a/n: so this is a mix of angsty ideas thrown together. mentions of drug abuse. also, this is mostly linear, but watch out for time jumps.
to count for eternity
one.
...
Spencer Reid's head is spinning, and he can't make it stop.
This is a stupid stupid activity, he thinks, but he continues to put one hand above the other, move one foot above the next. Hand, foot, foot, hand, and if he concentrates really hard, the spinning slows down, just a little.
It shouldn't be this difficult, but he's this tall gangly human being with almost no upper body strength, and he distractedly hears her laughing below. High and clear, it sparkles, come on, Reid, nearly there now. She's pulling the rope, tighter and tighter, and he can feel the tension, can feel himself rising, and his head starts spinning even faster.
Almost there, Spencer! You can do it.
(And then suddenly, someone sneezes, a clap of thunder peals through the gym, there's a shriek of sound
and he lets go.)
There are days where he is five again, and he reads and reads and reads; curled up in his favourite armchair, in bed beneath the covers, aloud with his voice bouncing off the walls. He has always loved the idea of stories; truth and lies presented in complex and subtle layers, yet sound and accurate on superficial levels.
(he loves that stories are hidden.
no, that's not right. chracters are hidden.)
He holds onto the notion that all stories have ounces of inherent terror. Or maybe, this is how he's always seen it. Spencer Reid likes scary stories, likes the freaky and supernatural.
But sometimes, there are words he can't unsee, can't forget.
He's never been much of an unreliable narrator.
"Hey. Reid."
He pointedly ignores her, preferring to scribble down illegible words instead.
"Spence," she tries again, allowing a soft plea to enter. "Are you – "
"JJ, I'm fine. Really."
He knows that she knows that he isn't. He's really not going to say anything, though.
He still has his secrets to keep.
He feels the rough carpet scraping across his knee and elbows, but right now, he doesn't care. Impending, he can sense his lunch coming back up, and his eyes are red raw (from crying or tiredness, he doesn't know) and he lurches for the white ceramic bowl, grasping tightly onto the rim, and spills. Over and over, getting angrier each time. His throat is sandpaper, and once it stops, he takes huge gulping breaths, steadies himself, and glances at his reflection in the mirror.
And he has to look at himself, before he can open the door and reach behind for it. Twisted genius, he thinks.
The whole team called him out on it, all those years before, but only two of his closest friends (family) managed to get to him.
and they're both
gone
Another wave of tears hits him as he thumps, smashes, his hand against the mirror. His head bowed and frame shaking, he lets them run, lets the wetness soak in. His ears ring and his hand is red and bloody, and in one frantic movement, he reaches for the vials inside, grabs the needle, and sinks to the floor.
The track marks have long since faded, but the familiarity is shocking.
He's always hated pain.
JJ is persistent and he has to give her credit for that.
She's been coming by the bullpen more frequently since Emily died. This is how it usually works: she gets off the elevator, stares through the glass doors, and allows a wistful look to cross her face; spends half an hour with Garcia and her screens, just lounging, promises to go for lunch; half an hour in Hotch's office with the blinds slightly drawn, but he can see the tense outlines and the muted defeat in his body; another half an hour in the bullpen, where Morgan usually joins him and Ashley, catching up on whatever gossip she's missed and reminiscing with whatever story the rookie has missed (they usually feature Emily, and there are a lot of them).
And as JJ leaves, she squeezes his shoulder and stares him in the eye. (He can't quite keep the contact).
"Spencer, come over tonight, have dinner with Will and Henry and me," she offers softly.
Normal has always been a relative term for him, but this is as close as it gets for him, and he takes it.
Dinner happens, and he refuses to give in to the cravings, but it leaves him shaking. Will carries Henry to bed, and he collapses, relieved, onto her couch. She's not crying, but he is.
"JJ, I – I can't."
She pulls him close and whispers into his hair.
"I miss her too, Spence."
Aaron Hotchner is not the type to make lists of everything and nothing, and anything in between.
But he hugs Reid after they find him on Hankel's farm, and it might have been one of the simplest things he's ever done.
"Agent Reid, tell me what – "
"It's 'Doctor', actually."
The tweed-and-bowtie-wearing man in front of him blinks once, and waits for him to calm his nervous tapping.
"Okay. Doctor Reid, tell me what happened that morning."
He stays silent for the next hour, watching the clock tick over, before grabbing his bag and walking out.
Some days he wonders what it would be like if Emily didn't die, if JJ wasn't forced to leave, if Foyet didn't go after Hotch, if Mason Turner never pushed his brother off the roof, if Riley Jenkins was never murdered, if his father stayed, if Colorado never happened, if Morgan wasn't so blasé about running headlong into every explosion, if Rossi had solved Indianapolis twenty years ago, if people had understood Owen Savage, if Garcia hadn't needed the validation of a complete stranger, if Haley had never left Hotch, if Gideon still believed, if he never decided to run off without JJ, if they hadn't assumed Elle would be okay, if he didn't go into the FBI, if his mom wasn't schizophrenic, if he wasn't a genius.
He's always been fascinated by the idea of alternate universes.
He lies better now.
Or maybe it's because no-one's looking as hard, because it's easy to assume that he, just like everyone, is still dealing with it.
But this morning, his head is sluggish for his standards, his movements jerky, and he tries to read his pages but the lights are far too bright. He thinks he catches Morgan staring, wondering, but keeps his eyes glued to the page.
"Reid."
A low voice breaks his concentration, and he snarks back before his head snaps up angrily. "Morgan, I'm fine, okay?"
He stares into the eyes of his supervisor, before guiltily starting and mutters a faint apology.
"Sorry, Hotch, thought you were Morgan."
"Reid, take a day off. Get some rest, no arguments," he orders bluntly.
"Hotch, I'm fi – "
"No, you're not," he cuts in. "You look like you're about to fall over and your eyes are bloodshot. You can leave the reports for tomorrow. Get Morgan to drive you, or take a cab, just get some sleep. I need you awake and alert – we've got another case coming in the next few days."
His eyes harden and he wants to wipe the impassive look and professionalism from his face, and he's really not thinking straight when he fires back, out of nowhere. "Do you even miss her?"
The flash of intense pain on Hotch's face doesn't make him stop. If anything, it spurs him on.
"I mean, you're working like nothing's wrong. You're still the first one here and the last one to leave, you did our psych evaluations, Hotch! Who the hell did yours? She was your friend too, wasn't she? And we're leaving for another case tomorrow, god, did you even stop to think after the funeral?" His voice gets exponentially louder with each sentence, and he's irrationally lashing out, he knows, but he just doesn't care.
He furiously tosses his reports into his messenger bag and stumbles towards the glass door, avoiding the gazes of anyone (everyone). He feels the weight of the glass vial in his pocket, feels it burn through his slacks, knows he doesn't have to wait long.
And when the cool of the bathroom tiles greet him, he wonders if he's the only one who can't cope, who can't move on.
This time, they both sit in silence.
This is the fourth time that he's been in Mr. Tweed-and-Bowtie's office. He's already catalogued the different plants lining the window, figured out the artists of the oil paintings hanging from the walls.
"Doctor Reid, you're not wasting my time, but I hope you're not wasting your own," he says patiently, although with a slight ounce of frustration.
He looks up from his knees, and he can't argue with that, can't argue with time. His mouth is dry as he swallows.
"I can't," he whispers. "I just can't."
They solve that case, and another and another. The days blur into each other; he can still remember the most minute of details, but he finds it increasingly difficult to distinguish between one robotic day and another.
JJ still invites him over, and most nights, she sits side-by-side with him, holds his hand and waits for his cries to subside. He half-hopes that she can call him out on it, that she can straight-out just ask him. But she just lets him be, and he reasons that maybe she's still dealing, and we all have our demons, don't we?
It scares the fuck out of him when he gets home and sees Emily standing just outside his bathroom. He reaches forward desperately, to touch, to know.
A loud clang reverberates as the vial crashes to the floor, and he looks up, blinks dazedly, she disappears, and slides his hand up to his face to feel the wet sheen of tears.
He sits on the damp grass, not caring that the dew is seeping through his slacks. It's cold and uncomfortable and the edges of the headstone are rough and his finger traces over and over. The sun is too warm and he feels the tugging right from his chest, deep down, and it hurts so much to breathe.
"God, Hotch. I'm so sorry."