Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
He had dealt with a schizophrenic mother for the majority of his life without the help of his wayward father. He had been killed, tortured, bullied and beaten, but he wasn't weak. Sure, for a while he had depended on dilaudid to get through the days, but he pulled himself through. Alone.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
The death of his friend, his family, had hit him hard, of course. He had grieved for Emily Prentiss, mourned her and cried over his loss, his team's loss. The time she had lost, the things that she'd never get to experience had kept him up at night and he found himself turning up on JJ's door in the middle of the night, swollen eyes and non-stopping tears for months on end.
The death of his friend had hit him hard, but none of it hurt him half as much as knowing that he had been lied to. Betrayed by the ones he loved, the team he was supposed to be able to trust.
On the night of the day he'd found out the truth, Spencer had fond himself alone in his apartment, the small bottle of lovely disgusting fluid perched on the floor in front of him and a tie wrapped around his forearm.
His awkwardly long, pyjama clad legs were folded beneath himself, his hands fluttering nervously just above them.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak, but he was in pain. He was hurting.
"What if I had started using dilaudid again? Would you have let me?"
It rung through his mind like a bell, bouncing off the sides of his skull and echoing relentlessly. Guilt ate at him alongside the anger and hurt, and he found he couldn't bring himself to regret saying it. What if he had? What if he did?
Temptation bubbled underneath his skin, the craving still there despite all of the years he had been without the stuff.
He knew then that he needed help again. That he should call somebody, even if they were all at Rossi's. Derek. Penelope, maybe. Someone who cared for him. Somebody who wouldn't lie to him like JJ and Hotch had.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
Sometimes, he just needed to escape. His job took a toll on him, all the things he'd seen. The things he'd done. Two people had been killed because of him. He had helped a man play god, deciding who died and who lived. He had killed people directly and indirectly, bad and good.
He couldn't help himself.
He reached forwards, the thing fingers of his left hand curling around the glass jar whilst the right clutched a syringe.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
The needle pierced the thin foil layer across the top of the jar.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
He tapped it, squirting a little out to remove any air bubbles.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
He readied himself before pushing the needle through his skin, plunging down and releasing the drug into his system.
Spencer Reid wasn't weak.
Peaceful bliss consumed him, and for a moment everything was okay.
SPENCER REID WASN'T WEAK.