tw-mentions of drug use/abuse, blood, gore

"I need to borrow your car."

"No."

"Derek."

"A please would be nice."

She opens her mouth fiercely before composing herself, "please. I really need this."

"At least tell me why." He waits a moment, searing her face for any sort of tell, "Jo, of course, I wanna help you but you're starting to worry me."

"I need to check on a friend," Off of his suspicious look. "I swear to you I'm telling the truth. I'm worried about them."

He assesses her, and scans her face for deception.

He can't find any and attributes it to her uncanny ability to never reveal what she's really thinking.

"Promise you'll be safe?" He lowers his chin.

"Yes, of course," she nods frantically.

"Of course," He snorts, "Have her back by morning."

"Men and their cars."

Jo is pushing twenty-five over the speed limit by the time she merges onto the highway.

She's been to the cabin a few times as a young girl. She doesn't have to think of the way there, and her negative self-talk squeezes into what little space she has left in her head.

"Be careful with that gun of yours, Jolene. We all know how reckless you can be"

God, I need a drink.

The back-country Virginia roads are empty and she takes this as an invitation to drive as fast as she can. She speeds down a gravel-road canopied by trees until the small wood cabin comes into view.

Under different circumstances, Jo would consider this patch of woods to be beautiful-the type of place she would like to escape to.

But the malevolence breaks through the scattered trees as the moonlight does.

She parks around back so that no one passing by will know she's there and exits the car with an apprehensive gait.

The back entryway is small, a porch only about a foot wide supports her feet.

She snatches the carabiner filled with keys from her belt loop, shuffling the tiny pieces of metal around until she finds it. The key with a strip of blue nail polish painted along the top.

Unlocking the door, she checks behind herself to ensure she's alone before entering the cabin.

She locks the door behind herself with a click. Dark eyes dart around the space.

Immediately her nose fills with the scent of dust, and her face scrunches.

Stale air floods her lungs and the moon rays breaking through the slats of the blinds are the only light filling the room.

She takes a breath and finds herself praying to god that Gideon is here.

She never prays.

"Gideon?"

She stands still, willing the silence to respond.

"Okay awesome," She nods.

I'm never gonna find him by standing in the doorway, am I?

Taking a few cautious steps forward, she feels around for the on-switch of a lamp that rests on the couch-side table.

The room's illuminated now, but all that is revealed is furniture and taxidermied fish and bucket hats. Lots of bucket hats.

"Gideon?" She's louder now.

Nothing.

She scrubs her hands on her thighs to rid them of sweat and looks around further, craning her neck from side to side.

Continuing to make meek and quiet steps through the main room, Jo bites the inside of her mouth.

"Gideon, come on man. Where are you? I need you to be here."

Her eyes land on the closed bedroom door that sits in the back of the main room.

It's just begging her to open it, with the way the spirals of the wood seem to smirk at her.

Instinctively her hand is resting on the gun holstered on her left hip.

She's in front of the door before she can second-guess the action.

She twists the knob, pushes it open quickly, and enters the room with her gun extended the way she does while capturing an unsub.

"Clear."

Though she's all alone, she wishes she weren't. The quiet of the room stopped talking back to her and all she can hear are her paranoid thoughts about finding Gideon's dead body somewhere in this room.

It looks the same.

Frank Sinatra vinyls lined up in the corner next to the beat-up record player, yellowing photographs litter the walls and the king-sized bed still takes up most of the small bedroom.

"Where the fuck are you? You're supposed to be here."

Nothing is out of place. The bed is perfectly made and everything is neat. Too neat.

"You're supposed to be here," It comes out as a whisper this time.

She peaks into the closet, seeing all of Gideon's fishing gear still in its rightful place. It's almost like he hasn't been here at all.

On the bedside table sits his copy of Old Man the Sea, looking as read through as ever.

His favorite book.

She picks it up and thumbs through the pages.

"At least you still have a shit taste in literature." She finds her lips pulling into a dull smile.

Nothing can be serene for too long, so when a door closes in the main room, the sound barely has time to reach Jo's ears before her gun is cocked before her. The Old Man and the Sea falls to her feet.

Her muscles bulge, the way she grips the gun is so tense on the red brass.

There's no way this fucker is taking me out. I'm all alone out here and all that will be left of me is a rotting corpse that they'll find in a few days, if they ever even do.

She faces the doorway of the bedroom, her chest moving in rigid motions as she prepares herself for the inevitable.

Her eyes are glued to the small sliver of space between the cracked door and the wall.

Come on, motherfucker.

Rapid, quiet footsteps are heard and in a moment, a person is peeking through the doorway.

"FREEZE!"

"Wha—WOAH WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!?"

A lanky silhouette has metabolized in the doorway, arms shaking in defense ,"Spencer?!"

"YES! Who the hell did you think it was?" He spits furiously, arms raised rigidly.

"I don't know! You could've been David fucking Berkowitz for all I know!" She tries to reason, hands still trembling on the weapon.

"What if it was Gideon, huh? Why would you immediately think to point a fucking gun at him?"

"Well," Jo thinks, "I actually did not consider that. Looking back, that's...that's quite the oversight."

His chest is moving rapidly from the surprise.

I did not foresee this happening.

"Oversight?" His hands shake, "I think you're doing it again."

She's confused by his words.

"The oversight thing," He jabs his head toward the gun.

"What are you even doing here?"

"Maybe put the damn gun down and I'll tell you?!"

She hasn't even registered her gun is still pointed at his chest as her brain and body recover from the reality that she might've ended up on an evidence board tomorrow morning.

"Sorry, Jesus," Her cheeks glow red, "We're in the middle of the woods. Alone. You know what can go on in places like this. You know the shit we've seen-"

"Like almost getting shot in the chest by one of your teammates?"

Jo falters for a beat, "I'm not a complete idiot, I wouldn't have shot you."

"Well, from what I've heard about the way you wield firearms I can't be too sure."

"Why are you here?" She repeats, tucking the gun back into her holster.

"To check on Gideon, obviously. Why are you here?"

Jo bites the inside of her lip, "To check on Gideon, obviously."

She runs her eyes over Spencer's face, "I thought I was the only one who knew where this place was," She tilts her chin upward, almost like she's sizing him up.

"Yeah, well, clearly you're not. Thanks for almost shooting me, by the way."

He leaves without another word, exiting back into the main room of the cabin.

Jo follows him, not wanting to be left alone in the dark bedroom again.

She frowns upon seeing Spencer pacing around, looking for any helpful information about Gideon's whereabouts.

She's silent as Spencer comes to a stop at Gideon's desk and begins to rifle through it messily.

He ignores the stinging of her gaze on him, wondering why she's chosen now to be still and silent.

"Are you just gonna stand there and stare at me all night or make yourself useful and help me?" He doesn't look up at her, and if she didn't clearly hear his words she would have assumed he was just muttering something to himself.

"I don't want to help you rifle through someone's personal desk," He doesn't stop, "That's Gideon's stuff."

"Well, I'm never gonna find him if I don't start looking," He explains slowly.

She stands, still behind him, knowing that one more sound out of her might make him lose his cool completely.

She switches tactics.

"I wanna find him just as much, if not more than you do. But don't you think it's kind of invading his privacy?" She tries as she takes a seat on the back of the couch just behind her.

Spencer stills all movement, huffing in a large breath, "You're a profiler, right? Even though you don't take your job as seriously as you should, don't you think this would be a good place to start?" He gestures toward the desk.

"That's low," She crosses her arms before her chest, "Really starting to think that intellect of yours is all an elaborate sham. Or, maybe you're just socially inept."

His jaw ticks, and she smiles, "There it is. I finally figured out why you're so damn uptight all the time."

"And there's that egregious hostility that I find so endearing," He points at her in a jagged sort of way.

"Say whatever you want about me, but don't evertalk about the way I do my job. It's just about the last thing I still care about in this world."

"Could've fooled me," He brings his lips together and goes back to pulling papers out of the desk drawers, examining them.

He's got her started, and she can't stop.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He shakes his head, wishing she would shut her mouth already.

"C'mon," She drawls out casually, "You can't start something like that and not finish it. Or are you a quitter? I wanna know what the fuck you meant, big shot."

"Sorry?" He asks, not paying her any more attention as he works his way through Gideon's files.

"What is it about me that you just can't stand?" She places her hands on her hips, "All I do is share a workspace with you, and you constantly act as if I've killed your firstborn child. It's fucking infuriating. So what is it?"

His back is still to her and he shakes his head, not wanting to get into it.

He only wants to find Gideon.

"Hello?" She raises her voice, "I'm speaking to you."

He slams a desk drawer shut, "I don't think you want to get into this now."

"I don't think you get to decide what I want," She defends, and when his back is still to her, she walks around the front of the desk.

"Look at me," She demands, and he reluctantly raises his gaze to the woman before him.

"What is it? You wanna know what is it about you that I just can't stand?" He asks in a tone that almost is frightening to Jo.

She's impressed.

"You're insufferable," He begins, "You make everything about yourself. You're a part of a team, you know that? Other people rely on you to contribute to the team. Not everything is about whatever sour mood you're in that day. Not everything is about you and your fucked-up life."

She never expects such pointed words to come out of his mouth, especially not directed at her. Sure he's jabbed at her before, but this is too cutting.

"You're arrogant and self-centered and you swear like a sailor, no matter if we're at work or not. So yeah, maybe I can't stand you. But whoever said we have to get along besides Derek?"

Her eyebrows are raised, her jaw is dropped, and her mind goes blank.

"Don't look at me as if I'm telling you anything you don't already know. Sue me if I don't want to get wrapped up whatever the hell it is that you have going on," He finishes.

He doesn't want to get wrapped up in her because she reminds him too much of himself. Himself lately, at least. He's a tired addict who can barely make it to work in the morning, let alone jet-setting all over the country with his totally fucked up and ruined sense of self.

He should have just said that, he should have just been honest instead of masking his hatred toward himself with hatred of her. But he can't. He can't be honest.

He pushes the thought out of his mind and moments later he's rifling through the desk again.

"You expect me to believe that?" She asks, holding onto whatever shreds of ferocity she has left.

"I not only expect you to believe it, but I implore you to," He looks at her again, to ensure she really hears him.

He's preoccupied with the desk once more.

"Douchebag isn't a good look on you, Doctor,"She makes the word sound ugly, almost mocking,"I can tell this whole thing is a fucking charade," Her voice is low, cracking like gravel beneath car tires.

He freezes. Is she onto me? Can she tell?

His nostrils flare, "What's that supposed to mean?"

She sucks in a deep breath, "I can tell this is all an act. This brooding, moody, bad-boy woe is me shit you're pretending is you, it's not you. When I look at you, I can tell you're not being honest with yourself. It's-it's something in your eyes. You're not as hard to see through as you fucking think-"

"You don't know me," He cuts her off confidently, taking a step into her.

Her dark eyes hold a sickening fierceness, and even from across the room, he loathes the way it's able to rile him up. He curses himself for locking eyes with her again.

All the oxygen, gone from his lungs in an instant.

"You're right," She smiles wickedly, "I don't know you. I've sat across from you for over a month now and you're still the same immature, spiteful, unconscionable person I met on my first day. What are you hiding from?" She asks, knowing she has nothing left to lose with him at this point.

"I'm not hiding from anything," He immediately spits back, hands clasping together in front of his body.

Stress signal. Deception.

"Fucking liar," she poses.

He quirks a brow, "Don't profile me. Get a clue, Jo. You throw a temper tantrum if someone looks at you the wrong way, you drink alcohol like it's water, and, let's be honest, you're just as lost as you think I am. You really think I come at you for no reason? You are the reason. I'm not hiding from anything. I'm-I'm trying to keep my life on track."

She will never, ever admit it to him, but his words cut. Deep.

His statement hangs in the air, suffocating the both of them with a pungent harshness.

"Fuck you," she spits.

"You wish."

A moment later, he's digging in the desk again.

He's not worth this.

She doesn't spare him another glance, only putting her jacket on, and marching to the door.

"Don't let the door hit you," Spencer calls.

She makes a noise of disgust and reaches for the handle. But her foot hits something hard.

She looks down to see a cardboard box by the door that she must have missed when she entered the dark room.

She bends over and spins the box around.

Jolene is written in Gideon's signature chicken scratch.

All plans of leaving the cabin right then and there are thrown out the window. She grabs the box, quickly walks to the pea-green couch, and sits.

She forgets Spencer is even in the room, the beating of her heart climbing up her throat distracting her from everything altogether. The box is searing hot in her hands, and she's fearful that she already knows what's inside.

She pops the lid of the box open, and after seeing its contents, closes it quickly.

I need to listen to my intuition more.

She places the box on the coffee table and stares at it.

She doesn't move for a moment.

Spencer, watching her the whole time, is silent.

"What is it?"

Baffled that he would even try and speak to her, she slams him with, "None of your business."

His eyebrows raise. Her voice sounds thick. The change is alarming, considering the pure anger that blanketed her tone just moments ago.

She feels his presence behind her still, He probably gets off on the way I talk to him. That's why he can't seem to let this shit go.

"Your sudden interest in me is so thoughtful, if not intriguing, Spencer. Don't worry, this is just a box full of my sorry excuse for a life."

Her back is still toward him, and she was itching to hear his ever sour words, the way they prick her skin has become almost satisfactory. It usually signals that she's close to winning against him.

She produces a sick grin on her lips, hoping for the sweet neuropeptides to flood her body and drive the stress away, "Happy now?"

If her voice was gravel before, it's been reduced to razor blades scratching on metal.

He's silent, probably for his own good. His acidic words don't come, they never burn her skin and she knows her own nasty words were for nothing.

I have to get out of here.

She grabs the box and begins to leave again without a word.

On her way out, she trips agin, this time over the leg of a coat rack and the box in her grip clatters to the ground, followed by a graceless fall from Jo.

The contents of the box spill all over the floor and Jo gathers them up quickly, trying to shove everything back in the box.

He can't see this.

Spencer watches her with wide eyes, not exactly feeling bad, just awkward about the whole situation.

He was yelling in her face ten minutes ago and now he feels obligated to help her. Whiplash and withdrawal reel through his head.

He can't think rationally, "Let me help-"

"You've done enough, Spencer. God," She says.

He nods slowly, realizing how badly he's messed up.

It's like he had blacked out, and the aftermath of what he's done becomes clear as day.

His eyes can't help but scan over what has spilled from the box onto the floor as she tries to gather it all up.

From what he can tell, it looks like some old case files and crime scene photos. In some of them, he sees what he makes out to be a teenage girl with long, red hair.

Fuck. I really messed up this time, huh?

"Jo, can I please help you?" He sighs, the guilt that washes over him makes him want to disappear forever.

"The last thing I want, or need for that matter is help from you."

Once she finally picks everything up and stuffs it back into the box, she stands and leaves the cabin so fast he barely has time to think.

The door slams shut and Spencer is left alone.

Static from her departure invades his ears. He stares at the door after she is gone. Mouth agape, eyebrows raised.

What just happened?

He spots a small white square on the ground and his long legs bend down to pick it up.

He flips it over and is stunned.

It's a CSI photo, and the subject is the same teenage girl he made out before.

There are red locks of hair falling down her shoulders, and though the photo cuts off at the neck, the identity of the girl is undeniable.

Jo.

In the photo, her arms are being held up by hands in blue gloves, the bodies attached to them not photographed.

The undersides of her arms are absolutely littered with lacerations, blood flowing down her arms to the floor.

Growing up, people always told Spencer that his eidetic memory was "a blessing and a curse."

This time, it's surely a curse.

He's seen a lot in his career at the FBI. He's seen some of the worst crimes ever committed.

But there's something about seeing someone you know personally in such a vulnerable state.

"You make everything about yourself. You're a part of a team, you know that? Other people rely on you to contribute to the team. Not everything is about your sorry excuse for a life."

He wants to crawl into a hole and never come out. He wants to go back in time and take his foot out of his own mouth. He wants to-

He doesn't know what he wants.

Besides injecting himself with the small vial of clear liquid waiting for him at home.

Fuck.

His fingers run through his grown-out hair, feeling the familiar tingling of withdrawal that seeped out of his brain pull at his skin until he feels like nothing but a bag of bones.

The addiction has turned him into a monster-a shell of what he once was. The remnants of the loving boy he used to be had all but vanished, that much was clear when he spoke those irredeemable words to her tonight.

"Fuck!" His hands slam down on the desk.

That's when he sees it. The envelope placed on the corner of the desk.

How had he missed this?

Spencer grabs it. In messy lettering, Spenceriswritten on the front of the oversized envelope. He'd know Gideon's handwriting anywhere

He hastily rips it open and unfolds the paper inside. He sinks into the desk chair behind him.

His eyes scan the page quickly causing his blood to run cold.

I've searched for a satisfactory explanation for what I'm doing, all I've come up with is: a profiler needs to have solid footing. I-I don't think I do anymore. The world confuses me. The cruelty, indifference, tragedy.

When Jolene's mother was murdered, it tore a hole in me. Holly was one of my oldest friends. I'd been working with Colin so long that she felt like family to me. Holly had a wit as sharp as a tack and a quick tongue to match.

She was one of the most profoundly enchanting people I knew. Beautiful, even in the darkest moments.

Now, every day, I wake up thinking about how if we had just been a few minutes faster, if we had arrived at their house a moment earlier we may have been able to save her life and spare Jolene from some of the cruelty she faced that day. Not to mention Corey, wherever he may be.

Every time I look into that girl's eyes, I know for certain I've failed her. And after all these years, I still haven't been able to put the pieces together. I don't know who did this, or why. Jolene lives every day in fear, and that's what kills me the most.

Then, after my dear friend Sarah was murdered, that hole inside of me grew even bigger, and I truly believed the way to handle the pain was to get back to our work as quickly as possible.

I'm so sorry the explanation couldn't be better, Spencer. And I am so sorry that it doesn't make more sense, but I've already told you, I just don't understand any of it anymore.

I'm sorry.

I guess I'm just looking for it again. The belief I had when I first met Sarah and it all seemed so right. When Holly was alive and the world was still comprehensible. When Jo knew the sky was the limit. When she understood that all the strength she needed already lived inside of herself.

The belief in happy endings.

I ask only one thing of you in my absence.

Make sure she's alright. Aaron worries about her too much and Derek is a hothead with no impulse control. She's more than capable of taking care of those around her, but she falls short when it comes to herself.

Spencer doesn't realize that he is crying until he reaches the end of Gideon's words a few minutes later.

He slams the letter angrily against the desk as his hands start to shake.

The skin behind Spencer's ear is itching and he can no longer ignore it.

Withdrawal.

He has to go. He has to get out of this cabin as fast as he can.

He has to get home.

He tucks Gideon's letter and the photo Jo left behind into his back pocket, exiting the cabin without another glance back.

a/n...Spencer needs some real help. fr.

I hope you all enjoyed this chapter!

we're finally starting to get into the good stuff.

hope everyone is having a beeeeeautiful day