Disclaimer: I don't own Criminal Minds

September 2015

Sometimes he thinks he can still smell her scent in their bed.

He doesn't try to dwell on that- tries his best to ignore it, really- but with a mind that works like his, that's a hard feat to accomplish.

Pillow cases trampled and washed and new sheets bought, it's impossible for him to really be smelling what his brain is telling him he does. She's been gone for months now. The last pieces of their life together smashed in a fit of rage that he thought himself incapable of- that Penelope saw and cried at. She was the one that bandaged his bloody knuckles and swept of the shards of glass and helped him into bed when his limbs had no strength left.

It was Penelope who dropped off banana bread and burnt lasagna and helped him mourn the loss of his child and then the loss of his love.

He wonders if he's always been this dramatic.

Then he realizes it doesn't matter.

Nothing really matters.

Case by case cycles by, new faces and new heartaches and new griefs and it's all he can do not to tear into his own chest at the end of the day. He looks forward to the long plane rides and the distant cities, the hotel rooms and places that don't instantly bring a picture of her face into his mind.

He could do without the whispers of his team- they care too much and are overly worried.

He's not going to relapse.

God, he hopes he doesn't relapse.

Hotch looks at him and he knows he understands, in some way, the pain he's feeling. Spencer doesn't know how the other man can do it everyday, put himself together and step into a life that's darker, pretending everything is still okay.

He's not okay.

But he's better.

His phone chimes-

Hey! I'm dragging Morgan to dinner downtown- you should come. Miss you.

Penelope. It's always Penelope these days. He's learned not to jump for his phone, to calm his sudden shaky hands whenever it chimes. It's never her. Never going to be.

He's gotten better at rereading their messages. He's gotten it down to a few times a week, instead of every hour of every day. He can't resit doing it now though, so he doesn't try to stop himself from pulling up their old text thread and the last message she wrote him.

I'm waiting for you. I love you. - He thinks about where she was when she wrote that message. Back home? California? Nepal? He has no clue. All he knows is that she's not here.

So of course he then has to listen to her voicemail because his mending heart is re-breaking and what's the point of trying to salvage what sanity he has left- he wants to feel the pain, it's the only thing that comforts him now.

He pulls up his voicemail, takes a breath and pushes play.

Spencer-

He closes his eyes immediately, her voice gets him every time.

Spence. I- well- I'm about to board. You're not here. You didn't come. I know why you didn't- I get it- I...

He hears the tears in her voice, hears the ache in the words and knows how much pain she must have been in- it mirrors his own.

Please forgive me. I couldn't do it anymore- couldn't be in that apartment and dream about everything that will never be. I just... oh, God, I know how that sounds. And thinking that one day you wouldn't come home- that you couldn't come home- that the two things in my life that mattered to me were ripped away- does that make me a coward?

He's on the floor, head on his knees and phone cradled to his ear, out of tears and out of joy and all in pain.

I keep thinking that I'll turn around and I'll see you- that you'll get on this damn plane with me and we can just start over. God please Spence- tell me you are on your way. Tell me you are coming for me... please. Please. Please.

For long moments there is nothing but silence except for the soft sound of her breathing.

And then-

You.. You didn't come.

A small sob from her that echoes around his brain like a constant drumming.

Goodbye Spencer.

And that's it- that's all there ever is. The sound of him letting her down one last time.