sight to make Hotch look like this – all concerned, and eyes brimming with contrition, a far cry from his usual stoic demeanor. Hotch shakes his head, and Spencer takes a deep breath to steel the violent lurching in his stomach. It had to have been bad if Hotch wouldn't even let him see.
Spencer thinks of his husband in his final moments and the thought settles like an anvil on his chest. Had Derek known? Had he felt alone? Spencer remembers seeing the light in the shed in Georgia. He hopes Derek had seen it too. He thinks of their plane tickets to Chicago for Thanksgiving and oh god. He needs to call Fran, and Sarah, and Desi – it's hard to breathe, to think–
"Reid–"
Its dark after that.
***
When he comes to, its in bits and pieces. He's on the couch in Derek's office, its lumps familiar the way his spine curves around them. Spencer has the stray thought where he wonders where Derek is before reality comes crashing down. Derek isn't here. Derek isn't anywhere, Derek– he can't even bring himself to think it. The office feels like sandpaper on his wounds. The desk where he'd sometimes plop himself down, preventing Derek from being productive (you're distracting me, pretty boy), this couch where he often rested his eyes after a migraine, the door where Derek had pushed him against it only to devour his mouth after a particularly close call. Everywhere he looks, there Derek is. Every corner of this building screaming his name, forcing him to recall things he has no interest in remembering.
Spencer attempts sitting and it takes every bit of effort. Its like his body can't figure out what it wants to do; shut down or go into overdrive, and it seems to have chosen some sort of unpleasant middle ground where he can hear his heartbeat thunder in his ears even as the rest of him feels numb and barely there. A hollowness makes its way through him that he has no idea what to do with. His body having somehow caught up with Derek's absence faster than his mind.
Home. He needs to go home, he needs to call Fran, he–
"Spence."
JJ. Spencer tears his gaze away from his trembling hands and aims it at the sound of JJ's shaky voice. He finds himself unprepared for the way her face crumples when she sees him, her eyes red rimmed and her cheeks tear stained. She knows.
He wipes his face on his sleeve hastily when he feels the wetness spill over of its own accord. JJ sits next to him, and takes his hands into her warm palms. Spencer feels the shudder make its way down his body as he takes a tremulous breath in that never seems to go as deep as he needs.
"Come here," she says, pulling him in, and Spencer follows because he's not really tethered to anything anymore, is he? Derek had been his anchor. His lighthouse in a storm, his best friend, his person. He's no stranger to feeling smothered but this is strange – to feel someone's absence so strongly it sits unmoving in his throat, threatening to choke him. Spencer thinks about life and how it's been one long lesson in learning how to not fall apart when people leave. Then Derek had stayed. Stayed long enough that Spencer has apparently forgotten how to function without him. Hubris.
He lets JJ run a comforting hand down his back and takes in a whiff of her vanilla perfume. It does nothing to put a stop to the ache in him. Spencer takes stock of the way his body seems to sag under the weight of his new reality, and the painful thudding of his heart sending waves of hurt radiating through his body and knows he must make friends with them because they were here to stay. Inhale, exhale, hurt, everywhere. Pain so visceral behind his sternum he half thinks its physical but part of him knows its not. Psychosomatic. Grief. The numbers stay out of his reach even as JJ murmurs something he wishes he could pay attention to in his ear.
Derek's gone. He's not sure anything else matters.
When he makes it out of Derek's office and to his desk there's an evidence bag waiting for him. Derek's belongings. No clothes, but his wallet had somehow survived, and so had his ring. Spencer parses through his things mechanically, not really registering much but trying to gather stock of what was left of his husband. The extra ring in his palm feels egregiously wrong, he was never supposed to have both of them.
Spencer spends long minutes staring at the ring and the wallet until he loops the ring around the chain he'd begun to wear a couple years ago, a small, barely-there piece of jewelry that had become part of his routine ever since Derek had gifted to him. He doesn't open the wallet, he knows what he'll find and he's not quite sure he has it in him to look at the worn out strip of photo booth pictures from a fall carnival three years ago.
He pretends he doesn't feel the eyes on him. The occasional sniffle breaks through the haze of his thoughts as the news makes its way around the office but no one approaches him and for that, he's grateful. Maybe he looks like how he feels – like a small gust could make him keel over. He thinks of Penelope, maybe the only other person who might really understand how the absence of Derek Morgan feels like something immutable had been changed into something unbearably awful and wonders if she already knows.
Then he hears the click of her heels behind him and knows she does. When Spencer turns around, it's to meet Penelope's bloodshot eyes and runny mascara. The lump in his throat is too painful to swallow when Spencer attempts words. What is there to say anyway? The worst has happened. Somehow the rest of them are still here, expected to live in some kind of purgatory, a world where he doesn't get to hear Derek's voice again.
Penelope pulls him into a crushing hug, and he lets her, giving up on preventing the tears leaking through. She pulls back and hands him papers. Spencer sees the words O'Hare and flight numbers and squeezes her hand.
"Go home, they need to hear it from you. Flight leaves in four hours," she murmurs, and he nods, eternally grateful.
"Thank you," he whispers and she shakes her head. Spencer allows it because he knows she wishes she didn't have to do this.
***
The flight is uneventful and Spencer lets time pass him in a fugue state, both too numb and not numb enough at the same time. He's exhausted, but every time he thinks of what's actually happening he wants to curl up in a ball and never see anyone again so here he is, trying to grip this cup of water like a lifeline. Just a little while longer. Derek's family deserves that much.
With the flight comes the realization that he's gotten used to Thanksgivings and Christmases with the Morgans. Sure, sometimes work got in the way but they tried to make it to Chicago for most holidays. Derek loves his family, loved, god that one was going to be hard to get used to, and they loved him. They were close-knit in a way Spencer had been envious of when he'd first witnessed it, but then then he'd been welcomed in so seamlessly that it still felt a little bit like a dream sometimes. All the traditions he'd read about in books and watched on TV when his mother had inevitably tired herself out were a living reality in the Morgan home. Spencer hadn't thought anyone actually did all that until he'd seen it and been part of it.
There would be no thanksgiving this year. Thanksgiving was in three weeks, Spencer wasn't meant to fly to Chicago like this, they were supposed to go together. The wrongness of it all is so palpable he can taste it right up until he's standing at Fran's front door, trying not to have some kind of breakdown in front of a nosy neighbor who is most definitely eyeing him from the house next to Fran's.
Spencer sinks into his coat as the November air hits his face and wills himself to hold it together as he rings the doorbell. One unbearably long minute later Fran comes to the door, her hair wild, her apron stained with something red. He tries his best to commemorate how she looks to memory before he has to break the news he never thought he would.
"Spencer, honey, hi! Come on in, you must be freezing, it's cold out today."
She ushers him in, and he follows, jaw clenched and nails digging into his palm from where his hands are buried in his coat pocket. She seems to catch up to the situation and the odd timing on his part as they walk through the foyer. Spencer doesn't bother taking his shoes off, maybe she'll never want to see him again anyway. He takes the house in and wills himself to remember it like this – comfortable, lived in, and always smelling like something delicious. This is how it should always be. Spencer knows what he's about to say will change its facade irrevocably.
"What's– where's Derek?" The wide eyed look she throws him lands squarely like a kick to his sternum.
"He's, Derek–" he swallows roughly, forcing himself to get through this. Spencer purses his lips in an attempt to gain some composure. Fran seems to catch on anyway. Perhaps she's more familiar with this than he is, she's been through it before. He's just so fucking sorry she has to go through this again.
"Oh," she breathes, palms flying up to cover her mouth even as her eyes fill up. "Oh god, he's–"
"I'm sorry," he murmurs uselessly, sniffling as his eyes get blurry. Spencer blinks and lets the tears fall. "I'm so sorry," he echoes. As if that means anything. As if anything has meaning anymore.
The fumes he's been running on seem to evaporate, and Spencer wants to collapse like a marionette with its strings cut. He looks, but there's nothing to hold him up.
Fran leans in, and for a brief second Spencer wonders if he's going to get pushed. It reminds him of his own mother, so angry at times that she'd forget Spencer wasn't one of them, that he was just a kid. He braces himself; it's okay, he can take it. Besides, she's just lost her son to a job that had already taken her husband. Spencer can hardly blame her if she can't stand to look at another agent right now, there's really only so many times a person could take this.
He jolts when she pulls him into a hug instead, letting him wrap his arms around her as she shakes in his hold. Oh. For a moment he thinks the litany of apologies is spilling from his own mouth, until the thrumming of his pulse calms down and he realizes she's murmuring it to him.
Fran pulls back and brushes the hair covering his eyes out of the way in a gesture so maternal it puts an ache in him.
"Let's get you inside."
Inside? He shakes his head. "No I should– go, they want– the funeral," he says helplessly. God, the funeral.
She looks concerned so he tries desperately to school his face into looking something resembling normal. Spencer isn't sure he gets there at all, if the way Fran's eyebrows are furrowed is to go by. It reminds him so much of Derek he feels another bout of tears sting his eyes.
"Spencer," she whispers, bringing him back. "Let's go inside," she repeats before leading him in.
He follows her in a haze, the day catching up to him in one fell swoop. Fran leads him to the couch and sits him down before sitting next to him and pulling him close. Spencer takes a shuddering breath in, and then another.
"Ho-how did he–?"
The flinch that marks his face wouldn't stay inside him if he tried. He hasn't had a chance to read the case report yet but the details are fresh in his mind from what Hotch had said.
"We've been tracking down a network of mercenaries for hire. Derek went to approach a family member of a suspect, and that's when they–that's when he was attacked."
Fran looks heartbroken, but nods, taking it in. "And he was– he was alone?"
Spencer clenches his eyes shut. For as long as he'll live he will not forgive himself for pushing Hotch and Morgan harder about this. "They uh, they made a calculated decision," he whispers, hardly believing the words coming from his mouth. "I'm sorry."
He's not sure how many times he can say it. And how many times will be enough. Perhaps no amount of apologies will make up for this. Spencer doesn't think he'd blame Fran if she never wants to see his face again.
"Its not your fault," she murmurs, covering his palms with her own warm ones. Spencer looks away, he doesn't think he can look her in the eyes while she lies to make him feel better.
Fran squeezes his palms. "It's not, you hear me?"
Spencer nods. Their tears are still flowing and it makes for a strange sight, sitting, and attempting conversation while neither of them can stop crying.
"Sarah, and Desir–," he begins, only to be cut off.
"I'll tell them."
"No, I can do it," he says. "I can let them know, please, you don't have to–"
She shakes her head. The apron comes off, and Fran follows it up by tying her hair up in a no-nonsense bun that reminds Spencer of someone preparing for a battle.
"You leave that to me. We're going to get some food, and then we'll fly out tomorrow," she declares, her voice decisive.
There's a mix of relief and confusion swirling in him. Relief, because finally, someone knew what had to be done, he's been trying but he can't string two thoughts together, can't look at anything without seeing Derek's face in it. Confusion, because she seems to be handling this remarkably well, so well that its a little disconcerting. Spencer is starting to see where Derek might have learned how to tamp his own feelings down.
"Fly out?" His voice sounds small and bewildered.
"To help with things," she says delicately, squeezing his hand. "That's what family does, honey."
Maybe its the look of surprise on his face that puts the heartbroken look in her eyes. Spencer looks away, embarrassed.
"You're family, Spencer," she whispers, pained. "Tell me you haven't been doubting this all these years."
He's not sure how to explain it to her. He hasn't, really; been doubting, that is. It had made sense, he was Derek's boyfriend, of course he'd be a part of the family. It has just never occurred to him that he'd be considered family without Derek too.
"No, I just," he breaks off, surprised by the sob threatening to choke his voice. "I don't know how to do this without him," he admits, and isn't that the crux of it. Everything feels like wading through quicksand. He just wants Derek back.
Fran hands him a glass of water before pouring herself one, and Spencer gulps it down, grateful to do something other than watch his fingers tremble uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry that you're having to find out," she says, her eyes wet. "I never wanted any of you to know what this feels like."
"How did you do it?" Its more rhetorical than anything, he feels so adrift from what his life has been up until the news and he's not sure he's ever going to make it back.
The small uptick at the corner of Fran's mouth lacks any real mirth when she answers. "For one, I had three young kids, and not a lot of help. I didn't think I had any choice other than to be okay and push through it," she confesses, and then, looking at him with a tenderness Spencer doesn't know what to do with, "I don't want that for you. There is no nobility in doing it yourself or doing it the hard way. You have family here, with us, and back home. Rely on us, let us be there for you."
Its a foreign concept, this. The fact that he has people who would do this for him, who would willingly deal with the uncomfortable stuff just so he could have it a little easier – what a strange and novel feeling. Spencer nods, hoping his gratitude comes across.
"Okay," he whispers, not knowing what else to say.
The minutes pass in silence as they sit on the couch, still reeling. He thinks of everything and nothing at the same time. Past cases, the sound of Derek's laughter, the day his father left, the day he found Gideon's letter, the way Derek wrapped an arm around him, their first Christmas in Chicago, the prank that had resulted in him changing his phone number and Derek earning it back in increasingly creative ways, the flier for adoption he'd seen in Derek's office drawer, the one he'd thought he'd bring up later – there is no later. Fran leaves him alone for a few minutes for what he assumes are phone calls to family based on the crack in her voice. Spencer wishes for the millionth time that they'd never gotten out of bed today.
***
Spencer flies back with Fran, Sarah, and Desiree. It makes for a morose journey, no one has anything to say, everyone still feeling a little shocked, still reeling. The news had spread like wildfire in Derek's family and there had been many a phone call. Fran had made the decision to keep the funeral small, preferring to throw a celebration of life in a few weeks when more of the family could make it. They'd all gone out of their way to ask Spencer's opinion, but the truth is, while they had prepared things on the legal side, neither of them had ever made an effort to talk about this. Maybe it would've made everything too real, maybe he should've made more of an effort to learn Derek's preferences for something like this, or perhaps they had just doggedly hoped this was something that happened to other people. Not them. Foolish, in hindsight. The numbers alone…he abandons that train of thought. The last thing he wants to do to Derek is make him a statistic.
The flight lands on a sunny fall afternoon, a perfect day by Derek's standards. Spencer can't stomach it. He drops the rest of them at their house and decides he might as well swing by the office and grab the box of things Penelope had texted to let him know were packed and ready for him to take home. A career spanning more than a decade, and all it filled was one big box. Spencer feels like he needs to tear something apart with his bare hands, a feeling foreign to his body. But maybe for the first time while inhabiting a world where Derek's absence is pointedly a part of the fiber of his reality, he feels closer to his husband than he has in the past day. Derek would've understood this urge to break something. Come on, pretty boy. Let's get you in front of a bag, see what that IQ can do. The cab pulls up to the dreary Quantico parking lot, and Spencer shakes his head. Derek isn't here. Not in any way that matters.
The bullpen is blissfully empty, maybe the team is already on a case, or maybe they'd just gone home, feeling the need to be close to family. Something acidic makes its way up his throat, an uncomfortable feeling of bitterness and jealousy. He pushes it aside and heads to Derek's office. What he isn't expecting, is Hotch and Prentiss, staring at the box on the desk.
Spencer clears his throat and enters the room, ignoring at the startled look on their faces. He's sure he looks as aloof as he ever has, and maybe for Prentiss' sake he wishes he could be something other than angry but the sight of Hotch just reminds him of the absence of Derek, and can hardly contain his fury. To their credit, neither of them do much more than nod in acknowledgement of his presence.
He takes one last rummage through the drawers before grabbing the box. Emily approaches him first.
"Come on, I'll drive you home," she says, her voice pitched soft, much like when they talk to a victim. Spencer tries not to read into it.
The sudden wave of fatigue tearing through his body makes the decision for him, and he relents. "Okay," he whispers. "Thanks, Emily."
"Reid–," Hotch begins.
The white hot anger that blazes through him takes him by surprise. Spencer cuts him off.
"I don't want you there," he says. "At the funeral."
"Reid," Emily breathes, shocked at the vitriol in his voice.
Hotch shakes his head. "It's okay, Prentiss. Reid, if we can talk…"
"There's nothing you can say to me that will make this better," he declares, ignoring Emily's wide-eyed look at the tension between them.
That seems to land with some force on Hotch, and he nods, stepping away. "You're right," he says ultimately. "I'll let you get home."
Spencer wishes Hotch didn't sound so composed no matter what he said. In his current state it felt nothing but infuriatingly grating.
***
The funeral is beautiful. He wishes there was another word for it. One that captured how loved Derek is, while leaving room for the devastation of everyone he left behind. Spencer receives the flag and wills himself to hold it together. He doesn't want the flag, he'd rather have his husband back. There aren't any dry eyes in the room, and Derek's family clings to him in a way that feels both comforting and smothering all at once. He can't decide what he wants. Part of him wants to run away and be on his own, alone with his thoughts, alone with the memories of his husband. Part of him wants to cling back just as desperately, as if the closer they stand, the less Derek's absence looms over them.
Penelope speaks, and so does Emily. Derek's old unit chief from the bomb squad sings his praises. Emily talks about Derek's partnership on the field, and his quiet strength. His fortitude in being there for his friends, his acumen in the field, and how many new batches of agents owe their success to him. Penelope brings up Derek's dancing, and his penchant for a good drag brunch. It elicits more than a few teary laughs.
Spencer knows he could never have done it. There is so much he wants to say, so much of Derek Morgan that no one else ever got to see. He wants to tell them about how Derek loved playing pickup basketball, loved teaching the kids in their neighborhood. How he smiled with crows feet at the Hangover movies. How he kissed the jut of Spencer's shoulder when they spent a whole day reading on their couch. How he touched parts of Spencer no one had come close to with a reverence that took his breath away. The way he let Spencer hold him after a nightmare. No one would ever know this, because he knows he'll never be able to get these words out. Besides, this is private. The way they loved, wasn't secret, but it had always been private. Perhaps Spencer's grief is following the same path; its awfully lonely. But he doesn't want to share this version of Derek, and the loneliness tastes familiar enough that he's willing to subject himself to a lifetime of it.
***
He realizes what no one tells anyone, is that the hard part comes after the funeral. When all is said and done, when people have hugged, and family has left, when the fridge is full of leftovers, and the house starts feeling too quiet – that's when it really settles in.
Fran had left last night, after spending close to ten days. The days passed them by in a flurry of food, and often stories from Fran. Stories of Derek as a child, tales from his sisters about the times they had sworn not to tell anyone. Derek wasn't around to hold them to it, and the words spilled unabated in his absence. There had been a revolving door of others coming over, no one ever really leaving him alone. If it wasn't JJ and the boys, it was Penelope with a movie neither of them really watched. Or it was Emily with an obscure first edition Russian book. Even Rossi stopped by with his new manuscript and a container of lasagna. To his credit, Hotch stayed away.
Spencer isn't sure what to do the first morning he wakes up to an empty house. Its too quiet. He sees Derek's towel hung up in their bathroom and nearly has a panic attack. Derek's sneakers greet him by the front door, and he feels like the grief is a living, breathing thing inside him, coiling around his throat, forcing him to pay attention to it. By the time he makes it to the afternoon, Spencer is exhausted. The sight of the fridge this full is more than a little disconcerting, years of living together have accustomed him to a fridge that isn't as sparse as when he lived by himself, but this is still new. He picks at a bowl of soup and tries to get rid of the fog in his mind, entirely unsuccessful.
***
By the time week two rolls around, he's acclimatized to this fugue state that is starting to look like the rest of his life. Spencer reads, but the words stop making sense. He attempts writing a letter to his mother, but her doctor had recommended holding off on breaking the news, and without it he finds he has nothing to say at all. He answers most phone calls dutifully. Fran calls him often, checking in, and so do Derek's sisters. Spencer talks to everyone because its what Derek would've wanted. He tries to get at least one good meal in a day, because he can hear Derek's voice, telling him he needs it to fuel his body. He thinks about shooting up, erasing this numbness that seems to have spread through him like a paralytic. Spencer stays sober because he can see the furrow in Derek's brows every time he closes his eyelids for a night of sleep that never quite materializes.
***
Twenty three days of waking up alone, Spencer catches his reflection in the mirror and barely recognizes the body staring back at him. His dark circles had never really left, but they're more pronounced now. There's a steadily growing beard on his face, and his hair is a mess. He thinks of the millisecond of euphoria that hits his bloodstream when the pinch of a needle pricking his skin fades away, and the thought doesn't bring any guilt, nor does it make him picture Derek's face. Instead, he feels a steadily growing hunger feverishly making its way through him, a feeling so powerful it knocks him off balance.
Spencer sits on Derek's side of the bed. It doesn't smell like him anymore, pathetic as that sounds. His eyes land on his sobriety chip on Derek's nightstand. One of Derek's challenge coins was on Spencer's nightstand, one he received after a particularly close call. They swapped coins as a reminder to come home to each other. He was never supposed to have both of them.
The strength with which the urge to dull his pain takes over his every thought is more than a little terrifying. Spencer steps into the bathroom and shaves his beard instead, his skin irritated after a bout of no shaving. The blade glistens in the bathroom light and he knows it would be easy. So easy. One, maybe two deep cuts, and this would all be over. His phone rings, and Spencer damn near throws the razor away, fingers shaking uncontrollably before heads to his nightstand and picks up the call.
"Hi, my love," Penelope says, her voice soft.
Spencer breathes. "Hi," he says shakily.
Penelope is quiet for a long moment. "Just had the urge to check in," she admits. "Is there anything I can do?"
He runs a hand through his hair before gripping Derek's challenge coin hard enough to put welts in his palm. Spencer swallows roughly, blinking his tears away. "Drive me to a meeting," he confesses, exhaling roughly when it makes Penelope sniffle.
"I'll be right over," she says, her voice small, but firm.
Penelope doesn't ask any questions. Not when she picks him up, not when she drives him over, and not when he asks her to come with him.
"I haven't, I'm not– I'm sober," he says finally.
She leaves a lingering kiss on his forehead and it makes his eyes prick. "I love you," she murmurs. "Whether you're sober or not."
Spencer tries to say it back, but the words don't seem to leave from where they're lodged in a crevice in his throat. She looks like she hears him anyway, and they make their way inside.
When it's his turn, he stands up, both palms curled around the cup of shitty coffee that was customary at these meetings. "My name is Spencer, and I'm an addict." A chorus of Hi Spencer follows his introduction.
Addict. Widower. Agent. Son. The labels sit uncomfortably on his skin, but he feels unmoored anyway, so Spencer lets them be as he continues to live out what is slowly starting to feel like a sentence more than a life.
***
In December, it snows for the first time, and Spencer watches the snow cover everything around him while he sits in Derek's sweater, one that still smells like him after all this time. It feels a little like a personal attack. Like the world around him, one that was made infinitely better by Derek being in it, is now something new, transformed by the veil of white shrouding it while he's stuck here. Right where he has been. Yesterday had been one month. The fact that its been long enough that he must now measure time in months, and eventually years, is agonizing. He doesn't feel any different, any better.
Spencer has been on sabbatical since the funeral, but he's not sure he can ever go back. There's just nothing left in him to give anymore. That job has already taken everything that had ever given him meaning. He's grateful for his family, but the thought of being back in the field is more than he can bear. Perhaps he can teach; if he can ever make himself do anything other than mourn, that is.
The key through the front door takes him by surprise. Either JJ or Penelope, considering they both had one, but he wonders what brings them here. Maybe he's spent too long not answering texts and they're concerned. He vows to check his phone the next time he gets up.
"Spence? Baby?"
Pure terror turns the blood in veins to ice. No, no, no. He's been handling it. He'd gone to three meetings last week, and signed up for a grief group this week so he can keep hanging on if only to take care of his mother and make sure Fran, Sarah, and Desiree never wanted for anything. Spencer runs through his laundry list of things that ground him into the present moment. The president, the C-SPAN briefing he'd seen two days ago, Derek's picture in the FBI building, which is how he knows this isn't real, the grief is just fracturing his mind.
Its not until two hands touch his shoulders he realizes the low murmur of its not real, I'm okay, its not real, I'm okay is coming from his mouth. Spencer really should've empathized with his mother more because this felt real in a way that he could see driving him insane with ease. The warmth of Derek's palm sears his skin for the first time in a month, and Spencer can't help the sound that leaves him. Its so tempting to believe. To allow himself to think this is real, that Derek is here, that the smell of pine cones mixed with aftershave is actually wafting up his nose, and his eyes are really looking into his husband's.
Derek looks concerned, his brows furrowed, and eyes brimming. "Hotch?"
That startles Spencer. Hotch? To his surprise, Hotch walks in with Anderson in tow, duffel bag in hand. It's not a bag he's ever seen before, its not Derek's usual, and he certainly hasn't given Hotch or Anderson any real thought this past month. He can feel his heartbeat slow down, the uncomfortable tightness in his chest giving way to something more bearable.
"Reid," Hotch says, coming to a stop in front of him. "Spencer you're okay."
He couldn't be. Because that would mean Derek had been alive all this time. His voice sounds small and hoarse when he's able to form words again.
"I buried you," he says, and watches the words land like a blow on Derek's face.
"Strauss and I made this decision together," Hotch says, keeping his distance now that Spencer seems to have a handle on things. "We caught them today, it's over, Reid. I'm so sorry."
"Caught them?" Parsing Hotch's words is like swimming through molasses, Spencer is struggling to make sense of what he's hearing.
"The mercenaries, Spence," Derek says quietly. Right. The case. The one the team had probably been working on this entire time. Was that what he should have been doing? If their roles were reversed, Spencer could see Derek doing nothing but trying to catch the unsubs, maybe he should've done the same, and then this might have been over faster.
His thoughts come faster. The air in his lungs, not so much. Out of the corner of his eye he watches Derek relieve Hotch and Anderson, and hears the door click, leaving just the two of them in their house. Spencer tries to adjust to his new reality. One where Derek isn't six feet underground, but in front of him, whole, real, solid, and concerned. As if he's not the one who just came back from being dead. The thought of it makes part of Spencer want to scream. The other part of him though, the one that's quickly gaining dominance, wants to cling to Derek and never let go.
Which is why he can't understand why he's frozen, why his mind seems to have come to a screeching halt in tandem with his body. This is everything he's wanted this entire time. Derek, here. Yet now that its somehow happening, now that he's somehow been deemed lucky enough to undo a loss that he'd accepted as permanent, he can't move.
"Pretty boy," Derek murmurs, voice pained while his palms flit across Spencer's body like he's checking for injury.
Maybe its the nickname that does him in. He's lost count of how many times he's heard it, although he's sure he could come up with a number if he tries hard enough. Still, Spencer remembers the first time he was called it, and remembers wondering if he was being made fun of. It would appear not, because Derek had kept it up. He's heard the words in all kinds of ways over the years; exasperated, proud, fond, turned on, in love, always so in love. Now is no different.
"Derek," he whispers, his lips sandpaper dry, his palms clutching Derek's in what is surely a painful grip for the other man.
Derek nods, quietly tucking away a stray curl behind Spencer's ears. "Yeah, it's me, baby. I'm sorry," he whispers, clearly trying not to spook Spencer.
"You– you're here? You're back."
Spencer sits back down on the couch when Derek does, suddenly grateful for the furniture to hold his body up.
"That's right. I'm not going anywhere ever again, Spence."
Even in his current state his mind seems to reject that little bit of information. "You really can't promise me that in our line of work," he says wryly, still reeling.
That makes Derek look at him, his face heartbroken, and stained with tear tracks. Spencer feels like his heart is in a vise at the sight.
"I can, actually. I gave Hotch my resignation before I came home," he murmurs.
Spencer startles, his heart picking up the pace. "You what?"
His tone must convey disbelief, because Derek looks chagrined. "I know this is something we should've discussed, together. But I can't go back, not after the month I've had, not after knowing what I put you through, whether I wanted to or not."
"You really don't have to do this for me–"
Derek looks at him, lips pursed, and eyes bloodshot. "For you? This past month damn near killed me, Spencer," he discloses, before wincing at his choice of words.
For the first time that night Spencer really looks at him. Derek looks exhausted. His eyes are clouded with fatigue and barely restrained energy in the way he gets when he can't help a situation. His fingers have been twitching since he's entered their house, and his knuckles are bruised. Not fresh bruises, like in the aftermath of a case, but bruises that were split open before they'd had a chance to heal. It's not hard to imagine him going more than a few rounds with a punching bag, day in, day out.
If he's spent the past month grieving then Spencer knows his husband has spent it feeling guilty beyond belief and probably taking it out in increasingly punishing ways for his body. The thought makes him soften, and for all his paralysis earlier, he's itching to touch Derek now.
The twitching fingers give him pause. "Can I touch you?"
The surprised look that washes over Derek's face is enough to break his heart all over again. Of course Derek thought he'd done something irreparably wrong. And while he's sure they're going to need time to come back from this, there is no world in which Spencer doesn't want to curl up under in the warmth that comes from being close to Derek.
"Please," Derek breathes, wiping his face on his sleeve.
Spencer feels something twinge in his chest as he crosses the distance to crawl into Derek's lap and blanket his body over Derek's. There's a moment when it feels like they're collectively holding their breath but then Derek's palms snake under his sweater to meet the skin on his back and Spencer thinks he erupts in full body goosebumps.
He follows suit, wrapping his arms around Derek's neck, curling up against him and resting his face against Derek's shoulder, one hand coming to rest at the nape of Derek's neck, fingers ghosting over the tattoo there. The shudder that runs its course through his body is involuntary, and Spencer feels less self conscious when Derek's body sags against his, his palms warm against Spencer's skin. Its not like he'd forgotten what this felt like, but rather that the memory doesn't hold a candle to the real thing. Spencer remembers this feeling good. In actuality, its just about perfect, and until he's being touched everywhere, he doesn't realize he hasn't been touched anywhere in a month, outside of friendly squeezes and hugs that were over too quick and never really what he needed anyway.
It takes a second for him to realize he's crying, quiet sobs that wrack through his frame even as Derek holds him tighter, murmuring apology after apology against his flushed skin through his own tears.
"Its okay," Spencer says, sniffling as pulls back. "I know you didn't choose this, its okay, Derek."
That seems to make him burrow closer, and Spencer runs a hand down his back in an attempt to soothe.
"Don't," Derek whispers, anguished, as he meets Spencer's eyes. "I saw the cup of coffee you forgot by the entryway, I'm so sorry," he says guiltily.
Spencer looks at him, puzzled. "Okay," he answers softly. "What are you apologizing for?"
"There's only once place those cups come from," Derek points out. "You've been going to meetings."
"12.3% of addicts relapse while grieving, 34% of people with substance use disorders are likely to develop complicated grief which in turn may increase their substance use. So yes, I was grieving, and I went to meetings once I realized I couldn't do it on my own," he explains. "That doesn't mean its your fault. There's some stuff we'll probably end up talking about, and maybe my grief or my anger will come out in ways I can't predict – there's not really any data on people coming back from the dead," he says, attempting a joke that doesn't land. All it does is deepen the furrow in Derek's brows.
"I'm sorry," Derek says ultimately, running out of anything else to say.
Spencer swipes his thumbs against the tear tracks on Derek's cheeks, lips quirking up when it makes Derek flutter his eyes close. Eidetic memory or not, nothing ever really did justice to the feeling of being in Derek's presence, looking at him, and cataloging every little gesture, and holding them all close like pressed flowers in books. Something to keep for later, a little reminder of all his husband's quirks, every part of him that makes him who he is.
"I'm still…reeling," he begins, voice soft, and a half smile in place when Derek opens his eyes. "But I'm happy, Derek. I had a taste of life without you, and I never want to find out what that feels like again. And its not like you were having the time of your life," he says dryly. "Stop beating yourself up."
Derek nods, accepting his words for now, although Spencer can sense they're far from done with his grief and Derek's guilt.
He buries himself back into Derek's chest, taking a whiff of his familiar smell. "Were you alone?"
"I had security," Derek murmurs, sounding faraway. "I missed you," he says, voice cracking.
Spencer thinks of Derek and his proclivity towards socializing with people, the way he uses touch a second language, and feels inordinately sad. That sounded like a nightmare for someone like Derek, not to mention the existential tailspin Spencer is sure he would've gone on had the roles been reversed.
"We're here now," he reminds them, pulling back to look into Derek's eyes. They look less clouded than earlier, but he suspects they'll both need time to come to terms with this.
Derek runs his fingers through his hair and Spencer sighs, something giving way in him after his mourning.
"Can I– can I kiss you?"
Spencer nods and pretends for now that the relief on Derek's face doesn't break his heart. In time, they would talk about this too. For now, he tugs Derek close and into a languid kiss. He can feel his breath hitch, and the wetness in his eyes escape, but Derek kisses him back like he's starving – slow, and tender but so thoroughly that he feels like he's being taken apart and sewn back together all at once.
They separate to take a breath before Derek closes the distance again, this time, to pepper kisses wherever his mouth meets skin, and Spencer feels a smile make its way across his face despite everything. He returns the favor, before leaning in for another desperate kiss that leaves them breathing shallow.
When he pulls back, Derek looks less unsure, and more like his usual self. Spencer's fingers find his necklace as they'd often begun to in the past few months. Now, he unclasps his necklace with a smile even as Derek looks at him, puzzled.
"I believe I have something that belongs to you," he murmurs.
Derek's eyes land on the ring and widen before a small, but genuine smile lights up his face. "I thought I lost it," he whispers.
"What is the legality on coming back from the dead, are we technically not married anymore?" It's an odd thought, odder still that he doesn't know the answer owing to the entirely original situation they find themselves in.
"Don't care, baby, I'll marry you again first thing tomorrow," Derek says, holding his hand out, wiggling his fingers.
The sight makes a small bubble of laughter crawl up his throat, and Spencer slips the ring on before pressing his lips against it.
"So will I," he murmurs, letting himself be pulled into another kiss.
Later, Derek will tell his family as Spencer watches him, staying close for comfort. For now, he leans into Derek's hold and takes what feels like his first deep breath in weeks. He's home.