Spencer Reid | Oneshots

The Mother Wound ❤️‍🩹 (PG)

Summary: Spencer and Reader bond over having emotionally absent mothers.

Rating: PG

Content Warnings: Mother's Day, strained parent and child relationship, implied no contact (with mother), implied mental or physical abuse (from father), crying, feelings of shame, cursing

A/N: I wrote this person for everyone who needed it. I hope that you feel a little less alone, a little more loved, and a lot more hopeful. Thank you for reading.

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I didn't go home for Mother's Day.

I knew that I was supposed to, but I didn't. Instead, I stayed exactly where I was. Some might say it was inertia, but I knew better. There was no real excuse for violating the duty granted to me by nature of having been born.

But at least I wasn't the only one.

The case that had almost served as an excuse was both local and over. It ended with serendipitous timing that allowed almost everyone else to scurry home in time for an attempt at recreating a home cooked meal for the woman that taught them... well, everything.

Spencer stayed with me. He called his mother, though.

As I sat on the park bench overlooking the lake, I turned back to see him with his phone still pressed against his ear. Even from where I was sitting, I could make out his knitted brow. It felt too intimate for my tired heart to handle, and so I turned away.

Sort of like how I was avoiding my mother.

My insides twisted and their rioting made my bones rattle. It felt as though my body was tearing in two in protest of my failure to acknowledge its creation.

I breathed in, slowly but with a trembling lip.  I breathed out much quicker, like a swift punch to the gut that left me doubled over.

When I brought my hands to my face, I felt the wetness of freshly shed tears. I looked up at the water, resting and rippling reflections of the universe and I wondered how many oceans I could fill with this feeling.

"Hey, are you ready to go?"

Spencer's voice tore me mercifully from the thought.

"Hey," I said as I sat up.

My hands were still over my eyes, rubbing constellations against damp eyelids and hoping that the red would quickly fade.

"Sure, we can go," I tried to assure him when I finally turned to face him.

But Spencer, that sweet boy with his wringing fingers and always-averted gaze looked directly into my eyes—endless oceans of grief with a relentless rip current of rage.

He said nothing. Behind us, the frogs and crickets sang a raucous symphony that sounded nothing like a good mother's tongue.

After a moment, I realized how little time had passed.

"Did your mom not answer your call?"

"No, she did," he said with a curt shake of his head. Then, with more broken movements he tried to explain, "She just uh..."

I stared back. His eyes fell away, turning towards the lake as his face stretched into a strained smile.

"She's having a bad day," he said.

"I'm sorry," I offered.

"It's alright," he refused.

So, we stayed, both filled to the brim with inertia borne from the same shame.