Chapter 1: Hurt
a/n: This story was inspired by Sienna27 and Kavi's newest bonus challenge to write a completely AU story. I also used Sienna's prompt-within-a-prompt idea of J.J. as a book publicist promoting Rossi's newest book. Rossi will make his appearance soon; this chapter is all J.J. and Reid. Thanks for the great inspiration!!
Working within the prompt, this story is 100% AU, but NOT the same AU as my stories "Endgame" and "Reckoning." I know, right?
In completely personal news, it's really nice to write a serious story using these characters that doesn't involve murder and mayhem. :D
Please review me if you like what you read here; I'll need the encouragement to keep going!! Thanks. :D
Disclaimer: Criminal Minds and associated characters aren't mine, not one little bit. Thanks to Jeff Davis et al. for creating them and letting me play!
Chapter 1: Hurt
Prompt: Buffy the Vampire Slayer - "Doppelgangland"
What have I become,
My sweetest friend?
Everyone I know
Goes away in the end.
And you could have it all;
My empire of dirt.
I will let you down;
I will make you hurt.
-Trent Reznor, "Hurt"
September 2009
Perhaps the most difficult thing - the most challenging thing - Dr. Spencer Reid had encountered in this life was living up to other people's expectations of him. Other people? Who was he kidding? The only person whose expectations mattered was currently throwing clothes into a suitcase as fast as she could. He'd let her down, of course, just as he had known he would. Was it merely a self-fulfilling prophecy, or was he truly incapable of loving someone?
He watched her through dull hazel eyes. With every blouse or skirt or pair of panties she shoved into the bag he felt a little more of his soul shrivel up. Soon he'd be all dried out, a shell of a man, and he'd blow away on the wind of her anger like tumbleweed. He watched her, knowing she wanted him to speak, but he remained silent, any words he might have said evaporating before they formed.
Abruptly she turned toward him, frustration writ large on her lovely, perfect face. "I just can't do this anymore," she managed through choking anger.
"You said that," he replied quietly.
She whirled away again in a swirl of sunshine hair. She was finished with her clothes, and now she began packing toiletries - shampoo, perfume, lotion - all those wonderful, mysterious potions that made her smell like heaven. She held a small bottle in her hand, a scent he'd bought her for her last birthday, and looked up at him with pleading in her dark blue eyes. "Ask me to stay, Spence. Please."
He held up his hands, a broken, confused man out of his depth. "What if I did? Would it make a difference? You'd still go."
She looked down at the pretty bottle; curled her fingers around it and squeezed. "Yes," she whispered. "I'd still go."
"Ok, then. What is there for me to say? I love you. That isn't enough."
She turned her face away, mouth forming a tense, set line. "It was, once."
"So what happened, Jen?" he asked, rising from the bed and moving toward her, hands outstretched. "I know I work a lot. I know I'm not always there when you need me. But what happened? Can't we go back?"
She flinched away before he could touch her, and he let his arms fall back to his sides, useless, numb. "I work a lot, too. You know that's not it. I'd never punish you for your success."
It was true. They'd both known it wouldn't be an easy road, but always before they'd struck a balance between demanding careers - his as a respected research scientist, and hers as a successful book publicist - and their personal lives. Somehow it had all gone wrong. Somehow the beautiful, glittering house of cards they'd built was now crashing around them. Spencer eyed her, knowing what was coming, hoping he was wrong.
"This isn't about your career or mine, Spence. It's about..." She trailed off, and her chin fell to her chest. "It wasn't a small thing," she breathed.
A spasm of pain contorted his finely made features. "I know that, Jen. He was my son, too."
"Then why?!" she cried, anger and hurt exploding from her like a physical force. "Where did you go? We were both mourning, both hurting. Why couldn't we be there for each other?"
What was there to say? When she'd told him she was pregnant, he'd nearly panicked. He couldn't fathom the idea of being a father. His mother was schizophrenic; he'd grown up a total freak. He'd always assumed he wouldn't have children; he didn't want to pass such a legacy on. It seemed unfair, cruel, and though he could sometimes come across cold, Spencer Reid was never cruel.
As the weeks passed, though, the idea had grown on him. They'd seen the baby's (Henry's) heartbeat; they'd learned it was a boy (our boy); they'd begun decorating the nursery. He'd watched the way her eyes lit up when she talked about the baby (Henry). He'd felt his own heart swell as he bought a little telescope; a kid's book of poetry; a baby's classical music CD. He'd even enjoyed her fond laughter at these gifts, grinned at her teasing - what, no baseball glove?
The accident had brought him back to reality faster than a slap in the face. It was a slap in the face. He remembered the phone call; the rush from his lab to the hospital; the sight of her still, small, pale form lying in that white, sterile bed. The doctor's hushed voice as he'd informed him that his wife (she's not my wife; I'm the asshole who won't marry her...) was going to be fine, but the baby (Henry!) hadn't been so lucky.
It had been nearly six months. The nursery remained unchanged. The gifts he'd bought still occupied the silent, cheerfully-decorated room. Slowly, inexorably, they drifted. He woke in the night to find her side of the bed cold, empty, but rather than going to find her - in the nursery, he knew, staring into that vacant little crib - he turned over and went back to sleep. They stopped looking at each other. It was easier to let eyes slide past, avoiding contact, avoiding the conversation they both wanted to have but couldn't.
She blamed him. Not for the accident, of course; it was just that: a stupid, random accident. She blamed him for the slide. She blamed him for retreating into himself as he so often did when the world around him became too hard. "I wanted to, Jen," he said at last. "I couldn't."
Her lovely face crumpled. She gave the little vial in her hand one last look before she set it on the dresser. She picked up her suitcase and turned to go. "I guess I couldn't either, Spence," she told him over her shoulder. "That says it all, doesn't it?"
He watched her walk out. He didn't call her back. He felt his heart stutter, stop. He only had himself to blame.
I'm sure most of you will recognize Johnny Cash's cover of the song "Hurt" as being used in the ep "Elephant's Memory." I love both versions: the original NIN, and Johnny Cash's remake; and I felt like it really fit this chapter. The story title comes from that song, also.
Ironically, I was watching Homicide only a few days after "Elephant's Memory" was on A&E, and they used the original version in an ep. There's a reason I love both shows. ;)