.

.

.


"He's woken up."

There was a gasp, and then a hand slammed on a table.

"Derek Morgan, I swear to all things holy," Penelope warned, "if you are joking."

Derek—who had stepped out of Spencer's room and gone to a private corner after Alex was able to maneuver Spencer's hands from his eyes—called Aaron, who put him on speaker and conferenced Penelope, who was still at the hub in Quantico.

"C'mon. Would I really joke about this?"

"I dunno," Emily drawled. "I seem to recall countless assertions of Guys, his eyes opened for, like, six seconds. New record. Bet on who'll be there when he wakes up for good."

"Yeah, well he's actually woken up. Alex is in there right now with Dr Goswami and one of the nurses."

"But tell us how he is," Jennifer's voice weaved in, a practice of poise and calm but edging just short of begging. "What happened?"

"Yes, tell, and not one detail left out," Penelope tacked on.

"Mm." Derek puffed out a breath, paced, and did as requested, relaying with broad strokes what occurred when he'd entered the room. While disturbed, they weren't entirely taken aback.

"This may pass in time," David murmured. "This could be the delirium."

"We still need to wrap up our case before we can head over," Aaron asserted. "We were getting ready to pack it in for the night."

"Oh, but not so for me, sir, right?" Penelope begged. "I can go up with my stuff, yes? Yes?"

"If you'll be able to properly balance it all, Garcia."

"Of course. I'm changing my plans and heading over in a flash."

"Pump your breaks for a bit, Garcia. Doc's gonna be out in a little and I'm gonna see if I can conference you all."

"Ooh, yes, good."

"That, and maybe just tone it down before you get here, mama," Derek warned, tone brooking no lightness. "In every way, please."

"Um, of course I'll be the paragon of toned down? I always am."

Derek wasn't the only one who scoffed. The call ended soon after, and he went back to pacing. In time, Alex exited the room and informed Derek that the doctor would be out in another few minutes to speak with them in a private conference room.

At Derek's gentle prodding of Spencer's condition, she informed him of the latest:

"I'm not exaggerating when I say that he was barely able to process what's going on. Guarded, set on edge by every movement and touch, and he didn't initiate any eye contact or purposeful tracking."

"What about his responses?"

Alex shook her head, and her fingers wisped along her clavicle. "No birthdate, no name. I'm unsure if this can be attributed to memory loss, if it's outright refusal, or if this is conditioning. Some confusion. It's too early to confirm what's what but by the end, he'd dissociated."

Derek shut his eyes and let out a gritty hum as his face contorted in pain.

"He's far too overwhelmed right now. We'll see what Dr Goswami has to say about it all."

"Why don't you two take a seat? There's much to discuss." At Dr Goswami's words, Derek and Alex—who had both stood at her rapping and at the opening of the door—sat.

Derek requested to initiate a video chat with Aaron and team, and she was fine to give it. So the patchwork of separate lines converged to one video call.

"What news, Derek?" asked Penelope.

"I'll be glad to inform you all," Dr Goswami answered, moseying her way into the camera's view.

Derek set his tablet down on the coffee table and they were all in full view.

"Oh! Doctor Gos, please, yes, hello, please, tell us."

"There's not too much to unpack. Dr Kane would be best to consult here, as this truly falls under his wheelhouse and those of other physicians. But I took just a couple of minutes to consult with him," Dr Goswami said without flourish. "So let's discuss. The first order is that Spencer's currently dissociated—or was by the time my nurse and I left the room."

A moan from the tablet.

"It's alarming behavior considering that he's only just come to fuller consciousness and is indicative of acute trauma. This may be unsettling to observe and is likely to continue while he parses his trauma with his current circumstances. We have a sensitive, in-hospital psychologist who has a delicate hand with cases such as Spencer's. It may do—not just for his sake but for yours as well—to consider consultation with her for now until Spencer is transferred."

She proceeded to detail the team of her assessment as much as she could.

"Frankly, though, and in my years of experience with any patient, Spencer seems by my brief assessment to be displaying multiple sequelae of brain injury that are typical after emergence from a coma or disorder of consciousness. At least physically. In the next few days, it'll be necessary to have various physicians conduct proper assessments, whether bedside or for additional imaging. There's indication of visual dysfunction beyond that of his actual refractive disorder. This isn't abnormal with hypoxic brain injury and is likely to correct itself over time alongside rehabilitation, or at least be reduced to a tolerable level. A neuro-ophthalmology examination will better assess this. An audiologist will also be brought on board, as there is definite auditory deterioration, though it's difficult to say to what severity. While hypoxia can cause a decline in hearing thresholds, we want to be sure if this might be conductive, sensorineural, or perhaps caused by actual physical trauma. But . . ."

The others seemed to wriggle in dreaded anticipation.

"I know that you've well prepared yourself for the maybes over the past month, but now comes the realities. The Spencer Reid you knew before he was abducted is simply not the same person who has woken up this evening. Even without the brain injury, he wouldn't have been the same, considering his prolonged trauma. Spencer is going to need your help these following days and weeks and months. When moving to the rehabilitative stage, what's paramount is the support that someone has from the people around him. What you say to him and how those words and actions are carried out can cause further deterioration, or you can be part of a progressive and constructive therapy and rehabilitation. Unwavering, patient, and kind support is often what facilitates a person's recovery."

"Oh, of course, we'll be helping him," Penelope asserted. "That's not even in question."

Dr Goswami smiled at her and dipped her head. "Which is well and good, however this will already be doubly as difficult considering his trauma. Dr Kane's additional concerns will be for executive dysfunction and any emotional or behavioral differences Spencer may display, so the many assessments will help the treatment team determine and develop an effective plan of care for him. This is where you all come in. As the confusional state phases out in the following days, it's necessary to determine certain changes in his behavior through the observation of intimate associates and differentiate if any abnormalities in this area are due to conditioning from his captivity or if they're attributed to his brain injury. The differences may sometimes be subtle, but"—she faced Derek and Alex—"I think you two quite agree with me. The behavior Spencer displayed upon first waking and, Alex, during my cursory examination was dictated by his captive conditioning."

Alex nodded, and Derek dipped his head in a single, acknowledging nod. "Mm. Yeah," he strained out.

"Right." She turned back to face the tablet. "So it's going to be an invasive revolving door that will undoubtedly agitate him. I can guarantee you that he won't be able to tolerate all these and is likely to experience severe lapses in the next few days, including the delirium, shutdowns, meltdowns, and vacillating moods. Whoever will be here, please, don't take any of what he expresses or does personally, with offense, or as overly strange. The most immediate need as of now is that he's displaying definite signs of photophobia and is averse to keeping his eyes open, though I'm unsure if this is neurological or psychological."

"Or both," David remarked.

"Mm, yes. We'll see in time. Either way, tinted lenses—if he accepts them—may mitigate the problem for a while. I mention the photophobia specifically because now that Spencer's awake, you'll have to see about an interpreter for obvious communicative purposes, and soon. Someone who's a bit more attentive to his needs might be necessary."

"We'll begin seeing to that," Aaron spoke up with his usual collectedness.

"And, again"—she splayed her fingers in a pacifying manner—"many of these problems may be able to correct themselves in time with rigorous rehabilitation and therapy, may become tolerable, or may be mitigated with external or additional aids." It seemed to be said in an attempt to give them some modicum of hope. "Brain injuries aren't always the end of the road but are usually just an unfortunate detour."

A sorrowful silence that settled over everyone.

Dr Goswami sat more upright. "Now, I would be remiss if I didn't share the silver linings with you. Per Dr Kane, Spencer has the coordination to make purposeful movement, and he displays little motor dysfunction besides weakness and tremors. Your more rigorous bedside physiotherapy surely helped with this. Spencer does still possess the cognitive and physical ability to communicate. It might sound simple, but being able to communicate via Sign Language—that which isn't even his primary language—involves complex neural connections. Processing speech in a secondary language is nuanced and shows higher brain functioning. Do realize that these are good things to hold onto."

"So we can head back in there," Derek insisted, sitting at the edge of his seat.

Dr Goswami smiled at Derek. "A familiar presence might be good for him for a short period. You have to understand that this is all very overwhelming for him."

Derek nodded quickly, anxious to go inside.

Doctor Goswami folded her hands together. "Um." Taking a quick look down, she looked back up at the tablet and tilted her head. Clearing her throat, she spoke in a strained voice.

"If I may just leave you with this knowledge. It is a difficult road Spencer will be going down. It may be long , but it won't be impossible. It warms my heart that Spencer has so many wonderful and sympathetic friends in you all. The workings of a healing heart help to heal the mind, and that in turn the body. Having you to help him bear his trauma and his horrors is going to be pivotal in his recovery." She stood. "I hope to see you all soon, although I'll be needed little from this point forward."

Penelope blubbered. "Wh—b—no! We like you!"

Dr Goswami puffed out a laugh. "Likewise, trust me. And it's appreciated to hear something like this. But the nurses do much more of the heavy lifting, I promise you, and you'll continue seeing them and all the specialists and other physicians besides."

They all gave her a collective thanks, and she left.

"As soon as this case is done," Aaron began, "we're headed back to Jersey. Alex, you and I will be working jointly on getting Reid the interpretation team that he needs, although I figure it might be difficult for you to corral more people since you'd fielded the best ones for the footage translation team."

"Mm. Right."

"Well now, let me help on that front," David volunteered.

Little was exchanged after that and so the video call ended.

"Alex, would you mind headin' back in with me?"

Alex was slow to respond, gaze trained to the floor. "Mm?"

"Would you be able to come in with me? If Reid says anything, I won't be able to—"

Alex cracked Derek a somber smile. "Of course, Derek."

So they headed back to Spencer's room. Derek opened the door and let her step in before closing it behind them. The hallway was bright, and the room itself lit to soft glow.

Spencer was laying on his left side in a lateral position with a pillow tucked between his legs, and his back was turned to them, left arm eased in front of him. The EEG headband was back on.

They knew he was aware of their presence. His heart rate ticked up.

"He's highly sensitized, Derek," Alex whispered the moment Derek extended his hand.

Derek clenched his hand. "Hey, Reid. Kid." There was no reaction. He touched the bed frame.

Spencer was all limbs, and Derek used to rib at him about it in the years they knew each other. Limbs with an odd yet distinct grace and flexibility that could contort into strange and surprisingly tight places meant to disappear oneself.

It was this that Derek suspected Spencer was trying and failing to do—make himself small under the gaze of whoever was here, for Spencer's shoulders hunched, his legs twitched and couldn't draw up fully, and his body quaked, though Derek suspected he'd endeavored to halt all movement, still himself so the predator couldn't detect the movement of its next prey. Standing above him—this frightened being with its eyes lidded so imperceptibly that one couldn't properly perceive if they were truly opened—a rumbling, suffering groan petered out from Derek.

He gingerly moved around the bed and pulled a chair forward in front of Spencer and sighed.

"Ahh, Reid." Soothing expressions would die in his and Alex's ears, but staying his voice was unnatural. Unnatural, yes, and yet there was nothing right to say. "Oh, kid. I . . ."

Derek placed a tentative touch over the hand grasping the sheets. Spencer's fingers splayed out in reaction, and Derek pulled back, not wanting to agitate him. He waited again before another attempt to reach forward.

"I know where this is hurting you, kid. Trust me, I know."

A shift of eyes under the lids, the twitch of his hand.

And Derek saw it. The jerking of Spencer's chest, the lashes clumping and clinging to each other with a trickle of moistness, the knotting of his brows, and then the tilt of his head into the bed. To hide, shut out.

Was this all he'd been able to do in his captivity? Trapped with nowhere to go, so he retreated?

There it went again, that groan that Derek just couldn't stem.

"Derek?"

"Hey, yeah, have you left yet?"

"I was getting ready to leave in a few. Why?"

"Don't come tonight."

"What's happened?"

"Just trust me on this, yeah?"

"Yesterday was rather traumatic," Alex said by way of greeting.

It was early the following morning before morning rounds were even yet to be made, and she and Derek were at the Starbucks in the hospital per a text he received before the dawning hour. She'd spent the night in Spencer's room, watching him.

He hadn't slept, she knew, but had kept vigilant with the slight slip of his eyes. Vigilant but without training his gaze on anything specific. Weary herself, she kept falling asleep, and every time she jolted awake, his eyes were still open.

"Mm," Derek murmured after sipping his coffee.

Alex took a sip of her own, then set it down, tapping her nails against the paper cup. "So."

"So," Derek parroted. "You wanted to talk. Damn early for a text."

"M'yeah, sorry. I want to give you some pointers about ASL and PTASL."

Derek puffed out a heavy breath and cleared his throat.

"Obviously the best person to learn any of these things from is someone in the community. Unfortunately, you have me at your disposal." She grinned and winked.

"I'll take what I can work with."

"I'm unsure of how much more you delved into either of these things after I discussed it with you all a couple of weeks ago. I expect you didn't and won't have blamed you."

"Yeah, honestly no." Derek bore a look of guilt.

"No worry. We probably should've expected that there would be communicative difficulties due to the psychological trauma and conditioning alone, regardless of any hearing or visual dysfunctions. I should've worked a bit harder to prepare you all for that reality."

"Yeah, no. Don't put that on yourself. We're here now. Besides, you've been gone for a week."

Alex had spent a few leisure days in Boston, yes—to get away from everything and spend time with her husband as his winter break was underway. It was sheer happenstance that the day she traveled further south coincided with Spencer's awakening.

Alex's lip tipped into a smile. "Right, then; okay. So, let's discuss some basic pertinent signs, then."

"Um, whoa?" Derek tensed and reared back when she stood from her seat, moved it closer towards him, and sat back down, broaching a specific kind of personal bubble open to a select few. "A little close, Blake," he complained.

His acquaintanceship with Alex may be more than a year old, but it was still new.

She canted her head knowingly at him. "Proximity."

He pursed his lips. "Ah. Yeah. Proximity."

"Yes. The means of communication between you and Spencer might be buffered by myself or another interpreter, but such won't always be the case. So this is just to get you accustomed to the trust and intimacy that's involved with this."

Derek gave a brief hum and sought to ease the tension of his muscles. She demonstrated the various words, speaking and gesturing slowly for his benefit and so he could mirror her.

Derek, in turn, took this in stride, repeating her despite any misgivings or initial embarrassment at looking like an awkward fool. Spencer may need this for a time to come.

"I think it's also important that we know words that he seems to have used often"—her hand massaged at her clavicle—"often in his captivity in order for us to recognize how his fears are being manifested," Alex continued.

Derek sighed in dread, and the image of Spencer begging and pleading soundlessly replayed in his mind.

"I think it may help to learn phrases that will disabuse him of the conviction that some kind of . . . of castigation is to follow. As the days pass, we might be coming across more." Shutting her eyes, she rubbed two of her fingers over an eyebrow, as if wishing to erase something she had unpleasantly reconjured. With a heaving sigh and training her gaze back on Derek, she continued.

"And I'm sure you remember this." She demonstrated.

Derek let out a soft sound of distress, head dipping forward. Seeing Alex repeating the words and putting meaning behind them hewed the memory into a sharp blade to his gut.

"Yeah—yes, mm-hmm," he answered quickly by way of having her stop. He didn't want to see it. "The good behavior." He wasn't ready to say the words Good boy just yet, and hadn't even been able to vocalize the exact string of words when he'd called the team yesterday.

"The validation."

Alex straightened her lips and tilted her head. "If all else fails and you forget any of the basic ones I've taught you, you could fingerspell actual alphabetic letters on his hand or write on a board in large letters and present it to him. If doable. But if you want a few good websites for ASL, I can pass them along to you. I have a feeling we'll need to refer to them excessively. There are some amazing sources out there, and I know a few of the web owners. So this is where he is right now linguistically." She pulled back her seat.

Before he could become trapped with his spiraling thoughts, Derek asked, "How was he after I left?"

"I don't think he slept at all."

"Mm. He's likely gonna be hypervigilant and hyperaroused for days now that he's awake. That won't help with any kind of recovery: from physical therapy to routine check-ups or exams, baths, anything." Derek shook his head. "Just like Dr Gos said last night, he won't be able to take much, and he'll get overwhelmed quickly. The kid's rarely ever had a healthy traumatic response. They're all maladaptive, and he deals with them by retreating or withdrawing. I have a feeling that's gonna be the case ."

Alex said nothing but ticked her eyebrows up in agreement straightening her lips.

"He's in a situation where he has to rely on other people physically," Derek continued, "and that's bound to frustrate him considering his independent predispositions."

Alex scrunched her face with a measure of some doubt. "Yes, well, we don't know how that mentality was undermined during his captivity, where he was given constant, undivided attention. This is drastic change, and we're truly in uncharted waters. And since he was drugged so often, he may also question—"

Alex's phone began to vibrate in her pocket. She looked at the caller ID and started slightly.

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"It's from reception upstairs." She answered. "Hello? Oh. Yes. I understand, we'll be there in a tick." Pocketing her phone and standing, Alex rushed out, "And it starts. Gotta go up." She was already taking a step away and downing the cooled contents of her cup in a huge gulp.

"What is it?"

"They went to offer him a bath. Barely touched him and he's in distress."

By the time they'd reached the ward, there were three nurses in the room, Spencer's trembling fingertips were pressed against his closed eyes, and the whole of his frame was trembling while his chest pulsed in shallow breaths, every one of which was punctuated with the kick and rattle of phlegm clogging his airway.

"Hey, Alex. I'm sorry," one of the nurses said. "We're trying to calm him but it's making everything worse. Can't even get close to the bed at this point, but he's not violent."

"It's no problem, Anthony, thank you," Alex responded. "I don't think a male presence is going to be helpful right now."

"We know," said the other two nurses. "We tried getting in there, but . . ."

"This is a tough call," Derek asserted, moving toward the bed. "We really shouldn't be touchin' him while he's experiencing such acute distress, but we literally have no choice." He turned to Alex. "You're pretty much up, Alex. You're the best line of communication."

Alex gave the acknowledging dip of her head and wordlessly moved to approach Spencer. She worked herself into his periphery, bent down to her haunches, and gave one of his pressing, trembling hands a tentative tap-tap.

The others watched how this played out, eyes darting between the two, or to his monitors.

Alex's voice was lowered despite its impracticality, but his hand didn't move to engage with her, so she gave another tap-tap. With enough coaxing, her hands were under his, and his eyes were tightly closed. "It's Alex. It's Alex."

His hands pulled away—the left to his thigh and the other to wrap around his torso. His knees bobbed with his attempt to act. His left hand formed into a talon and started to rub, to scratch above the fabric.

"Spencer."

Alex bent to her haunches. She reached forward and clapped a hand on his thigh to prevent the scratching. "Spencer, you need to—"

Everyone went into a flurry of movement when every tautened muscle in Spencer loosened, and he crumbled sideways like a puppet with its strings suddenly cut.

"Wh—oh! Spencer?" She switched from looking at him to the nursing staff and back again. "Pl—help," Alex urged in desperation, struggling to push herself up with his added weight, carefully manipulating her arms.

Derek stepped forward but one of the nurses halted him and told him to give it a moment while they handled the situation. The nurses went over and began to ease Spencer off Alex's frame.

"What's happened?" Derek asked.

"We'll see to it," Anthony murmured, assisting Alex and easing Spencer back to the bed. He checked Spencer's eye dilation, and the other nurses checked the monitors.

Alex stepped back and left them to it.

"BP, heart rate, even EEG readings still the same," one said.

In a raised voice: "Spencer? Are you with us?"

One of them took Derek's elbow. "Let's all step outside. You got this, Anthony?"

"Yup." He turned to Alex. "Please don't be alarmed—all of his stats are steady."

"Alright, Anna—you gotta explain to me what happened in there," Derek pressed, jabbing his thumb to the door as soon as they were all standing outside the room. "If Alex hadn't been there, he'd've fallen headfirst to the floor."

"We're glad that didn't happen," Anna, the nurse, responded in a placating manner.

The other nurse was already hanging up the phone and walking back toward them. "I've just given a page to Dr Kane and Dr Goswami, but in my experience and according to Dr Kane, considering that there were no electroencephalographic modifications or changes in his blood pressure or heart rate—and considering that there was eye closure—Spencer's likely to've just had what's called a psychogenic blackout."

"Psychogenic," Alex parroted, expression grave and head tilted. "So neither neurological nor truly medical. This is—is somatic." As soon as the words were said, she realized that she herself had a hand latched onto her clavicle, and she lowered it.

The nurse ushered them to the side in one of the private rooms. "Correct. I think it might be best to call Dr Henderson, one of our in-house psychiatrists. She's a trauma specialist, and she and Spencer's physicians can have a consultation with you all. Would that be alright?"

"Yes, thank you," Alex answered after swallowing.

"Great. Hopefully she's available."

In just a few minutes, Anthony popped in and reassured them again that Spencer was fine. He would hold off on giving him a bath for now until Dr Kane and Dr Henderson would inform them of the best course of action.

They waited for a while before Dr Kane came in, as did whom they presumed was Dr Henderson.

"I'm Dr Henderson," the psychologist began. "I'm sorry that you have to meet me under the circumstances." She looked around confused. "Who is Aaron, Spencer's LAR?

"He's not here," Derek spoke up, reaching his hand forward to shake her hand.

She returned the gesture and spoke simultaneously. "Please don't be offended by my question but . . . are none of you family? I can't discuss these things with you."

"What's expressed to Derek and Alex is as good as being shared with Spencer's LAR, I assure you," Dr Kane advocated.

"I can get him on the phone and initiate a video call, but he's currently out in the field," Derek responded.

"I'll wait," Dr Henderson said, folding her hands into each other. "It's a bit unorthodox."

Derek couldn't blame the psychologist in dotting her Is and crossing her Ts, but it was irritating and a waste of time.

Aaron answered, and they spoke briefly.

"I understand that he'll have an altered mental status in the following days and that his autonomy will be compromised," Aaron stated without flourish. "In the case where I can't be reached, it's explicitly understood that anyone from my unit can act as an appropriate surrogate to obtain information and make executive decisions. Where you can and within reason, proceed with whatever is necessary."

It was a huge shift in Dr Henderson's demeanor. It was clear that she was only protecting her future patient's privacy.

"This helps, then. If what little I've heard about his physical and psychological state is the case. I'm prepared to have an open discussion with you both so that I'm better prepared for what his needs are, and so that I can help Spencer in the best way possible while he's in this facility. Eventually, though, since he has a brain injury, his rehabilitation team will have its own clinical neuropsychologist. Although Spencer's situation is unique, I may be working jointly with him or her until he's transferred."

The situation was explained to Dr Henderson in full candor, and she assured Alex and Derek that even if Spencer wasn't a law official and even if he wasn't tied to such a scandalous case, she would have used the utmost discretion.

"In my experience and as I'm sure you know," she started, "there's to be confusion and disorientation. But as he's in an acute state of distress, he's likely to experience frequent bouts of intrusive thoughts and memories, flashbacks, or dissociative states, with bouts of hypervigilance and arousal. It doesn't matter how well he knew you before. At this point, after over half a year of complete isolation, his entire environment is new and there is not one thing that he doesn't perceive as a threat to him."

"So it's a defense mechanism," Derek murmured.

"That it is," Dr Henderson agreed. "He may have taught himself, in a way, various mechanisms to deal with different situations in his captivity—from external immediate and high-stakes physical and or psychological danger, to mechanisms that would shield him from confronting internal conflicts."

Alex sighed.

Dr Kane stepped in. "We'll be monitoring his EEG readings closely, since a psychogenic blackout—if that's truly what he experienced—can sometimes mimic a seizure in that he may have movements that are tonic-clonic in nature, and he may even lose control of his continence. These are rightly called psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. While stress can cause seizures and Spencer is considered epileptic, the EEG readings, his BP stats, and the heart monitor will be our best indicator."

"Okay." Derek nodded.

"Within the next few days," Dr Henderson added, "don't be surprised if he becomes violent and aggressive towards you or himself. He might seem calm now, but he may flash back to any stage of his captivity—to a time where he was resistant to his captors, or to the time where the resistance dissipated and he was cooperative, and even to a mixture of the two due to conflicting emotions he had during those stressful events. Unfortunately, this may mean that we have to take steps for his safety as well as the safety of everyone around him, those of which are bound to distress him further."

Alex tilted her head. "Well he's temporarily impaired right now due to his brain injury—"

Derek glanced in Alex's direction, cautiously optimistic over her choice of words.

"—so how do we possibly help him without triggering him? We're all professionals here that deal in some way with behavior, but I'm sure I speak on behalf of Derek and myself that we'll defer to your advice."

"Appreciated, and you're quite right. With the other factors that affect his visual and auditory cognition, we have no choice but to determine what works best for his unique situation. Unfortunately, this means that trial and error are very real realities here. Where we fail, we'll have to learn how to change our approach. No offense to you, Agent Blake, but despite your knowledge of ASL, I suggest hiring third-party interpreters who specialize in dealing with trauma patients, and quickly. It won't do with you as the only means of communication, neither for yourself or for him."

Alex dipped her head. "Understood, naturally. We're working on that."

The next words, though, were a blow.

"You're going to have to realize that given the factors of Agent Reid's captivity—complete isolation with no other interaction, a familial aspect, drugs, sensory deprivation, and previous unaddressed PTSD—this is enough to form a traumatic bond with his abductors. Such isn't always the case with victims of abduction, of course, where outside observers later conflate survival with sympathizing with one's captor, but it's a possibility, especially with victims who have experienced abuse or violence before their abductions. In other cases, victims who have dealt with an unstable or unhealthy history create certain patterns—some destructive—of acceptance throughout their lives to mitigate things such as confrontation or rejection. "

Alex and Derek shared an uneasy look with each other.

"Obviously I don't know Agent Reid's history, and this would take some delving, but if he leans toward either of those or both, then it's highly possible that such a bond was formed. Every need he had was either withheld by or fulfilled through them, and their methods may have involved emotional and psychological manipulation alongside violence, creating a punishment and reward system. Humans naturally default to seeking the rewards. So don't delude yourselves into thinking that his distress is always from the violence he experienced. Like mentioned before, this environment is new, unpredictable, and therefore—to him—unsafe. You've displaced and stripped him from whatever semblance of balance he gained. You are the threat, you are not to be trusted, you are the enemy."


ONWARDS
Dr Henderson was ready to assist Spencer whenever needed—which was always—and was ready for a call—which came always—so long as she wasn't with another patient.

'He'll need a familiar face or presence to help ground him when needed, and I can teach you some basic grounding techniques, though I'm sure you're versed in this.'

So someone was always in his room. He was alert, wary, and defensive, but in the next moment was docile and passive, brushing his knuckles across his bristly jaw.

"It's been over a week since his last shave," Penelope whispered as she passed her curled hand on his jaw in the early evening. "Maybe we should shave it."

"Mm, maybe," Derek replied, his voice equally low. "Not as easy now that he's awake. When I tell you that no one can get near him, I'm not lyin'."

"Yes, well. Taking advantage now. I still have months and months to make up for."

"Remember that short-lived phase he went through?" Derek snorted.

"Oof, the one, like, a couple of months after his first case? Please, I try to suppress that."

"Trying to convince me the look had everything to do with a fascination with the yeti when you know—you know it's 'cause—"

"—he was trying not to look like a skinny little white dude that got separated from his high school tour group," Penelope finished, throwing her head back in a soft bark of laughter and placing her hand on her chest. "Oh my stars."

Derek looked down fondly at Spencer, who was catching a small bout of rest after having suffered an actual seizure—that which Dr Kane empirically concluded was stress induced from all physicians and nurses who had come and gone in the passing hours for rounds, checkups, or cleaning, none of which—as predicted—Spencer was able to tolerate.

"Yeah, but the kid's grown into it. He could pull it off."

"Mm. Quite."

"Not much of a kid anymore." The words carried a nostalgic, lamenting world-weary weight.

Penelope sighed and looked at Derek. "Thank you, by the way, Derek."

"For?"

"For reminding me that I can still laugh despite my withering heart."

"Hey, now, no," Derek chided. "There's a lotta love in there, mama. I don't think it can ever shrivel up."

"Mm." She hummed and plastered her hand on her chest. "Derek Morgan, you still talk sweet. I'm glad there's still room for me since, you know, you've found a new squeeze."

Derek sat back. "A new what?"

"Come now, Derek. I know things."

"Garcia. Penelope, have you been going through my stuff?"

Penelope raised her hand. "I swear that I am innocent this time."

"Rossi, then."

"I'm not one to throw anyone under the bus or tattle—"

"—except you are—"

"Rude. But put the guy in the right mood and get a good couple of glasses in him, and boy does he get chatty. I mean, he said nothing explicit but—damn it, Derek"—she slapped the back of her hand against him roughly—"we share these things, you and me. Who is she? A name—give me a name."

Derek puffed out a breath, but he grinned his straight-toothed smile. "Savannah."

"Ooh, Savannah," she sighed out rapturously with a distinct Southern-Belle twang. And then she switched: "Is she amazing? She must be, to keep up with you for this long. Tell me everything about her. When did you meet her? How many dates? What does she do? If you don't tell me, I will find out through unethical means."

"No you won't, you busy body," Derek chided in jestful warning. "I'll tell you, but I don't want you to go snooping."

She edged on an objection.

"Please, Garcia. This is just . . . I need some bit of privacy, yeah? After all this mess this year, I just want one little thing that's still mine."

Penelope plastered a hand on his arm, and it came again, that lilting accent. "Well, I love you enough to solemnly swear that anything I know about your Savannah darlin' will be directly from you, Derek Morgan. So spill."

Derek snorted. "Yeah, no. The name has no bearing on how she talks."

"Just give me this, mkay?"

Derek rolled his eyes at her long-sufferingly, chuckling. "And just for a little longer, this is just between us, okay? And Rossi. I mean, y'all are definitely gonna meet her in time. It's just never been good timing for me to let on with you guys, you feel me? Things started moving with us in the middle of the summer, and I wasn't really in a good place, so . . ."

"Ah."

Beside them, Spencer shifted.

"If he's waking up"—Derek's eyes darted to the EEG screen—"you need to stop touching him."

And Penelope pulled her hand away without delay.

Indeed, Spencer just couldn't be touched, and his aversion was greater still if he, by some strange intuition, knew that it was someone of the team.

Earlier, his gastroenterologist attempted to administer a proctoscopy to assess his progress. The attempt ended poorly.

Dr Kane was eager to begin Spencer's rehabilitation evaluation, but the physical toll any proximity took on Spencer wasn't worth aggravating his state unnecessarily. The assessment could wait until Spencer might come to better terms with his current situation.

Nurses and specialists who came to assist him—with turning, to get his latest readings, to do blood work, to readjust something, or for hygienic upkeep—all had to back away when everything elevated—heart rate, breathing (until he would hold his breath), blood pressure—and the EEG readings would dip and crest as indication of his increased anxiety.

These had led to another short-lived blackout, where he just collapsed where he sat. Before this, Derek was present for yet another dissociation, wherein Spencer's eyes became lidded, and—most alarming of all—his lips twitched in distinct patterns of speech that he knew would have been silent even despite the tracheostomy.

Unbidden, Derek recalled some words that Spencer had recited to a man in a psychotic break years ago on a train—that he knew what it was like to hear the voices—and questioned how true they might ring for Spencer now, or how these might be projecting from within.

So they backed away and left him, for now, so as not to further distress him. Despite everyone's cautious approach, the overwhelming nature of their presence and unwelcome touches were the trigger that led to his current somnolence. All of this happened within the passing hours of the day.

Alex took it upon herself to serve as a conduit for Spencer until they could acquire the few interpreters to be rotated for the time being.

No one missed the irony of how well Connor Gaines might have suited this role.

In the late evening and with the arrival of the remaining team members, they wished to trickle into Spencer's room by one. Emily requested to go in first, and she attempted a light approach.

She watched Spencer shift and tilt his head. He'd been on his right side, facing the door. His fingers twiddled over the IV injection site on his forearm, and his eyes were closed, but she knew he was aware of her presence by the changing numbers on the screens, the small rise and dip or tightening of the wavelengths in his readings.

She pulled the chair around and sat in front of him.

"Oh, Reid," she sighed out. What she next spoke were soft and measured specious words, serving no one but herself. "You don't deserve any of this, Spence. No one does, but I know you, and you don't deserve it."

Her hand wavered out and then wrapped around Spencer's wrist. The skin shone, polished to perfection with the reminder of his captivity. In return, his own hands stilled and his fingers flexed.

"I'm really bad at this kind of thing, Reid. In London, they'd say I'm rubbish." She laughed at herself, but her next words came out shaking, soft. "I wanna undo all of this, Reid. I . . . I'm so sorry I hadn't been there for any of it. When you met Maeve, when you lost her . . . when they . . ."

His eyes slipped open and they fell upon her hand, staring.

"Hey." Again, an empty gesture, the speech, and she scrunched her face in self-deprecation.

But her thumb slid along, and that familiar expression of something registering in his mind washed over him briefly, eyebrows wrinkling. It wasn't a pleasant revelation, for he tugged his hand away and tucked the both out of view. In another moment, his chest was puffing, his left hand was moving under the blanket, and his reddening face was tucking into the pillow beneath him.

Emily straightened her lips, prepared herself for a disturbing or embarrassing sight, reached for the blanket, and she tugged it upward.

"Reid."

His right hand was gripping onto his gown at the hip, but the left was formed into a claw, and it was desperately scratching at his thigh.

It had never been this extreme before, but she had seen him do this in the past, the thigh rubbing. She could see how Alex had so rightly drawn her conclusion about the wounds weeks ago.

"Reid, please." Her hand went to stop the motion, and he tensed, hand splayed and trembling, ticking his head left and right in imperceptible motions.

Emily let out a sigh as his loose hand released the fabric and reached for her wrist, remaining but a breadth away from touching it, trembling. His jaws clenched, his skin flushed, and rivers of veins emerged at his temples and forehead as he held his breath.

Her eyes heated.

"God, Reid," she gasped out. "You don't have to keep everything in like you always do. You don't have to do this." And her insistent thumb soothed over his wrist again, kneading. "You don't, Reid. You don't. It hurts, so let it out. Let it out."

Ten seconds passed with the continuous brush of her thumb, with cajoling that she knew couldn't quite reach him. Twenty and more.

And then his chest finally heaved, his eyes watered, and he did just that.

"So I think he knows who he's with when we're with him," Emily declared, pressing her back against the door she'd just walked through. "Dunno how, but he knows."

Jennifer's hands were clasped under her chin. "How was he?"

Emily puffed out a breath. "Anguished. Far too overwhelmed."

Jennifer stood, took a pacing step away and then another toward the door.

"He really needs space, JJ," Emily said pointedly, stepping toward the door to block her path.

Jennifer puffed out a deflating breath, and her voice took on an edge with her next words. "I need to see him. Just. To let him know."

"Really needs space," Emily reiterated, stepping forward and bracing a calming hand on Jennifer's arm.

Jennifer wilted.

"Give him some time."

And so they did.

By Sunday afternoon, three short-term interpreters were vetted and privately contracted in a joint effort between Aaron, Alex, and David. They would be attentive to Spencer's linguistic requirements while being sensitive to the physical and psychological complexity of his condition. The NDA that they each signed was so strict that they couldn't even think about the FBI without the threat of a hefty lawsuit and prison sentence.

It was strange how it seemed that Spencer would get the sense whenever someone came into the room. He was weak and spent most of his time laying on his side—or, after much hassle, sitting in a more upright Fowler's position. His head, though, would lift off the pillow the smallest fraction, as though he had heard or seen the door open and close, and he did this fairly consistently when someone walked in or left the room. As such, they didn't know how much he could properly hear or see them.

"Even though I'm positive he won't be capable of it, we need to encourage him at the least to try to bathe himself," one nurse later told Alex. "I understand that he's refusing to be touched right now, but keeping this up is unhygienic. Might you encourage him to at least attempt to clean himself?"

Reluctant of anything fruitful to come of it, Alex told her that she would try. When she entered the room, he was on his right side, facing the door.

But for tucking his hands out of reach, he did little else in response to her gentle tap of his hand, which had been brushing along his jaw before.

"He's not ready to engage yet," she told the nurse.

"I worry about his sleeping habits," Dr Kane said. "Aside from the postictal fatigue that put him out for a couple of hours yesterday, he's not slept at all according to his readings. This keeps up for too long and it can trigger more seizures and worsen the delirium."

"What's the best course of action, then?" Aaron asked.

"Considering that nonpharmacologic treatment is likely off the table or is currently impossible, the best approach is administration of drugs, starting with melatonin, as it's the least objectionable. If this doesn't work, we begin looking at sedatives."

"Unless it's an absolute emergency, we're to avoid the latter at all costs," Aaron declared. "So let's hope the melatonin works."

It did work, and it took little time for it to knock Spencer out. He slept for over three hours before he awakened with Jennifer in the room.

Jennifer caught on to his wakeful state, having heard the ruffling fabric. She looked up from her tablet and started.

"Reid," she chided, bolting up from her chair as soon as she saw his petering hands gripping and wrenching, curling and peeling at the tape near the IV catheter at his forearm.

In the next moment, it was plucked out. His hand went to lift his gown, fingers reaching for his gastronomy port as if intent on doing the same.

"Spence—" Without thinking, Jennifer gripped his wrist, and then the other when it reached down. "Someone give me a hand, please?" She yelled out, twisting her head to the door.

What resistance he put up against her was weak, but he struggled anyway, recoiling. His face was reddened, he was quaking, and his eyes were clenched as his hands twitched into shapes she couldn't understand.

"Spence, please." Again she turned her head to the door. "Someone. Please help in here!" She roared insistently. Sucking her teeth, she unlocked her hand from around his wrist, pressed the nurse call button, and latched back on.

A nurse opened the door, and in the next moment she was calling for backup.

"What happened, JJ?"

"He started tearing at things, Liv. Woke up and just started—"

Multiple hands were upon him in moments, which only served to aggravate him more.

"You can back away now, JJ. We're good. Thank you."

Jennifer did as advised, but not before plastering a hand on his face for a moment and apologizing.

After everything was sterilized or replaced and re-sited, they all pulled away, and Spencer, who was supine, turned with difficulty and curled.

They observed.

His fingers returned to the IV catheter on his forearm, and as a nurse reached forward to halt another uprooting, they merely skimmed over it, gliding back and forth. His eyes were half-mast, and the readings indicated that he wasn't just calm, but near somnolence. But his fingers brushed.

Jennifer sighed, swiping her hand in her hair.

"It's a risk for infection if he pulls them out," the nurse instructed Jennifer. "If he keeps doing that, we might have to use restraints or Posey mitts, but—"

"Absolutely not," Jennifer interjected.

"Right. I know. I wanted to say that especially given his trauma and his communicative needs, we don't want to resort to such a measure. But we might not have a choice."

Jennifer's eyes watered as despair swept through her. "Can we . . . I'll inform Hotch. This is the most aggression he's shown. While it's an obvious necessity, I don't think he's taking well to having been given a drug, regardless of its innocuity. We're going to have to find another solution for this."

But they couldn't. So Spencer didn't sleep and became even more vigilant.

On Sunday evening, upon everyone being informed that the physicians would be moving forward with any necessary assessments that could be done bedside in the following days, Derek announced without question that he was staying on just a couple more days, robbing Emily of her rotation.

One of those examinations would be the proctoscopy that he'd refused.

Emily didn't object. "I get it, Morgan. It'll put him in the mind of being violated, and you wanna be there for him."

Derek swallowed and nodded. A pluck of sensation in the air—that metallic scent and hair-raising static—filled him with haunting premonition.

"Yeah, I'll just be back at work Wednesday," Derek said.

David dipped his head. "Send me your receipts so I can cover traveling and accommodations expenses."

Derek began to object. "Rossi—"

"You're not gonna argue with me about this. Let me alleviate some of these expenses. On that note, I'll hound the rest of you guys if you don't send me your receipts from this past month. It's not up for debate."

And it wasn't.

Alex followed in the same vein. Attempting to spread out all the assessments instead of shoving them all into a small pocket of constant invasiveness, she requested that—following Derek's rotation—she might assist with the others where she would best serve: the neuro-ophthalmologist, otolaryngologist, and audiologist examinations.

Dr Henderson was put on high alert.

It was too bad that these would come to pass, for by Monday morning, Spencer seemed to have some semblance of increasing perception—and acceptance—of his new situation.

So Dr Henderson made an attempt to engage with him in order to begin a non-burdening psychological evaluation.

Derek watched as she and one of the interpreters—an older woman with a gentle disposition named Cassandra—entered the room, and Spencer was alert to their entering.

With a calm Hello, Spencer, her approach, and tap of the bed, he'd tilted his head in an acknowledging, slow blink of his lidded eyes, and his curled knuckles brushed his jaw with a slightly increasing fervor.

With a tap-tap on his other hand—resting on his thigh—from Cassandra, it pressed against his belly. But after another gentle tap-tap , he engaged, lifting his hands.

Derek lowered his jowls. "Huh." This was progress—the first engagement since he'd awakened on Friday evening.

"You're good to go," said Cassandra to Dr Henderson after tucking her hands underneath his.

"I'll get out of your hair for a bit," Derek declared, standing despite wanting to stay. "Let me know if you need me."

"Thank you, Derek."

One last lingering glance at Spencer, a single nod at the two in acknowledgement, and he left, hoping that it would go well.

"I'm Dr Henderson, a psychologist here at the hospital," Dr Henderson said as soon as Derek left the room.

His loose grip tightened around the hands translating for him.

"You're safe, and you're no longer with the people who took you. Do you understand this?"

He didn't respond.

"Do you understand that you're safe?"

With another bout of silence, she changed her tactic.

"Do you understand that you're in a new environment?"

His response finally came after his body teetered like a gentle wind was shifting him hither and thither, and Cassandra spoke for him. "I understand."

"There's no danger here. Do you understand this?"

The answer came again. "I understand."

As the next events went, though, it seemed that Spencer's understanding of his safety vacillated between belief and disbelief, or—rather—that he had simply answered positively to please Dr Henderson.

"I would like to talk some things through with you."

He didn't respond but for the tilt of his head.

"Would that be alright with you?"

His visage became wan.

"Please know that we will only speak about what you want. Our discussions will be completely up to you and in your control. We can go at a slow, easy pace for just brief moments in order to help alleviate the emotions that may be overwhelming you. If I ask you a question that you don't want to answer, you can simply tell me."

The words often comforted people. For victims of trauma who had been robbed of their agency, knowing that there was something they could control gave them a sense of regaining order.

"Is there anything that you want to talk about? Why you're not sleeping, perhaps?"

The calm he had disintegrated. His hands peeled away, went to his thigh above the blanket, and dragged. If there were no fabric, he would be scoring his skin. His breathing became labored as his chest pulsed unevenly and his lidded eyes scrunched closed.

"Spencer, you're safe, you're in a hospital, and no one can hurt you here," Dr Henderson said aloud, for all the words were worth.

Cassandra tapped his hands to attempt to convey the words to him, but he didn't reengage.

"No need to force him, Cassandra. Let's give this a few. We really shouldn't be touching him in this current state, though his case is difficult not to do so."

Dr Henderson observed him in the crawling seconds, and the hands kept up. She elevated her voice to reach him, but short of yelling, she couldn't. She couldn't allow it anymore and pressed her hand forward. Instead of taking his wrist to stop him from doing this, she hovered her hand over his thigh—not touching as Alex explained she had done on Saturday—as he dragged his hand back. When it pressed forward, he met with her hovering fingers and stopped.

They waited. And then his other hand was back at his jaw and brushing.

So they tried to get in there again, with Dr Henderson asking Cassandra to reengage. Eventually she was able to place her hands underneath his again.

"You're in a hospital, and you're safe. Are you able to squeeze the hands you're touching as tightly as possible? Would you be able to do this? Good. Do it again, please. Good."

She took a slight dive.

"Would you be able to tell me why you do this to your leg?"

Of course she knew why he was doing it. She wanted to know what thoughts led to the action.

"Can you share what you're thinking about?"

She remained for a few more minutes with him, endeavoring to peek in, but he didn't let her.

She asked him if he might accept a bath, or if he might try to give one to himself. He reddened, but he didn't respond.

She warned him that there were a few assessments that needed to be done throughout the following days, listing them for him. Though he teetered again like he was being blown about with an unseen breeze, though his chest swelled and puffed and though everything began to elevate, his response was simple.

"I understand."

"You can request that they are held off for a little longer. You can let us know what you would prefer to do."

But something about that statement caused his features to flush and scrunch, made his chest heave.

There was little engagement to be had after this, so she left and found Derek in the hall.

"How was he?"

She sighed. "You need to understand. He spent months with no autonomy. In the beginning of our loosely-termed conversation, I gave him something that he's not had for all that time—complete control of where the conversation would go. This concept—that of self-determination, of agency—these things may not exist for him anymore. His current understanding is to do as told, to say what needs to be said in order to suffer no pain."

"Mm."

"There's both self-injury and self-soothing occurring during his dissociations, and it's hard to say if he's aware of doing it. As you know, it's best not to touch someone who is experiencing some type of dissociation, but it was necessary, just as what JJ had done yesterday. We can't allow him to injure himself. I merely hovered my hand over his path, and when he was met with the resistance, he stopped injuring himself and went back to the self-soothing."

"So we just have to make the right kinda call at the time."

"Basically, yes. Unfortunately, physicality as the last resort is currently the only resort. Keeping in mind the grounding. If we can move on to that as soon as touch is established, then we might be able to alleviate some distress."

Derek sighed.

"He's aware of the assessments, so we're only left to see how these go."

Derek was texting the team constantly while they were on their newest case, stepping out on occasion to give his input, though they endeavored to minimize the need for his involvement. Cassandra would remain behind in her corner of the room, waiting to be of use. He was careful to keep his tablet tucked nearer his face so that Spencer, who generally sat as still as a statue on his bed, didn't see the carnage. Not that he would've been able to.

'I've been holding onto these for months,' Penelope had admitted weeks ago when she placed his glasses at his bedside after he was taken off the medically induced coma. 'Literally since the night he was taken and I had to fly up. Figured he'd need them.'

The lights in the room had been daily adjusting at slightly brighter intervals at the doing of the nurses. His head was constantly crooked just so , but his penchant was to keep his gaze lowered. Or closed.

Where he wasn't still was with that shadow of a beard. His curled knuckles continued their slow brush.

And Derek, who kept in dread of the passing hours until Spencer's examination, kept his face trained on the tablet. His eyes often shifted to Spencer as muted episodes of his favorite space adventures played in the background with a whisper of sound. Just something to fill the void. Thankfully, Spencer had fallen asleep of his own volition, but it didn't last long before he awoke, and his hands were skittering over his skin as it had when Jennifer had to hold him down.

All it took was Derek placing a hand over his and his request for Cassandra to insist that he was safe at a hospital. And back he was to that brush of his hand to his jaw. With it came a strange motion of his right hand hovering above his left, like he was getting ready to chide himself.

The door to his room was kept closed as a matter of course. Whenever Derek was with Spencer, he was in constant amazement how he knew when someone entered.

They tested in subtle ways what he could pick up on just to confirm if it was willful ignorance that they were speaking to or approaching him, or if there were more severe deficiencies. David—who had sat in the room for a short spell the previous night—spoke utter nonsense, switched up his one-sided conversation mid-sentence, stood up abruptly from his seat to see if the motion would alert Spencer.

It was only when the door would open that anyone still within the room detected any change in him.

It was like his aging Clooney, who couldn't hear well anymore, and couldn't see well either, but when the dog got a whiff of something familiar or something new or something he didn't much like, he became alert, his tail wagged, or he would lower his body in disquiet after circling and whimpering, wanting to alleviate the itch to bark.

Derek didn't like the idea of comparing Spencer to his dog, but maybe that comparison wasn't so far off. He'd done it when they first met years ago, after all.

It had been apt. Clooney was a rescue pup, neglected and mistreated by his previous owners, and Derek had worked hard for over a month to help the youngling regain the flesh on its bones and trust in its new guardian.

In the same manner that Derek couldn't directly communicate what the pup had wanted but could somewhat intuit its needs, Spencer's concerns and needs remained untranslatable, and he wondered what could be plaguing him. And like the occasional thumping tail against a hardwood floor, the right hand would move atop to his left before pulling away, or the back of his fingers would start to rub at his cheek or jaw.

So when Spencer's head ticked and his nose pointed—despite his inability to breathe nasally—just after the gastroenterologist and an assisting nurse rolling a large, portable workstation entered, Derek had to shake the visage of an old, taupe, long-haired dog from before his eyes.

He folded the cover flap of the tablet closed and greeted them.

She tilted her head to Derek, and the interpreter moved toward Spencer with calm precision. "Derek, I would like to give Spencer some self-determination regarding your presence, if you don't mind. I understand that you're here as support, but perhaps we let Spencer be the judge of his comfort level."

Derek dipped his head in acknowledgement. "That's fine with me."

The physician then turned to Spencer. "Hi, Spencer," she said in an even but slightly elevated tone. She gave the bed a couple of taps so he was sure of a presence, and his interpreter was there in the next second, giving his hand a tap, too.

Spencer squared his shoulders and lowered his gaze, head tilting further to his left, and Derek could tell: Spencer knew.

He knew why she was here.

"Spencer," she began. She nodded to Cassandra.

Cassandra gave his hand a tap-tap. In turn, he tilted his head, his hands wrung, and he gripped his gown at his belly

"Spencer," the physician repeated, "today I need to perform a proctoscopy."

Spencer's hands tightened immediately around Cassandra's hands.

With some manipulation, Cassandra got him to loosen his hold, and she spoke the next words for him to understand as Dr Goswami continued: "We can't hold off on it any longer. We want to help you heal, so we must do the exam to know how we move forward. This is with your best physical interests in mind."

Spencer hadn't responded. But the screen next to the bed flashed as manifestation of what was happening internally. His breaths puffed through the tube, and his skin took on a tone of pallor.

"Please confirm with me, Spencer, that you understand that we must proceed with this. Do you understand?"

His healing tongue kept clicking against his palate as he worked his jaw. The seconds passed.

"Spencer, would you please be able to confirm that you do or do not understand this?"

A breath pressed out from the port as the fingers clenched and unclenched.

Finally, and with the barest twitch, Spencer's hand pulled away. "I understand."

"Thank you, Spencer. Before I proceed, I can use a local anesthetic. Is this something you might prefer?"

Derek looked at Spencer, whose void expression twitched and whose hands began to tremble over hers. Those breaths puffed out of the tube as his chest swelled. He turned to Cassandra.

"Please tell him we won't use any drugs," he asserted with difficulty. To be numbed to what might feel like a violation, or to take a drug—Derek knew this would plague Spencer either way. He already knew he wouldn't take well to the latter. Either way, this would be a violation. And being given that choice was also to cause some distress.

"Derek is here," the doctor spoke. "Do you want him here during this, or would you like him to leave?"

Derek looked at Spencer.

After a few moments, the question was repeated.

Derek, panged that Spencer seemed too terrified to voice and make plain his wants, made his choice. "Yeah, I'm gonna stay."

Through Cassandra, Dr Goswami and the nurse began to explain every step of the examination aloud before they did anything, identifying themselves and grounding him to the reality that he was safe. He seemed in and out of the present.

"The bed will be lowering flat, Spencer," spoke the nurse.

After the minute it took, more words.

"Spencer, do you feel that you're strong enough to turn to your left side yourself, or do you feel that you won't be able to? If you feel strong enough, you may do so."

Shuffling.

"Okay, that's alright. You did your very best. You're going to feel me helping you turn, Spencer."

"Do you guys want me to help, or . . ."

"You can stay as you are, Derek," the doctor said. "Let's just give him room. We're already more people in his space than customary."

"I'll need to move your hospital gown just a little, but I'll be putting a cover over you. Okay. There you go."

Once properly positioned, Cassandra couldn't really be of service, so Derek bent before Spencer.

"It'll be starting," the doctor said, knowing the words wouldn't reach him. "Apologies for any discomfort. Just relax. Good."

Spencer's left hand was wiping up and down his thigh, they curled, and despite the physician's earlier words, Derek encroached in the space and moved in to stop this.

"You're in a hospital, and you're safe. We're not trying to hurt you. How is he over there, Derek?"

Derek made a noncommittal noise, suppressing the desire to roll his eyes.

Spencer's hand wedged underneath him, cupped his covered groin, and he stilled. His face reddened as he held his breath, eyes fluttering and face turning toward the mattress as he jerked again. The breaths then puffed in and out, panting—Not Clooney; he's not Clooney—as the discomfort washed over him.

In the next moment and as the tool in the physician's hand was positioned behind Spencer, something seemed to have switched in him. The tensed muscles slackened so abruptly that Derek thought he might have blacked out. He pulled a fraction away in alarm.

But it was a fluid series of motions, like a man possessed, where Spencer's eyelids began to flutter, and his head began to tip back, back, exposing his neck. His face turned outward to the ceiling, his jaw slackened as his mouth tipped open slightly, and his hands dragged up.

His fingers reached his neck and latched onto the column of flesh. Not a grip, and kneading would be too kind a word. This was beyond that or massaging. It was a gentle caress.

Derek looked on in fascinated horror, unsure of what exactly he should do, or if he should do nothing at all.

As it was nothing truly detrimental, he went with the latter, averting his eyes—until Spencer's chest jerked.

"Damn it, Reid." He weaved his hands between Spencer's and wedged them outward to stop him from frankly asphyxiating himself, for the fingers had latched on and covered the tracheostomy.

"You're okay, Reid. You're okay."

His spread hands trembled, his eyes scrunched, and his reddening nostrils twitched and flared.

Derek pulled his own hands away.

All too soon and with his neck still stretched back, Spencer dug his face into the pillow and covered his eye with the heel of his right palm. His left hand wove underneath and trailed over his neck.

Derek pressed a hand to Spencer's crown as a heat built behind his eyes and his throat thickened.

Something had shifted. Where Spencer had braved the open slip of his eyes these past few days, in the passing hours, he'd not dared to open them. He was awake and alert, but whatever resistance he'd shown seemed to have further melted away.

He needed to get in there.

"Hey, um, Cassandra."

"You can call me Cassie."

"Cassie, then. I, uh, want him to know it's me. How do I tell him it's me?"

"You would like to speak with him tactilely, is what you're asking?"

"Mm." His thumb rubbed against the tips of his other fingers as if to test, as he did in his youth when readying to pass a ball with the trust that someone would be there at the other end of that flying arc to receive it. He claimed no proficiency with the language. He knew he would fumble this. But to reach Spencer, to let him know that he was there with him in solidarity, in understanding, was a need preceding his own apprehension.

"Agent Morgan?"

He snapped to attention and nodded. "Yeah. Yes. I'd like to try talking to him."

"Okay, we're going to fingerspell your name after you point to yourself," Cassandra said. "Do you know how to spell it out?"

Ashamed, Derek shook his head. He should have known it by now—his own name at the very least. He just hadn't—despite his and Alex's conversation the other day—he really didn't think things would be this grave, that Spencer would be so unreachable, and so he'd shirked this.

"Just tuck your hands into his, and do what I do. If he welcomes conversation, that is."

Derek let out a soft breath, he tapped at Spencer's hands, and he waited, throwing out a rare internal plea to the universe to have Spencer reciprocate his gentle nudge.

Somewhere, eventually, that invocation was found by some ungrudging entity. Spencer's hands lifted, and Derek moved to position himself better and tuck his hands underneath. He was half sitting on the bed.

It was a strange and new intimacy, as Alex had pointed out, but it wasn't unfamiliar—just of a different facet. Derek was a physical person—something that he had gained through the affection of his sisters and his parents, and—but for a brief spell of years after his father had died and Carl had violated his trust—he hadn't allowed this to change. The two weeks that he spent with Spencer trying to get him sober had involved a lot of physicality. So there was a rightness in this, but it was just . . . so different. He felt distinctly embarrassed and a little foolish because he didn't know what he was doing.

The fingers twitched around Derek's.

"Are you ready, Agent Morgan?"

"Mm. Yeah." His voice shook.

And so Cassandra started. He then spelled his name, following what she said with slow precision.

Spencer's hands tightened around Derek's and his flush features went flaming as the breath in his port puffed out and he gave a single, firm shake of his head. His hands trembled around Derek's and he pulled away.

Derek knew Spencer well, knew that expression of self-deprecation, of insecurity. He tipped his head to Cassandra. "Okay. Can you help me tell him I'm right here? As in, we're all here to support him."

"What exactly do you want to say?"

So Derek clarified. Cassandra showed him, and he repeated with that same labored hesitancy.

"Moving forward, just tell me exactly what you intend to tell Mr Reid and speak directly to him," she asserted.

Derek nodded, and he sought to keep it simple. "You did good, you know. You did good."

But just after he said it and Cassandra helped him convey the words, it struck him that the sentiment was tactless. Perhaps it was inappropriate to praise Spencer for not having descended into a delirious, reactive state—inappropriate to praise Spencer for having essentially been compliant through something that was traumatic. Maybe he wasn't equipped enough to take this on—to help guide a blind person through a darkened hall of which he himself had yet to find the exit. It didn't mean that he would give up. It just confirmed that he couldn't go about it alone and that this might be beyond all of them.

He sighed. "How do you feel? You okay?" he asked with Cassandra's assistance.

The silence stretched, but something in Spencer had shifted upon the previous assertion—that of having done well. He'd teetered, and his hand clenched and unclenched. But with these words, Spencer's comportment changed.

In time, his eyes slipped open with his gaze lowered and off to the side. His hands pulled away, and then they moved in slow tremors like another possessed creature.

Derek blinked at Cassandra as she parroted the words he'd just said, as he himself recognized the labored motions as what he himself had just said to Spencer. "Uh, yeah, that's what I just told him. He just said it back?"

"Word for word, Agent. At least the first par—oh."

Spencer's hands had moved again, and Derek furrowed his brows, dread pooling in his stomach, for it was the same series of words.

"How do you feel?" A pause, and then again: "How do you feel?"

But then Spencer continued on, and Cassandra hummed out a brief sound of what Derek could only describe as onerous displeasure before she spoke up:

"You didn't tell me how it was. How do you feel? Did you enjoy that? We prepared it just for you. Did you like it?"

Derek understood. These weren't Spencer's words. His innocent question to Spencer had triggered a memory.

Throughout the days of Spencer's captivity and even after his rescue, Derek's eyes had watered, and his throat had thickened, but not once did tears actually fall.

But the continued words in a foreign, husky, hushing voice was the perfect little butterfly to tip the scales.

Devoid of anything at all, Spencer spoke, hands unable to form the words with full mobility, but understood and spoken by Cassandra nonetheless, pausing between each interruption just as he did.

"I liked it." His head tilted, shook like it was trying to recalibrate, resettle, reorder. "What do you say? We did this to correct . . . I'm sorry . . . because we care for you . . . thank you . . . I liked it . . . I love you."

As if someone had been whisking the air from the room, Derek found it difficult to breathe. But in time, he groaned again and the heat in his eyes caused them to prickle. His hands pressed at his face and he swiped them down before folding them together prayerfully, trying to reign the sorrow that flooded through him.

It didn't serve him well. Derek crumpled, he wept, and for another night, Spencer didn't sleep.


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