A/N: Hello everyone! Thank you so much for reading, favoriting, following, and reviewing this work. I appreciate it and love you. This one is kind of short, but it was finished and I wanted to go ahead and update. Next time there will be more fluff and happiness, I promise.

ahowell1993: That would have been an excellent idea and I wish he had done it. It would have made things so much easier. Unfortunately he didn't, and there isn't much I can do about it. AZCatmom: Yes, poor Spencer. He never seems to catch a break. Thankfully he is about to have a comparatively pleasant day. Cherubim22: Your wish is my command. Thankfully we are now past the event itself. Enjoy!

I do not own Criminal minds or its characters.

Chapter 3

The next day Diana was better and his injuries were worse.

The first thing Spencer was aware of on waking was a blinding ache. The second was that he had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. His entire body hurt and he groaned as he forced himself to his feet.

The bruises had continued darkening while he slept. An awful mottled quilt of dark blue and black covered his torso and back, and his arm had swelled to half again its usual size. At least the cuts on his head and wrists were better, seeing them clean and scabbed in the early morning light Spencer could see that they were not so deep after all. Maybe they wouldn't even scar. Still though, there was no way he could hide it all. School was out of the question.

That meant forging a doctor's note. Easy enough, but he preferred to avoid it.

He made his way back to his bedroom to get dressed, carefully pulling on clothing to avoid aggravating his injuries. Then he clattered downstairs as loudly as his pain would allow, calling to Diana to get up for work.

Eggs today. Scrambling them was easy and mixing in some broccoli, carrots, and assorted other items was a simple way to get his mom to eat some decent vegetables. After hesitating Spencer made enough for himself as well. For once his excuse that he "wasn't hungry" would have been the truth, but he was sure he needed some proper nutrition after last night. After how much blood there had been.

He didn't want to think about that red-striped brownish water under his feet, swirling towards the shower drain.

It would be the first time in over a month that he ate a meal at home. Normally he ate lunch at school, then simply skipped most other meals. It was cheaper that way.

While he hesitated to make himself breakfast, Spencer did not hesitate at all in quickly downing some ibuprofen and coffee. He needed to get it done before Mom came downstairs. She didn't like him drinking coffee, she said he was too young for it, and he knew she wouldn't like him using it to swallow pills in lieu of water, but he desperately needed to be awake and… well, not pain-free, that wasn't going to happen… but at least pain-reduced. "Stupid. That's not even a word," He thought to himself irritatedly.

"Mom! Come on! You're going to be late!" She had an 8 o'clock today:

ENG 580 ... Gender Constructs in Medieval Literature ... 8:00–8:50 MWF ... BFD 210

He hadn't heard his alarm from his room, so had slept in slightly, and while thankfully his left arm was injured rather than his right his pace making breakfast was still significantly slowed.

He mentally ran through the chore list as he worked:

*Make an appointment for after school hours to replace his glasses

*Go to the store for supplies to fix the wall

*Fix the wall

*Go by the library (He always read terribly fast and remembered everything, making rereading and purchasing pointless, so a weekly visit for a new stack of books was necessary. Besides, sometimes he wanted meaningless novels and comic books, the kind of mental junk food Mom would never approve of)

The thought of going to the library was an enjoyable one. They liked him there; the librarians were helpful and kind; and running around among the books, fliting about with reference cards for a few hours, he felt a little bit like the kid he actually was. It was his playground, the closest he got to normal.

Diana walked into the room just as he finished, and the boy actually had a slight smile as he turned around with the plates.

"Spencer! What happened to you?" His mother stared at him, clearly horrified by his appearance. So, she hadn't noticed his awful state last night, just like she hadn't seemed to notice his late arrival.

Thinking of last night the smile vanished. He desperately longed to tell her. He wanted to break down and collapse in her arms like he had as a little boy, to feel comforted and safe until it stopped hurting.

He could almost hear her voice: "Forget about them, Spencer. They don't understand you. It's all right baby."

But he couldn't. He wasn't weak; he couldn't be. So instead he set the plates on the table and assumed a confused look, "Nothing." He paused, "I fell off my bike. I'm fine, Mom, really." His too-large plaid shirt drowned his slight frame, easily hiding his swollen arm and bandaged wrists. The only visible wound he knew of was his head.

Diana peered at him with a probing look. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?"

"No, of course not." Seizing an opportunity to change the subject, the boy grabbed some pills and water, placing them on the table in front of her.

"What's this?"

He hated doing it like this. It had been so much easier to simply hide them in her food and avoid the conversation, but after yesterday he couldn't take chances. "Your pills. You haven't been taking them."

By the look on her face he knew this wasn't going to be easy, "There's nothing wrong with me, Spencer."

"Mom, you're sick."

"I'm fine." She paused, "That doctor is a Neanderthal."

A little of his frustration escaped onto his face at that. He thought about showing her his arm, asking her whether she had meant to hurt him if she was so sane, but never seriously considered it.

"Please, Mom. Take care of yourself, for once. Do you remember last night?"

She was silent. He could tell that if she remembered anything at all, it wasn't accurate.

"Just take your medication, and maybe take a walk."

"Spencer-"

"It doesn't have to be much." He was almost pleading. This had been an ongoing argument. "Just walk around the green a little after your office hours. Ten minutes. Studies have shown that regular exercise has a significant effect on mental illness." The last sentence was reeled off impersonally, flatly, quickly, as if he was reading it from a book.

They stared at each other, then she sighed and seemed to relent, "If it will make you happy, Spencer, I will take them." She paused briefly. "But I won't take a walk. I am too tired today." Diana glared at him, as though daring him to argue.

He decided to take the small victory and sat back down, continuing to stare at her until every pill and drop of water was gone.

Minutes passed in awkward silence. He really tried not to do that sort of thing. It was better if she thought she was in control: a now-single mom raising her child, rather than the reality: a child forced into sudden single fatherhood trying to care for a permanent unstable toddler. He tried not to admit the full extent of it even to himself. Most of his control was behind the scenes: potential weapons and dangerous chemicals hidden where she hopefully wouldn't look, the way he got her up for work and put her to bed, monitoring her medication, monitoring her schedule, the half empty desk in her room – mostly for show – that contrasted oddly with the piled desk and locked file cabinet in his.

Spencer tried not to think about the institution brochures he had ordered in the mail, now stuffed deep in a dark corner of a desk drawer. It had felt wrong, reading them.

"Asylum brochures," he thought with self-hatred, before shoving it away. No. 'Asylum' conjured up Dickensian images of damp walls, straw beds, chains and caretaker abuse. These weren't asylums or prisons. They were wonderful facilities where his mother could be properly cared for and live a full, healthy life. He wasn't betraying her in exploring their options. Besides, he couldn't do anything until he was eighteen anyway.

Six years. Six years before he could make any meaningful move to help her. And next year he was going to college. Last night had forced the entire situation to the forefront of his mind.

"How was school yesterday, Spencer?"

Startled from his reflections, it took him a few seconds to answer. "Fine," came out, much too soft.

"What did you learn about? Was there anything interesting?"

He could almost feel Alexa's lips whispering over his skin, her hands dancing over his chest, pulling at his shirt, her body pressed against him in a way that-

"Idon'tknow." Louder, but fast enough that his words ran together. He ignored the pointed look; Diana Reid was better than anybody at seeming like she could see right through you. Then he feigned noticing the time, pretended to panic, and rushed her out as quickly as could reasonably be managed. It was transparent, and later in his life it wouldn't have worked. However, the person needed was currently several states away, counting down the days to his own high school graduation and precious out-of-state college - far away from Chicago and his 'mentor' - and had no idea Spencer Reid even existed.

With her gone he took immediate action. He had wanted to seem as normal as possible for her sake, so didn't really do much to his arm. Now he moved it inside his shirt, immobilizing it as best he could next to his chest with a makeshift sling.

Now to work. He needed new glasses, that was first, so Spencer ran to the phone. He quickly punched in the memorized number and sat, spinning in his father's office chair (moved there long since for his convenience) and listened to the ring until a voice finally crackled on the other end.

"Reynold's Optometry, how may I help you?"

His first move after his father left had been to change most of their medical providers. He needed things close enough that he could ride his bike to them and didn't want to risk some receptionist knowing what his father's voice sounded like. Without that concern he didn't bother changing his voice or speech patterns much: he just deepened it slightly and trusted the phone line's inherent and expected distortion to take care of the rest. People don't expect someone to sound normal on the phone, and with deepening his voice slightly – but not cartoonishly – he could reasonably pass for a rather high-voiced man.

"Yes, hello, this is William Reid. I am calling to make an appointment." Pause "We should be in your files. It's for my son, Spencer." Pause "No, I'm sorry, do you have anything sooner? It's- it's kind of urgent." Pause "Well," the boy grinned, trying and failing to suppress a slight giggle. He loved making up tales, "It's actually a funny story. You see, he was out riding his bike, and of course what does the kid do but run right into a fence." Pause "Oh no he's fine, and the bike's okay, but he landed on his glasses when he fell and they're pretty much totaled." Pause "Do you think you could work him in after school? His prescription should be current; he just needs some new frames and lenses." Pause "Okay, great. Can I just send the money with him for the copay? His mother and I don't have time to bring him and it isn't far." A longer pause this time, as she explained insurance and certain aspects of their payment policy. The important thing was that she finally agreed to let him come by himself, without a parent. "Okay. Yes…yes. Thank you."

"click"

Alright. First thing off the list.