reid

It is nighttime in Quantico, and Spencer Reid is pretty sure he has been dying for half an hour.

He'd known it was coming, of course—he had shot up for the last time a few hours ago, a farewell of sorts—so he had made sure to position himself where he thought he'd be most safe when it first started, surrounding himself with pillows, blankets, fluffy things to lower the possibility of visible bruises. He hasn't moved of his own accord since, but the tremors that have been randomly wracking his body have shifted him a few inches and, in a blessed second of release, he can see into the small space under his couch. It's filthy—fast food wrappers, empty syringes with dirty needles, dust piled almost high enough for him to make mini sculptures with if he wanted to. He'd run a vacuum through the apartment haphazardly a few times in the past month or so, but he hadn't cared enough to get into the hard-to-reach places. Time spent cleaning was time he could have spent getting high, and most of the time, he had decided the cleaning could wait.

When five minutes pass and Spencer has been still for all of them, he gets up tentatively and walks on wobbly legs to the fridge, uncapping a water bottle slowly and taking a sip. Mentally he runs through everything he knows about drug withdrawals, specifically those related to sub-species of morphine: severe anxiety, insomnia, profuse sweating, muscle spasms, chills, shivering, tremors, restlessness, yawning, gooseflesh, restless sleep, irritability, weakness, severe backaches, abdominal and leg pains and cramps, hot and cold flashes, nausea, anorexia, vomiting, intestinal pain, repetitive sneezing, and increase in body temperature, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and heart rate.

Symptoms usually last seven to ten days.

So far Spencer has only spent personal time with the spasms and tremors, but he knows it is only a matter of time before the others come to visit, and they have plenty of time to do it. He isn't scared yet, just desperate—the craving for the drug is so intense he feels like a man possessed, like someone could reach into him and pull out a whole other person, a sadistic son of a bitch who wants nothing more than to once again see the self-loathing, utterly dependent Spencer he has been living with for weeks. On this thought he makes a split second decision and fumbles for his cell phone in his pockets, flipping it open and dialing a number with trembling fingers. She won't be happy with him, he knows—they agreed that ending things was best for everyone involved. She'll probably refuse to do him any favors. But Spencer is hot and cold all at once and he feels a dull ache beginning to throb in his thighs and she is the only person he knows that will understand how to give him the help he needs. He takes a deep breath as it rings, trying to sound a little less panicked. There's no need to alarm her—it's late.

"Farber." Her voice falls in his ear, warm and smooth and just a little bit sleepy, and he thinks he smiles.

"Hey."

"Is everything okay, Reid? It's late."

"Not…not exactly. I, uh, I need to ask you a favor."

"What is it?"

"I need you to come over."

There is silence on her end for a long time, so long Spencer is afraid she has hung up, but then she speaks and it's considerably less warm, sharpened around the edges. "Reid, is this….a booty call? Because you and I agreed—"

"No, no, nothing like that. I don't…I don't even really know what a booty call is." He takes another breath, tries not to remember what she felt like against him. That's not what he's calling her for. Focus. "I'm trying to stop using, but I'm in a lot of pain and I'm afraid I'll break. More than 50 percent of addicts relapse—"

"Get to the point, Reid."

"Right. I know we have work in the morning, but you're the only one I've told about the Dilaudid. I know they all know anyway, but I don't want to have to deal with the questions. I'm not ready for that yet."

"Reid, I…."

"Please, Olivia." He hasn't called her by her first name since the last time they kissed.

She sighs. "I'm on my way. Don't do anything stupid until I can get there." She hangs up before he can express his gratitude. He tries not to grin. She's reluctant, but she's coming. Finally there will be more sounds in the apartment than just his own breathing and Tobias' voices in his ear, more smells than the scent of the cemetery he still can't seem to pry out of his nose when it is nighttime and he's supposed to be sleeping. She is his first step to recovery.

The pain in his legs has intensified pretty badly, so he slumps to the floor and leans his head against the wooden cabinet, trying his best to control his breathing. By the time she knocks, he's not sure if he can stand. He uses the countertop to pull himself up and hobbles to the door. "Thanks for coming."

She seems concerned despite herself—she is good at hiding her emotions, but Spencer has been a profiler for a long time, and there's not much he can't read about her. He tries not to let himself enjoy it. "You look like hell." She steps in and drops her purse and coat in the corner. "How long have you been having withdrawal symptoms?"

"Not long, as to be expected. Generally it starts about five hours after the last time you shoot up. I timed it pretty well." He looks her up and down, notices for the first time how long her dark hair has gotten, wonders how long the tips have been blonde. He shakes his head. Apparently his observation skills have been worse than he thought they were lately. "It's good to see you."

"We see each other every day, Reid."

"Yeah, but we see each other over pictures of dead bodies and rape victims. I don't think we've had a conversation that wasn't about victimology or the MO of an unsub since—" he trails off awkwardly. Since we broke up. She looks away, her jaw working.

"Well, it's a good thing you called me. This place is a mess. When was the last time you—"

In between one blink and the next, Spencer suddenly cannot hear her anymore, like someone has flipped a switch and turned all his senses off. He's pretty sure he can still feel, though, because there's no other way to explain why her hands feel like fire as she wraps her arms around his shaking frame. "Spencer? Spencer." Now she's too loud in his ear, too close. She sinks gently down to the floor with him, cradling his head in her arms. She pushes his hair behind his ears, wipes the sweat from his forehead. "You're burning up. Let me go see if you have any fever reducers."

"No." He shakes his head as best he can, clenching his hands into fists as if it will somehow give him enough control to speak. "No narcotics."

Olivia nods. "What do you want me to do?"

"Just….stay with me. Until it's over."

"Okay. Okay. I'm not going anywhere." She repositions herself, gets comfortable. Spencer notices that she's taken off her shoes, just like she always does the minute they get on the plane. He closes his eyes and lets his head sink into her lap. He waits for sanity. Six more days to go.

He's missed her.