When Owen left DC that Monday, he didn't text Spencer for four and a half months. An honest mistake, but he had been too busy with his thesis to even think about love. Afra fell to the side, too, and the only person Owen saw regularly was Mark. It was nice- being so busy that Owen didn't have time to think about being in love with anybody, let alone somebody he had dumped a year ago.

Owen was plowing through his thesis, spending most of his time cycling between work and sleeping at home. He was trying to finish it as soon as he could- he was itching to move on from Boston. Even if he had all the good memories, he was still haunted by the bad ones.

3 years later, Owen still couldn't go to the bar he was at when he got mugged. He couldn't date anybody seriously because he didn't want to take them back to the apartment he used to share with Spencer. Owen was still a little scared to come out to his advisor- a crotchety old man who probably knew Einstein himself back in the day (he had spent a lot of time referring to Spencer as his "roommate").

Owen was also dead tired of academia. The constant struggle for funding, the limits of the institution, the fact that every conference he went to he got called a faggot at the hotel bar. He was considering running away from it all, throwing everything into the trunk of his car and taking off on a cross-country road trip to kill time. Spencer had sold out- working for the government for benefits and a plush salary, and Owen was steadfastly against doing the same thing. But Owen was overqualified for most entry-level jobs, and he was tired of what he was doing now.

Stuck with most of a PhD, Owen resigned himself to dealing with his existential crisis after he graduated. A problem for a different day.

Spencer called Owen from the backseat of the SUV, shivering as he dialed the numbers.

"Hello?"

"I don't think I can do this anymore."

"What?"

"Owen, I can't do this job anymore. I just…" Spencer couldn't say the words. Had he really just killed somebody? Shooting somebody in the head didn't seem like something Owen could sympathize with, but Spencer couldn't think of anybody else he wanted to tell.

"Where are you?"

"Illinois."

"Fuck." Spencer heard something crash in the background. "Do you want to come up to Boston? Or I can come to DC?"

"Would you mind?"

"Anything for you."

"I can fly to Boston, I think."

"Okay. Just text me your flight information and I'll be there when you land."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

Spencer snapped his cell-phone shut. He was sitting alone, in the dark backseat of an FBI-issue SUV, after he killed somebody. What had his life come to?

Hotch got Spencer on the first flight to Boston, paying out of pocket for the upgrade to first-class. It had been a hard week for Spencer, and Hotch didn't mind helping the younger agent find some peace, even though the BAU was looking down their annual budget review.

Spencer practically collapsed into Owen's car when he got to Boston. It was a short ride back to their old apartment, and Owen didn't push Spencer to share anything besides meaningless small talk. The first thing Spencer did when they unlocked the door was head straight for Owen's liquor cabinet, pulling out a handle of vodka and drinking it straight from the bottle. Owen watched with his eyebrows furrowed and cracked a smile when Spencer's face scrunched up at the taste.

"I wasn't going to ask what was wrong, but I'm a little concerned. I don't think I've ever been able to talk you into shots, let alone drinking straight from the bottle."

"Bad day" was all Spencer offered up.

Owen kept watching Spencer as the taller man rummaged through the fridge, pulling out the half-empty bottle of wine Owen had in there, along with some of the juice he knew Owen kept as mixers.

"If your day was this bad, do you want to talk about it?"

"Not now."

Owen rolled his eyes and sat down at his kitchen table, something that gave him a strange Déjà vu feeling.

"Well at least bring it all over so I can drink with you."

Spencer was more than happy to comply, dumping his arm full of bottles onto the table in front of Owen.

"Do you have weed?"

Owen was floored at how Spencer was asking him for drugs. "Yeah."

"Can we smoke?"

"Spencer…"

"What, are you going to give me some lecture about enabling me, Owen? Because I don't want to hear it right now. All I want is for my brain to slow down for a minute."

Spencer didn't realize he had raised his voice until he finished talking.

"You better not have flown out here just to yell at me and do all my drugs, Spencer. Because if you did I'll kick you out and block your number and never think about you again."

"You couldn't forget me even if you wanted to."

Owen stared at Spencer, face neutral and mouth shut. Spencer realized he might have gone too far this time, and he was silent as he watched Owen pour himself a glass of wine in the pint glass in front of him.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

"Only if you promise you won't hate me for it."

"Just tell me, Spencer."

The words fell out of Spencer's mouth like a waterfall. Once he started talking about the case he couldn't shut up, telling Owen a whole bunch of details that he definitely shouldn't disclose to a civilian before the paperwork was finished. He watched his boyfriend's face pale and turn a shade of green when Spencer went over the detail, and he remembered how sick he got at the first dead body he saw.

Maybe Spencer had changed more than Owen.

Owen sat silently at the table when Spencer was done talking, unable to make eye contact with him. Spencer took this chance to ask Owen one more question.

"Why did you answer?"

"Have I ever not answered when you call?"

"But that doesn't answer why."

"Because I know that if you're calling me out of the blue it must be something important."

Owen wasn't wrong. Spencer stared at Owen from the other side of the table, trying to figure out what looked different about Owen from the last time he saw him. His hair had changed- it was shorter now, and he had painted his nails black. Had he gained weight? Changed his cologne and deodorant?

Spencer didn't know he was crying until Owen reached out to wipe the tears from his face.

"I don't hate you for this, Spencer." Owen said, using the sleeve of his sweatshirt to blot the tears from Spencer's face. "I still don't think I could ever hate you."

"I can't come back from this, Owen. I don't know how."

"It's alright to not know things."

Owen didn't know whether to pull Spencer into his arms or to give him space. Spencer made the executive decision when he wrapped his arms tight around Owen's neck, resting his head against his boyfriend's shoulder. Owen could feel Spencer's tears on his sweatshirt, and he just held him tight in his arms.

Spencer liked the comfort of lying in bed with Owen. He loved the way that he could wrap his extra-long limbs around him, scooping his lover up into his arms when he needed to squeeze something. Owen was more than happy to oblige- he loved the feeling of being held and he especially loved getting to catch up with Spencer.

Owen would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about him, though. It was one thing when Spencer stopped sending him postcards of the cities he went to, and another thing when they started back up again after he came out to the team. It was a completely different ballpark when Owen was being asked to trauma-coach his ex through something he couldn't even stomach.

"I think you should see somebody."

"Like on a date? Because believe me I'm trying."

"More like a therapist."

Spencer pulled his arm out from under Owen, using it instead to prop himself up.

"I'm not crazy, Owen. I don't need a therapist."

"Am I crazy?" Owen rolled over, sitting up next to Spencer. "Besides, you just experienced a massive trauma. You'd be more insane if you didn't think you need counseling."

Spencer sighed, resting his head against Owen's bare thigh.

"You know I hate it when you're right."

"I know."

Owen lit a cigarette in bed, passing it to Spencer before he lit one for himself. Spencer glanced up at Owen, watching him exhale smoke through his nose as he rubbed the sleep out of his eyes.

"When do you go back to DC?"

"Monday morning. We'll have a case then."

"They're sending you right back out there?"

"Don't see why they wouldn't."

Spencer did start going to counseling- the FBI mandated it when he got back. He assumed it was for liabilities sake, and it seemed silly. The BAU often joked they could pass a psych eval with their eyes closed, and Spencer was no exception. He hated sitting on the hard leather couch across from his counselor, and he usually found himself considering the fastest way out of counseling rather than the best way to help himself.

Spencer passed his psych evaluation a week after he killed a man. His guilt stopped, but his nightmares definitely didn't.