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Prison changed him too much. He was a shadow of the man he once was, and everyone knew it. He couldn’t be sure that they also knew there was no saving him now, but they were smart enough to come to that conclusion on their own. In some way, he was glad that Aaron didn’t want his job back even after Mr Scratch was dead, just so he could save himself the guilt of the man seeing what he’d become.
Spencer should’ve left years ago. He should’ve left after meeting Ethan in New Orleans. He should’ve left when Jason left. He should’ve left when Derek left. He should’ve left when Aaron left. The universe threw him chance after chance, rope after rope to pull himself out of the hole, and yet he refused, insisting on digging himself deeper because he didn’t know what he had outside the hole and couldn’t risk surfacing to nothing. Nothing was exactly what he had in or out of the damn thing.
When Spencer dropped his mum off at the memory care facility, spending the entire drive there explaining who he was and trying not to let it show that it was breaking him apart piece by piece to do so, he asked how long she had as she was carted off to a room. They assured him about payment plans and places that could provide palliative care at a cheaper rate if he fell on hard times, but he shook his head and reiterated the question. They looked at each other nervously and said, although they couldn’t guarantee such a thing, she at least had a few years on her side.
“Are those years she’ll know who I am? Or even know to look for me?” he asked. They sighed in a near-practised manner. He wasn't the first to ask and wouldn't be the last. They probably went through this conversation a hundred times in one day and witnessed every possible response, some more unkind than others. He'd been told before that grief was love with nowhere to go, but this didn't feel like love. It was that darkness beneath murky waters, keeping you uncertain of the depth and danger.
“Sir, there are several organisations that can offer you support. We understand it’s difficult to watch a loved one go through this, but you really should focus on enjoying the time you have together.”
“Can you answer the question or not?” he snapped.
“It’s... unlikely, especially near the end, but you know as well as we do that patients can live much longer than their prognosis and have good days after months of bad ones. It’s just taking it as it comes. One day at a time.” He nodded, apologised for himself because it wasn't their fault he'd spent so much precious time locked away. Clearly, they were worried he was going to dump her there with no intention of visiting or wanted to offer him some piece of hope, so he left before they could start shoving pamphlets he’d never read into his hand. He got back into his car and sat there for a while.
Spencer couldn’t look after her in the state he was in, and barely managed it before, yet he still cursed himself for being unable to. All those times he could’ve seen his mum when the worst thing on their mind was schizophrenia that he hadn’t taken for the sake of saving himself the hurt. He would gladly take back the mother that occasionally forgot to eat if not reminded and cunningly snuck snacks into her room for them to share because she could remember he didn't eat. He desperately longed for the mother who adored him despite it all, the one string of thinking she could never have pulled loose. He wished that one of the many times she read to him, he'd recorded it, so he could have that small piece of her without the interruption of current events.
There’s something especially soul-crushing about looking into the eyes of someone who has known you your entire life and not seeing an ounce of recognition. When he finally reunited with his mum after everything, he had the childish hope that she would be temporarily fixed by the motherly urge to take care of her baby, but it took prompting for her to hug him, and she didn’t seem to recognise him until much later. He wasn’t hers anymore, and it was a tough enough pill to swallow without having wasted so much precious time sitting in prison on false charges. The large scar stretching across his arm was happy to remind him, if the damage from his shiv wasn’t doing it for him.
A strange cognitive dissonance he’d felt far longer than he’d recognised fell over him as he realised he was supposed to be driving back to his apartment and getting back to normal. Only, he just couldn't muster the care to work towards it.
His apartment was full of ghosts, both from a life he’d never get back and an innocent woman he’d unknowingly brought into the firing zone. He was still finding bits and pieces from the investigation in random nooks and crannies. In the same breath, he was desperate to go home and sob like he’d been wanting to. He needed to get it all out, but he feared that he waited too long and it was forever trapped inside of him, rotting him from the inside out. His floorboards held some water damage from when his mum caused a small flood, and he couldn't get past how easily his space had been invaded and changed without his consent. He used to know exactly where to step to avoid creaks in the night.
The same thought had been floating around his head for months and called to him like a siren’s song, but he refused to acknowledge it until now. He supposed that until this moment, he was fighting for a reason that he couldn’t find any longer or replace. He fought to keep his mum safe, to clear his name, to stay alive for the sake of his friends working their asses off to get him out, but what did he have to fight for now? The job that did nothing to help him when he needed it? The job that continued to suck the life out of him? The job he gave everything to and seemed to get nothing back from?
Your mum won’t remember you soon enough
You may as well get it over and done with now
Each loss the team had, they’d replace soon enough after, and they continued to function as usual. There were a few teething pains as the newbies settles but otherwise, they worked. Crimes were still solved, and lives were still saved, even when there were times when he thought it could never happen without certain members. Why would he be any different? What made him so special?
So he was smart, but everyone had an encyclopedia of knowledge sitting in their back pocket nowadays; they had apps that could just scan math problems, and it’s not like people were itching for his rants on various niche subjects. An iPhone in the hand of someone with basic tech knowledge could replace him easily. They wouldn’t even need to waste the budget on replacing him since everyone already had one; really, he’d be doing them a favour by resigning. Hell, with an iPhone, he'd be saving them the money spent on board, food and other amenities offered to the team. An iPhone didn't need health insurance, just Apple Care.
There was just the matter of not having anything outside of the office. He didn’t have friends that he didn’t work alongside; his only family was currently forgetting him as each second ticked by, and he was sure there would never be another Maeve out there, so he never tried. The first and last never felt like a problem before. It made sense to surround yourself with people who understood the highs and lows of the job and were the only people you could see regularly. He didn’t care about relationships before Maeve, and he had no desire for them after her. It didn’t occur to him that he was leaving himself with nothing.
Resigning wasn’t that much of an option, but staying wasn’t one either. He was ruined now, his brain processing slower than ever before, his hands having a constant shake that would ruin his firearm scores, and his fuse was so short that he’d never be able to take on a slightly stressful load of paperwork, let alone the teases and taunts of a narcissistic killer. He could switch departments, but he’d always walk past his old one, watching from the outside as they replaced him with someone funnier, someone just as smart or smarter, someone who liked to go to bars, someone more normal. He needed a clean break where he wouldn’t have to live knowing he was broken.
Eventually, Spencer made it back home and set about deep cleaning for the first time since he’d taken his mother home. He dusted the shelves, scrubbed the floors that were still looking water-damaged as best he could, and cleaned out the old clothes from his closet that he’d been meaning to donate for years now but never got around to doing. Whilst he was in there, he pulled out something nice to wear and placed it carefully on his newly made bed, gently pulling the clothes to sit unwrinkled as he finished his work. He made a small collection of sentimental items and placed them all inside a cardboard box, writing on the top the members of the team he thought would be most likely to find it.
Spencer finished his cleaning spree by cleaning out his fridge, though there hadn’t been much in there in the first place. He poured juice and milk down the sink, flushing it down with a splash of water from the tap, and bagged up any food that could be salvaged for food donation, whilst throwing out anything that couldn’t. It seemed like a waste, but most things did these days.
It took him multiple trips up and down the stairs to get rid of all the black bags, a quick trip to a food bank to drop off his donation and an even quicker drive by a clothes donation bin, but by tea time, he decided that he was done and the apartment wasn't going to get any cleaner the longer he stalled. Part of him hoped that in the process of tidying his home, it would tidy his mind too, but the thoughts remained cemented in place, so he supposed he must really want this outcome.
He itched at the crook of his arm occasionally as he got changed. He’d spared a thought for one last hoorah in that sense, but he decided not to. Relapsing wouldn’t allow for the clean break he was after, and he wanted to be sober for it. He wanted everyone to know he’d done it of his own volition, so they knew it was all according to his wishes. It'd feel like giving Cat one more win if he did it high, and whilst she shouldn't have any way of knowing what happened to him, he didn't want to take the chance.
Spencer felt a little silly locking his apartment door, given his plans for the evening, but a lot of his books were expensive first editions, and of those his friends didn’t want, they could easily sell to buy themselves something they did want. He’d left his car keys in the bowl with the same reasoning. He hardly drove the thing, so it should fetch a good price. That or David would snatch it up. Maybe Tara would like it. He shrugged because it wasn't his problem anymore.
He should probably make some calls, but he couldn’t guarantee it would go to voicemail, and they’d try to stop them as any normal person would. It would all get blown out of proportion, and he’d lose what little control over his life that he had left. He spared a thought for JJ and considered writing a letter, but his reasoning was so obvious that they’d be blind not to see it. She wouldn’t have to wonder why this time, and he hoped that the others would be able to rally around her so she didn’t end up blaming herself. Were he feeling any better, the idea of her reliving that trauma would have him stop dead in his tracks, but it was about time he was selfish.
There wasn’t a particular spot he had in mind, so he wandered until the crowds thinned out and the night drew darker. Pretty soon, he was the only one on the streets, which was when he came across a bridge. He walked across before stopping halfway over to watch the rushing water run beneath him. In that moment, he understood how easy it was. Of course, logically speaking, it wouldn’t be easy. Ken Baldwin said, after his failed suicide attempt, jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge, that he “instantly realised that everything in my life that I’d thought was unfixable was totally fixable - except for having just jumped.”
There could be a rush to fill his spot. If they didn't consider his exceedingly practical mobile phone idea, the team, all the while reeling from losing yet another member, as they juggled with grief and work, would have to vet someone new. Maybe it would be someone from Interpol who liked the idea of travelling a bit closer to home. Maybe another shiny new somebody fresh from the academy, unaware of how their life would be ruined like his own.
Someone would have to be put in charge of his funeral arrangements, and another, or perhaps the same very unlucky individual, would be tasked with letting his mother know. His dad better not try to insert himself into the arrangements once he was told, claiming that although they were estranged and didn’t see eye to eye the last time they saw each other, he was still incredibly proud. He rolled his eyes at the thought.
Spencer pushed himself up onto the railing, swinging his legs over and ignoring how dirty the stone had gotten from years of sitting there guarding the edges of the bridge. From this height, it would feel like hitting concrete. The wind gently pushed him back and forth, tempting him, enticing him, then rejecting him, saving him. It was as though they were trapped in a dance together, neither ready to take the lead.
He was exhausted. It’d be a waste of all the hard work put into getting him out of prison, but he just couldn’t put in the work he needed to be even a fraction of normal again. He couldn’t wait for normal, for the memories to be replaced and catch him off guard on the odd occasion instead of being on a constant slideshow behind his eyelids. He didn’t want to have normal snatched away from him again, like it so often was.
A sudden gust tipped him forwards though not enough for him to lose balance; it was enough to give him a rush of adrenaline. A tester for whether he had the guts to do it.
He closed his eyes, and flashes of everything he’d been through in the past year alone greeted him.
It wasn’t just being falsely imprisoned, although that alone would be enough for anyone to feel like he did. It was the forced relapse, losing Derek and Aaron, his mum fading right in front of him, and not being able to do anything to save her when she was kidnapped. Having to give up on looking after her himself because they kept triggering one another, and he had to admit that he couldn’t look after her as well as he couldn’t cure her, because instead of pursuing that dream, he'd chosen this life.
He supposed it was a good thing now. She’d forget about him soon enough and wouldn't have the day-to-day heartache. Then again, she might only forget the death but remember her son, reliving grief she couldn’t recall when she was reminded he was already gone.
A gust tipped him backwards.
Spencer couldn’t deny that he had a family in some way through the team, including three godsons, two of whom adored him and the third would hopefully follow suit, but how often would he see Hank and, by extension, Derek? He had the chance before all of the mess began to catch up and see the baby, but he never did it. Would it be any different now when he didn’t even want to accidentally cross paths with his neighbours? Sure, they would mourn his loss, but wouldn’t it all be so much easier?
JJ would be devastated. She still wondered where the signs had been for her sister’s suicide, and if he were to take the plunge, she’d do the same for him, despite his reasoning being obvious. She’d ask why she didn’t stay that bit longer to chat with him, what micro expressions she missed and end it with how it could be her fault. Even if he explicitly stated otherwise.
He opened his eyes and watched his swing slightly over the dark water. He watched the lights sparkle on top, catching the waves of small currents. The call of the void. In most cases, it displayed as that sudden thought of ending it all with no real intention behind it. In some, it was what finally tugged them over.
Spencer didn’t realise he was crying until he gasped out a sob and tasted salt. His nose was running like a tap, too. The blur from the tears hadn’t bothered his unfocused eyes. It wasn’t that he wanted to die specifically. He would love to live his life as he once had, but it wasn’t possible anymore, and he just wanted it to stop. Dying was the means to an end. It would be nice to have the chance to be happy again, and his mother didn’t really need him anymore. She would die not knowing who the man sitting by her bedside was, why should he bother being there for it?
“Nice night.”
Emily.
Out of all the bridges in the city, out of all the times of day she could’ve been walking, she had to be here now.
“You should probably get down, though. The wind is stronger than you think.”
He went to reply, but snapped his jaw shut and clamped down on any words threatening to spill out. She might give up or walk to the other side quietly to call the police or something else that would give him the chance to escape. Whether that escape plan would lead to water or not was something he’d yet to decide.
“I know it might feel like things are unfixable right now, and that there isn’t any chance of it getting better, but they can. Trust me, I’ve screwed up my life every way to Sunday, and I know there’s never a point where there’s no turning back. It’ll be different, but it’ll get better again,” she continued.
Her shoes clicked against the pavement until she stood just behind him. He hunched forward to hide his face.
“Let’s get you down, alright? There’s a diner nearby. We could go have a chat in there?”
He shook his head. It was weird not to want to try. He made a living off exploring every avenue available to him, and yet now, when it mattered the most, he didn’t want to consider any other ending than the one facing him now. This must be what it felt like to be an unsub knowing you were surrounded, aware that your options are suffering in prison or ending it all. He sort of understood it now. How accepting anything short of death felt like a defeat when it should have been a relief to still be alive.
“There’s no taking it back if you do this, and believe me, as soon as you go over, you’ll realise how much you want to stay to see things get better.”
Emily put her hand on his arm, and he knew how tempted she must’ve been to just yank him back there and then. She would if she knew he would never fight her. She waited with a tight grip on his coat, so if he did say fuck it, she had a good start on clinging onto him before he could fall out of reach.
“Give it a chance. You deserve another chance, don’t you think?”
She wasn’t going to leave, giving him two options:
1. Go through with it and traumatise her when she would eventually find out it had been him whom she failed to help. She’d never fully recover from that. He might twist around in the fall as his body rejected what the mind wanted and tried to retreat to safety, which would only make the revelation all the more traumatising.
2. Relent for the evening and reveal himself now. It wouldn’t be great either, but it wouldn’t leave blood on her hands. She might hate him for it. For scaring her and not saying a word when he knew it’d been her who approached him in his lowest moment. She’d at least be angry about what he’d planned to do, despite not going through with it. He could lose any hope of getting the job that he sort of wanted back, but he just wanted it back for the sake of being one step closer to who he was before.
If Emily was offering all this to a stranger, to talk and listen to, presumably give them a reason to go on this late at night, then she would provide that to him without a doubt. He was reminded of when he turned thirty and felt like he wasted his life working with the BAU, questioning if he should’ve done something that would’ve led him to cure schizophrenia like he wanted to as a kid. She didn’t take away all the worry he had, but she helped a whole damn lot. Maybe it wasn’t out of the question that she could manage it again.
Slowly, he turned to straddle the stone wall and then sat with his back to the water. He paused before he jumped off onto the pavement as if waiting to change his mind. He watched as Emily’s relief turned into a gradual dawn of horror as she stared at him, the same way she had when he was sentenced with no opportunity for bail. The same way she watched him through secure doors and cells, knowing she could leave and he couldn't.
“Oh God,” she whispered, the words punched out of her. She rushed forward and wrapped her arms around him, her hands roaming from his shoulders to his hair and vice versa as though checking he wasn’t a phantom of some sort. He supposed he did look rather undead aside from his pinched red cheeks and watery eyes. “Oh fuck- oh my God- Spencer, why- you- you never,” she stuttered with growing volume. “Spencer!”
He should say something to soothe her, but he could only look blankly over her shoulder as she kept him close. He couldn’t bring his arms up to return the hug by the way she had them pinned to his sides, so he settled on resting his head against hers. She was warm. Comforting.
“You fucker- You should’ve called me! Why wouldn’t you call me? Why didn’t you say anything?” He shrugged.
“I’m sorry.”
“You should be! What were you thinking? I’ve been right here, we’re all right here. You'd better kiss goodbye any sense of privacy you had before because I’m not letting you out of my sight. You- God, you're such an idiot.”
“I’m sorry. I’m- I’m really sorry,” he mumbled, tears rolling down his cheeks.
"Shh, it's okay- it's not okay, but it's not not okay- What am I even saying? I've got you now, alright? We'll- We'll fix it."
“Could- could you take me home?”
“Of course I will. Just- just give me a minute to hold you.”
“Okay.”