A/N: Warning for implied childhood sexual abuse, mentions of canonical torture, mentions of canonical drug use, and profanity.
The house is silent for the first time in weeks. Though Spencer knows he should be relieved, grateful that Mom and Dad have finally stopped yelling at each other, he's fearful of the sudden quiet. Dread has an icy grip on his lungs, making anything more than shallow breathing impossible, and his stomach churns as if he's going to be sick.
Making as little noise as possible, Spencer unlocks his bedroom door and creeps into the hallway. There's no sign of anyone else, and the door to Mom and Dad's room remains tightly closed from when Mom slammed it shut four hours, three minutes, and fifty-six seconds ago.
Still, Spencer keeps his footsteps soft and his mind alert as he ventures down the stairs. He knows it's safer for him to stay in his room with the door locked, but he has a horrible feeling that something is wrong. To put his mind at ease, he is compelled to check that everything is actually normal.
Dad isn't anywhere to be found in the downstairs, and Spencer decides to check the garage. It's empty, and the door is open, revealing his father's car, the trunk open, parked in the driveway.
Warily scanning the area, Spencer slowly walks forward, circling around the car. Steeling himself, he surges forward and whips around the car's side, forcing himself to look into the trunk.
Boxes. Cardboard boxes, filling the trunk near to capacity. Half of Spencer is relieved, half of him remains suspicious.
Approaching footsteps startle him, and Spencer nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees Dad approaching. Dad walks toward him, another carton in his arms, and that's when Spencer's mind makes the connection.
Dad moves past him to add this box to the pile, and Spencer cringes away from him, the air catching in his lungs as their bodies come within a breath of touching each other. Panic starts to flood his veins and tears rush to his eyes. The sun is bright in the sky, and cars glide through the streets of their neighborhood, but Spencer suddenly feels very vulnerable.
A choked sob wrenches its way out of Spencer's throat, and Dad looks at him directly for the first time as he pushes the trunk shut. He reaches out a hand, but Spencer flinches away.
He doesn't like it when Daddy touches him.
"Please," Spencer gasps out, warm tears trailing down his face, but even he himself is not certain what he's asking.
There's a sigh of impatience, exasperation, and then Dad is turning, walking, opening the driver's door. Spencer unconsciously backs onto the grass where the car wouldn't be able to hit him.
Dad slides in the seat, turns the ignition, and in seconds, has pulled his car out of the driveway. Time seems to become shorter and shorter as his car moves further and further away, as Spencer cries tears borne from both devastation and relief.
A week later, not even a month into his first year of high school, Harper Hillman lures him out to the football field, under the guise that Alexa Lisbon wants to talk to him. And Spencer is stupid to believe it, stupid to trust her. But he aches to believe there's a chance Alexa might really want to talk, that there's a chance he could be happy, could have friends.
He is wrong. He is so very wrong. And the football players tear off his clothes, the memories of his father coming into his room at night rush to the forefront of his mind. Every of moment of every previous instance replays in perfect detail in his mind as hands pull at him roughly, as knots tighten, cutting into his wrists.
In his naiveté, Spencer thinks this humiliation, this violation, is the worst he will ever have to face.
When Hankel comes along, he's proven wrong on that, too.
The worst part isn't his torture itself- it's the broadcast of his suffering to his team. It's humiliating for them to see him helpless. He might as well be that scared ten-year-old tied to the goalpost again.
Maybe they don't know it, but he's worked hard to prove himself to them, to show them that he's worth keeping around. When he's rattling off statistics and facts, he knows he's being a showoff and an annoyance. But he wants to demonstrate to them that he's worthwhile, even if only for his brain.
He sits in the chair, his hands useless. At this point he's too tired and drained to put up much of a fight anymore. The red light of the camera glares at him accusingly.
Once, in a desperate attempt to be normal, Spencer let the team think that he couldn't pick a lock. Out of despair to appear less pathetic, less like the freak everyone wanted to stuff into lockers and closets. For once in his life, not have the stigma of being an outsider, of being different.
The red light bores into him, and Spencer hopelessly wishes he could make himself disappear.
For a while after Hankel, everyone is overly nice around him. They're being cautious; they don't want to set him off. And yet, while everyone takes care to be extra friendly to him, no one ever offers to help him. To talk to him, to comfort him.
Due to procedure, he has weekly appointments with a Bureau shrink. Spencer supposes that's where he's intended to open up, to expose his innermost feelings, but he never manages to unlock those parts of himself. He's not comfortable, either, telling a stranger vivid details about his time with Tobias. It seems to intimate, too personal, to ever share.
Besides, there have already been too many voyeurs where his time with Tobias is concerned.
Once, Spencer makes the grave mistake of mentioning his father, and that's all his therapist needs to start badgering Spencer to reconnect with the man. Though he had been considering continuing his sessions after his mandatory duration was completed, Spencer writes off that idea completely when his therapist refuses to let go of the notion of Spencer and his father reuniting.
He has very little time off of work after Tobias. He's released from the hospital on a Thursday, and he's back at work the following Monday. No one seems to think this quick return is at all remarkable; no one suggests he shouldn't be in the field again so soon.
Gideon hovers every so often, asking, "How are you?" or "Are you all right?" None of them are sincere questions, because Gideon doesn't truly want an answer. Gideon is only asking because he wants Spencer to affirm that yes, he is all right; regardless of if it is accurate or honest response, such a response is satisfactory for Gideon. Because if Spencer says yes, Gideon has plausible deniability, can tell himself he made an effort, no matter how minuscule of an effort it was, and can congratulate himself for sparing a few seconds to inquire about a coworker's health. That is, if Spencer says yes.
Spencer, all too accustomed to telling others what they want to hear, does exactly that. Whatever helps Gideon sleep at night, no matter how deluded and self-enchanted the man may be.
More than ever, it's evident that the only pieces of Spencer that Gideon is concerned with are the pieces that validate Gideon. It's strange to consider that while he was the one who was tortured, who literally died while his teammates were completely incapable of helping him, and who then rescued himself from his torturer, Spencer, in the wake of his own trauma, is the one who needs to reassure and comfort Gideon.
In his lonelier moments, Spencer wishes someone could be there for him, to offer him comfort and security after what he went through with Tobias.