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sp6ncers · 5 months ago

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guilty hands — s reid

summary: reader was forced to kill an unsub in the field and feels guilty about it

spencer reid x bau! fem! reader. angst. 2nd person, pov switches.

warnings/content: brief case mentions, murder (self defence), slight gore, guilt, trauma, hurt/comfort, selective mutism reader, a LOT of self deprecation, flasbacks indicated by bold, italics, & are written in past tense, good friend spencer reid, love confession kinda but not really

wc : ~ 4k

author's note : hello maybe 😰 hey i kinda like this one a little bit i think ! ! i love to write angst i love writing characters in distress heart emoji ok thank you bye

The car is quiet, silent aside from the hum of the engine and the pattering of rain against the roof. You keep your gaze focused out of the window and your arms wrapped around yourself, your position almost defensive. Occasionally, Spencer glances over at you, his heart aching at how utterly horrified you seem about what happened.

He wishes he could make you feel better, somehow. But he knows that there is probably nothing he can do. He almost feels sick at the thought of you feeling so bad, though he understands you probably feel far more ill than he does. It's never easy to kill someone, especially not the first time.

When Spencer had first killed someone, he didn't feel anything about it for a few hours. It wasn't until he stepped foot inside his apartment that the weight of it all had dropped onto him, buckling his knees and crushing his lungs. But obviously for you, it is different. You felt it all immediately — the guilt, the anxiety, the aching.

Each time he looks over at you, you can feel the weight of his gaze on you. You never turn your head to meet his eyes, too afraid that what you'll see on his face will only be a reflection of your own self hatred in this moment. You don't want him to hate you, so you refuse to look at him in hopes of putting off the moment when you find out he does.

You bring your eyes back into focus so you can watch a raindrop race down the window, merging into others as it goes. A drop falls from the sky, hitting the one you're watching and splitting it into two. In a way, that's kind of how you feel right now — hit by an event and split into two parts. The event being killing a man, and the two parts of yourself being guilt and relief.

Every time Spencer looks at you, he wonders if you're asleep. You are so still, completely unmoving. The way you're facing shows no indication if your eyes are open or not. The only way he knows — thinks — that you aren't sleeping, is his memories of the first time he had killed someone. He hadn't slept after. He hadn't been able to. Sleep wasn't an option for him, his mind a mess of conflicting emotions. If you're feeling the same way he had, you won't be asleep.

When he parks outside of your apartment building, you don't even register that you've arrived for almost two minutes. He counts the seconds. All one hundred and three of them. For one hundred and three seconds, you stare blankly out of the car window, not realising that you have arrived home.

You blink. Once, twice, three times. You turn your head just a fraction, your neck stiff.

He says your name. It's quiet, gentle. Like you're a skittish bunny that won't hesitate to run away at a noise too loud or a movement too quick.

Spencer said your name, but you couldn't focus on him. All you could focus on was trying to breathe, but it felt like your lungs were repelling all of the oxygen you tried desperately to inhale. Your throat was on fire, tight and burning as you struggled to breathe.

His voice sounded muffled and far away. You realised your ears were ringing.

"Are you okay?"

"What?" You didn't know what else to say. What else was there to say? You couldn't tell him you were fine, that would be stupid. Stupid and untrue.

You couldn't tear your eyes from the dead body on the floor. The body that was dead because of you. You killed that man. And now his blood was pooling around his head, spreading across the floor like mould creeping through decaying walls.

"I said, are you okay?"

He says your name again. "Are you alright?" he asks in that gentle, kind voice of his. He shouldn't be kind to you. He shouldn't be gentle. He should be yelling, mad, upset that you killed a man. He should be telling you to get out of his car. He should be screaming that you're a bad person and a terrible agent.

"Hey," Spencer whispers.

You turn your head to look at him, but you don't meet his eye. You can't. You focus on the pattern of his tie. The little ivory dots look nice against the maroon.

"You okay?"

A nod is all you respond with. A slow, unsure nod. You can almost hear the movements of the muscles and tendons and bones in your neck squeaking in your ears. You know your voice would fail you if you tried to speak.

"Do you..."

Spencer hesitates, unsure if he should ask. He doesn't want to overstep or make you uncomfortable when it's clear that you're already overwhelmed. The last thing he wants is to make you feel even worse.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he glances out the window for a moment. The rain is still falling from the dark sky, the wet ground shimmering under the glow of the streetlights. When he looks back at you, you have averted your gaze to your hands.

He clears his throat before continuing. "Do you want me to come inside with you?"

You nod. You nod and you nod and you nod. You don't want to be alone right now, and you know that he won't pressure you to talk. He isn't like that. He wouldn't make anyone do something they don't want to.

"Okay," his voice is just above a whisper, so gentle and understanding. Because he understands.

Your sleeves are tugged over your hands as you pick up your bag and open the car door. Immediately, the cold air and freezing rain spread goosebumps across your body. You feel the extent of the chill in your veins and crawling through your bones.

You can't help but jump at the sound of Spencer shutting his car door, a soft apology leaving his lips for startling you.

"Let's get inside. It's freezing," he says, and you nod in response as your arms wrap around yourself.

Spencer follows you into the building, making sure to leave a bit of space between the two of you. The stairs leading up to your floor creak softly beneath his feet. He notices your hands trembling as you fumble to fish your keys from your bag — is it from the cold or something else?

As soon as you push the door to your apartment open, he sees your shoulders slump. A barely audible, trembling breath escapes your lips as you hang up your bag on the coat rack. Spencer shuts the door gently, not taking his eyes off of you as he flicks on the light. Pushing damp hair back off your face, you turn to glance up at him. Your lips part slightly, but no sound comes out.

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to talk," he reassures you. "Do you want me to make you something to eat or drink? Or I could order food, if you want?"

You shake your head, sniffling softly as you move your hair again. Averting your eyes, you tug off your shoes so that you have something to do with your hands. You place them on the shoe rack and turn away, heading to the living room as you pull your sleeves over your hands.

Slowly, Spencer follows after you, watching you collapse onto the couch and curl into yourself. He runs a hand through his damp hair, he hesitantly sits down beside you, wondering what to do or say. He has never been the best at comforting people.

"Are you okay?" he asks quietly, for what must be the hundredth time today, but he already knows the answer. Of course you aren't okay.

You nod. Then, after a moment of hesitation, you shake your head. Spencer's heart shatters, his gaze flickering over your face as you look over at him. The raw pain and guilt in your eyes hurts him so deeply he can feel it in his teeth. When he holds his arms open, you almost immediately shift over to him, sinking into his embrace as you take a shaky breath.

His arms wrap tightly around you, holding you closely against him. You bury your face in his chest, closing your eyes tightly as tears begin to fall. Hearing your muffled sobs and trembling breaths, he holds you tighter, one hand gently stroking your hair.

"It's okay," he whispers, rubbing your back soothingly. "It'll be okay. I'm here."

Normally, Spencer hates physical touch. Even with the rest of the team, he only hugs them on special occasions. But it is different with you. Holding you feels so natural, so right. He finds himself inclined to be touching you almost always, even in the smallest ways. A hand on top of yours, his knee resting against your leg, his hand brushing over the small of your back. Every touch between the two of you is so comfortable and nice. It makes the world seem quiet. Not even thoughts of bacteria cross his mind when his skin is against yours.

Though right now, the world isn't very quiet. The sounds of your choked sobs fill his head as he tries to soothe you, wanting nothing more than to make you feel better.

"It wasn't your fault," he reassures you, hoping he can convince you that you did not do anything wrong. "You did what you had to do, okay? He would've hurt you otherwise. It was not your fault."

You sniffle again, trying to believe what he is saying and convince yourself that he's right. But your own thoughts seem to be louder than his words, drowning out what he's saying into a muffled murmur in your ears.

I killed a man. I shot him dead. I murdered someone and I should feel bad, you think. The thoughts won't leave your mind, repeating over and over and over no matter how hard you try to shut them out.

You felt your hands beginning to tremble, and quickly holstered your gun before you could end up dropping it. Taking a step back, needing to distance yourself from the dead man on the floor, you almost walked into Spencer. You jumped and turned to face him, your eyes meeting his as you saw the concern on his face.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. It's okay. Let's get out of here, alright?"

You nodded, stepping aside to let paramedics brush past you as Spencer led you out of the room, his hand on your back. Somehow, his touch didn't soothe your nerves like it normally did. You couldn't bring yourself to focus on the way his hand felt against you. Your mind kept replaying the sound of the gunshot and the thud of the body and you couldn't hear a thing he was saying. Head spinning and hands shaking, you tried to control your breathing. You tried to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes.

The wind howled through the trees, the sound not unlike the screaming in your head. As your hair was whipped across your face, the pain almost felt good. Maybe you deserved it. Maybe you deserved worse.

Spencer said your name again to get your attention as he moved to stand in front of you. "Listen, it's going to be alright."

You nodded, your hands still trembling as you pushed your hair behind your ear, blinking back tears. Maybe he was right. Maybe you could go to sleep and wake up feeling fine. Maybe what you did was good — after all, that man killed several young girls. But you couldn't stop feeling guilty. You felt so awful it physically pained you. It made you sick to your stomach.

The guilt won't go away. Even here, buried in Spencer's arms as he whispers words of reassurance to you, the guilt is eating you alive, chewing you up with its ragged teeth, puncturing your skin and snapping your bones.

Eyes squeezing shut and nails digging into your palms, you try desperately to block out the shame, forcing yourself to focus on what Spencer is saying. On his voice, his words, the way his chest rises and falls as he breathes, his heartbeat.

It works. Almost.

The soft thumping of his heart and the way he strokes your hair works to partially pull your body from the jaws of guilt, dimming the feeling, but just slightly. As you take a deep breath, one that makes your body shudder as it fills your lungs, you force your muscles to relax, letting yourself melt further into his embrace.

"It'll be okay. I promise you," Spencer murmurs, leaning his head against yours.

You sniffle softly, shifting in his arms so that you can reach up and wipe your eyes on your sleeve. Your body finally deciding to let you speak, you manage to croak out, "I know."

"There she is," he hums softly. "Got your voice back, hm?"

Giving a small nod, you press your palm into your eye for a moment. "I— I'm sorry I couldn't... before," you mutter.

"You never have to apologise for that. I understand."

"I'm still... sorry," your murmur, a tremble in your voice.

Spencer sighs softly, resting his chin on the top of your head. "It's not your fault," he says. You are not sure if he's referring to you being unable to speak or to you killing the unsub.

You don't say anything. You're not even sure what there is to say. Are you supposed to tell him that you feel so disgusting about killing someone? Are you supposed to say that you feel sick every time you think about it, but you can't stop thinking about it?

You can barely breathe, your head overflowing with millions of panicky thoughts. You need to get out. Out of where, you're not sure, but you need to get out.

"I need to shower," you force out, pulling away from his embrace like his touch burns your skin.

Confused by the suddenness of your movement, he stumbles over his words. "O— okay... Do you want me to stay out here?" he asks as you step off the couch. The unsteadiness of your legs doesn't go unnoticed by him.

Nodding wordlessly, you don't give him a chance to say anything else before you are disappearing into the bathroom. Locking the door slips your mind as you press your back against it, breathing heavily. Hands grasping at your hair, you squeeze your eyes shut as you stumble over to the mirror, legs threatening to buckle beneath you. As your eyes flicker up to your reflection, you yelp as you see the dead unsub standing behind you, eyes staring lifelessly at you and blood spilling from the gunshot wound in his forehead. You spin to face him, gasping for breath.

But he's not there. Of course he's not.

He's dead.

And he's dead because you killed him.

"Stop it," you mutter to yourself, pressing the balls of your palms into your eyes. "Stop it."

Your body is still trembling as you stand under the shower, the water hot against your skin. You stare at the floor, afraid that if you look anywhere else, you'll only see him again. Your fingers claw at your skin, as if you will be able to peel it off and cleanse your soul of guilt and shame and fear.

You want to scream. You want to go back in time and stop yourself from killing that man. You want to stop it from ever happening. You want to yell and scream and cry until your throat is raw and there are no tears left in your eyes.

It was like it all happened in slow motion. He lunged for you, fury burning in his eyes, his mouth drawn into a snarl. You squeezed. You heard the bang. You watched the bullet burrow into his head and the blood spill from the wound and the body drop to the floor.

His knees thudded onto the ground as his brain was shutting down. Shaking hands pawed at his bloody forehead, smearing the blood onto his fingers and palms. You watched the life leave his eyes as his body collapsed, his hands outstretched towards you, reaching to grab you.

You stepped back, your heavy breathing ragged, your chest tight with panic. Something nasty and vile lurched in your throat, making you gag.

The water doesn't make you feel clean. It doesn't wash the guilt from the pores in your skin. It doesn't soothe the ache in your chest.

You don't know when you end up on the floor, but you do. Your legs are pulled up to your chest as you sob, gasping for air between each cry. Your entire body is shaking as the memory of killing that man plays over and over in your head. You try to shut it out but you can't. Nothing is working to turn it off.

"Please," you cry, your voice a broken, pathetic whimper, "please stop."

You barely hear the knock on the door, but you hear the voice that follows. Spencer says your name gently, but loud enough to be heard. "Hey... Can I come in?" he asks, and you don't get a chance to reply before he is adding, "I won't look. At— at you."

He is too sweet and you don't deserve this. You deserve to have him scream at you, yell that you're pathetic and a mess and you don't belong in the FBI.

"Okay," you manage to call out, the word trembling on your lips.

You cover yourself up as much as possible as you hear the door open, but you barely even care if he sees you. It's probably more embarrassing to have him see you ugly crying than it is to have him see you naked.

Pulling back the shower curtain, he turns off the water. He keeps his eyes away from your body as he helps you to your feet and hands you a towel. Sniffling softly and taking a shaky breath, you tightly wrap the towel around yourself and look to the floor.

"I— I don't know what's... wrong with me," you sob. "I'm sorry."

He smooths your wet hair back off of your face. "There is nothing wrong with you."

"But—"

"No buts," Spencer interrupts. "There's nothing wrong with you. Everybody handles things differently. And in a situation like this, your emotions are going to be all over the place. Whatever you're feeling is valid."

You reach up and wipe your eyes, but it's a useless action since your hands are wet from the shower. Your voice trembles as you speak. "You— you don't think I'm b-being pathetic?"

"Of course not," he replies gently. His hand cups your cheek, tilting your head up to face him. "I could never think you're pathetic. And certainly not now. I promise."

Your mouth twitches into a tiny smile as you sniffle again, his words making you feel a little bit better. You try to focus on the feeling of calm he brings you, pushing down the guilt and hiding it away.

"How about you go get dressed, and I'll make you something to eat?" Spencer suggests softly. "And then we could watch a movie. Or— or you could just go to sleep... Or do whatever you want to do."

You give a small nod, followed by a quiet, "Okay."

As you head into your bedroom, Spencer makes his way to the kitchen. He has been here a few times, so he knows where everything is. And he remembers the time you had mentioned to him your favourite food, so he looks for that to make you. He remembers everything about you, everything you have ever told him or briefly mentioned. He remembers what every emotion looks like on your face. Even though you haven't worked at the BAU for very long compared to the others — almost a year and a half — he feels like he knows you, and understands you. Do you feel it too?

Hearing your light footsteps on the floor, he turns around as you approach. The sweater you're wearing hangs loosely from your frame, the shoulders slightly damp from where your wet hair has dripped onto it. Your eyes are red-rimmed and tired, but the guilt that had been lingering in them has lessened significantly.

"I, um... I made your favourite. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to, but—" He falls silent when your arms wrap around him, hugging him tightly.

"Thank you," you whisper.

His hands carefully wrap around your waist, holding you close. "You're welcome," he replies softly.

You eat half of the meal, sitting next to him on the couch with your legs curled beneath you. Your chest aches with emotions you know you should not feel. Grief pushes its way through and sits in the centre of your heart, but you don't understand it. How can you feel grief for someone you did not know?

When you ask Spencer to stay with you for the night, you expect him to decline. But he doesn't. Without hesitation, he agrees to staying, and climbs into your bed beside you. His arms wrap around you, keeping you held snugly against him.

"Try to get some sleep," he says softly, gently rubbing your back. "I'll be right here."

Leaning your head against his chest, you take a deep breath and let your eyes flutter closed. You shut everything out except for the feeling of his hand on your back, focusing only on that. Despite everything that has happened today, it is easy to relax and fall asleep in his embrace. Your mind grows quiet as sleep guides you in, silencing the thoughts that rage in your head.

Spencer watches as your breathing evens out, your muscles loosening as you drift off. His hand doesn't stop rubbing over your back, and he doesn't stop watching you. Maybe it could be considered creepy, but he has woken up on the jet to find you watching him on more than one occasion, so he thinks you wouldn't mind.

He studies your face, completely relaxed. He's never seen you like this before. You always look so stressed about one thing or another, but right now you look so peaceful. It makes his heart melt. He is so glad you trust him enough to be this vulnerable with him.

After a while, Spencer shifts his position to be slightly more comfortable, being careful to not wake you. Now lying on his side, he cradles you against him, your body fitting perfectly against his. He feels your soft breaths against his neck, but weirdly likes the feeling of it.

He just stays like that for a while, his fingers running up and down your spine as he relishes the feeling of having you so close to him. As he lies there, he wishes he could take away all the guilt you feel. He wishes he could make it easier for you to deal with what happened, and he wishes that you will feel better when you wake up. He knows that wishing won't do anything, but maybe if he tries hard enough, it will.

As his eyes grow heavy and sore, Spencer brushes his lips over your forehead in a gentle kiss, murmuring against your skin, "I love you. I'll always be here for you," even though he knows you can't hear it. He falls asleep with his forehead resting against yours.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #criminal minds

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