I'm so sorry.

Those were three words that Spencer Reid was coming to hate. It was all people seemed to be able to say to him lately. That one five letter word, in so many different sentences, like it suddenly made everything okay. Like it made it everything all right.

"I'm so sorry for your loss."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Reid, but there's nothing we can do."

"We tried everything. I'm sorry."

"I'm so sorry, Reid, by the time we got there—he was gone."

"We did everything we could, but the damage was too extensive. I'm sorry."

Over and over, all he heard were apologies from everyone. At least his father had dared to be honest with him. Spencer had found it almost refreshing to after the sorrow and pity in the faces of everyone else. When his father had walked into his hospital room, the fist to the face that he'd greeted Spencer with had felt almost good. It was the first honest, true thing that anyone had said or done around him since he'd woken up in this hospital bed with a tube down his throat. "This is your fault!" William screamed at him, fighting against the arms holding him, struggling as the BAU members that had been there tried to yank him back. "It's your fault she's dead! It should've been you!"

They were the truest words he'd heard. It should've been him. The Unsub that had taken his mother had done it only to draw Spencer out. To hurt him. And now she was dead. The guilt of that was something Spencer was going to live with for the rest of his life. Every scar he bore, every injury, a reminder of what he'd caused and what had happened because of him. None of it was enough. None of it would ever be enough. There was no one in Spencer's life who had ever mattered to him as much as his mother. They'd been through some hellish years together and it had created a bond between them. Losing her was a wound he knew he'd never fully recover from.

She hadn't deserved this. The Unsub had wanted to hurt Spencer and had used Diana to that end. He'd used her to draw Spencer out, taking her from Bennington and playing an awful, horrible game with Spencer, luring him to that final house, separating him from his team and getting him alone in there. And Spencer had gone. Against his reservations, he'd gone there without backup, without his friends, praying that he would be able to save her. That, between his FBI training and his mutation he might be able to somehow singlehandedly save her. That arrogance had cost his mother her life. It should've cost him his as well. That would've been right. Had the Unsub's aim been a hair more accurate, it would have. According to the doctors, the bullet had just missed his heart. His mother hadn't been so lucky.

Spencer didn't remember what came after those two fateful shots. He was told, later, that the Unsub had set fire to the house. There were vague memories that would later turn to nightmares; memories of fire, everywhere, and the heat. A blazing inferno that took his air and left him choking. People say it was a miracle that he got out of there at all. Firefighters found him and his mother just ten feet from the door. Apparently, he'd been trying to drag her out, trying to get them to help even as his life was bleeding out from him. They'd been rushed to the hospital but, for Diana, it had been too late. She was gone before they even arrived.

It should've been him. He knew that. He should've been the one to die in there, not her. Instead, she was gone, and he was left with injuries that would never let him forget.

The wound in his chest healed nicely. From that, the doctors foresaw no long term problems. But his throat…

The day the doctors told him about the damage in his throat, Spencer had only been able to think Not enough. It's not enough. Smoke inhalation, they told him. Previous scarring from a dangerous chemical—that was how his files listed it, a 'dangerous chemical', because any records of the anthrax incident were still kept quiet—all combined with the intubation tube that he'd been put on before they'd known better. Explanations that were flimsy excuses all given to explain away the simple fact that they weren't really sure what had caused it. All they were sure of was that the bright, loquacious Dr. Reid would never again speak. There'd been too much damage to his vocal chords. He lost his voice—and with it, his powers. Spencer's mutation had manifested in the form of what his mother called an 'empathic voice'. He'd had the ability to take emotions and literally infuse them into his words so that, if he pushed, he could make people feel things with just the sound of his voice. He used it often at the BAU, injecting calm into his words, talking down Unsubs who had no idea what he was doing. It was what he'd tried to do to the Unsub that night. Only, it hadn't worked. For some reason it hadn't worked. And now, he was left with this. His mother gone and his voice lost.

It's not enough. I deserve more.

It only seemed to make the pain worse when Spencer found out that the Unsub was still on the run and still hunting him. The third day after he was finally able to leave the ICU, a delivery of orange roses showed up with a balloon attacked that said "Get Well Soon!" and a small card that was signed with a smiley face and the promise to 'See ya soon!'

That was the moment that Spencer knew what he had to do.

There was no way he could let anyone suffer because of him again. No way that he could let someone here lose their life because of him. His mother had paid that price already. Who would be next? JJ? Emily? Derek? Aaron? Dave? Henry? No, no. There was no way that he could put them all at risk. No way that he could stay here where once more someone could be used against him to draw him out. Where someone might have to die for him. Spencer couldn't do it. So he began to plan.

Three weeks after being admitted to the hospital, Spencer was released to attend his mother's funeral. Silent and still, he sat in his best pressed suit amongst the crowd of mourners, surrounded by the support of his friends, and listened to words he didn't even fully register. All he could see was the sleek wooden coffin sitting up there on display. The pain that wrapped its way around his heart was worse than the gunshot he'd taken. It rippled through him, stole his breath away, and left him feeling like he could scream. Only, the sound never came. No matter how great the pain got the sound never came. And it never would, not ever again. He could only sit there silently in his grief. He couldn't go up and address the crowd, couldn't speak a word to bid goodbye to one of the most beautiful people he'd ever known. He couldn't thank any of the people who, once the service was done, came to him to offer their condolences. He couldn't tell them that he didn't deserve their kindness or their support. That he didn't deserve anything but their anger.

His father attended the service. He'd put it together while Spencer was in the hospital. Looking over, the young doctor watched as his father stood silently, a hand on the top of the casket, the grief on his face so open and out there, and it felt like the last little pieces of Spencer's heart broke.

Turning away from his friends, away from his loved ones, Spencer carefully made his way through the crowd. He ignored the voices around him, the bodies that jostled against his. He ignored all of it as he made his way to the back of the crowd.

As his friends called out his name, Spencer slipped down behind the wheel of his car, carefully shutting his door behind him. Then he looked up one last time. One last glance to the friends who meant everything to him, who were the only people he had left in the world. The only people left who mattered to him and who could make him feel.

With an ache in his heart, he turned the car on and pulled out of the parking lot. Then he drove away without ever once looking back.

One week later, his face was all over the news. His car was found abandoned at a motel in Las Vegas with his go-bag still inside, his bank accounts had been emptied, and he was nowhere to be found. Dr. Spencer Reid was gone.

Los Angeles was the first place he went to. It was a big city where he could easily get lost and where he could find the things that he needed. It took nothing at all for him to get new identification to back that up. A few shady places, a little bit of cash, and he walked away with an entire new identity. Dr. Reid was gone and in his place was simply Mr. Spencer Allen, 28 years old, single, only child, both parents deceased. Entirely alone in the world.

Just the way he wanted to be.

The Unsub wouldn't be able to come after him if he couldn't find him. He wouldn't be able to use Spencer's friends to draw him out if the whole world thought he was missing.

It wasn't that hard to change his look to hide. All he had to do was dump his regular clothes and hit up a Wal-Mart. Some new slacks, jeans, plain t-shirts. No button ups or vests in sight. A quick buzz with a razor took care of changing his look even more. His hair had never been this short before.

That was all it took to completely change the look of a person. When he looked in the mirror, Spencer no longer saw himself. He saw a stranger. A stranger with plain clothes that didn't do much to hide a too thin body. Even his face looked strange now. Scruff covered his chin in a light beard, just barely there, and a hint of a mustache. Shaving hadn't been his priority for a while. Without his long hair, though, it brought a lot of attention to his face, making it impossible to not notice just how wide his eyes were. Wide, and empty. No spark of life in there.

Spencer Allen turned away from the mirror and walked back to his motel bed to gather up his things. It was time to move on.

The first six months after Spencer left were sort of a blur. He sank low into a pit of depression that was deeper than anything he'd ever felt before. The loneliness and terror of starting college on his own, the grief of committing his mother, the pain that had come after his first kill at the Bureau, the mess that he'd been after events in Georgia and Tobias Hankel, none of those compared to this. Every day was an effort to get up out of bed. Food was a take-it-or-leave it kind of thing. He ate when he had to, when his body was absolutely screaming for sustenance. Otherwise, he tended to forget. He slept when his body was tired. Which was more often than not. In a better frame of mind that might've terrified him. All of this might've scared him.

He was too numb, though.

Each day he got up. Got up, gathered up the few things he had that were strewn about yet another nondescript little motel, pack it all in the car, and then he was back on the road. He didn't have a destination. Didn't really care where it was he was going so long as it was gone. Neither coast was much of an option. The west coast held Vegas and California and too many memories he wasn't ready to face. The east coast held the Bureau and friends that he'd walked away from and didn't think that he could bring himself to face. So he wandered between the two, driving from place to place, just hitting the road and not giving a damn which direction it took him so long as it was far from where he'd been.

Money wasn't an issue. The day he'd left, he'd taken out all the money he had. It now sat safely in Spencer Allen's bank account. It wasn't an insubstantial amount, either. After a childhood of low money and teenage years spent pinching every penny to pay for what the scholarships didn't cover and the bills his Mom had, Spencer had learned how to manage money well. Numbers had always been easy to him, anyways. All of that money he'd saved came in handy now. He didn't have to think about it at all as he went from place to place.

His life became one endless road broken only by the various motels, and the numbness that gripped him inside.

Some nights Spencer sat inside of one of his motel room with just the single light of a lamp and the smooth repetition of his gestures to soothe him as he repeatedly and meticulously cleaned his service weapon. He hadn't thought anything about bringing his gun along with him when he ran. He'd even made sure to get a permit for it when he got his new ID package.

He would spend hours sitting there cleaning it, taking it apart, putting it back together. Letting his hands run through the motions that Derek had so painstakingly showed him once upon a time. It'd been so difficult back then. Now—now it soothed him in a strange way he knew should be frightening and yet was somehow comforting.

He wondered if one day he might find the courage to load it and put it to use one last time.

Eight months had gone by and there was no longer any sign of Spencer in the news. No sign of his name or any suggestions of the search still going. Nor were there any stories about anything involving the rest of the team, except for occasional case footage. Spencer kept tabs on that. He lied to himself and said he was just making sure that the Unsub hadn't gone after his friends.

When he saw JJ on the news giving a press conference, her stomach round with child, he cried.

It was raining on the day that he met Remy LeBeau, just a little over a year since he'd left his old life behind. They'd joke about it together later, about the cliché of it all. At the time, the last thing Spencer had felt like doing was joking.

He'd left Denver a little over an hour ago, figuring he could get a little further before calling it a night, maybe make it over to Grand Junction. It was raining pretty steadily and that meant the roads were surprisingly clear, just the way he preferred them. It should've been an easy drive.

Of course, he hadn't counted on his car breaking down.

It happened about twenty minutes after he'd left behind the last little city whose name he hadn't even bothered to learn. Hell, he hadn't done more than barely glance at the map when he'd left Denver. Once, that would've been enough to memorize it, to be able to pull it up now in his head and easily calculate the distance from where he was to the nearest town where he might be able to get help. But it'd been a while since Spencer had cared enough about anything to really pay attention and retain it. He moved through most of his life in a blurry fog, not really interacting with the outside world and not letting it touch him. He just coasted along. Right up until that cold October night in Colorado when his car refused to start back up and nothing he did would get it to go.

With the road empty, just sitting here and waiting for help wasn't all that viable of an option. Spencer finally decided on doing the only thing he could do. Grabbing the rucksack that he'd found at a Goodwill, which held all his belongings in the world, he slung it carefully over his shoulder with only a small wince at the pull on his chest. Then, flipping up his collar and buttoning his canvas jacket shut, he left behind the car and set off down the road. The last city hadn't been that far back—had it? He could make it. Better than sitting in the car freezing all night long. The ache in his healed over wound, an ever present companion as it got into the colder months, grew a little more at the steady pressure of his bag's weight and was echoed by the ache inside that never quite went away no matter how numb he felt.

The rain was like ice against his skin. It soaked into him and numbed him in an even deeper way than his depression had. Ironically, as the frozen feeling spread on his outsides, it seemed to thaw on his insides. On that dark highway, alone and drenched and at his very lowest since he'd first run away, part of Spencer that had been locked away finally broke free. The hard, solid knot of grief that had sat in him, choking him, devouring him, now spread through him. He didn't even realize at first that he was crying as he walked. The rain hid any sign of the tears that dripped down his cheeks.

A loose rock cause Spencer to stumble. He hit his knees on the side of the road with a thud, one hand darting out to catch him from falling further while the other held against the sharp pain in his chest as still healing muscles screamed their protest. Suddenly, the weight of it all just seemed too much. Too much to push back up and get back to his feet. Too much to get up and move and keep on walking, keep on moving. Too much to keep pretending each and every day that he was alive and okay.

Was this what his life had become? Was this what he'd turned into? Some pathetic nobody kneeling at the edge of a dark, empty highway, with nothing to his name and no one to call home? Had he really let the Unsub turn him into this?

In a way, Diana Reid hadn't been the only one to die in that house. Spencer had died back there with her. Only, his body hadn't quite caught the memo yet.

He didn't see the headlights until they passed directly over him. He did, however, hear the sound of gravel as a car pulled to the side of the road somewhere behind him. There was a voice inside of Spencer that whispered that he should get up. How many murder victims had he seen over the years that were just left lying on the side of the highway, or victims who'd been abducted while walking or hitchhiking alone? But he didn't move. He knelt there, the rain pouring down on him, and did absolutely nothing as he listened to someone come rushing towards him.

"Monsieur?" A voice called out, growing louder as it drew closer. "Monsieur, are y' all right?" The gravel nearby shifted and suddenly Spencer could see long legs at his side, wrapped in dark jeans that were quickly getting wet. There was the movement of something, what he thought to be the tails of a long raincoat or trench coat, and then those legs were bending and the person was squatting down in front of him. A hand settled on his shoulder and Spencer couldn't help how he flinched from it. His reaction had the had quickly drawing back. The man didn't leave, though. He stayed squatting there in front of him, elbows going to rest on his thighs and his hands dangling down between his knees. "Monsieur," The voice said again, and this close Spencer could hear that it wasn't thick with a regular French accent, but with the sounds of the South, the slow and heavy cadence that he'd heard in JJ's partner Will, only thicker, rougher, and just a bit huskier. "M' name's Remy. Are y' hurt? Do y' need an ambulance?"

Spencer stirred enough to shake his head no in answer to that one. No, he didn't need an ambulance. He didn't want to go to a hospital. That was the last place he wanted to be. He'd had enough of those to last him a lifetime.

He could only imagine how he looked to this stranger. Kneeling, hunched over in the rain on the side of a dark highway with a bag on his back. He probably looked insane. Or like some lost, terrified teenager. Even with his facial hair he knew he looked younger than his years. One of the last few towns he'd stopped in, the woman at the diner had clearly thought he was a young college student. What must this guy think now as he stared at him? A hysterical laugh bubbled silently up Spencer's throat. The loss of his voice, he'd discovered, had meant the loss of other sounds as well. Nothing came past his lips as he bowed over even more and shook with what even he wasn't sure was laughter or sobs.

This time, when the hand touched his shoulder, it didn't pull away at his flinch. It rubbed there for a second before sliding down his bicep to curl over his elbow. "C'mon, homme. Let's get y' off de side of de road. No one should be out wandering in weather like dis."

Spencer had no excuse for why he let this Remy character help him up to his feet or for why he followed him as, with careful hands, the man led him down to a car. The old Spencer never would've dared to get into the car of a strange man. But this Spencer didn't even blink. He let Remy lead him up to a car door and then carefully help him to settle down into the seat. He even let him take his bag so it could be tossed into the trunk. As soon as the door was shut, Spencer drew his knees up to his chest and curled in on himself, burying his face in his knees to hide his tears.

His rescuer said nothing. Just got behind the wheel and pulled the car back out onto the road, making a quick U-turn and heading in the direction that Spencer had been walking. It didn't occur to Spencer to ask where they were going. Why would he? What did it matter? One place was as good as the next.

They'd barely been driving before they reached town. Part of Spencer's brain absently noted that he hadn't had much further to walk. The rest of him felt too exhausted to care. He couldn't even muster up any form of concern when Remy pulled the car into the parking lot of a little no-tell motel. When they parked, the guy turned to look at him, seemingly hesitating before he said "I'm gonna go grab us a room. Y'r drenched and y' look like y' need somewhere warm and dry. Y' aint gotta stay, and if y' do dere aint no strings attached to dis. Just a warm bed, a shower, and a chance to get dry. Y' can leave if y' want, or y' can wait here till I get back with de keys."

What prompted him to stay, Spencer didn't know. He should've left. Now that he was in town, he should've grabbed his bag and left. He had money to get his own room with.

He was still sitting there when Remy returned.

Once more gentle hands helped Spencer to move. They got him up and out of the car without him having to unwrap his arms from around his waist and they helped him to navigate his way inside of the little motel room. With Remy still guiding him, they passed by the two beds and straight to the bathroom. Only when they were in the little room did Remy let go of him. "Here, cher. Go on an get y'rself a shower, get warm. I'll bring y'r stuff in and bring y' in somet'ing dry to put on afterwards. Y'll feel better once y' warm up some." Remy suggested, before slipping out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Yeah, right. Spencer couldn't remember the last time he'd really felt warm.

His movements were slow, almost mechanical, as he shed his jacket and kicked off his shoes. It wasn't until he'd pulled his t-shirt over his head and dropped it to the side that he finally seemed to wake up a little. He'd turned just enough that his gaze finally snagged the mirror. Once he caught sight of his reflection, he froze, unable to move, barely even able to breathe.

Where had Spencer gone? The man in the mirror looked like such a stranger. The last time that Spencer had really looked in the mirror had been, God, months ago. Way back when he'd first shaved his hair off. It was still short now; keeping it like that was easier than trying to maintain anything. His scruff had grown unrulier than he'd ever let it get. But those were barely noticeable at all. His eyes drew all the attention. They looked wider than normal and he could see the pain inside echoed in their depths.

He'd known that he was getting slender. Forgetting to eat will do that. But he could stand there and count his ribs in his reflection.

It was his chest, though, that truly caught his attention. The starburst scar that sat on the right side, plus the long line down his chest where they'd been forced to open him up to repair the damage that had almost killed him. It was a stark reminder that he shouldn't be here. That he should be far, far away from anyone and everyone. Being alone meant less likelihood of anyone ever finding him. Being around people, making friends, it meant that you started to care, and once you started to care, not only you got hurt, but so could they. Yet even knowing that, here he was, standing half dressed in a motel room bathroom with some stranger who had just happened to be driving past him tonight. What the hell was he doing?

His mother had given her life for him. This was how he repaid her? This was what he did with her gift?

Spencer didn't even realize that the tears had started once more. It was the first time he'd truly stopped to look at himself since he'd left.

Shame coiling in his gut, he forcibly turned himself away and went to the shower.

He found clothes waiting on the counter when he got out. A pair of sweats and a long sleeved shirt that didn't look to be his. Mentally he shrugged before putting them on.

After dressing himself in them, he made his way back out to the main room, feeling only slightly steadier than before. His companion was out there waiting for him, stretched out on the bed nearest the door, his long legs extended and a book in his hands. It was the first real look that Spencer got of him. Just a hint of the old profiler in him slipped out, reading the relaxation that was just a bit forced in the long lines of that lean yet muscled body. Remy had stripped himself down to just jeans and a tank top before laying himself out. Auburn hair was pulled back into a messy half-ponytail and sunglasses hid his eyes. There was just a hint of them as they flashed up towards him when he came in, a peek of red and black, and then Remy was turning his whole face up and smiling at him.

The shower had helped to wake Spencer up and bring his brain back towards some sort of alertness. Enough that he was finally starting to question just what was going on here and why this man was helping him. He'd said in the car that he didn't expect anything but life had taught Spencer that that was rarely true.

Months spent in and out of motels like these gave Spencer a pretty good understanding of how they were set up. He found the pencil and notepad over by the phone, same as they were in every other motel up and down these highways. Remy said nothing as Spencer stood there and wrote down a message and then brought it over to him. While Spencer sat himself on the edge of the other bed, Remy read what he'd written down.

What did you bring me here?

Remy held the notebook back out to Spencer and if his sunglasses hadn't been in the way, their gazes would've met head on. "I just wanna help y', cher."

Why? He held the notebook up this time so that the one word was visible.

Remy looked down at the slip of paper briefly and then back up to Spencer's face. This time, his expression was soft and so full of understanding and sympathy. "Because when Remy needed de hand, dere wasn't no one dere, and he can't just stand by and watch it happen to someone else without trying to help." The skepticism must've show on Spencer's face because Remy let out a low laugh. Turning himself, he crossed his legs and tucked his feet underneath himself before dropping his elbows onto his knees and letting his hands dangle. His sunglasses slid down, giving Spencer a clearer look at the red and black eyes that had been hidden behind them. There was warmth there that actually reached out to Spencer. "I know it's hard to believe, cher, mais I meant it when I told y', dere aint on strings attached to dis. Y'r more dan welcome to leave any time y' like." His lips twitched and a hint of an impish personality peeked out. "T'ough it'd be nice if y' told Remy y'r name."

There was a moment's hesitation on Spencer's part. His mind ran over so many ways he could answer that, over whether he wanted to answer that, before he made his decision.

Spencer Allen, he wrote on the paper. Holding it up, he tapped a finger over his first name and then lifted his right hand and showed Remy the thing he hadn't shared with anyone else, the name sign he'd been given by the deaf therapist he'd had at the hospital who had tried to show him how to sign so he could communicate without his voice. Name signs were traditionally a letter or a trait about the person that represented them. They're not made up by the person, but gifted to them by someone in the deaf community, generally. She had given him a combination sign. She took the sign for shy—hand shape in the 'bent hand' position, the back of your fingertips against your cheek and then twist forward slightly, head dipping down a little to show 'shy'—and she personalized it by shaping her hand to form the sign for 's' instead of using the bent hand position.

The smile that Remy gave him was wide and bright. He lifted one hand, mimicking Spencer's gesture almost perfectly, at the same time that he said "Spencer." At Spencer's nod, he looked pleased. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet y', Spencer Allen. M' names Remy. Remy LeBeau."

It's nice to meet you too. Spencer wrote. Holding it up, he looked over at Remy and, for the first time in a year, Spencer smiled. It was small, just barely ghosting over his lips, but there.

Would you guys be interested in seeing a longer story where the two slowly come together? Or would you be interested in my original plan, which was a five year jump into the future where they're together, settled (maybe even with a family) and his past and present collide?