Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.

did I even make a sound?

They told him he could stay home for at least a week, longer if he wanted.

He came back after three days.

He couldn't stay home. Home was where he woke up screaming from nightmares, where he didn't have the energy to do much more than move from his bed to the couch and back, where there was nothing to distract the tumbling and twisting of his thoughts. Where there was nothing and no one to stop him from reaching for the little glass bottles hidden in his medicine cabinet.

He was in pain, he kept telling himself, and he needed something to take the pain away. Never mind that the prescribed medication sat on his kitchen counter, untouched. He took his antibiotics religiously, but the hospital prescribed painkillers didn't do enough, didn't take away the ache in his bones or the soreness of his muscles or the clenching in his chest.

At least that's what he told himself.

He stretched out the time between doses, teetering on the edge of withdrawal, but when the head-splitting migraines began to pound behind his eyes and the nausea began to pull at his stomach he would limp to the bathroom and take the little glass bottle out and slide the needle into his skin.

It was bliss. It was warmth. It was relief flooding into his veins, coursing through his bloodstream, settling in his chest as his brain sent out massive amounts of dopamine. It was his mind going quiet, turning off his thoughts, letting him sink into a puddle where he felt nothing, did nothing, was nothing.

The shame set in as the bliss began to fade, shame and regret and panic, and he would tell himself no, not again, that was the last time, and it was, it was the last time until he felt the pain again, the terror, the anxiety bubbling up in his throat until he was about to choke, and he would find himself in the bathroom again, avoiding his haggard reflection until he felt the silver-cold needle prick in the vulnerable crook of his elbow and he could taste peace strawberry-sweet in his mouth again.

He needed to be distracted.

He went back to work.

He didn't tell anyone he was coming back. Doubtless Garcia would have gotten him a cake, and they would have left nice notes in his desk, and they would have been prepared to be careful and thoughtful around him. He knew he didn't deserve cake and kindness and gentleness, so what he got instead was a startled "oh, Reid!" from JJ as she nearly dropped her coffee cup when he rounded the corner to the bullpen.

He had hovered there for a moment, clinging to the strap of his messenger bag. "I felt better," he had lied, smiling like a jack o'lantern, hollow and too bright. "What have I missed?"

They were between cases, they told him, and he settled back into his old routines and his old conversations, never giving his friends the time to remember that he was fragile and stamped with "handle with care" across his forehead, but his old routine fit like a coat that had shrunk in the wash, unable to wrap around him with its familiar comfort. Instead he relied on taking the dilaudid as soon as he got home and sighing aloud in his silent apartment, and when he didn't sleep and couldn't eat he took it again, and then he would go to work and start over.

That was fine until they got their next case.

He sat at the round table, half listening as JJ sketched out the details they knew, nibbling half-heartedly from the jar of cashews Gideon had brought to the meeting. He rubbed his hand over his mouth as he stared at a crime scene photo- a pretty girl half buried in leaves, her arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross, the lighting harsh and overexposed from the flash.

Cold air sucking at his throat, the smell of wet rot, the strain on his elbows as he pushed himself off the ground and stared in horror at the dark figure looming over him, the sudden sharp pain blossoming in his jaw as Hankel struck him.

He wasn't there anymore. He knew that. He forced himself to sit up, drop his hand, focus, try to think of anything to add to the conversation. His mind was blank. The beginning of a headache pulsed over his right eye and he pressed his fingertips to his forehead. It did nothing relieve the pressure and he settled for covering his mouth with his hand, feeling his own warm breath on his cold skin to ground himself. He dropped his head as a different photo was passed in front of him, a different girl, her eyes blank and wide open.

Half conscious, his body limp as Hankel dragged him through the wet fields, his head striking the soft ground, his eyes half lidded, the stars too white and too big in the dark sky, and he couldn't scream, he couldn't, he couldn't-

His mouth went dry and he swallowed hard, hunching in his chair. Focus, he told himself. Focus focus focus…

"Reid?"

He blinked. "Hm?"

The conference room was empty except Gideon. "Didn't you hear Hotch?" he said. "Wheels up in thirty. You ready to go?"

"Oh," Spencer said, his tongue thick. "Uh-huh." He gathered up his things hastily. "I'm sorry, I...zoned out a little."

Gideon took off his half-moon reading glasses and tucked them in his shirt pocket. "You don't have to come on this one if you're not ready," he said quietly. "I think you came back to work too soon. You might not be in a healthy enough place to participate on this one."

"No, no, I'm ready," he said quickly, a little too quickly. "I feel better staying busy."

Gideon surveyed him closely and Spencer held his breath. "Let someone know if you need to step back and take a break," he said. "No one will think less of you if you need to stop and rest. Your body is still healing."

Spencer touched his temple, expecting to feel the neat row of stitches hiding under his hair, but they'd been taken out a few days ago. "I...I'll remember that," he said.

"Did you hear back from the follow-up testing?" Gideon asked. "Your seizures. I know that was a cause for concern."

"Not yet," he said. "Nothing conclusive."

Gideon nodded. "Take it easy on this one," he said. "At least stay back if there's a takedown." He held out his hand to usher Spencer out of the room. "No sense pushing yourself too hard."

He picked up his go bag and kept his messenger bag slung close across his chest. The little glass bottles clinked merrily at the bottom, hidden under books and wrapped in a sweater, but he was positive they could all hear it, and it wasn't until he was safely in his seat on the jet, the back tucked behind his legs, that he could breathe.

"Hey, you want some company?"

He looked up, almost startled to see JJ smiling at him. "Uh-huh," he said.

She sat down in the seat across from him. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he said. "A lot...a lot better."

"Good," she said. "I'm sorry we didn't do anything more to celebrate you coming back. Garcia was planning a whole party, but we weren't expecting you back so soon."

"No, it's fine," he said. "I don't need a party. I'm just glad to be here."

"We're glad to have you back," she said, and he could tell she meant it, and shame crept hot and prickly across the back of his neck, because if JJ knew the truth, she wouldn't want him there at all. He turned and gazed out the window, watching the jet taxi down the runway and climb into the gray March sky.

"It's been a while since we had a case in the city," JJ said as she pulled out her phone. "New York, New York."

"Too bad we're flying right past it straight to the suburbs," Morgan snorted.

"Hey, this is weird," Emily said, frowning at the casefile open on her lap. "There are traces of GHB found in in the first two victims, but no sign of sexual assault. So why would the unsub use a date rape drug to commit a hate crime?"

Spencer bit his lip.

The bare lightbulb blazing overhead, the only light in the room, and the acrid smell of burning fish, the pinch of the belt clenching too tight around his bicep and Tobias's gentle callused hands on his cold skin, and the sharp slip of the needle in his vein and the breath catching in his throat as his head flopped back and the world faded white.

"Maybe he wants to weaken them so they can't fight back," he said aloud, and he waited for someone to ask- but why do you know that, Spencer? How do you know that, Spencer?

"But there was no GHB in the victims of the double homicide," Emily countered.

"There's a lot that's different about the double homicide," Morgan said, his coffee mug balanced easily in his hand.

"The question is why," Hotch said.

"All right, we just got new information," JJ said, holding up a photocopied page. Spencer frowned; he hadn't even noticed her get up. "A few weeks before the murder of Sandra Davis and Ken Newcombe, a threatening letter was delivered to Sandra Davis's door. She showed it to her parents, who then notified the police. The police never figured out who wrote it."

She handed him the paper as she took her seat again and he squinted at the text. "We see Ken with you and it makes us sick," he read aloud. "Take care to stop this now or you will pay. If you tell anyone about this, you will pay." His frown deepened. "Strange. Doesn't seem real."

"What do you mean?" JJ said.

"First of all, the use of 'we' in a threat this direct is almost always bogus."

"One individual trying to diffuse responsibility," Emily nodded.

"Also, the message itself seems contradictory," he said. "On the one hand, take care to stop this now, or you will pay? Presumably, they want them to stop seeing each other. But then, on the other hand, they don't want them to go public with it. If you tell anyone about this, you will pay."

"The point of hate crimes is to increase publicity, not decrease it. It's like terrorism," Hotch said.

"An effective threat lets everybody know that they're in danger if they do this behavior. The author would want Sandra to tell people about the note."

"Doesn't sound like a guy who's actually prepared to kill," JJ said.

"Actually, it... doesn't sound like a guy at all," Spencer said. "Take care to stop this implies empathy. Take care? Males don't use this type of language, especially when they're trying to threaten somebody. This message is certainly written by a female, and based on the lack of psychological sophistication, I'd say it's most likely an adolescent."

"You think a girl killed these kids?" Emily said skeptically.

"I think a girl wrote this note."

"Let's call that mystery number one," Gideon said from behind his newspaper.

Hotch's usual frown deepened. "You got a number two?"

"Maybe," Gideon said. "Says here the autopsy on Sandra Davis was inconclusive."

"She suffered blunt force trauma to the face, she had some bruising around her neck," JJ added. "Cause of death is still unclear, coroner's working on it."

A lot of questions," Hotch said. "Let's get started on some answers."

Spencer faded back out, leaning his head against the window. No one seemed to suspect anything was wrong with him. And his mind was still working correctly, still putting thoughts together. Everything was fine. Everything would be fine, he was just…so tired.

It was a fairly short flight from Quantico to Westchester. He was tired out already, as if sharing his thoughts on the plane had sapped what energy he had. Once they got to the unmarked SUVs he sat in the passenger seat while Hotch drove, letting his thoughts empty out.

The dilaudid was beginning to wear off.

He didn't realize he had fallen asleep until he felt someone patting his knee. "Reid. Wake up."

He cracked open one eye to find Hotch looking at him. "Are we there yet?" he mumbled sleepily.

"Already there," Hotch said. "Prentiss and Morgan are going to talk to a girl who may have written the letter, Gideon and I are going to the crime scene. I need you and JJ to go to the coroner's office. Are you up for it?"

"Uh-huh, of course," he said, forcing himself to sit up. "I'm fine, Hotch, don't worry."

Hotch squeezed his knee. "All right," he said. "See you in a bit, then."

JJ climbed into the driver's seat, the keys in her hand. "You ready for this?" she said as she adjusted the seat for her shorter legs. She paused. "Really, Spence. Do you want to go back to the hotel and take a nap or something? You look exhausted. This is probably the most exertion you've done since-"

"Hey, we should probably go," Spencer interrupted. He cleared his throat. "They'll, uh...want us back soon."

"Sure," she said warily.

She flipped on the radio and turned the car back out onto the road. Spencer leaned back against the headrest. He'd gotten used to his team members' choices of music. Gideon liked talk radio and the half-whispers of NPR, Hotch preferred silence but often turned on classic rock. Morgan was hip hop and rap, absently drumming his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel and mouthing the words, and Emily was '90s girl power, singing along without a sense of pitch or rhythm but a lot of feeling. He hadn't been in the car with Garcia driving yet, but he'd heard her music in her lab- a range of everything from showtunes to K-pop to Starbucks-style indie. JJ, though, liked her music loud and high energy, veering into pop punk with driving drums. Not exactly relaxing, but it was what he associated with her now, and he closed his eyes and listened.

The music cut out in the middle of an impassioned guitar solo. JJ was already out of the car, pushing her sunglasses to the top of her head. "You awake?" she said.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, climbing out of the passenger seat and unfolding his long legs. He felt unsteady, like he'd been at sea for too long, but he followed her into the coroner's office.

The morgue was quiet and cool but his senses were dialed up to eleven. Fluorescent light glinted off every silver surface, the clean sting of disinfectant burnt his nose, every metallic click and crunch pinged around in his head like a pinball. He kept his bag on his shoulder, grounding him, and he let JJ do all the talking.

It was one thing to see the girls in the photographs. It was another to see them laid out on the tables, their features frozen, their colors faded. He had been around countless victims before, visited dozens of different medical examiners, but this was different.

Waking up on the filthy cabin floor, blood and bile flooding his mouth, the ache in his ribs where he'd been compressed back to life, the bare bulb shining above him like a beacon, burning his eyes, swinging like a hypnotist's watch, the fading sense of warmth and comfort and light replaced by cold and pain and fear.

"Thank you so much for your time," JJ was saying, and he faded back into the present, his mouth dry. "We'll be in touch if we have any questions."

She was walking out of the morgue, leaving him, leaving him behind, and he nearly tripped over himself in his effort to get out of there. He followed her, dazed and dizzy, and the sudden burst of early spring sunlight nearly rendered him blind.

"Here, can you take this?" she said, and she lifted the flap of his messenger bag, making room to slide the coroner's report inside, and he jumped, because the little glass bottles were jangling as merrily as Christmas jingle bells.

"I got it," he said, his voice foreign in his own ears, and he shoved the report into the bag and covered it close. "I got it."

JJ didn't seem to notice his sudden burst of panic. "Well, that wasn't very helpful," she sighed as she climbed back into the driver's seat.

He flipped through his thoughts like a deck of cards, searching for a recollection. "Yeah, a lot of overkill," he said, and that seemed enough to assure JJ that he'd paid attention. He buckled his seatbelt and slumped, nausea pressing at the base of his ribcage.

JJ reached for the radio, then paused. "What would you like to listen to?" she asked.

He blinked. "Hm?"

"You pick," she said. "It seems fair."

He shrugged. "I don't really listen to music," he said.

"Oh, come on," he said. "I'm sure there's something you'd like to listen to."

He shrugged again. His parents liked music- his father playing cassette tapes of Roy Orbison and ELO, his mother putting on records of Rodgers and Hammerstein and Wagner. "I'm not sure what I like," he said, leaning back and closing his eyes.

JJ switched through the stations and settled on something classical with lush, old-fashioned violins. "You look pretty tired, you probably want something a little calmer," she said. "This is pretty."

"Adophe Adam."

"Hm?"

"Adolphe Adam, it's a ballet called Giselle," he said without opening his eyes.

"It sounds happy."

"That's because it's from the first act," he said, biting back a yawn. "Right after this she discovers the man she's in love with is engaged to someone else, and she goes mad and dies. In some earlier versions she takes her lover's sword and kills herself."

"Oh," JJ said. "So...not so happy."

"Not quite," he yawned. "In act two she's a ghost trying to stop the other ghosts from killing the guy." He slipped down a little further in his seat. "You can turn on your own music if you want."

"This is fine," she said. "I can listen to deceptively happy ballet scores for a while."

He folded his arms over his stomach and listened to the music. JJ was right, it was a lot calmer, and he was tempted to drift off to sleep again, but he'd already dozed off once that day, he didn't need to do it again. So he forced himself to stay awake until she parked at the police department.

His hands trembled as he closed the car door. He felt hot and cold all at once, and his head was beginning to throb. "I'm going to run to the bathroom really quick," he said, and JJ nodded.

He forced himself to walk calmly, normally into the yellow light of the tiled bathroom. At first he tapped the stall open- but that wasn't enough, wouldn't be a safe enough barrier, and he fumbled to lock the flimsy wood door.

He caught his reflection and froze. No wonder everyone kept asking him if something was wrong. His cheekbones were sharp and hollow, his skin jaundiced and a vein popping in his temple, his eyes clouded and ringed in gray shadows. A lock of hair dangled limply over one eye but he didn't bother to brush it away.

He forced himself to tear away from his reflection and fumbled in his bag, searching until his slender fingers closed around the little glass vials with their pearlized liquid dancing inside.

His own voice, weak and childish in fear. "Please, I don't want it, I don't want…"

His begging going unheeded, Tobias's rough dirty hands soft against his arm. The needle sliding under his skin, the breath held in his lungs bursting from his mouth in a soft gasp, his head falling back and his eyes staring, staring at the naked golden lightbulb overhead until it turned into a small sun, and then the sun faded away to a soft warm dark.

"Anybody seen Reid?"

He panicked, dropping the bottles back into his bag and ripping out the papers from the medical examiner. The bottles weren't deep enough, weren't safe enough, but he could keep them hidden for now, but they were looking for him, he had to go-

"Where's Reid?"

He jostled the cheap lock open and jogged back to the conference room. He paused long enough at the little break area to pour himself a cup of coffee. It smelled burned but he didn't care, he needed hot and caffeine more than taste.

"Reid?"

"Coming," he called back, grabbing up a handful of white sugar packets and shoving them in his pocket before running the rest of the way to their outpost.

"There you are," Hotch said.

He held out the paper. "Coroner's report," he said. He sank down at an empty seat, avoiding Emily and Morgan's eyes on him, and set his cup down without taking a sip.

Hotch skimmed it quickly. "Victim had been beaten so extensively that the cause of death was indeterminate," he said, his eyebrows raising. "Post-mortem stab wounds were also discovered."

"Post-mortem stabs, huh?" Morgan said.

The local detective frowned. "What?"

"Post-mortem stab wounds almost always indicate sexual homicide," Hotch explained.

"Uh, this is also a fairly extreme overkill, which is markedly different from the other two girls," he said.

More crime scene photos spread across the table. His stomach dropped like he'd crossed the peak of a rollercoaster.

The cuffs keeping his wrists locked and his hands useless, Charles's grip on his cold bare ankle and his grimy nails digging into soft thin skin, the sudden jolt of pain against the sole of his foot, shooting up into his ankle and shin and knee, again and again and again, and he cried out, but no one cared, no one heard him, and Charles struck him again and again and-

He blinked unsteadily, his lips slack. Thank god he was sitting, or his knees might have buckled. The others continued their conversation and under the cover of his thick sweater his body began to shake. Cold sweat prickled at the back of his neck. He breathed slowly, shallowly, the only thing he could control right that second.

Hotch watched Reid out of the corner of his eye. The youngest member of his team had gone completely white, his hazel eyes glazed over and staring at nothing across the room. For a moment Hotch was afraid he was on the verge of either throwing up or passing out.

It was too soon for Reid to be back at work. They all knew it, they'd all talked about it, but they all knew better than to try and convince him to stay home. All they could do was keep an eye on him and hope for the best.

This, Hotch knew, was not the best.

PTSD was expected after what Reid had endured. Two and a half days of physical and mental torture, some of which Hotch had witnessed first hand. Sometimes when he looked at Reid he was struck with the memory of his limp body sprawled on the floor of the cabin as Tobias Hankel tried to push life back into his lungs while the rest of them had to stand there, helpless.

He knew Reid was struggling- wasn't eating, wasn't sleeping. Wasn't talking. No one had been able to get two serious words out of him since they'd gotten him back. He was fading in front of their eyes, growing quieter, thinner, paler.

Something was wrong- horribly, terribly, inescapably wrong- and no one knew what it was. Except Reid. It was killing Hotch to have a problem he couldn't fix.

He sent the rest of the team out of the room, but Spencer didn't even seem to notice they'd left. Hotch closed the door and sat down beside him. "Reid," he said gently.

Spencer raised his head, slow and drunken. "Hm?" he said.

"I think we're calling it a night here," he said. "It's getting late and I don't have anything for you to do."

"Are you sure?" Spencer said. "I can work. The profile, I-"

"JJ is working on it with Emily so she can give a press release tomorrow," he said. "Really, I don't have anything for you to do here. You might as well go back to the hotel and get some sleep."

Spencer rubbed his eye with his fist, a childish gesture. "Are you sure?" he said again, soft and tired.

"Positive," Hotch said. "I'll have someone drive you to the hotel, you're in no shape to drive. Morgan's sharing a room with you, I can have him pick up something for you to eat." He paused, waiting for an answer, but Spencer just blinked blearily. "Reid?"

"Uh-huh, okay," he said, pushing himself up from his seat. He wobbled, gripping the back of the chair like a child learning to walk, but he didn't ask for help. He picked up his bag and left, hunched under the weight.

Hotch watched him leave. He didn't know what to say, or what to do, but he could feel Spencer slipping away and he didn't know how to stop it.

Morgan whistled under his breath as he walked into the hotel. All things considered, things weren't too terrible. They were making some solid headway with the case, the local PD was cooperating (for the most part), and he was out of there before ten. He'd even had time to stop and pick up a decent dinner instead of settling for a 24-hour McDonalds or the hotel vending machine. And he'd picked up dinner for Reid, because no doubt the kid hadn't gotten anything to feed himself. If they left him to his own devices, he'd probably live off Starbucks and sugar, or more likely forget to eat entirely.

He knocked on the door with his elbow. "Reid, hey, let me in," he called, juggling the bags in his hand. Hotch had sent him back to the hotel hours earlier, he had to be there. But, then again, Reid had been looking like a strong wind could knock him over, so there was a distinct possibility he was already asleep. He fumbled around to get the hotel room key out of his wallet and let himself in.

The lights were still on and both beds still made. Reid sprawled on his back on the bed by the window, still dressed and his cardigan tossed on the floor. One arm was flung over his head and his lips were parted as he breathed deeply.

Morgan grinned to himself and tried to stay quiet as he set the food down on the table, but Reid roused with a full body spasm. "Wha- who- why're you-"

"Relax, pretty boy, it's just me," Morgan said. "Sorry, didn't mean to wake you up."

Reid exhaled deeply, dragging his hand over the side of his face. His left sleeve was unbuttoned at the wrist, the cuff flapping uselessly, but his right was still fastened. "Wasn't asleep," he mumbled.

"Sure looks like you were," Morgan said. "But hey, you hungry? I picked up dinner. I even texted Garcia to make sure I got something you like, I know you can be picky sometimes."

"Thanks," Reid said, but he made no move to get up. He was still wearing his shoes.

Morgan set the food out and turned on the TV. "Come on, kid, get up before it gets cold," he said.

He settled down to eat, relaxing back against the headboard of his bed as he flipped channels. He wasn't really paying much attention to Reid, if he was honest, but he did notice when he got up to throw his trash away. Reid had moved to the table, his long legs sprawling, but he was only picking at his dinner, dragging his fork around aimlessly with his chin in his hand.

"Reid? You feeling okay?"

Reid took a moment before reacting. "Hm? No...yeah, yeah."

"You haven't eaten much," Morgan said. "You want me to get something else for you?"

"No, it's good, I'm just full," Reid said, leaning back in his chair. "Thanks for...for getting it for me. I can pay you back."

"No worries," Morgan said. "But you need to eat something, pretty boy. You're getting to be skin and bones."

Reid shook his head, slow and unsteady like he was drunk, or drugged. "Really, Morgan...you don't have to worry," he said. He pushed himself up. "I'm gonna get ready for bed."

"All right," Morgan said warily. He boxed up Reid's uneaten dinner and stuck it in the minifridge. The kid wasn't hungry now, but he'd surely be hungry later.

Reid stumbled out of the bathroom dressed in his pajamas, a long sleeve shirt and striped flannel pants, and fell into bed without a word, asleep the second he hit the pillow. That was unusual- Morgan had shared a hotel room with him a dozen times before, and typically Reid tossed and turned for hours before dozing off. But maybe it was for the best.

Reid shouldn't have come back to work so soon after his ordeal. They all knew it, talked about it behind his back. He had been tortured, traumatized, and he sat at his desk like nothing had happened. But he was pale and subdued, zoning out of conversations, picking at the skin around his nails till his fingers bled and averting his eyes from crime scene photos, and he pretended that no one noticed.

No one could get two words out of him, no matter who tried. All they got was a vague angelic smile and a change in conversation. Hotch hadn't even gotten Reid's additions to the Hankel casefile so they could close it- not that anyone was pushing him to do it; Gideon had said in no uncertain terms that he could write out his experience whenever he was ready, no matter how long it took.

And they all knew better than to try to push Reid into talking about anything personal. Hell, they'd worked together two years before he told them about his mother's illness and hospitalization. Being able to talk to them about what happened in that Georgia graveyard after just a couple of weeks would be nothing short of miraculous.

Morgan switched off the television. He usually preferred to stay up late, but he had a feeling there would be some kind of progress in the case by the time they got to the station in the morning.

He was just about to turn off the lights when he heard it. Reid was mumbling in his sleep, nothing coherent enough for him to understand. Morgan crept closer.

"Reid?" he whispered.

Reid's head turned against the pillow, his hair tangling around his neck. "'M not," he murmured. "I'm...I'm not."

"You're not what, Reid?" Morgan asked. He sat down next to him, mapping out the situation. PTSD dreams weren't new, he'd had plenty of nightmares himself after bad cases, and honestly he should have seen this coming. He rested his hand over Reid's narrow chest and felt his pulse vibrating under his palm. "Reid? You with me, man?"

"I'm not a sinner," Reid mumbled. His arms fell against the pillow over his head and his long slim fingers clenched and unclenched like a heartbeat. "I'm not, I'm not a sinner."

"You're not," Morgan soothed, pressing gently his collarbone, remembering the hazy video of Spencer lifeless on the floor and a stranger bringing him back. "You're not, Spencer, you're one of the best people I've ever known. Wake up, it's just a bad dream."

Spencer's eyes flew open but Morgan knew he wasn't seeing him. "I'm not a sinner!" he said, and the words untangled into a scream, high and tight and panicked, and he fought against Morgan's gentle touch, thrashing and kicking.

Morgan fended him off, sliding an arm under his back and pinning him against his chest as easily as he would a child. "It's just a dream, Spencer, you're okay," he said. "You're safe. It's just a bad dream."

The scream broke off suddenly and Spencer went limp in his grip, recognition flashing in his eyes. Morgan leaned him back down against his pillow. "'m sorry," he gasped. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't apologize," Morgan said. He rested his hand on Spencer's collarbone again, measuring the beats, trying to gauge if his heart rate was slowing down. "We all get dreams like that sometime. After what you went through, I'm not surprised at all."

Spencer closed his eyes and let out a wet shuddering breath, dragging his hand over his head. "Sorry I woke you up," he mumbled.

"You didn't. And even if you did, I wouldn't care. You need me, you call me, understand?"

Spencer looked away from him through his fingers, his eyes glassy. Morgan could see him shutting down in front of him. "Hey. You wanna talk?" Spencer shook his head. "You want me to get JJ? I'm sure she's still awake." A pause, then another headshake.

"I just want to go back to sleep, thank you," Spencer whispered, and Morgan knew a lie when he heard it but he had no idea how to call him out.

"I'm gonna get you some water," he said.

He filled up a glass tumbler on the bathroom counter with tepid water. When he was a kid his mother or his big sisters always got him water when he woke up in the middle of the night. For some reason nothing ever felt better than that cup of room temperature sink water in at two in the morning, and he was always fast asleep in seconds afterwards.

Spencer took the cup and sipped it gingerly. Morgan sat down across him and leaned his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped. "You're not a sinner, Reid," he said quietly.

Reid looked at him over the rim of his cup. "Hm?"

"You were saying...you weren't a sinner," Morgan said. "Now, that seems to me like something Hankel would say."

"Charles," Reid said. "Charles would say that. Not Tobias." His shirt sleeve was sliding down his forearm, nearly to his elbow, and he pulled it back into place.

"Sure," Morgan said gently. "Listen, Reid...what you went through. We're not expecting you to bounce back right away like nothing happened. It's gonna take some time to heal."

"I'll be fine," Reid said. He drained the rest of the water and set the empty glass on the nightstand, and Morgan was suddenly struck with the thought that Spencer probably didn't remember a time as a little kid when someone got him a glass of water in the middle of the night and sat by him till he fell asleep again. "I'm going to go back to sleep. Thanks, Morgan."

He laid back down, pulling the blankets up to his shoulder, and closed his eyes. It was clear the conversation was over.

Morgan switched off the lights and went to bed, listening for the sound of Reid's breathing evening out and deepening into sleep. He never heard it. He woke up a few times in the night and glanced over at Reid, and even with his back turned towards him he could tell that Reid hadn't dozed off.

Reid was out of bed at the first ring of the alarm, and Morgan was sure that he never fell asleep. But he didn't say anything, and Morgan didn't want to pry.

Spencer hunched in the uncomfortable wooden chair, his hands clasped firmly on the table to keep them from trembling. He forced himself to make eye contact with each person speaking, forced himself to listen to what they said, repeating their words in his mind, but nothing stuck. The words filtered out of his memory as fast as they were spoken.

He opened his eyes wider, breathing slowly. The local reverend had spoken on the news, riling everyone up about hate crimes that might not be hate crimes. JJ was talking to him. Gideon and Morgan were going to speak with the families of the victims.

He stayed behind with Hotch and Emily. Luckily the local department kept Hotch busy. And Prentiss didn't know him well enough to pester him about how he was feeling.

He felt awful. He didn't sleep after his nightmare, too afraid of what he might see in his sleep, too afraid of what he might say without realizing it. Even when he heard Morgan's breathing even out, deep and steady, he stared at the ceiling, clutching the slick hotel quilt to his chest, his arm burning with his secret.

They delivered the profile in the early afternoon. Gideon had pulled out a chair and silently guided him to sit, even though everyone else was standing, and he didn't fight back. When it was his turn to speak he did so slowly, evenly, carefully, measuring out his words as he tangled his fingers and flexed his hands back and forth, back and forth. The lack of sleep and the slow draw of the dilaudid wearing off made him feel thick-headed, nauseated, dizzy. He inhaled, held the breath, exhaled. No one saw him.

He slipped away after the delivery, hiding in the alcove where their boards were set up. Gideon followed him. "Any thoughts?" he inquired.

Spencer shrugged. "Not at the moment," he said.

Gideon picked up a photo and moved it to the other side of the board. "That's not like you," he said mildly. "You feeling all right?"

Spencer shifted the papers on the table. "Didn't sleep well last night," he said, short and terse.

"Do you need to go back to the hotel and rest?"

He closed his eyes for a moment and he was gone, he could feel the bite of cold in the air and the cut of the cuffs into his wrists and the throbbing pain in his temple. He reached up and touched the ridge the removed stitches had left behind. "I don't need to rest," he said.

JJ jogged up the steps to them. "Tips have just started to come in," she said. "So far, we have fingers pointed at a minister-"

But Gideon was gazing at the photos pinned to the wall, photos of dead girls buried in the leaves and he was gone again, gone…

The click and whirr as Raphael spun the action of the gun. His own voice, unfamiliar with fear, telling him you don't have to do this. The silver glint of the gun as Raphael pointed it to his head, the terror beating rabbit-fast in his chest and his face twisting as he braced himself for the shot.

He opened his eyes and swallowed hard. Gideon and JJ were still talking. They hadn't noticed him.

He forced himself to listen, enough to add to their conversation, pushing to give his voice the energy his body didn't have. His knees buckled and he eased himself into a chair before they could spot him.

He stayed there for a while, making himself look busy as the rest of the team popped in and out. His back stayed towards the evidence board, but he could sense the presence of the dead girls behind him, as if he was a little boy walking through the haunted house at a county fair.

"Hey, we're ordering dinner," Emily said, and he jumped about a foot in the air. "Want anything?"

"Dinner?" he said. "I didn't know it was that late."

"Yeah, it's almost seven. You wanna join us?"

"Um, no," he said, offering her a half smile. "Thanks, though."

"You sure?" Emily said, raising an eyebrow. "I heard there's a great Indian place about two blocks from here. You like Indian, right?"

He did, but the crawling in his bloodstream reminded him that it was just over twelve hours since his last dose. Today he had left the little vials in the bottom of his go bag, because this morning he thought he was strong, he hadn't been taking it that long, it was too risky to carry with him everywhere, he could go a couple of days without it. Tonight he regretted it.

"Yeah, just...not in the mood," he said. "Thanks, though."

"He said he's not in the mood," Emily said glumly.

JJ frowned. "You told him there was Indian, right? He loves Indian food."

"I did, I swear," Emily said. "He said no." JJ rubbed her fingertips against her temples. "He doesn't look good, does he? I mean...I've worked with him the least out of everybody, but it doesn't take a profiler to see that he…"

Her voice trailed off. "He had a nightmare last night," JJ said. "I could hear it through the walls…Morgan said he wouldn't talk about it."

"Poor kid," Emily said. "If I went through what he had, though, I wouldn't sleep either."

JJ got up from the table. "Go ahead and order for me, I'm going to go check on him," she said.

They had left Spencer in the little divided alcove with the rest of the evidence; she found him sitting exactly where she had left him, his forearms braced against the edge of the table as if it was the only thing keeping him awake and upright. "Hey," she said gently. "How's it going?"

"Fine, I guess," he said, squinting up at her. "I didn't realize how late it was."

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" she asked. "Emily's just now making the order, I can add in whatever you'd like."

"Yeah, I'm not hungry," he said.

His eyes were half-lidded as if he was on the verge of tipping into sleep and his hands were trembling, keeping a tenuous hold of a wooden pencil. "Do you want to go back to the hotel?" she asked. "It's okay if you-"

"No, I want to stay here," he said firmly, and his fingers tightened so hard around the pencil his knuckles went white. "I don't need to go back. I can do my job, JJ."

"Okay, okay," she said. "How about we compromise? There's not a lot happening now, we're just waiting to hear back from Morgan. In the meantime, do you want to sleep a little?" She could tell the offer was tempting him as he bit at his chapped lower lip. "There's a really nice couch in one of the offices and pretty much everyone has gone home for the night. It'll be quiet, and I'll wake you up the second anything happens." She could see him calculating, weighing up the pros and cons. "If something goes on, you need to be at your best. We've all had to nap on the job before. Sleep now, be ready for the takedown later."

Finally he sighed. "Yes," he said. "I...I could probably doze off for a little while."

He pushed himself up from the chair slowly. "Is your ankle bothering you?" she asked.

"Just a little."

She slipped her arm around his slender waist and walked him over to the quiet office. Spencer sank down on the couch, his eyes already dropping. There wasn't a blanket, but she adjusted a throw pillow under his head.

"And you promise you'll wake me up the second you need me?" he asked.

"I promise," she said.

She waited until she was sure he was asleep, his chest steadily rising and sinking. It was the most peaceful she'd seen him since they'd found him in the graveyard, and for a moment all she wanted to do it was sit beside him and make sure he got the rest he deserved.

But there was work to be done, and he was safe, and she got up and left the room.

Everything happened so fast. They got the call from Morgan about the local officer getting shot while they were on patrol, and Hotch left immediately. And then they got the call about the new missing girl, Allie, and she and Gideon sat together in the dark vacant bullpen, lit by nearly useless desk lamps, and spoke in hushed voices as she made calls and he took notes.

"Guys, we got a witness." Spencer hovered anxiously in the doorway. "A girl who saw the report on the news; she said a guy came up to her around a month ago, claiming to work for a record company. She's on her way in."

Her hand was already on the receiver. "I'll call the others," she said.

She eyed Spencer as Hotch answered her call on the second ring. He seemed a little better- maybe the nap did do him some good.

Morgan made it back just in time to talk to the girl with Gideon; Hotch and Emily spoke to the local officers. She stayed at the desk, stacked with papers and littered with takeout containers, and waited by the phone. Spencer hovered close by, as if he was afraid to sit down.

"Hey," she said. "Did the nap help?"

"It didn't hurt," he shrugged. "What can I do now? I want to do something."

"All we can do is wait right now," she said. "Hopefully Gideon and Morgan can get something out of the girl." She sighed and started picking up empty takeout trays. "Might as well clean up, I guess. There's still some naan left, you want it?"

"Are you sure no one wants it?"

She handed him a piece. "Eat," she said, and he obeyed, slightly startled at her insistence. He helped her clean up, occasionally allowing her to hand him more bread.

"We got a name!" Morgan called, jumping up the stairs two at a time. "Call Garcia."

JJ sat down on the edge of the desk and picked up the phone. Spencer knelt on a chair, leaning over her; with the phone tucked under her chin she tore off another piece of naan and stuck it in his mouth. It caught him off guard but he ate it obediently. She set the phone on speaker and picked up her coffee cup.

"You've reached Garcia, who is currently withering away without any attention from her beloved team."

JJ bit a grin. "Hey, mama, you've got me, Reid, and Jayje," Morgan said.

"I was beginning to think you guys had forgotten all about me."

"Well, we need you now more than ever, hot stuff," Morgan said. He leaned over the desk, nearly nudging Spencer out of the way. Spencer leaned over JJ's lap, his forearms resting on her thighs.

"Aw, it's like candy to my ears, sugar," Garcia said, and JJ could hear the smile in her voice. "Go."

"Here's the scoop. The guy's a freelance musician, played keyboard for the girls' high school musical. We contacted the school and they gave us a name- Terrence Wakeland."

"Terrence Wakeland," Garcia echoed, her clattering keys loud and clear over the speaker. "In the New York metropolitan area, including Westchester County...computer says three."

Spencer leaned closer to the speakerphone. "He may work at a recording studio, or a record company," he suggested.

"Okay...I'm going to cross with IRS records...gotcha. Mount Vernon, just outside the Bronx. A & L Studios. Looks like they went belly-up a few months ago...but he still works there as a security guard."

"Thanks, mama, you're the best," Morgan said. He elbowed Spencer lightly. "C'mon, let's go."

JJ caught Morgan's arm. "Hey, can you…?" She tugged him aside. "Are you sure he's ready to go on a takedown?"

Morgan scratched the back of his neck. "Damn," he said. "He...well...he might not be."

"I can hear you," Spencer called. "I took a nap and JJ fed me, I can go."

She could see Morgan hesitating and fixed him with a firm glare that said nope, no way, absolutely not.

"Reid...I think she has a point," Morgan said.

"I can do it," Spencer protested.

Morgan strode over to him, arms crossed. "There's a lot I could say and I don't think you'd hear any of it," he said. "But no matter what, I don't think your ankle is up for a lot of running. You take one bad fall, you're out of the field for a while."

Spencer's mouth twisted. "Fine," he said begrudgingly. "I'll stay behind. I guess."

Morgan clapped a big hand on his shoulder. "You can stay here with JJ or head back to the hotel and get some sleep, either one," he said. "See you soon, okay?"

Spencer shrugged. JJ threw her empty coffee cup away as Morgan picked up his things and left. "Don't make that face," she warned.

"I'm not making a face."

She stacked papers neatly on the desk and slid the phone back into its place. "He's right, you know," she said. "Running isn't a great idea right now. Your ankle was just about broken when we found you and-"

"I don't want to talk about it," he said in a low voice.

She didn't push him. He sat down heavily in a chair, his long legs sprawled out, and rested his chin in his hand. She had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't want to go back to the hotel and get further left behind, and he certainly wouldn't want her hovering and big-sister-ing him. So she gave him space, finding things to do around the station and staying close to the phone.

Emily got back to the station a little past midnight, her footsteps echoing in the quiet precinct. "Hey," she said. "We got Wakeland. They're finishing up at the scene, Hotch sent me back to get you guys. Everything okay?"

"Yeah, I've just been waiting to hear from you."

Emily nodded towards Spencer. "How's he doing?" she asked.

JJ looked back. Spencer had his head down on the table, resting on his forearms. "Rough," she sighed. "Stubborn as always."

Emily shifted her weight. "I know I'm still new to the team, all things considered, but...he's not acting normally, is he?" she said. "I mean...every time he's part of a conversation he just...fades out."

"Yeah," JJ said quietly. "I've noticed."

Emily shrugged. "I don't know, I'm probably just reading too much in it," she said. "Profiler problems, what can I say?"

JJ half laughed. "If you want to go out to the car, I'll wake him up and bring him outside," she said. "It might take a second."

"Sure, no problem."

JJ crouched beside Spencer and touched his back lightly. He was sleeping so deeply she didn't have the heart to wake him, but there was no way she could get him to the car otherwise.

"Spence," she whispered. "Wake up. Case is closed, we're going back to the hotel." He didn't rouse. She smoothed her hand over his unruly hair. "Spence, come on. Time to go."

He lurched back, mumbling something under his breath, and his fingers twitched. JJ placed her hand over his. "Hey, it's okay," she soothed, rubbing the spot between his shoulder blades. "You're okay."

He shivered and she could feel every bump of his spine under her palm. "JJ?" he said blearily.

"Yeah, Spence," she said. "You ready to go?"

He closed his eyes. "What d'we have left to do?"

"Nothing, we got Wakeland," she reassured him. "Let's get you to sleep in a bed and not hunched over a table, okay?"

"Was I asleep?"

"Just dozing a little," she said.

The ride back was quiet. She didn't try to help him into the building, but she stayed in the hall for a moment, making sure he got back to his room safely. He struggled to get the room key into the slot, his hand spasming and shaking.

"Hey," she said gently. "Are you okay?" He nodded. "If you need a hand, I can-"

"Thanks, JJ," he whispered, and he disappeared into the room.

Spencer closed the door tight behind him and stumbled towards his go-bag, his hand slipping against the light switch as he fell to his knees. He was hot and cold all over, his muscles tensing, his brain running in overdrive. The sleep he'd managed at the office had only served to make him feel thick-headed and nauseated. He was in pain, and the medicine would help, it would, he would feel so much better…

He dug out a vial and a clean needle, his fingers shaking. The churning in his brain revved like an engine, running through his body at a thousand miles an hour. He was hurting, he was hurting so bad, he wanted it to go away, turn it off, turn it off, turn it off-

He rocked back on his heels, the air in his lungs escaping like steam from a teakettle. The relief was warm, instantaneous, reassuring-

The door opened.

He dropped the bottle back in the bag and covered it with a shirt as Morgan walked in. "Hey, kid," he said.

"Hey," Spencer echoed, his lips clumsy like they'd been numbed. "How did everything go?"

He didn't hear Morgan because of the needle. The needle was in his hand, and he clenched his fist around it, hiding the orange cap between his fingers. Morgan's voice was a roar in his ear.

"Uh-huh," he said, but he hadn't heard anything he'd said.

Morgan picked up his clothes out of his bag. "I'm gonna take a shower," he said. "You good?"

"Uh-huh," he said again, and Morgan went into the bathroom and closed the door.

Spencer sagged in relief, tucking the needle into an inner pocket and zipping it shut, his fingers slipping on the pull. A second longer, and Morgan would have caught him.

His body felt soft and light and his mind was empty and quiet. He fumbled for last night's pajamas, leaving his clothes in a puddle on the floor, and crawled into bed. The high wrapped around him, drawing him down, and he fell asleep with the lights on, the covers still tangled around his hips.

He woke up in the wee hours of the morning, the first cracks of light peeking through the blinds, a headache pulsing behind his eyes. That was too close. He couldn't do this. He needed to stop using the dilaudid. He couldn't rely on it.

It was just pain relief. And he was in pain. He needed it.

He tried to go back to sleep, but he couldn't. Morgan snored comfortably in the bed across the room. He thought of Morgan catching him with a needle in his arm, and in the dark he felt his face flush hot with shame.

He had to stop. He had to. That was his last dose.

They stayed in New York long enough for Morgan to attend the funeral of the fallen officer, and then they were on the jet home by early evening. He sat at the table, hoping he could keep his distance for the short flight, but Morgan sat across from him. Spencer averted his eyes, fiddling with a deck of cards- something mindless that would keep his hands busy and distract him from the ache in his body.

The cards fell still in his fingers after a while. He huddled in the seat and idly picked at the dead skin on his lips, the edges of his brain soft and fuzzy. The plane would land soon, and he could go home and dump his dollar-store heroin down the drain and throw away the empty bottles and everything would be back to normal.

"Reid?"

He raised his head slowly, sluggishly, his fingers falling from his mouth. "Hm?"

Morgan's eyes were soft and concerned- not an expression he was accustomed to seeing. "I said, are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he said, shifting uncomfortably and fiddling with the cards before they slipped to the floor. He glanced around the quiet plane. "Thanks for broadcasting it."

He never spoke that sharply, not when it wasn't warranted, but his head ached. "Hey," Morgan said, and Spencer hid behind the cards. "Talk to me. Whatever you say to me in confidence is between us. You know that, right?"

He shrugged, his mouth curving in a pout. "I don't have anything to tell you," he said, and he flashed Morgan a grim, cheerless smile.

Morgan wasn't fooled. He leaned forward on his arms and Spencer shrunk away from him. "Reid, listen to me," he said softly. "What you went through out there...nobody expects you to rebound-"

"I can still do my job, all right?" he hissed, snapping the fanned-out deck closed. "I'm not gonna freak out."

"You think I don't know that?"

Spencer hesitated. If he could hesitate long enough, maybe Morgan would give up, pat him on the shoulder, give him the easy out of saying you can always talk to me if you need to, because he didn't know how to need someone else, he didn't know how to voluntarily share the burden of his secrets, he didn't know how to tell someone else that he was hurting and he was alone and he was scared.

But Morgan didn't leave. He sat by him quietly, patiently, and Spencer fiddled with the cards. No one had ever taught him how to ask for help, and he didn't know how to say it.

"It's the crime scene photos," he said instead.

"Crime scene photos?"

Morgan was kind, Morgan was gentle, Morgan was patient, but Morgan didn't understand. "The dead girls in the leaves," he said, his throat dry.

Wet leaves rotting in a Georgia graveyard, the smell sickly sweet and cloying, the red clay clinging to his fingers, the blood and sweat dripping down his body as his hands swelled and burst with blisters while he dug his own grave.

Morgan shook his head, his brow drawing in mild confusion. "Reid, we've seen worse," he said.

"I know," he whispered. "I know we've seen worse, but... for the first time, I know." He looked up, "I look at them, and…"

His heart beating too fast in his chest, his racing blood too hot and too loud in his ears, his last goodbyes swallowed down his throat with his tears because he'd never be able to say them out loud-

"I look at them and I... I know what they were thinking. And I know what they were feeling, like, right before."

Morgan nodded as if he understood. "That's called empathy," he said gently. "And it's a good thing."

It wasn't empathy. It wasn't. Empathy was Hotch sitting down with a missing child's father. Empathy was JJ speaking in her kind brave voice on behalf of a victim. It was Emily never breaking during an interrogation because her work would bring justice to a grieving family. It was Garcia watching kitten videos after a bad case, Gideon arranging framed photos in his office, Elle stepping away because her heart couldn't take it anymore.

Empathy was Morgan sitting him down on the jet and inviting him to speak.

Except he didn't want an invitation to speak, it was past that point, he was drowning and he wanted someone to take him by the wrists and pull him out of the ice cold water and let him heave and suffer and cry until he could breathe again, feel again.

Nobody heard him, the dead man, but still he lay moaning

He couldn't feel empathy. He couldn't feel it when he didn't deserve any empathy.

The click of the empty chamber, over and over and over again, until the gun fired, muzzle bright in the midnight, but the gun wasn't pointed at him, it was pointed at the man who tried to kill him, but it wasn't the man who tried to kill him, it was a boy not too much older than him, a boy who asked if he might see his mother again, and he didn't answer him in time.

He pushed his hair back from his hot forehead, dug his fingertips against his bone-dry eyes. "It's not," he said desperately. "It's got me all messed up. I don't know how to focus. I can't do my job as well."

I was much further out than you thought, and not waving, but drowning

"So, what do I do?"

"You use it," Morgan said, and Spencer's heart sank. He didn't understand. "Let it make you a better profiler, a better person."

It must have been too cold for him, his heart gave way, they said- oh, no no no, it was too cold always

Spencer smiled, but there was no joy in it. He didn't think he could feel joy again. "A better person," he echoed.

Morgan smiled at him, warm and encouraging, and Spencer turned back to the window.

I was much too far out all my life, and not waving, but drowning.

He stayed quiet the rest of the flight, his hot forehead pressed against the cool glass of the window, his arms tight around his body in a protective imitation of a hug, and he didn't speak.

He went home alone, to his dark apartment. He took a shower, brushed his teeth. And then he sat cross-legged on his quiet bed and he shot the dilaudid in his arm and for a little while, he didn't feel anything at all.

Author's Note:

I feel like Spencer's drug addiction was glossed over SO much in the show, and I really wanted to delve deeper into it. So here we are! I've written two more chapters of drug addiction, and I'm currently working on the detox/withdrawal chapter.

The quotes in the last bit are from the poem "Not Waving But Drowning" by Stevie Smith. I felt like it summed up exactly how Spencer was feeling in this part.

I have a lot of people to thank for this chapter!

Dayanna, for helping me with some of the details with Spencer's addiction!

expecto-weasleys from tumblr for beta'ing! Y'all, I end up typing too fast and I make some very interesting spelling goofs and punctuation choices, it's a problem.

nitrogentulips, mythepoeia, fishtrek, and ferret54 for reviewing!

And an extra special thank you to tearbos, who went through and reviewed every single chapter! I'm not lying when I said I was actively checking my email to see if a new review had come in, it truly made my day.

Also I'd like to a very special shoutout to the pals who read my Glee fics back in the day and are reading this story now! Since my quarantine does not have an end in sight for the time being (Disney World is still closed and probably won't open for a while yet) I've decided to start going through my Glee stuff so I can freshen them up with some new edits and crosspost them on A03 in the correct chronological orders so they're easier to find and read.

Y'all. I have 85 documents to sort through. The Tumbled document is 841 pages long. And that's not counting all the stuff that I never posted. Or what I'm going to write in order to finish fics (I'm looking at you, Goodnight and Knife Going In.)

But yeah! Thank you so much for sticking with me. I hope you're enjoying this fic, please let me know if you did! And please share your headcanons with me, I love hearing them. I'm on tumblr as themetaphorgirl if you'd like to chat or give me a prompt to fill!

Up next: he was angry, and he was frustrated, and he was scared, because he didn't know how to stop