Author: crmnlynegligent
Title: Flashes of life
Rating: FRM / FRAO for later developments
Characters, Pairings: Reid-centric, Reid/OFC/OMC (mention), Reid/Hotch (TBA)
Warnings: Pre-slash, sexual references (this chapter); Graphic blood and mature language. Unbeta'd. Don't judge on character death yet.
Disclaimer: If I owned Criminal Minds this would be an episode. I don't though. So don't sue me – I have nothing of value. OC's are my own.

Summary: Spencer Reid hadn't expected to die. Not just yet anyway.

"The program for this evening is not new. You've seen this entertainment through and through. You've seen your birth, your life and death. You might recall all the rest. Did you have a good world when you died? Enough to base a movie on?" – Jim Morrison, An American Prayer

Spencer Reid hadn't expected to die.

Not just yet anyway.

He'd been dead before, though never confirmed nor declared legally. He'd stopped breathing on the floor of Tobias Hankel's musty cabin, an effect of the narcotics pushed violently into his bloodstream. He'd stopped breathing for sure, but Spencer never believed that he'd been clinically deceased. His brain certainly hadn't died – it takes several moments for neurons to stop firing – and he doubts that his heart even stopped. No, if he'd been in cardiac arrest then Hankel's unskilled attempts at revival would not have restarted his heart. Instead, the crude manner in which Hankel pressed his rough lips to Spencer's and inflated his lungs with rancid, acrid breath had only served to resume lung function.

So Spencer hadn't actually died, in any true physiological manner.

Until now.

Lying on the cold, concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, Spencer could feel the life slipping slowly out of his body. An effect, most likely, of the warm blood flowing freely from his wound.

The sensation was familiar. As the bullet sheared through his flesh he felt panic, then a twisted sense of exhilaration has the adrenalin kicked in. Relief soon followed – he'd been shot before, and this wasn't so bad. There was no shattering of bone, no crippling sensation in his limbs. He'd live through yet another trauma. Relief soon subsided when he came to the slow realization that he was alone, he was weak, and he was bleeding profusely from just above his Kevlar vest.

A trap. He'd walked... no - he'd ran. Right into a trap. The rifle taunted him from across the room – propped on a tripod and remotely triggered by his movement.

Clarity escaped him for a moment as he buckled to the floor. Had he told anyone where he was going? Would they find him? Did he remember to charge his phone battery?

The unsub had been caught. Morgan was bringing him in to the station while the others searched the property for the girls. Three girls. Sisters. Were they dead already, or was there still time to find them? Would the unsub confess, or wait the agents out and hope they'd never find bodies?

Reid knew. Alone in a small-town sheriff's office, Spencer figured out the unsub's secondary location. The isolated, abandoned warehouse where he had all the privacy and time in the world with his victims. And he'd ran straight to the SUV and drove off. Did he tell anyone? Did he call the team? No – he wouldn't have. The unsub worked alone, and they'd caught him. This was Spencer's chance to be a hero – to find the girls and bring them home and walk away with some pride after being left behind by the rest of them.

Did he tell them? Coughing up streaks of blood, Spencer's eidetic memory failed him. Surely he'd have told someone. Unless he thought he'd been wrong.

He felt his eyes closing of their own accord. Other senses should be heightened, but he only heard the rapid pounding of his heartbeat in his ears. There were no screams from the three girls he'd hoped were alive. There was no sound of any kind in this damp, dusty building. Just the thump thump thump of his heart and the raspy breaths coming more and more shallow.

He tried to reach his pocket for his phone. Had he done that already? Everything around him was wet. Was his phone wet too? There was no phone. Or there was, but Spencer couldn't feel it in his hands.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

His fingers feel oddly... not his own. They're cold, and a little numb, and he can tell they are still attached. But they don't feel like they belong. How long had it been since the bullet pierced the air? How long has he been bleeding? Surely someone's coming. Surely someone heard the shot.

Five miles from the nearest human being. Who would have heard it?

Thump. Thump. Thu...mp.

Spencer tried to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. How many times? How many times has he had near-misses? Certainly more than anyone else on the team. Certainly more than his fair share.

Not that he'd trade places with any of them. The gun was aimed high. High enough to kill anyone who entered that door. If he were four inches shorter the bullet would have pierced his skull. It wasn't meant for him. It was meant for someone else. The sheriff? He was quite a bit shorter. So were his deputies. If it had been Prentiss or Rossi or J.J. to go in first...

Well, it wasn't. There wasn't any sense in thinking about what-ifs. Nothing about the situation was going to change, not even in his mind.

Thump. Thump. Thu... *RING*

Spencer's phone. He could feel it ring. Hear it ring. It's working! He just need...

But he shouldn't have done that. The hand that reached for the phone was the only thing stopping the rest of his blood volume from dumping out of his neck. Reflexively, Spencer reached back to the hole and kept as much pressure as he could. The ringing continued.

He hoped they were looking for him. He hoped they wouldn't give up. He's not in the bathroom. He didn't run out for coffee. Look for the SUV. Please? Even though it felt hopeless, Spencer knew he needed to hold on to whatever he could.

Thump. Thu...mp. Thu...

People who have had near death experiences say that their lives "flashed before their eyes." Jumbled memories flooded their neurons in the final moments before their brain should have ceased functioning.

Spencer begged to differ. He wasn't flooded by memories of his childhood or parents. He wasn't filled with satisfaction about his achievements, or regrets over his losses. Instead, Spencer's mind remembered – clear as actual memories – things he'd never done.

He'd never kissed someone he loved.

His first kiss, When he'd been working on his second degree in University, was courtesy of a cute but drunken co-ed on campus. He'd been walking away from the library at a late hour when they quite literally collided. After some coaxing on his part, she'd agreed to let him walk her home. He'd tried to scare her with statistics of campus attacks on single, inebriated girls. But all it took was him holding out his hand and asking her politely to walk with him to her dorm. He got her to the front door when she leaned in against him and invited Spencer to her room. The next thing he knew her lips were pressed to his.

It was sloppy and wet and tasted of stale cigarettes and beer. Had it been romantic and pleasant he still wouldn't have taken her up on the offer. She was well beyond the ability to consent to anything, and she didn't even remember who he was when he said hello the next day. But he still walked a little taller because of it. He still grew a little confidence that night.

He wasn't prepared for his second kiss. He was shocked, and wet, and still in disbelief that a Hollywood starlet would be interested in him. It was far more pleasant, though he could taste the chlorine on his lips hours later. He imagined it would be similar to the taste of her tears when, moments later, she learned her friend had been killed.

The third person who kissed him was a friend. Late one night, sitting on the comfortable, worn-out sofa of Marc's loft while listening to soft Jazz music and sharing a bottle of brandy, Spencer felt at ease with the world. When Marc's lips met his the feeling of surprise was overpowered by a moment of boldness. He kissed back, hungrily pressing his soft lips to the stubble beside Marc's lips as they pulled away. Panic set in just then. Both men realized they'd crossed a line, and Marc's girlfriend had her key in the lock and the door opened before any words could be exchanged. Spencer graciously bowed out of the awkward moment, bid the girl farewell and never looked back on that moment. At least, not until now.

Only now, as Spencer feels the world slipping away drop at a time, he remembers another face in place of Marc's. Another man's lips on his. Another man's stubble scraping against his cheek. Another man's heart beating as loudly as his own. Another man who wasn't there. Another man he never kissed.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The pang of excruciating pain brought Spencer back to the present for an instant. His phone still rang loudly. He'd managed to retrieve it from his pocket he presumed, because now the vibrations of each ring were sending it skittering through the pool of blood ever so slowly. Just barely out of reach. Spencer wondered how long it could ring before the batteries were drained.

Laughter, cut off by choking sobs that racked his body. He couldn't feel his legs any longer, though he could move them ever-so-slightly if he put his mind to it. He managed to roll to his side somewhat. Better to let the blood flow out of the wound than to collect inside and slowly drown him, he thought to himself. Why was he laughing? He couldn't remember why.

Oh. That's right. He always thought he'd die a virgin. Morgan probably did to. He hopes Karen shows up at the funeral, just to put those rumours to rest.

Karen. Shit. He was supposed to call her this weekend. He supposes she'll realize what happened when he doesn't.

Spencer wasn't reliving his experiences in his near-death state, but he was starting to remember the better ones.

Karen was one of those rare people Spencer felt an instant connection with. The fact that they were neighbours in the same building never escaped her attention. She claimed it was fate that led them together. Spencer combated her mysticism with a healthy dose of statistics on the probability of two like-minded individuals meeting in a city that size. She shushed him and advised that he should "let me have my fantasy about finding a Kindred Spirit in this big, bad world." The way her long eyelashes were flickering over her icy blue eyes was adorably persuasive, so he complied.

It didn't take long for Karen to all but live in Spencer's apartment, and vice-versa. When they wanted to read and drink flavoured teas, she'd show up in her slippers and long black robe and they'd sit silently together for hours. When they wanted to watch Star Trek marathons or compare the three versions of Blade Runner in her Ultimate Box Set they'd fire up the cappuccino machine and park in front of her impressive big screen television, the surround sound cranked up so high the mice emigrated from the building en masse. He laid his head in her lap and she would pet his hair and tangle his curls. She propped her legs on his lap and he massaged the smooth skin. She was his perfect companion, and he was hers. No pressure, no strings, no expectations. They didn't talk about the cabin in Georgia, but she understood. They didn't talk about the glass vials, but she understood. She battled her own demons too, and he understood. They said more to each other without words than most people vocalize their whole lives.

The first time he asked her to the BAU Christmas party she politely declined. When he'd found out that she did nothing more than sit and bake shortbread cookies alone that night he didn't know whether to be offended at the snub, or grateful for the plate of sweets left on his kitchen counter for when he arrived home. When confronted some time later, Karen's only reply was "I spend hours letting you try to figure me out. I think I do pretty well keeping my secrets. But in a room with 'your kind' I don't think I'd fare as well." She punctuated her reply with a laugh and a shrug, and even the profiler in him couldn't tell if she was being serious. But there was sadness in her eyes that lasted just a little longer than normal.

When they finally kissed, it wasn't about fireworks or passion or unrequited love. It was about two people who seemed to belong together, doing what should have been done long before. She knew of Spencer's inexperience and wasn't troubled by it. Conversely, he'd known of her vast experiences – in the bedroom and in relationships – and wasn't threatened by it. They needed something from each other that the other had to give. And it wasn't awkward or confusing – it was natural and beautiful. Spencer opened up to her, and she moved heaven and earth to teach and please. She knew him better than anyone in his life – even himself – and knew what he needed and when. Whether it was a quick and hard fuck, a platonic hug, or a compassionate ear that needed no details to know how horrific things were, then to make him forget with tenderly placed kisses and soft, elegant strokes . So it was no surprise to him when he came home to find another man in her bed, and her offer of an experience she knew he'd wanted that she couldn't give. She'd known his desires better than he himself.

The next year, Karen took him up on his annual offer of attending the BAU Christmas party. Spencer never asked her what changed her mind about being in a room with profilers. But she handled like it a champ – or perhaps a little like a sociopath. She flirted with Derek (and Emily, to be fair), eluded questions about her relationship with Spencer (who had never mentioned her name to any of his team, not even his best friend), and flattered Rossi with her knowledge of his books and fine Italian wine. Once or twice she even managed to make Hotch smirk, and he might have even laughed with her - if anyone watched closely enough to see it. But she wouldn't let on how she managed that feat. Morgan cornered Spencer once during the evening and accused him of hiring an escort and prepping her with a dossier on everyone in attendance for the occasion. Spencer laughed it off, but deep down he knows that Morgan is still – to this day - certain he was right.

At the end of the night, when they arrived home at their apartment building, Karen kissed Spencer on the head at his door and looked him in the eyes. Just as he made a move to invite her inside, she pressed her hand to face and nuzzled into his neck.

"I always thought you were the perfect man for me, Spencer," she said, punctuating it with a gentle kiss to his chin. "But my perfect man wouldn't hesitate to go after what he wants."

Spencer had shrugged, oblivious to her insinuation. "Wha..."

"You'll figure it out, Spence. You always do." She stepped inside her apartment and kicked off her shoes, blowing him a kiss and winking at him before closing the door.

Six months later, as quickly as she'd come into his life, Karen was gone from it. Her career had transferred her to California, where she finally met (and would later marry) the perfect man for her. She didn't leave Spencer. He never once thought she'd abandoned him. She loved him and he loved her and they'd always care about each other deeply. But they weren't in love, and there was no pain involved for either of them because of the departure.

The day she moved, Spencer found an envelope slid under his door after work. The first of many long letters they would come to exchange; a laminated glossy photo fell from the pages as he read it. Not of her. Not of them together. But a simple, candid photo of Spencer smiling at her camera at the BAU party, and his boss, Aaron Hotchner, smiling at him. Spencer finally figured it out, and wondered how the hell Karen had known long before him. But she always did.

As he felt the pool of red, sticky liquid cooling around him he couldn't help but feel the revelation had been too late. He started to choke on a sob, trickles of blood bubbling around his lips.

Thump. Thump. Thump.