Trigger warnings: panic attacks, drug usage

Spencer barely remembered the drive home that night. After being tended to by the medics, his arm bandaged haphazardly, and then rushed to the hospital after discovering that the shot had grazed a major artery, he was exhausted. His wound had required stitches and minor surgery, and by the time Morgan's car was rolling into the street parking outside of his apartment, the gray wings of dawn were unfurling.

"Kid," Morgan's voice prompted, deep and sober. Spencer looked up, remaining silent. Morgan sighed. "I'm coming up with you."

Reid averted his eyes. "I doubt I could stop you, even if I wanted to, which I might." he mumbled, weak.

"You're right as hell about that." Morgan said. "Come on."

So they walked. They walked up the eight flights of stairs, and then stood at Spencer's door. He fumbled the keys, and dropped them. Morgan retrieved them, and unlocked the door, guiding Spencer inside with a hand laid softly on his back.

It was dark, like it always was, Spencer's heavy green curtains choking out the morning light. He had left a lamp on by mistake. Spencer idled up to it, gently pinched the chain between his fingers, not pulling. He just let his fingertips run slowly along the beads. What would it have felt like to do the same with Maeve's hair?

Morgan couldn't hear his friend cry, but the way that his shoulders slowly grew tense and hard betrayed him. Morgan sighed, and closed his eyes as Spencer finally drew in a ragged, heavy breath, his crying escaping in nothing more but breathless, stumbling whispers. Morgan could barely look at him, for fear of breaking down himself. "Spencer, I-" He stopped. To try to put his friend's pain into words would be insulting. So he didn't. He just stood helplessly.

When Spencer finally let himself sink downwards, it wasn't onto the couch, but to the floor. His back pressed against the end table that housed the lamp, he gripped the sides of his head as his breathing became more and more erratic. It wasn't until it was too late that he realized what was happening. He curled his fingers into balls, pulling his hair and scraping his scalp. He scrunched his eyes shut, giving up control as his sobs devolved into hyperventilation, and his heart raced so hard it pained him. He was having a panic attack.

"Whoa, whoa," Morgan's voice came, from the outside world that he was suddenly isolated from. Morgan hadn't been trauma trained like JJ, and Spencer only hoped that his instincts would guide him well. He couldn't handle any extra stimulation right now.

Images of Maeve flashed before his eyes, and he knew that in a few years' time they would become fuzzy, details forgotten - but right now, they were crystal clear. He saw her smile, her skin, her plain but beautiful clothing, and he actually smelled the scent of her hair, which was now permanently intermingled with the stench of warm blood. Spencer drew in a desperate gasp for air, and clutched his chest, eyes scrunching shut. Through a film, he heard Morgan's voice asking if there was anything he needed.

"I - need -" Spencer gasped, suddenly aware of the warm tears that were making his cheeks so hot. " A - b-bucket."

"A bucket -?"

Spencer swallowed, desperately. "I think that I'm -" he gasped "I think that I'm going to throw - throw up."

Morgan swiftly looked around, landing eyes on a small plastic garbage bin. He dumped the papers on the floor and held it in front of Spencer just in time. The young man lunged forward, retching painfully. It was a few moments before he had emptied his stomach, and a few minutes after that before he had regained control of his breathing. When that time finally came, he found himself leaning limply against the end table, legs outstretched, arms limply laying in his lap.

His breathing eventually became slow and steady again, and he noticed that the air felt cold against his overworked lungs. Spencer felt his chest expand fully with each deep breath, the reliability of which he had taken for granted for most of his life. The tension had left his body, and now he felt like a rag doll. Moving would be pointless; he was completely exhausted, physically and emotionally. After the ordeal, all that he wanted to do was revel in the stillness that had escaped his terrified body for the last few minutes.

Morgan grabbed the bucket, and walked somberly to the bathroom. Spencer heard the toilet flush and the bath tub run, the sound of Morgan cleaning the garbage can. He couldn't have been embarrassed if he wanted to.

Morgan finally walked out, setting the clean vessel on the ground beside him. His arms were crossed, and he stared down at his friend with deep concern. "Are you good?" He asked.

Spencer swallowed. His throat felt raw and dry - like it was lined with burning paper. The question was ludicrous. They both knew that.

"I haven't had a panic attack in ten years." He said, voice cracking.

"Did you have them often?" Morgan asked, not knowing what else to say.

"Yes."

They sat in silence.

"Spencer, what can I -"

"You can go." Spencer looked up at Morgan, who opened his mouth to object - but his friend's eyes were desperate - and more than that, broken and numb. There was nothing he could do, and he knew arguing would only made it worse.

Morgan sighed, again. "Okay." He softly. "But, please..." it wasn't a question, it was a plead. "call."

Spencer didn't watch Morgan go. He listened to his footsteps, heard the door shut, and dully registered the sound of his friend's gait as he descended the stairs. His face felt heavy, and his eyes burned, feeling swollen beyond their normal size. As if to remind him of last night, the wound in his arm suddenly flared, a stabbing sensation running up his shoulder and into his chest, yet also downward so that even the back of his hand pleaded for relief. He clutched at his elbow, just below the bandage. His painkillers were wearing off, and he had forgotten to grab his prescription.

No, his mind corrected him. You didn't forget. You were afraid to. He leaned his head back. Afraid of what? Of a relapse? Maeve was dead. He was at rock bottom. At the height of his addiction he had thought he had hit his lowest point - but that was a high ceiling compared to now. Spencer closed his eyes, which were stinging with tears once more. Trying to remember if he had Tylenol, Spencer's eidetic memory pulled up the image of his last bottle of Dilaudid, hidden in his medicine cabinet behind a box of band-aids. He had kept it, like a reminder. Like a challenge.

It was at that moment that Spencer conceded, although it took him five hours to get up off of the floor and follow through.

Okay, guys! Hopefully this isn't too much of a drag. Let me know if you think the pacing is dull, if not enough is going on, etc. I'm open to any and all criticism! I'm a very emotionally oriented writer, so if the plot gets lost just give me a shout and I'll try to dredge more up. Expect more to be going on in Chapter 3!
Thanks, as always, for tuning in.