A BEAUTIFUL DREAM (spencer reid)

01 ... the pits of despair

——— ⠀ ༄ ‧₊ ⠀

❝    if i was standing there in your apartment,

i'd take that bomb in your head and disarm it.   ❞

—   forever winter (taylor swift)
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✧⠀ ࿐ྂ

Present

THE MAN ON THE TV began his third monologue of the episode and Spencer groaned.

The glowing box cut through the void that was once his living room, illuminating the cans and takeout boxes strewn across the coffee table, the flickering ghostly light coming like an apparition. Only it wasn't an oneiric spirit talking to him; it was a chiselled FBI agent, stumbling across answers as he swaggered through a crime scene.

Three days into his self-imposed exile, Spencer accepted that he had no place on a high horse when it came to trash television, not when he had nothing better to do than watch it. Boxsets upon boxsets arrived at his door and he quickly found that he was nothing more than a trope. Each episode, the skinny one'd chirp a long-winded explanation and shove his thick spectacles up with a finger and, cheeks flushing, Spencer would feel something for the first time in days. The Morgan one would be skeptical, the Hotch one would grudgingly agree, and after a quick shot of the token inanimate woman's breasts, they'd be off, guns blazing, hair flowing spectacularly. He watched the hazy airbrushed clones of his friends from sunrise to sunset, sunset to sunrise. He watched them suffer terrible tragedies and bounce back, be held at gunpoint and saved at the very last moment.

Spencer wasn't quite sure why he was torturing himself. Maybe he just missed them.

He didn't find what he was looking for in the first show so he moved onto the next. Then the next. No one in any core cast emulated who his heart was screaming for so he decided he'd settle for a guest star. Episode 7, season 2 of the New York one proved fruitful. A slight blonde woman in local law enforcement. She barely had five minutes of screen time but that was enough. Physically, she couldn't be farther from her, missing the signature chestnut locks and towering height. The woman had a southern twang that was reminiscent of JJ's but that was where those similarities ended. The bright open gaze, the unwavering kindness, the witty remarks. It was her.

He became conscious of a gap. He ought to have been remembering something but he couldn't. All he could do was stare at the screen, the room spinning around him, and imagine that the brown eyes darting around were blue.

The doorbell rang. Then again. Grumbling, he lifted off the sunken couch, swaying as he ambled to the door. Muscle memory was his lighthouse, guiding him through the dark.

He opened the door, briefly blinded by the yellow light pouring in. The figure at his door looked alight, the outline of their hair incandescent under fluorescent lights.

His squint unravelled, eyes widening as far as humanly possible.

The figure frowned at him. "Spencer, answer your fucking phone."

The blurry features slowly sharpened on her face. He croaked, so quiet it was almost a whisper, "Ash."

"You can't just call me with-"

He cut her off, enveloping her in a hug and almost collapsing in relief. She was hesitant in returning the hug but eventually gave in, patting his woollen back gently.

"Spencer. Let me go."

He retreated, as quick as his current state would allow.

Aisling's frown persisted. "Are you drunk?"

He shrugged. "It's Saturday night."

"It's technically Monday. Morning."

He stared at her dumbly, no words forming on his tongue. Tears pricked his eyes and he let them.

She moved past him, into his apartment. The lights flicked on. Turning around, the extent of the deterioration of his home was thrown at him. A thin layer of dust covering every surface, priceless books strewn carelessly and most humiliating, beer cans littering the coffee table.

"Jesus," she murmured, making her way to the living room. "At least you haven't moved on to spirits."

His cheeks flushed as he watch her take in every inch of the mess. "You should've called first. I didn't-"

She turned, ablaze. "I should've called? Spencer, you left me a terrifying voicemail and dropped off the face of the earth. I had no choice but to come."

He frowned. "I did?"

Her anger slipped away, leaving pity in its tracks. She shook her head ruefully, continuing her journey through the apartment. As they emerged from the hall, the TV on the left bumbled away, the concentration of the mess plus the duvet and pillow betraying just how much time Spencer spent on the cracked leather couch. Across from the living area (turned bedroom) was the cramped kitchen, largely unused and seemingly the cleanest area in the apartment.

Aisling took a seat at the island. "So, I take it there's no emergency."

He shuffled behind the counter, leaning on the cool polished stone for support. "If there is, I don't remember."

"Odd for a man with an eidetic memory. Truly, I find you're rather in control of what you forget." When he didn't respond, she studied him for an uncomfortable moment before tilting her head. "What's going on, Spencer?"

He stared at his fidgeting hands. "Nothing. I'm just... adjusting."

"Are you seriously throwing your life away because of me?"

"That's an exaggeration."

"Oh, really? When's the last time you went to work?"

"I quit."

Her lips parted, brows raising in disbelief and reproach. "Spence, you loved that job."

He finally looked up at her. "My life's been over a long time. I've just accepted it."

A beat.

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't put this on me."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. I'm sorry, I am. But you have to remember l had no choice. Plus, if anyone should be angry, it's me."

His brow creased wretchedly, searching her features for any weakness. Any crack. Anything to latch onto to make her stay. To make her undo the mess that is his life. "I know," he whispered.

She shook her head and looked away. Her lip wobbled. He swept over every delicate eyelash, every dent in her chapped lips, committing them to memory. Under the warm lighting, she didn't look half as pale as she initially did. Her angular cheek were dusted with freckles and she wore her hair in a tight ponytail, looking like she had stepped out of his last memory of her.

"Did I dream you up?" he whispered.

Her gaze shifted to him and a small smile emerged. "You-"

"Actually," he slurred, "I don't wanna know. If I did, I never wanna wake up."