1 | TREPIDATION. [SPENCER REID]

EPILOGUE.

EPILOGUE ; OF LIFE AND DEATH.

Death is not something to be romanticized.

It is not beautiful, it is not poetic, it is not romantic. Death simply cannot be described in that way. There is no 'beautiful death'. No doctor tells the awaiting family that their loved one 'died poetically'.

Death is brutal. It is unforgiving, it does not discriminate. The deceased's missing presence is excruciating.

Death was no stranger to the members of the Behavior Analysis Unit of the FBI.

They dealt with it daily. It was their job description. Each had member battled death in someway. It wasn't a foreign concept.

But, when they received the news about Quinn Carson, it seemed as though the concept of death was reintroduced to them.

Quinn Carson's heartbeat ceased at two twenty-eight in the morning. It was a Tuesday. The torture, the hallucinogens and the blood loss had become too much for her.

On the same day, at two thirty-four in the morning, the team by a solemn doctor, grief gracing his features. The man didn't need to say anything. They all knew.

At two thirty-five in the morning, Spencer Reid released a cry of anguish. Jennifer Jareau wrapped her arms around his shoulders, letting the man sob into her shoulder, letting a tear fall down her cheek. Derek Morgan slammed his fist against the wall, storming out of the hospital waiting area. Kate Callahan felt her heart drop into her stomach, placing a hand over her mouth and shaking her head in disbelief. David Rossi followed Derek out, but the tears in his eyes did not go unnoticed. Aaron Hotchner slipped out of her hospital room, jaw clenched before he released a heavy sigh, putting on a strong face for his team.

Her funeral was at eleven in the morning. It was a Friday. It was a small service. The team carried the casket, thunder rumbling above them, predicting the oncoming storm that was to hit.

Spencer Reid returned to Quantico to gather his belongings briefly at seven thirty at night. It was a Sunday. He did not speak to anyone, ignoring the whispers that lingered as he passed. In and out, he told himself. Nothing more, nothing less.

It was seven thirty-two when he noticed the navy blue cardigan on his desk. His breath caught in his throat as he saw it. This was the sweater he had let Quinn have.

"It was left in her desk," a voice said, Spencer's gaze flicking to his right. Hotch let out a small sigh, glancing at the clock. It was seven thirty-four. "I-I, uh, we didn't know what to..." Aaron trailed off, unsure of how speak to him. Spencer simply nodded, inhaling sharply. "Goodnight, Reid. Get some sleep."

The genius didn't reply. Hotch shut his eyes, then stepped back into his office. It was seven thirty-five.

Spencer clenched his jaw as he looked down at the fabric. He didn't cry. He couldn't. It seemed pointless now.

It was seven thirty-six when he grabbed the sweater and held it in his hands. His brow furrowed as he heard a soft crinkling sound.

And it was seven thirty-seven when Spencer Reid searched through the sweater to find a creased piece of paper enveloped in the navy sleeve. He unfolded the note, letting his eyes scan the two words on the note, etched in Quinn Carson's handwriting.

GREEN LIGHT.

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