Readers & reviewers... you're all awesome! And many thanks for your feedback!

Annber03 - I'm not sure if this is what you had in mind with your suggestion, but it's where the muse went with it.
Another dive into Reid's mind, based in season 8, and containing specific references to the season 2 episodes "Distress" and "Jones".

And a gentle reminder (please don't hate me for this!): not every chapter will be (or can be!) M/P. I'm trying to be relatively balanced with the characters I choose for conversations.

And finally, as always, happy reading! =)

"It is hard to understand addiction unless you have experienced it." – Ken Hensley

I sit cross-legged on the bathroom floor, my fingers twitching and my gaze completely focused on the objects in front of me. I'd retrieved them from their hiding place an hour ago, but I hadn't found the nerve to do anything more with them since then. It's been a few days since I lost her, and the urge to fight the creeping despair and emotional pain with the numbness it would provide grows stronger every minute. I know with just a few familiar movements I could be in a blissfully unaware state. But I also know that any shred of normalcy I have left will be thrown away with those movements. The battle within my mind of the pros and cons is seemingly never-ending, and I wish I could settle on an answer.

I think I hear a voice in the distance and then metal scraping against metal, but quickly disregard it as my focus swings back to the issue at hand. My mind flashes back to all those years ago, when it was forced upon me, and this constant battle was dropped into my life. Before then, this would never have even been a consideration for me. Now it's that nagging thought that is always there at the back of my mind.

"REID."

Her voice startles me out of my thoughts and my head turns quickly, my eyes taking in the opened door, and the figure standing in front of me, looking thoroughly concerned.

"How'd you get in here?" I ask.

She closes the door behind her and walks quickly toward me, dropping her purse on the couch. She stops just a few steps away from me.

"Reid, what are you doing?" she asks, her gaze zeroing in on the objects that lay in front of me.

"Did you just break into my apartment?"

"Reid, talk to me," she pleads, her voice cracking.

She takes another step forward and I find my hands shooting out in front of me to grab the objects. Her eyes widen and she immediately raises her hands in the air as if to show her innocence and ceases her forward movement.

"Spencer, talk to me. Please."

I meet her gaze and in her eyes I see a pain that seems to be deeper than just concern for a friend. There's something more there, but I'm not quite sure what. It's just a flash, but it's a different kind of pain than I've seen from her in the past.

"What's there to say?"

"Anything. Just talk to me." Her breathing is far from even, and her expression portrays almost panic. I've never seen her this rattled before. Not when Doyle was after, not when Cyrus was threatening us, not after she was almost blown up twice within the span of a day.

"Go away."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Just go, please. Leave me alone."

"No," she says firmly, despite her shaky voice.

In that moment I'm suddenly overcome with a wave of both anger and fear. I scream, "GET OUT!" and slam the bathroom door shut, making sure to lock it. I hear her turn the door knob frantically, trying to open the door as she shouts my name, and demands I open the door. My fingers, still grasping the tools for my release tightly, begin to loosen and I begin the familiar movements that will save me from this seemingly endless pain.

"SPENCER, OPEN THE DOOR!"

I ignore her pleas and continue with my actions. I hear the door rattle against the frame as she desperately tries to open it. I'm mere seconds away from release when the door is kicked open, and she grabs the needle and vial of Dilaudid away from me.

"Spencer, you don't want to do this."

"That's not for you to decide," I snap back forcefully, the anger still bubbling.

Her expression is pained as she steps past me to begin disposing of the Dilaudid. My eyes widen as I realize her intended actions, and I scramble toward her, my hands reaching out to pull her away from her task as I yell, "Don't!"

She easily shrugs out of my hold and continues her actions. I try to pull her away once more, this time with more force, and I succeed. I hear a loud thud, and a small gasp of pain as her body connects with the bathroom wall and pipes behind me, but I don't turn around, instead reaching toward the vial. Suddenly I'm moving backwards, her hands wound around my arms, pulling me out of the bathroom as I kick and thrash to escape her hold.

"Spencer, I promise you, you don't want to do this," she says in a surprisingly small, broken voice.

She spins me around, and releases her hold on me, pushing me forward roughly toward the front door. I turn around quickly, stepping back toward the bathroom.

"Don't," she says, shooting one hand out to stop me and a forceful determination entering her eyes. "I'm going to get rid of it, and you're going to let me."

"Why?"

"Because I know this isn't what you want to do."

"Isn't it?" I say, as I take another step forward.

Her eyes seem to harden, and her entire body tenses, ready to react to my movements. She shakes her head, "No, it isn't."

"Emily," I growl. "Get out of my way. You don't know anything about what I want."

"I'm not going anywhere, so you may as well just let me do it."

"Why?" I spit back, unsure of where my anger is coming from now.

She exhales loudly before she answers. "Because I'm a former CIA agent," she says. The significance of that statement is not lost on me – she probably knows dozens of ways to incapacitate me.

We stare at each other, almost in a battle of wills, for several moments before I see the pain and worry flash in her eyes once more. In that moment my anger dissipates completely, and I slump my shoulders in embarrassment and defeat. I collapse onto my couch as I watch her disappear into the bathroom. A minute later she returns, her expression still pained and her eyes screaming apology. My mind has realized my actions and the guilt begins weighing on me heavily, "Emily, I'm so sor-"

"Spencer, it's okay," she interrupts me quickly, dropping onto the couch beside me. Her voice is gentle and full of compassion, despite what I'd just done to her.

All of a sudden I'm bombarded with memories of our interactions in the days and weeks following my ordeal with Tobias Hankel.

"What the hell was that in there?"

"What?" I ask, unsure of what she's referring to.

"He may even be in this room as we speak? We have nothing to support that."

I stifle a scoff. "We're investigating a serial homicide, should I have pretended there was no danger?"

"We just left that woman potentially afraid of every man who walks into this shelter," she says, frustration seeping into her tone.

"Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?"

"What is the matter with you?"

I hold back the expression of frustration that is sitting just beneath the surface.

"What- What d'you mean what's the matter with me?"

"I've never seen you act like this."

The dam breaks.

"Oh really? Oh, in the- in the months that you've known me, you've never seen me act this way? Hey, no offence Emily, but you don't really know what you're talkin' about, do ya?"

"I'll map out the area and see if I can find any places the victims would have visited in the neighbourhood," I say.

"Good, maybe we can find a connection between them. I'll help you with that."

"I can handle it."

"I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't," she says carefully.

"Isn't that what 'I'll help you with it' means?" I snap back before Hotch silences me.

"I was just thinking of this old friend of mine, from Las Vegas – Ethan. Pretty sure he lives in New Orleans now."

"Really? Gonna give him a call?" Morgan asks.

"We grew up competing against each other in absolutely everything – spelling bees, sciences fairs. We also both had our hearts set on joining the Bureau, but… first day at Quantico he backed out," I explain, but avoid answering his question.

"He probably just couldn't take the heat," Prentiss says with a smile.

"That's not really for us to decide, is it?" I shoot back defensively.

"Right. My bad," she says sadly.

My level of guilt rises as I realize I never really apologized for how I acted and treated her during that time. As the newest member of the team, and the person who I had the weakest relationship with, I chose her to channel the majority of my frustration and anger onto. I realize now that she was only looking out for me, making sure I didn't do irreparable damage to my career or myself. "It's not okay. I don't know why I-"

She shakes her head, interrupting me once more, "Don't worry about it. Now come on, let's talk about this."

"Emily, I'm so, so sorry," I insist, my voice portraying how guilty and broken I feel. She has to understand. Has to.

She looks at me sadly, breathing out a loud exhale, and briefly closing her eyes. "It's okay," she says softly, putting her hand over mine and squeezing it in reassurance.

"No, I'm sorry for what I did and what I said today. But… I'm so sorry for how I treated you after Tobias Hankel. I was horrible to you. You didn't deserve that."

"Hey, Spencer. It's okay. You were hurting, and struggling, and fighting demons. I get that. I know you didn't really mean it."

"But I still said it-"

"Spencer, let it go. I certainly have."

"Even so, I tried to hurt you just now."

"No, you tried to get your drugs. There was no deliberate intent to hurt me. I was just in the way."

"Still."

She takes another deep breath and exhales it loudly. "I forgive you."

"Wh-what?"

"I forgive you. You're off the hook. Don't feel guilty about it."

"You- You do? Just like that?"

She nods.

"But why?"

"Because I know how much it can hurt, and I know the feeling of being willing to do absolutely anything to make that pain go away."

That heaviness and pain in her eyes that I wasn't able to identify before is back once more and I'm once again struck by how rattled she is. Then it dawns on me - the only time she's been close to being this rattled was during the case with Matthew Benton, her childhood friend. It's possible that she dealt with his drug addiction as a teenager, which would explain her strong reaction to my actions.

"Your friend Matthew?" I ask.

She nods, "Yeah. But… also me."

My eyes widen and my mouth drops in shock at her words. She was far from the sort of person I'd associate with being a drug addict.

"You mean you were… You did…"

"Yep."

"How bad was it?"

"It?"

"Your addiction to..." I trail off, realizing I don't have the information to finish the sentence.

"Cocaine," she finishes for me. "And…I got through it."

"What made you start?"

"I was 15 and not dealing well with a lot of stuff I had going on then."

"What kind of stuff?" I ask.

She bites her lip and picks at her fingernails, both telltale signs of stress and uncertainty – which seems strange considering what she'd just revealed to me.

"My dad had left a while before, after a painfully long and messy attempt at a happy marriage with my mother. By that point, for all intents and purposes, he had already moved on, only dropping in every once in a while to provoke my mother. Plus, I had some issues with Matthew and Johnny, I was stuck in a foreign country, and I was lonely and craving attention and comfort."

"Your dad left you and your mom?" I ask, shocked that I'd never known that about her. Suddenly all her compassion about my angst revolving around my father's leaving made sense.

She nods, "He was a successful business man with political ambitions. If my mother, who would have been a valuable political asset to him wasn't worth his time, then his troubled daughter definitely wasn't."

"Do you still talk to him?"

She shakes her head and answers in a very matter of fact manner, "A better question would be if I ever talked to him. I have very few memories of him, and the ones I have aren't the most pleasant."

I raise my eyebrows in silent question.

"Oh no, nothing like that," she says quickly. "Just a lot of arguing, and always being brushed aside for something more important."

I nod once, "Oh."

"Anyway, I got into a lot of bad stuff to try and sort it all out and deal with it. Sex, drugs, and many other stupid things that could very well have killed me. Looking back, I'm actually fairly surprised I made it past 18."

"You and Matthew started at the same time?"

"More or less, but for very different and yet similar reasons. He started because he began to question the very things that were guiding and shaping him and his life. That questioning led to a life spent searching for peace. I started because I felt incredibly guilty and wasn't able to deal with everything, and I wanted to be able to escape that."

"Guilty over what?"

"That's a story for another time, handsome," she says with a sad smile, giving my hand another squeeze.

I nod in reply, knowing that she's already revealed more than is usual for her and pushing the issue would only result in her shutting down.

"Have you been outside?"

Her question catches me off guard. "What?"

"Outside. You know, trees, sunshine, wind, other human beings."

I shake my head, "Not really, no."

"Well come on then. You and I are going to play some chess in the park."

"I don't really feel like-"

"Reid. Get your board, and grab your coat. We're going. Fresh air and sunshine will do you a world of good, I promise," she says, leaving no room for discussion.

An hour later we're deep into our third game of chess, and she has been proven right – the sunshine and fresh air have done wonders for me. Already I'm feeling much less despondent, and slightly more at peace. Words have been few and far between for both of us, complete focus on that game taking hold instead of our usual conversation back and forth between moves. I'm surprised by how much I miss the conversation and decide to bring up a topic that I'd been wondering about to fill the void.

"Does it get easier? Dealing with it, I mean," I ask as I contemplate potential moves.

She cocks her head, "The addiction, or the loss of a loved one?"

I shrug and move a pawn. "Both."

She pauses to consider what move to make. "It never goes away, but yes it does get easier. On both accounts."

"Did you ever slip up?"

"Came close a couple of times after some of the tough cases we dealt with. And I came very close after things with Doyle. That mission drained me of everything. When I finally got out and moved back to the States, all I could think about was how I could escape the emotional burnout and turmoil with one quick fix. It took everything in me to not go back to it, even though it had been well over a decade since I'd touched the stuff."

"How did you fight it?"

"Declan," she says simply. "I couldn't justify giving into my own selfish needs when he still needed protecting."

"What about when you were…" I trail off, trying to find the right word. I finally settle on, "away."

Her gaze lowers and she seems to scrutinize the board. It is almost a minute before she responds.

"Not while I was away. But… there was a night after I came back that I came about as close as you did today."

My eyes widen. "What stopped you?"

"You guys."

"Us?"

She nods. "Yeah. I didn't want to throw away the friendships, or at least the potential of the friendships, so I bargained with myself that I'd at least wait until I knew I'd lost all of you guys totally before I gave in."

My face pales as I realize I was the main reason she almost gave in. She seems to realize my train of thought and quickly begins to babble in an effort to backtrack.

"But, I mean, it might not have gone that way. Maybe I'm stronger than I give myself credit for. Maybe I would've been able to resist. The point is, there are low points, and it never 100% goes away, but you find ways of fighting it and dealing with it."

My gaze shifts to the board, my guilt still eating at me.

"I want you to promise me something, Spencer."

At her request my eyes jump up from the board to meet her gaze, and my eyebrows raise in question.

"Promise me that if you ever get those feelings or urges again that you'll call someone. It doesn't have to be me, but you need to talk to someone. You don't have to deal with it all alone. You have people in your corner to help you through this. "

"Okay."

"You promise?"

I nod. "Yeah," I say, my answer coming at a volume barely louder than a whisper.

We settle back into the game, remaining silent for several minutes until I grin widely, moving my rook to trap her king, "Checkmate."

She laughs, "I still won 2 out of 3."

"Aw, c'mon. Give me some credit."

"Fine. Well played, handsome. Come on, let me take you home."

I pack up the chess board into my bag, and rise from my seat. A question pops into my head suddenly, "How come you dropped by today, anyway?"

She shrugs, "I just had a feeling I should."

"Don't you usually teach Applied Criminology right now?"

She smiles, "Like I said, I had a feeling."

This was a pretty heavy (and emotionally draining!) chapter to write, and if you have the time, I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. And of course if you have any suggestions for future conversations, my ears are wide open!