Spencer was everywhere and nowhere.

You supposed that was what happened when people died. You would never see him arrive at the office early to make coffee in the mornings, never get to hear the way his voice went up a pitch when he spoke passionately about a topic. His empty desk, still displaying his name tag as if he’d come back home, was practically taunting you. In reality, nobody had worked up the courage to touch his things yet.

People seemed to be doing that a lot, actually. Letting his presence linger, and yet, still ignoring what’d happened. You didn’t care what any of them did, because none of them would get your grief, anyway. There were only so many reassurances of ‘I know how you feel’ and ‘Eventually, it won’t hurt so bad’. It was all bullshit to you, anyway. You were still trying to figure out when the elusive ‘later’ you’d feel better by would be. You hoped it was soon.

One morning, you couldn’t take it any longer. You put on the jacket, his jacket that you borrowed and never got to give back, and found your way to his apartment. You told yourself you were just going to start sorting through his things.

You couldn’t even lie to yourself anymore.

After about an hour, you found a box shoved in the very back of his closet. Inside of it, you were met with letters. Stacks of neatly folded paper, all with your name on them. You tried to talk yourself out of it, but then again, you figured he’d want you to know. It was just what you expected. Love letters, detailing even the most minuscule aspects of your interactions. He said that he’d always love you. Bitterly, you thought, he shouldn’t have said always.

You didn’t even bother to close the box before you left.

Everyone on the team could tell there was something up with you, but they didn’t know what. They knew better than to ask you, too, knowing it would only result in passive aggression or downright hostility. And yet still, their worry was only amplified as you made increasingly risky decisions.

You knew it was a bad call. You knew it was a terrible call, actually, to further upset the UnSub who was already angry. But, once you started, you couldn’t stop. Like it was his fault that everything in your life had gone to shit. Unsurprisingly, there was only so much he could take. You didn’t blame him when he pulled the trigger.

You heard him before you saw him.

You’d heard of this happening before; a familiar face showing up when a person is dying. And, yet, you never thought it would be him.

“{{user}},” He mumbled as he spotted you, almost in disbelief.

You couldn’t blame him— you felt the same. You knew what his job was, to convince you to keep fighting, to stay alive. You didn’t want to hear it, though. Especially not from him.