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Sunlight filtered through the window casting deep shadows on old cabin floors. Everything inside was still, and it was almost peaceful. Spencer continued to pack miscellaneous items into boxes, bird figurines, paintings, books, and kitchen utensils alike. He stripped the house of its identity. A week ago they had solved the case, and a week ago was when he called Stephen Gideon to claim the cabin.
He had hung up as soon as Spencer said his father’s name.
Instead, he called again and left a shaky voicemail informing Jason’s next of kin that he, in fact, was dead. Despite his efforts Stephen never responded. So now, technically, the cabin belonged to the state- but Reid didn’t care. He lied through his teeth, claiming that the quant house was under FBI jurisdiction for collecting evidence. Hotch never called him out on it.
So here he was, packing a dead man’s things away as his dog watched him with sad eyes. At first the team hadn’t known there was an animal on the property, but Spencer found her in a small shed turned dog house near the edge of the woods. (She had attacked him at first and only calmed down after he climbed on his car and sat with her for an hour, only then realizing he wasn’t a threat). The leather collar around her neck read Canary, and she was a large Dutch Shepherd obviously trained to guard. For Gideon it was fitting, to name such a fearsome animal after a delicate bird. It made him forget the sorrowful situation he was in and smile, but reality weighed in and he had to get back to work.
The kitchen is what he cleaned out first, taking all of the perishables and throwing them in the many trash bags he had brought along. He only kept the food that would sustain him throughout his job- which wasn’t much. Next was the bedroom. Spencer felt invasive, cleaning out someone’s sanctuary like this. He could still smell the sandalwood and old spice cologne on all of the clothing that he packed up to donate, and it brought fresh tears to his eyes. If he closed his eyes he could almost hear the man himself talking or even rarely laughing. Just like that he was gone, and just like that he went through every room in the house, taking any personal items and packing them away to be sent to god knows where. He continued until all that was left was the skeleton of furniture against peeling wallpaper, and a library tucked into the corner of the living room and the ghost of life. Most of the books were nature guides, birds, plants, trees, and hiking trail atlases. There were classics like Old Yeller and Where the Red Fern Grows, but what caught his eye was the leather-backed and hand sewn scrapbook. Spencer took it out and opened the page to find a plethora of pictures and mementos.
What greeted him first was an old instant film with what looked like a young Jason standing next to a woman holding a baby. The caption next to it read ‘Stephen and Sarah 1992 “When love is in excess, it brings a man no honor nor worthiness” - Euripides.’ Spencer traced the photograph with light fingers as he continued through the pages. Ticket stubs, pressed leaves, letters, and more pictures filled the brittle paper to the brim. An old photograph of the first BAU, the headlines of Gideon’s first case. Letters from friends long gone, and memories trapped between paper and press. Each item had a quote scrawled next to it in Gideon’s messy handwriting and he felt himself slowly lose track of time as he continued to read, trying to fill the gaping hole in his heart.
“Birds sing after a storm; why shouldn’t people feel as free to delight in whatever sunlight remains to them?” - Rose Kennedy
“All is riddle, and the key to a riddle is another riddle” - Emerson
“The question sometimes drives me hazy: am I or the others crazy?” - Albert Einstein
“Nothing is so common as the wish to be remarkable” - Shakespear
“Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves first.” - Confucius
“What we do for ourselves dies with us. What we do for others and the world remains and is immortal.” - Albert Pine
“We are so accustomed to disguise ourselves to others that in the end we become disguised to ourselves.” - François de la Rochefoucauld
“In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.” - George Orwell
He pauses at the last page. Spencer stared at the picture of himself in front of a chess set- Gideon’s chess set- on the jet. It had been the first time he won a game against the man and he was beaming ear to ear in the grainy photo with obvious pride. It startled him, to see his own face in something so personal. With how easily Gideon left, Spencer was lead to believe he meant nothing .
‘Spencer 2005. My biggest success, and my biggest regret.’
Spencer stared at the page for twenty minutes until the paper was bathed in the red of the dying sun and birdsong ceased. Canary settled down for the night as he just sat there and stared. Crickets began to chirp and owls hooted as dusk approached, and when the last of the sunlight fell was when he let the tears come. Loud sobs ripping through his throat as he cried out to a god he didn’t believe in. Why, why him? It could have been anyone, but Gideon chose him. It all came rushing back. The admiration, the strife to make him proud. Feeling as if someone cared, actually cared enough to mentor him. Gideon never treated him like a freak, to him he was an asset- a son. Gideon believed in him, why?
But dead men can’t speak, and he will never know.