Hidden // Spencer Reid

Goodbye

I'm out of the wheelchair-- finally. I have been for about two weeks, and I'm slowly easing off my crutches. When I say 'slowly easing' I mean a few days ago I thought it would be a great idea to try to stand on both of my feet, but the pain rocketed up my leg and I went back to the crutches. Constantly.

Jessica has come to my house every day. Today I'm going to tell her. I'll have to pray she really can keep a secret, because I know if Spencer found out he wouldn't let me.

As if on cue, three knocks on my front door echo through the empty hallway. I reach the door and open it, expecting Jessica but finding Derek.

Suddenly, there's a lump in my throat I can't swallow and I back up on my crutches and let him in before limping to the living room and sitting on a chair across from the couch on which Derek sits.

"Reid told me."

I clench my jaw, trying not to look shocked. Of course he would have. It's an honor thing, right? I don't know. These situations don't usually happen. They shouldn't happen. It's my fault. "About Grant?"

He nods, his lips in a tight line to stop a frown from forming on his face. He's probably still mad at me. Why wouldn't he be? I feel like hurling. "I'm so sorry, Lena."

I'm still not thinking of Grant. Lately it's like my mind's been completely avoiding a single thought of him. "I probably deserve it, with everything I've put you through. All of you."

"Ali--Lena, we all make mistakes," he soothes, standing up and coming to comfort me.

When he reaches his hands out I slap them away a little too harshly. "This isn't the kind of mistake you should just brush away, Derek, you deserve more than-- me," I argue, facing away from him and at the ground.

He kneels in front of me and lifts my chin to look at him. I avoid his eyes. "But I want this to work out, Lena, and I'm willing to make it happen if you are," he says softly.

I turn away from him, and his hand falls to his lap. He stands. "Stop saying that. You need to move on. Obviously it wasn't right. We're not meant for each other."

"Lena--"

"It's not you, Derek, it's me, and I'm sorry, I don't want it to be true but it is." I stand as well, keeping the weight on my good foot. "I love you. Or-- at least I used to. And I want the best for you." I glance at my hands for a moment before looking back at him. "You should go."

It's like his mouth won't stay shut. "I'm trying," he argues, but it sounds as though he's begging.

"All I'm doing is what I think is right, Derek. Please, don't make this any harder."

"It's hard for me too, Lena. And I--"

"I know. I know. Please just go. I'm sorry, Derek. This isn't right. But I need you to leave." I try to keep my voice even, but it shakes ever so slightly. "I wish this hadn't happened to you. You didn't deserve it."

He doesn't say another word, and his footsteps hardly make a sound on our hardwood floor. Just as he opens the door, Jessica's getting ready to knock.

"Oh. Hi Derek," she squeaks, surprised. She sends me a panicked look and I shrug one shoulder.

"Excuse me."

Derek moves past Jessica and down the steps before Jessica steps inside. "That was awkward," she notices, closing the door. "Why was that guy here?"

"He was apologizing, I guess," I sigh, sitting back down on the chair.

"Is that all that's wrong?"

"I have something to tell you," I announce, glancing up at her.

"Can I just say, as nicely as possible, that you don't look very good?" she replies, sitting down on the couch across from me.

She was probably referring to my hair. It's slowly turning blonde again, much to my disliking. But I couldn't bring myself to dye it again. I was simply too overwhelmed. Or that's what I keep telling myself. "It's important, Jessica."

"So is how you look-- sorry, I don't mean it like that. I mean it's always been so important to you, you used to look so put together all the time." She studies me concernedly. "What's really bothering you?"

"Grant's the father." The words feel strange in my mouth, and I quickly clamp it shut.

She swears, shaking her head. "This is awful. Just when you think it can't get worse."

"And I want to go with you."

This time she's silent. After a while, she opens her mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "To help me move in, you mean," she guesses, but I shake my head.

"I want to stay there. I want to leave this city, this state. This country. I don't know."

She looks confused. "You don't know? A-are you sure?"

"No. I mean-- yes. I'm positive. I've got to get out of here. I haven't figured out the details but I want to live in London."

She nods slowly, pursing her lips. She does that a lot, I realize. "Well, that's your decision."

"I hope it's the right one."

"Have you told Spence? Or Derek?"

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair. "I don't want to talk to them. Ever again. They need me out of their lives," I tell her, but it hurts to hear what I have been thinking about for so long.

"Are you sure that's what you want? This isn't a light decision." Her level-headedness is making me feel insane.

"Yes. I won't stay with you if you don't want me to. But I'm not staying here."

"I respect that," she responds after a moment.

We sit in silence. My choice has been made, but I still feel awful about it.

I put a hand over my stomach, forgetting about Grant if only for a moment.

"And Jessica?"

She looks up at me, attentive.

"Don't tell anyone."

--

Penelope calls me later that day. "Care to explain the plane tickets you bought?"

I gasp, and put a hand to my forehead. "How do you know that?"

"Oh, come on, Lena, I'm Penelope Garcia. How could I not know? So explain to me."

"I'm flying to London. So what?"

"Why?"

"Don't tell Spencer, or Derek," I beg, avoiding her question.

"You live such a secretive life. Have you forgotten who withheld incriminating evidence against you? Yeah, me. So you owe me one, Missy."

"And now I owe you doubly. Please, please don't tell them. Ever."

"Is that how long you're leaving?" she accuses, and I grimace. "You're running away with someone?"

"No, I'm leaving behind this chapter of my life," I argue, my brow furrowing slightly.

"Right," she says slowly, incredulously.

"I'm trying to do the right thing."

"Are you?"

Her argument, though of few words, makes me worry. I don't like being questioned. Who does?

I hang up the phone suddenly, feeling guilty.

Honestly, I don't know. Everything just seems wrong.

But I can't change my mind, everything was said and done.

I pray it will turn out well.

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