He was wearing a cardigan.
He always wore that same cardigan, soft, blended wool that wrapped snugly around his arms.
His muscles ached that day, from sprinting around the track, lactic acid. Derek had caught him stretching.
It had seemed important to hide that from him, to protect their pride.
He was wearing a cardigan that day, his vest over it to protect him.
Protection. What a joke.
As it turns out, Kevlar is pretty useless against anything but bullets.
He'd been leant over the bed, untying the victim, the snarling, foaming, raging victim who'd been struggling against the restraints.
Maybe they should have left him strapped to the sorry excuse for a bed, until the medics arrived, to protect themselves. But something had seemed so inhumane about leaving the victim strapped down whilst they led the unsub into the cool night.
It wasn't his fault that a virus was raging through his brain. It wasn't his fault that he was salivating uncontrollably, snapping at the team, that madness was spewing through his brain.
Even when he felt his wrist being grazed, even when the victim bit clean through the skin, the sound reminiscent of breaking into an apple core, Spencer still didn't blame the victim.
He stilled, as the noise silenced the room, the noise of teeth cutting through skin and his soft outcry of pain, wrapping the room in a blanket of silence, of fear.
His mouth opened a little, frozen in the exact same place, feeling the blood beginning to reach the shocked tissue.
Hotch, always the strongest, the leader, broke through the dizzying shock-induced haze first, wrapping strong arms around his waist, pulling him away.
Derek and Blake were outside, free of the atmosphere, dragging the unsub away.
JJ's eyes were burning through his skin. Hotch was still dragging him, despite there already being sufficient distance between Spencer and the victim.
If it were possible to hear the first blood spatter tumble onto the floor, that's what he would have described.
But it was physiologically impossible, because the victim was still snarling, Hotch was talking, JJ was yelling for the medics…
He was frozen.
Hotch was talking…?
"Reid!"
It was as though it was happening in slow motion.
He could feel the blood dripping down his arm, see Hotch's lips moving, speeding up the more he blinked, the faster he opened and closed his mouth, looking for words to wrap himself in, and, for the first time, being unable to find any.
He needed to say something, but all he could taste was disbelief.
When Derek jogged back down the stairs, the atmosphere was so sharp, it almost made him bleed.
The first thing he noticed was Hotch, his mouth pressed into a straight line, his fingers fumbling uselessly near his gun.
The next thing he noticed was JJ, staring at something he couldn't see, one arm wrapped around her waist, one hand wrapped around her elbow, stroking the skin.
He took another step, footsteps echoing off the concrete, to find Rossi, knelt on the floor, holding Reid's arm.
His next few steps were a little quicker, questions dying and re-forming on his lips as quickly as he blinked.
The last thing he noticed was the look on Reid's face, as he sat there on the floor, a disbelief so profound, so large, that it was almost laughable. His eyes, darkened from the lack of natural light, were empty, as he stared into space, seemingly oblivious to Rossi rolling up his sleeve.
When he saw the burgundy teeth marks, marring the pale skin of Reid's forearm, red blood trickling to hide protruding, almost neon-blue veins, his eyes snapped to the victim, the snarling, crazed victim half-tied to the bed.
The smears of blood across his cheeks were enough for him to close his mouth.
He stepped forward again, and clapped two hands down on Reid's shoulders, squatting down so that they could be on eye level.
Reid's eyes snapped back to meet his, the haze clearing.
"It's gonna be okay, kid." Derek forced himself to say, his voice rough, watching the corner of Spencer's mouth twitch.
"I wish I could believe that." he murmured back, quietly, and Derek waited for the useless statistics to come hurling out of Spencer's mouth, but they never did. All he got was a blank stare, as the blood continued to drip from the bite wound on his wrist.