A/N: Whelp, I'm trash. I got so many PMs like FINISH HOLLOW OR DIE which to be fair I deserve (and they were all actually really nice people and gave me the motivation to finish so I love you all) but there is a HUGE author's note at the end of this, like obnoxiously long, which is probably bumping up the word count for this chapter a fair bit. As a result, the next chapter will be longer than average (and I think this one is slightly longer too even with the note). And it will be on time or I will literally die trying.

Warnings: Strong language

o o o

Reid's stay in the hospital was thankfully, only a short one. He enjoyed this for two main reasons; the first was that staying in a bed all day made him want to take his gun to his head and pull the trigger many, many times. The second was that he only had to endure a minimal amount of hospital small-talk with his team, in which he did nothing but bury his head in a book while the team hovered around him, waiting for him to initiate a real conversation (which he would never do in a million years.) He wasn't actually reading - he was far too anxious to really concentrate enough to get through even a page - but the team wouldn't realise that. While he had already been dreading the day that his admittedly poor nutrition would bite him in the ass, in reality it had been so much worse. In some ways he did feel better, like a huge weight had been lifted off of his shoulders, but as soon as he looked at one of his co-worker's faces and saw the undisguised pity it felt as if that weight had rolled right off his shoulders and settled straight into the pit of his stomach, the sensation unfamiliar after spending so long without any real weighted feeling there.

Reid always knew that his lifestyle wasn't sustainable. Years of extreme restraint in a diet combined with a distinct lack of physical activity would weaken anyone physically, but Reid was even more prone to illness than most, and had been more harshly affected than he would have hoped. In a way, his eventual exhaustion gave him some sick sense of relief; the fatigue reminded him he was human, that he was a real person who deserved things, was allowed to want them.

Despite his vast amount of knowledge and information retained from all sorts of medical textbooks and self-help guides, Reid had never been able to figure out the core issue behind hIs apparent eating disorder (though he didn't exactly apply the term to himself. Nor did he really know how a doctor would diagnose him, supposing he visited one; to his understanding, a diagnosis of anorexia nervosa would require Reid not realizing just how thin he was. He had no such delusions about his body, being able to clearly see the way his ribs were starkly outlined against his skin, how sharp and angled his body had become. Bulimia nervosa would be a much better-fitting diagnosis given his habit of purging, but even so required the patient to be unduly influenced by their weight. No, his eating habits were too uninfluenced by his perception of his weight for him to be diagnosed with one of the more commonly known eating disorders. He supposed he would be a slight anomaly if any doctor were to examine him, as the research he'd done on eating disorders had mainly focused only on those two, mixed with a little of binge eating disorder. It made him smile, in a bitter kind of way. After all, Spencer Reid had never been one to try and fit in.

o o o

The hospital bed was cold, lumpy, and the mechanism that lowered the bed had been broken for half an hour.

Reid bit his lip in frustration, pulling uselessly at the lever. If there weren't nurses coming in every thirty seconds making sure he wasn't running around and wasting precious energy, he would be out of bed and fixing it (and probably making improvements to its design in the process). The lever refused to budge, and he collapsed back down onto the bed in frustration. Surely a nurse will be here soon to make sure I haven't died, he thought, crossing his arms and gazing out of the window. Then maybe something will get done around here.

As if on cue there was a knock at his door, which one of the nurses had kindly closed at his request.

"Who is it?" he called out listlessly, picking up a book so he had an excuse not to look at whoever came through the door.

"It's Penelope," came a familiar voice. The door was pushed open as Garcia poked her head in, eyeing him with poorly-disguised concern. That was the worst part of it all - the looks his friends gave him, the ones filled with pity. In his nightmares, the pity turned to disappointment.

"Come in," he sighed, after pausing long enough that he realised Garcia wouldn't be leaving anytime soon unless he went to the trouble of calling a nurse in.

"Uhm, Jack and Henry were wondering if they could come and see you again sometime tomorrow," she asked, pulling up a seat next to his bed. Reid could see she was trying hard to keep the anxiety out of her voice.

"That's fine," he answered dully, preferring to gaze out of the window stubbornly instead of facing her directly. He knew it probably crushed her, but it had been less than an hour since Morgan had left and he didn't feel like putting on a pretense just so he could protect her feelings.

"So...whatcha up to?" she asked after an awkward silence, only serving to up the already-thick tension in the room.

"I was going to try and sleep, but the mechanism that lowers the bed is stuck," he muttered. "I suppose sleeping at one-twenty-three in the afternoon is slightly pathetic."

"I could go get someone if you want," she offered quickly, but Reid raised a hand in protest.

"No, it's fine. I'll get it eventually." The two settled into another tense silence for a minute, before Garcia cleared her throat.

"There's something I thought you should see," she announced a little awkwardly, sitting down on a chair beside him - the one next to the window, he noted - and keying in a few words on her laptop. She spun the screen around on her lap so he could see, and he leant forward slightly to view the image.

Reid squinted. "Is that...is that Hotch's face on top of a-"

"Hedgehotch!" Garcia exclaimed with visible - and possibly a little disturbing - glee. "I thought you might appreciate a fine work of art."

"I'm not sure that's appreciation I'm feeling," he mused. "But it's definitely a work of something."

"You're struck with awe, deep inside. I can feel it."

"May I ask about the backstory to this? Assuming there is one."

"Nothing really," she smiled. "It was a terribly slow day and I had a sudden hankering for harmless fund and create Photoshoppery. I thought it might cheer you up a little," she added hopefully, waiting to gauge his reaction.

He gave her a small smile - one that was half-exaggerated, but still a smile. "Well, I think it worked. Thanks."

o o o

Unsurprisingly, the next solo visitor to his room was Hotchner.

The beginning small talk was less awkward than Reid had originally envisioned it to be. He asked about Jack, Hotch told him about his schoolwork, Reid corrected him on everything he got wrong with it. For a few blissful minutes, everything seemed to be back to normal. Eventually, Hotch sighed and rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward on the flimsy hospital chair. "I think we need to have a serious discussion, Spencer."

Reid's mouth tightened. "Again with the first names, I see."

"If I treat you like an employee, would you even bother listening?" Hotch retorted.

Reid's mouth quirked. "No, probably not."

"You've let it affect your work when you promised it wouldn't."

"I thought you just said you weren't going to treat me like an employee," Reid replied, holding his boss' gaze evenly.

"No, you're right. I'm treating you like a friend who broke a promise they made to me."

"That seems harsh given my current situation."

"And what is that current situation?" Hotch asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Why don't you tell me? Since you seem to know so much about me already."

There was silence for a few more seconds, and Reid could see Hotch had paused in order to phrase his next sentence as delicately as possible. "That you have a mental illness. Would I be correct in saying that?"

"That would depend on who you were talking to."

"The team agrees. Psychologists agree. The doctors here suggested it more than once," Hotch added, raising Reid's eyebrows.

"They've never met me before," he replied, but Hotch interrupted.

"You haven't properly uttered the phrase eating disorder not even once in this discussion. You're avoiding the issue."

"So it's an issue because you believe it's one. My view doesn't matter, clearly." Reid shrugged. "Sometimes I eat a lot. Sometimes I barely eat for weeks. Depends on what I feel like," he added, watching Hotch's expression change to one of undisguised concern.

"And that as never struck you as strange, or unhealthy?"

"My eating habits are only disordered when you compare them to the general populace. Who's to say who is right? Maybe they're the ones doing it wrong."

"You think that because you're a genius you can pass off a legitimate mental illness as a part of your intelligence?" Hotch questioned, eyebrows furrowed.

"I am the one with the degree," Reid replied with a hint of a smirk. It quickly disappeared when Hotch leaned forward, hands braced on his knees.

"Look, Reid," he started. Reid noted that he had reverted back to a last name basis. "We all want you to get better."

"If that were true then you wouldn't have told the nurses to check on me constantly," Reid remarked dryly. Hotch's eyes widened slightly at that, making Reid's roll in return. "It was obvious," he explained. "I figured Elle hadn't asked for it, since she has actual tact."

"And if we hadn't cared about you we wouldn't have flown all the way out here and booked a hotel just to see you," Hotch remarked.

"You didn't have to do that anyway."

"Well, we did."

There was another tense silence before Reid finally breaks it.

"I want to come back to work as soon as possible," he said, though both of them knew it was a discretely-phrased question.

Hotch sighed and ran a hand over his face. "Of course you do. Reid. You always do."

o o o

"Are you sure you're ready to leave the hospital yet?" Morgan asked, tapping his fingers against his crossed arms impatiently as he waits with Reid in the line at the pharmacy. He'd eventually been given a prescription for low blood pressure after assuring his team (having stayed in Florida with him and starting up many an awkward conversation) he would seek professional help back in Quantico. It wasn't exactly a lie when he'd said that; while he definitely wanted to visit for the sake of knowing how exactly his eating habits would be classified, he had no real desire to change his eating habits. Of course he didn't. His body was the one that needed the fixing, not his diet. Human beings are made to adapt, and his body would eventually cope with his diet. He hoped.

"Of course," Reid answered back equally impatiently, peering out to see how close he was to the counter. "I didn't think the line would be this long on a Sunday morning. Apparently nobody in Florida goes to church."

The older man nods in agreement. "Some of these people look like they need Jesus," he added darkly, peering at a woman who was bottle-feeding her baby what looked like cola.

"That's abnormally judgemental of you," Reid remarked dryly, turning his attention to the woman. "And that's a lot of calories," he added under his breath before he realised Morgan would hear him. Thankfully, his friend didn't appear to hear him, and instead cleared his throat to grab Reid's attention. Normally he wouldn't have necessarily cared about the calorie content of foods, but the fact that a baby was drinking it had raised some suspicion.

"Wanna do a profiling exercise?" Morgan suggested lightheartedly after a beat of silence.

Reid's eyebrows raised. "Such as?"

"Uh…" The older man furrowed his eyebrows. "Profile the person at the counter based on what they're buying."

"So basically, invade a stranger's privacy and guess what illness someone has by their medication? That's like looking through a witness' bathroom cabinet at their house when we're interrogating them. Low."

"But also possibly helpful."

"In zero point zero zero one percent of cases, maybe." The line was moving slightly faster now,

"I'm in line too. If we end up profiling all these people as freaks, how do you think that makes me feel?" Reid asked pointedly.

"It was never a serious suggestion," Morgan eventually replied, and their conversation was replaced by a tense silence. Reid finally got to the counter and gave Morgan a pointed look that said please go away while I get this and spare me possible embarrassment, to which the older man obliged. He slid the prescription over the counter and cleared his throat to talk. His voice had gotten scratchy over the last few months as a result of the constant purging and irritants he ingested to induce it, though he was mostly able to hide it by drinking water and using throat lozenges.

"Spencer Reid, fludrocortisone?" he started, watching as the pharmacist skimmed over his prescription.

"Yes," she nodded, grabbing a white bottle of pills from a shelf behind her. "That'll be fifteen dollars."

"Sure," he replied, digging around in his bag for his wallet. His vision suddenly blurred, and he grabbed onto the counter to steady himself. The ground lurched violently even as he did so, and from the corner of his eye he felt Morgan rushing over and grabbing his arm. He shook his head and brushed it off him, leaning on the counter and handing over the money.

"Oops," he offered lamely, blinking to try and clear his vision. The room was still spinning slightly, and his stomach felt almost painfully empty. Morgan had tried to convince him to eat during the wait for the prescription, but Reid had refused. Now Morgan would be insufferable for the rest of the day, hounding him to eat something more than a few mouthfuls of hospital food; while he'd been fed through a tube for the first day, since then he had been allowed to eat on his own. Not that he really had.

"Jesus Christ," the woman exclaimed, before returning to her previous professional manner. "No charge after that. Just take it," she says, pushing the bottle of pills towards him. "You look like you need it."

Reid blinked, pushing off Morgan's hands and nodding his appreciation to the chemist. "Thanks," he muttered, cheeks flaming with embarrassment. Morgan gave him a look that clearly said what the hell are you doing, you just got out of hospital, did they forget to fix you there or something and the younger man made sure not to make eye contact with him. The dizziness hadn't quite faded by the time they reached the carpark, and Reid wasn't looking forward to the long car ride to the airport, which would no doubt be filled with screaming children and angry fliers whose flights had been cancelled.

"So that didn't look like a man who's ready to leave the hospital," Morgan commented after he was seated comfortably in front of the steering wheel.

Of course. Of course he fucking went there, Reid cursed internally. He'd been waiting for his coworker to comment on his little stumble the entire walk over to the car, but he'd let his guard down as soon as they'd actually stepped into it. In hindsight, it was a foolish thing to assume that the older man would be kind enough to prod at him.

"Don't be an asshole about it," he muttered, slamming the car door behind him.

o o o

A/N: All right, everybody strap in (or stop reading here) because this is like an eight hundred word author note. Once again I am sorry for the supposed lengthiness of the chapter being shortened by this note :(

So after about a year of having tests and getting passed around different doctors/specialists/medically trained professionals we finally figured out I have chronic fatigue syndrome, which is basically when you're always tired no matter what and you're generally just blegh. I've had noticeable symptoms of it for at least a year now, after I had mono/glandular fever (if you have a viral infection of some sort and feel tired for ages after it, please go visit your doctor if you can afford it as it could be eye-opening!). It wasn't too bad at first but around October-November last year the symptoms got worse and didn't get much better for a while since then, and all of the time I would usually write got sapped up by sleeping and studying for the dreaded exams that some person decided would be a good idea. Being 16 and aiming for a career in either game development or language study, these exams are quite important and all the subjects I take for them have exams, which is unlucky. Except now, the symptoms are actually getting better on their own, which is great for me because it means I'm not so tired all the time and I can have time for what I want to do, not what I have to do. Lately I've also been working on a game, so there's that as well. So, this is my reason why updates are often few and far between. While it may not seem like it, I made a promise to myself to never leave a fanfiction unfinished unless I lose the planning (which is what happened with another fic and I swear I had them but idk where they went so maybe I'll just yolo it) and this is no exception. Another reason for the lack of updates which is stupid really is that I did not begin writing this for myself. I began to write this for a friend who was suffering from an ED at the time (and still is, really) but as she began her recovery at the beginning of this year I found myself losing inspiration for this fic, despite having it planned out in full. With other stories like Iniquity, Eternal Spectators and a few multi-chapter ones I have plans for, I write them mainly for myself and to receive feedback on my writing, and the fact that I am writing scenes that I enjoy to write (usually some kind of horror-ish dark gross thing) means I have the inspiration for those ones a lot more than I do Hollow. It's kind of become the fic where I go "oh god, this fic hasn't been updated in months but I don't always enjoy writing it anymore". My solution to this is to edit the outline I have for it and include scenes that I want to write as they come to me, and if I write more spontaneously for this fic than I am right now I'm certain that I'll be more inspired. 8D

The other important thing is that since I obsessively re-read everything I post here and constantly see typos and other mistakes, I've decided that before I move onto chapter thirteen (not twelve, that's coming soonish because I already have the detailed outline for it) I want to further edit and proofread the earlier chapters, change the chapter titles and generally make it more coherent. There probably won't be any changes you'd actually need to know before reading on but in case there is something, I'll make a note of it at the start of chapter thirteen to clear up confusion. I'll probably also change the synopsis as well because Morgan isn't as prominent as I thought be would be.

Juzzas crust that was long and boring. Whoops. Anyway, feedback is always appreciated, even if it's literally just one word. As always, thank you for reading and prompting me to update when I know I should be but can't, because it reminds me that I have an audience, no matter how small, and it continues to amaze me in a great way. 3