Losing Control [ spencer reid x reader ] ✔

26. Relief

"We should send her home."

"No, Morgan, she needs to be here."

"She can't think straight right now, Reid. She just suffered a major loss."

"It's Hotch's decision—not yours."

"Hey guys, I'm right here. You can stop whispering about me. You're pretty bad at it anyway."

Your voice is scratchy; ringing out around the room of the police station the team is in. Six heads whip around to look at you, almost forgetting you were there. Concern flashes in Spencer's eyes and he looks around at the rest of the team.

It had been two hours and fifty-one minutes since you had passed out. Two hours and fifty-one minutes since you lost one of your rocks in the world. Two hours and fifty-one minutes since your dad died.

After you had woken up, you didn't cry. You still haven't cried. You just sat at the table the team was doing research on earlier, resting your arms on the table. You feel numb. The worst kind of numb. The kind of numb that radiates down to your fingertips. If someone shot you right now, you doubt you'd feel it. Part of you hates that feeling—you want to feel something. Angry or sad or regretful or hurt.

Prentiss and Hotch had gone to the crime scene to talk to the survivors after you had woken up. Survivors. The word almost makes your stomach churn. Spencer had sat with you while the rest of the team researched. So far, they had no solid leads—nothing to go on except a height and that he has a vendetta against someone named Foster. Whatever the fuck that means.

Morgan averts his gaze, staring at the floor. You don't even need to profile him—you know he feels guilty. "Sorry."

You shake your head. "It's fine. I want to stay."

Hotch steps forward, voice soft. "If you don't feel like—"

"Hotch." You look him in the eyes. "I need to see the man who killed my father get arrested. I need to look him in the eyes. I want to see his fucking face behind bars." You don't even care that you just cussed in front of your boss. That's the least of your problems right now.

He's silent for a moment, thinking. "Fine. No going out in the field for you, though."

"I don't even have my gun, yet." You had passed your gun qualification, but had gotten pulled away so suddenly for this case, the thought of actually going to pick up your gun completely slipping your mind.

"You do, actually," Hotch says. "Strauss gave it to me before we left."

"Oh." Your voice is small.

He crosses the room to a small bag on the floor, kneeling down for a second before standing back up. He walks to the table, holding out a black gun for you to take. You take it, cold against your hands. Clearing your throat, you put it in the empty holster on your belt. In a small, weird way, you feel complete, like an official agent.