Disclaimer: Criminal Minds belongs to CBS, not me.

He thought he was handling it. The dilaudid was the only thing that let him slog through the day. He didn't sleep much, or eat much, but he craved the peace the drug gave him. Except the peace wasn't real, and every time it wore off he hurt more and more, so he took the drug more, and then it hurt more.

You should quit, a little voice reminded him, before it gets worse.

But he could balance things, and he could handle work, and it was fine, and he was fine.

And besides, it wasn't like anyone could figure out what was wrong with him. He could have been waving a banner in front of their faces and they would never say it just right, never say anything past a mild are you okay or you can always talk to me.

He wanted to tell them, but he wanted them to ask the correct questions.

If they really cared, they would know. And they don't know, so they must not care enough.

He slept little, waking up from nightmares that he couldn't remember but terrified him enough to keep him from falling back asleep. Sometimes he could force himself into a light doze, but some times he stared up at the ceiling until his alarm went off.

The worst was the morning that he did fall back asleep and his alarm didn't go off and he cycled through another nightmare, waking up shaken and weak and craving the dilaudid to take the edge off, but sunlight was filtering through the curtains, and it was either be late for work, or take a hit and be incredibly late for work, so he tucked the remaining bottle in the bottom of his bag.

He stumbled through getting dressed and grabbing his things; traffic wasn't terrible and he might not be too late. Hopefully there wouldn't be a case and he could sneak into the bullpen without being noticed. He stopped at the break area on the way in to make himself coffee, hoping the caffeine would shake the last cobwebs from his brain.

"Dr. Reid, I think your team is in the conference room."

He rolled his eyes. Of course they were. He grabbed his coffee mug and slunk into the room. JJ paused in her presentation and he could feel their eyes tracking him as he walked silently to the empty seat and threw himself down.

JJ cleared her throat. "The ward's detectives are inundated with homicides," she continued. "Gang violence is a big problem…"

He squirmed in his seat, slouching as he tried to get comfortable. There was an ever-present prickle in his skin, and he didn't want to be there, not if they were all going to stare at him and exchange glances over his head like he was a child, pretending he couldn't see them. He could, and he dared them to say something.

"We have no evidence, no apparent interaction between the unsub and the victims pre- or postmortem, and an indistinguishable MO," he said, his lips twisting. "Should be simple."

"Wheels up in thirty," Hotch said. "Reid. Can you stay here a moment?"

He sighed, slouching farther in his chair as the rest of the team filed out of the room. Hotch closed the door. "I'm sorry I was late, the train was delayed…" he began.

Hotch sat down across from him. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked.

Spencer blinked. "Yeah."

"Your behavior has been extremely out of character recently," Hotch said. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

He shrugged. "Not particularly."

Hotch rested his clasped hands on the table. "I got in contact with the department counselor you've supposedly been seeing," he said. "You haven't checked in once."

"We've been a little busy," Spencer said. "I'll...make an appointment when we get back from Houston."

"You also haven't submitted your report for the Hankel case," Hotch said. The sharpness in his eyes softened. "I told you I would give you time, but we're coming up on two months. If you're still not able to write it-"

"I'll write it when we get back," Spencer said, harsher than he intended. "I just...keep forgetting."

It was a stupid lie and he knew it. "You're not the kind of person to forget anything," Hotch said. "Listen, Spencer...if there's something you'd like to talk about, something that would be easier to discuss with a team member than a stranger-"

Another agent knocked hesitantly on the door. "Agent Hotchner? Chief Strauss wants to see you before you fly out."

"We can talk about this later," Hotch said, gathering up his things. "Anything you need to talk about, Reid...we're not going to judge you."

I can't function without drugs, and even with the drugs I'm falling apart, and I can't tell you that, I can't, I just can't.

"Thanks, Hotch, I'll keep that in mind," he said, and he slipped out of the conference to get his go bag.

He chose to sit on the bench seat on the jet, legs crossed tightly, his back pushed against the wall, scrunching himself smaller. He balanced a notepad on his knee and twiddled a pen in his fingers; his shirt cuff was long enough to slip past his wrists but he didn't bother to push it back. The more hidden the better.

He focused on the conversation, waiting to find a moment to chime in. They were used to him rambling, better to ramble than be silent. "He used blitz attacks, which means he most likely lacks the interpersonal skills needed to coerce his victims into coming close," he said, bouncing the pen in his fingers. "And he also used the element of surprise, which means he may have stalked his victims prior to killing them."

"Well, if that's the case, I want to go to the last crime scene to see where he may have been hiding," Morgan said.

Gideon nodded. "I want to see the neighborhood for myself. I'll go with you."

"Good," Hotch said. "The rest of us will go to the precinct and set up shop."

"I'll map out the area and see if I can find any places the victims would have visited in the neighborhood," Spencer offered.

"Good, maybe we can find a connection between them," Emily said. "I'll help you with that."

"I can handle it," he said sharply. He didn't want Prentiss there, he didn't need her there. He didn't want any of them there.

Emily blinked. He could sense Morgan looking at him too, eyebrows raised. "I wasn't suggesting that you couldn't," she said.

"You know what 'I'll help you with it' means?" he retorted.

"Reid," Hotch warned. He shrugged, feigning innocence. "Prentiss will help you with the geographical profiling and victimology."

This was Hotch threatening to turn the car around and go home. Spencer's lip dropped in a pout. "Fine," he said, snotty like a teenager sent to his room.

The jet was uncomfortably silent. He glanced up under his lashes from the corner of his eye- Emily staring down at the floor, JJ exchanging a worried look over her coffee cup at Morgan, Hotch and Gideon watching him with those scrutinizing profiler gazes.

"Remember, this is a high crime area," Hotch said, frowning directly at him. "Be vigilant. Nobody goes anywhere alone."

That last bit was directed at him, he knew it, but he chose to busy himself with his notepad, writing down something useless to make himself look busy.

He gave the rest of the team a wide berth as they settled into the precinct. The station was in the center of a construction zone; he couldn't escape the sounds of machinery or the dust kicked up in the warm late spring air. Someone had left a window open, making it a million times worse, but didn't want to pick a fight with strangers around. He busied himself with the map, making neat red lines on the grayscale page. Emily couldn't help him with this, no one could help him with this, and he took pride in that. But he could sense her staring behind him, keeping a safe distance as she watched him trace routes with his fingertips.

"One of the detectives' wives made us cookies," JJ said, her mouth half full, and she held up a plate covered in plastic wrap.

"Wow, homemade cookies?"

"Yeah, I guess that's what they mean by southern hospitality," JJ said, dragging her voice in an exaggerated drawl.

Spencer scowled. "What are you saying?"

"Southern hospitality!" Emily said, raising her voice over the roar of the construction outside.

His scowl deepened. "I need to concentrate," he said, and he slammed the window shut. It helped, but not much. "How can anybody hear with all this work going on?"

"Well, you're gonna have to get used to it," JJ said as she picked up another cookie. "Construction crews are working around the clock."

"Saw it on the way in," Emily added.

"The city's trying to return to its splendor, and that means that Houston's poorest are being kicked out of their homes," JJ said.

Gideon, Morgan, and Hotch walked into the conference room with the local detective, all four of them frowning. That wasn't a good sign. "Unsub might be homeless," Gideon said shortly. "Appears to have been living in a building next to where the security guard was attacked."

He approached the map and Spencer hovered over his shoulder. "These are the locations of the last three murders, all near abandoned buildings," he said.

"He knows the neighborhood, maybe he was recently displaced," Hotch suggested.

"Could be a motive," Emily said. "Construction worker, security guard at a construction site. Payback?"

"What about the homeless man?" Morgan countered.

"We get a lot of beefs down there among the homeless," the local detective said. "That one could have just been a fight about space or food."

Gideon's frown deepened, grim and thoughtful. "Let's get a list of residents who've been kicked out of their homes by the gentrification," he said. He nodded towards Emily. "You and Reid check the shelters?"

She jumped up immediately from her seat. "Yeah, we're on it," she said. She paused. "Unless... you okay with that, Reid?"

He shrugged. "I'm fine with that," he said. He grabbed his bag and followed her out of the office. She already had the keys to one of the department cars in her hand; he followed her without a word.

"I'm so sorry," she said, her hand on the driver's side door handle. "Do you want to drive? I just assumed, you usually don't drive…"

"You can drive," he said tersely, and he climbed into the passenger seat. "Let's go."

Emily didn't turn on any music. It wouldn't have mattered anyway; the deafening construction followed them as she drove. The AC wasn't nearly cold enough in the car but he didn't bother to change it.

The homeless shelter was tucked in between work zones, covered in drywall dust and grime. Emily parked on the street. "Hey," she said, sliding her hands in her pockets as she jogged to keep up with his long strides. "I'm sorry if I've been stepping on your toes lately. I'm not trying to, I was just-"

"Don't worry about it," he said. He waved over a volunteer in a blue tee shirt. "Hi. We need to speak with a shelter director. Are they available?"

"Yeah, she's in the main hall," the volunteer said; he offered a half smile in thanks and walked away. He heard Emily sigh behind him.

The shelter smelled like a thousand meals and mildew, a church basement kind of smell, and it was busy, filled with dozens of bodies and the buzz of a hundred conversations. Spencer willed his brain to focus.

A thin woman in a blue apron waved them over. "You all are looking for someone in charge?" she said, fluttery and anxious. "I'm Angie, one of the administrators."

"Hi. I'm Agent Prentiss, this is Agent Reid," Emily said, reaching out to shake her hand. He pressed his mouth together. She was the only one on the team who didn't introduce him as Dr. Reid. "We're with the FBI."

"Really?" Angie said, eyes going wide.

"Really," he said. He stuck his hands deep in his pockets, and Angie seemed caught off guard by his response. The smell in the room was hot and stifling; his brain was trying to pick up on every conversation around him like a hotwired radio antenna.

"It looks like you have your hands full," Emily said.

Angie sighed. "With the demolitions in the projects and the abandoned buildings, there's no place else for people to sleep," she said.

"Well, thank god there are people like you who take the time-" Emily started to say.

"Do you have a list of everyone who comes through here?" Spencer interrupted.

Emily frowned. "Uh, we have a sign in sheet, but we don't force anyone to sign if they don't want to," Angie said. "Some who don't even use their real names. Elvis eats here a lot."

"We would appreciate any lists you have," Emily said.

"Why?"

"Have you noticed anyone who acts unusually aggressive towards the other residents?" he asked.

"What's this about?" Angie asked skeptically.

"A series of murders in the area. The perpetrator may be a homeless man," he said. There wasn't enough air in the room; it felt thick and stagnant around him. "Maybe someone who stays here. He may even be in this room as we speak."

"God, Reid," Emily said, startled.

He ignored her. "Have you noticed anyone who acts paranoid or displays explosive, unprovoked bursts of violence, more than just pushing and shoving? I mean, someone who really tries to harm others."

Angie had gone pale, scanning nervously around the room. "There are territorial fights over food and places to sleep. The nurse treats people for minor injuries all the time, but no one's seriously hurt."

He pulled a card out of his pocket. "If anyone does come to mind, give us a call," he said. "Thank you."

She took the card and he turned on his heel, speedwalking out the door. He relaxed for a split second, because the air outside moved around him a gentle breeze and he couldn't smell day-old peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again, but the construction was worse than ever, jackhammering at the base of his neck.

A man in dirty clothes limped by him, coughing. Spencer crossed his arms over his chest. The heavy doors slammed open; Emily held them long enough for the man to hobble inside. "There's a high presence of mental disorders with the homeless," he remarked.

"Yeah," Emily said flatly. "What the hell was that in there?"

He squinted. "What?"

Emily huffed. "'He may even be in this room as we speak'? We have nothing to support that!"

"We're investigating a serial homicide. Should I have pretended there's no danger?"

"We just left that woman potentially afraid of every man who walks into this shelter," she said.

He tightened his arms across his chest. "Again, until we find this unsub, how is that a bad thing?" he said.

She recoiled. "What is the matter with you?" she said.

The back of his neck prickled. "What do you mean, what's the matter with me?" he retorted.

"I have never seen you act like this," she said.

There was no warm protectiveness like he got from JJ or Morgan, no stern parental sense like he got from Hotch, just pure irritation and frustration. He hated it. What right did she have? "Oh, really?" he snapped. "Oh, in the months that you know me, you've never seen me act this way? Hey, no offense, Emily, but…... you don't really know what you're talking about, do you?"

He stomped back to the car, knowing he was being childish, knowing that Emily was right and he hadn't handled that conversation well, knowing it was going to be an awkward afternoon sitting in the car with her and her hurt feelings, but he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.

The rest of the afternoon was painfully uncomfortable. Emily drove to a couple more local shelters in complete silence while Reid slouched in the passenger seat like a teenager who'd been told he was grounded from the prom. He said little during interviews; what he did say was flat and nearly useless, leaving her to handle most of it.

She thought about a couple of things she might say that might smooth things over, but none of them seemed like they would pan out very well. Reid was right. She'd only known him for a few months, and he'd just gone through major trauma. It wasn't her place to say anything to him.

She parked at the precinct and Reid was out of the car before she'd taken the key out of the ignition. It didn't take a profiler to see that something was wrong- he was pale, agitated, stressed to the point that he couldn't stop fidgeting. But there was nothing useful she could do or say.

Hotch was waiting for them in the lobby. "Just got back from the local homeless shelter," Reid said immediately, catching up alongside him. "The administrator hasn't noticed anyone new displaying aggressive behavior-"

"He's not in a homeless shelter," Hotch said. "I just talked to Gideon and Morgan. They think that he's killing to protect some makeshift shelter of his own."

"So are we ready for a profile yet?" Reid asked.

"We're missing something," Hotch said. "How did this homeless man learn to kill so efficiently?"

"You know what we need?" Emily said.

"We need to get lucky. We need him to make a mistake." Hotch eyed them up and down. "Reid, I want you to work with me and Morgan. Emily, I want you to work JJ, she's getting information from Garcia about people reported missing in the area."

Emily nodded. She hated that she was relieved to not be paired with Reid, but she was. "Where is she?"

"Conference room."

She found JJ surrounded by missing posters, leaning forward on her crossed arms and frowning at the stacks. "Hotch sent me to help you," she said.

"Good," JJ sighed. "Garcia's trying to narrow it down, but there's a lot of people reported missing within a hundred mile radius. And he might not even be missing at that."

"Well, I'll see what I can do to help," Emily grinned.

She set to work, quickly falling into the rhythm JJ had started. They chatted idly here and there, with long silences as they read over reports, and Emily debated if she should ask JJ about Reid or not. Maybe it wasn't her place.

"Hey, JJ?" she ventured. JJ made a noncommittal noise. "I've been meaning to ask you something."

"Hm? About what?"

"It's just that, especially lately, I've been worried about-"

But she didn't get a chance to finish her sentence, because a bleeding man and his crying daughter burst into the station and there was mass chaos, and Reid's attitude problems were the least of her worries.

The knots began to untangle- they were looking for a war veteran. "Let's get Morgan and Gideon on a call, they're still checking out scenes," Hotch said. Emily cradled her coffee cup in both hands and waited for the dial tone as JJ sat down on the edge of the table. Reid paced, his arms crossed over his chest.

Hotch got Morgan and Gideon caught up quickly. "It makes sense he's a war veteran," Morgan asked. "The quick strikes are consistent with trained military."

"He must have served in a place that looked or sounded like this ward," Emily said.

"Well, we were right about him being homeless, in a sense," Gideon said, his voice faraway over the phone. "Wherever he is, in his mental state, he's certainly not at home."

Hotch frowned. "He may not even be aware he's killing."

"Now, how's that?"

"When soldiers suffered from anxiety, depression, and flashbacks in World War I, it was called shell shock. In World War II, battle fatigue," Reid interrupted. "Now we refer to it as PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A side effect of which is slipping into disassociative states."

"The mind divorces itself from reality so it can cope with the trauma," Emily said slowly.

She watched Reid out of the corner of her eye. "He's reliving a memory. He's trapped in his head in some war zone," Gideon said.

"Hiding and defending himself from the enemy," Morgan added.

"Okay, so how do we find a man who's trapped inside his head?" JJ asked.

"He's got a wedding ring," Emily said. "Someone's missing him."

Static crackled over the speakerphone. "Good," Gideon said. "I'm on the way in with Detective Fuller. Morgan has the last crime scene to check."

The call ended unceremoniously. "JJ, check missing persons reports, see if anyone matches the description," Hotch said. "It would have been filed recently, the last two or three days."

"I'm on it," she said, sliding down from the table. "I was looking through them earlier, but that's a much more narrow field."

"I'll go with you," Emily offered quickly.

"That's fine," Hotch said. "Reid, I want you to stay with me and work on the profile."

Emily followed JJ out of the conference room and back to the desk still stacked with missing persons' reports. "God, we'll have to sort back through all of these," JJ sighed. "Just what I want to do at-" she checked her watch- "one in the morning."

"You need any coffee or anything?" Emily asked.

"No, I'll be okay," she said. She handed over a stack of manila folders. "Here, let's start just by weeding out everyone that doesn't match the profile. We can send the names to Garcia to check for a military background."

"Sounds like a plan."

JJ started sorting through her own piles, ruthlessly dividing them up. "Oh, by the way," she said. "You were saying something a while earlier, something you were worried about. Still have that question?"

"Hm?" Emily said. She paused. "Oh, yeah, it's...it was about Reid, but it's fine."

JJ sighed. "He's been something else today, hasn't he?" she said.

"He was, uh….kind of a nightmare earlier," Emily admitted, then stopped. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean that. I know he's going through a lot-"

"I get it," JJ said.

"It's not just me, though, is it- this is really out of character for him?"

"Oh, definitely," JJ said. "I've seen him get upset, and frustrated, especially when he's tired, but...showing up late for work, snapping at everyone, that's not like him at all. And he keeps... just zoning out. It's like he's there, but he's not."

Emily set a report aside thoughtfully. "He was describing the symptoms of PTSD," she said. "Do you think he was just describing himself?"

"It was pretty on the nose," JJ said. "PTSD after he went through is completely understandable. But...knowing Spence, he's not going to ask for any help."

"Should...should we do something about it?" Emily asked.

JJ was silent for a moment. "I'm not sure what to do," she confessed. "We all care about him and we want to help, and he knows that. I don't think any of us know exactly how to help him, unless he tells us. And knowing Spence, he won't say anything until it's too late." She straightened a stack of papers. "Hopefully we can catch him before that happens."

Spencer stared at the cup of coffee in his hands. It was a little past five in the morning. He hadn't eaten. He hadn't slept. And he hadn't taken anything in twenty-four hours...no...thirty hours...no...thirty-two hours.

He couldn't even count right.

They'd tracked down the unsub's family and they were supposed to get to the station at any moment. He needed to get his head on straight before they got there. He'd been useless, completely useless, on this case. If they'd left him behind in Quantico it wouldn't have made a difference.

The bottle of dilaudid was well hidden in the bottom of his bag and there was probably enough time to grab it and take a hit in the bathroom before anyone noticed he slipped away. But he needed to stop, and he could stop now. He just needed to push through it, and focus, and when he got home he'd get rid of everything and it would be like it never happened.

"Hey, Reid?" His head shot up. Gideon leaned in the room. "The family's here. You ready?"

"Uh-huh," he said, nearly spilling his coffee in his haste. His hands were shaking and he couldn't stop them. "Just...just a second."

Gideon waited for him patiently. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked. "You haven't seemed like yourself lately."

"I'm fine, I just...didn't have enough coffee today," he said.

Gideon didn't press the issue, thankfully, and he took a seat in the back of the room, holding onto his coffee with both hands. A headache pulsed at his temples but he breathed slowly, focusing on the conversation and what he could add to it.

It certainly seemed like Roy Woodbridge could be their unsub from what his wife and his best friend were describing. "Let me ask you this…" he said. "Does he display any sort of, uh...behavioral tics. Certain everyday things that make him jumpy or startled?"

The wife blinked. "Why?"

"Does he?"

She looked around hesitantly at the rest of the team. "Is this going to help find him?"

"Mrs. Woodridge, please," Emily said gently. "We need to know everything we can about your husband."

Mrs. Woodbridge looked like she wanted to sink into the floor. "We all had a... hard time over there," the friend said. "You know...you bring some things home with you."

"Like what?" Hotch asked.

Max hesitated. "He has a hard time with loud noises," Mrs. Woodbridge said, staring at the table. "He can't be in crowds. He has nightmares and wakes up in cold sweats. The smells are the worst. He...if he smells something burning, like a barbecue or gas or fire...he gets sick. It really only got bad about a year ago."

"What happened to him in Somalia?" Gideon asked

"Nothing," Max shrugged. "Combat happened."

Gideon paused, slow and deliberate. "What does that mean?"

Max was silent for a moment, then got up from the table abruptly. "I'm gonna get a drink of water," he said. Hotch and Gideon exchanged a knowing look; Gideon followed him out of the room.

Mrs. Woodbridge seemed rattled, pressing her fingers to her lips. Hotch silently poured her a glass of water. "Could somebody please tell me what's going on?" she asked.

"There have been some people hurt recently, and we think that there may be someone lost on the streets. Someone who thinks that he's still at war," Hotch said. Spencer could hear the softening language in his voice; he was trying to shelter her from the gory truth.

She shook her head. "But Roy would never hurt innocent people," she protested. No one spoke. Spencer kept his arms tight across his chest, hiding his shaking hands. "Well, why would he even be in this neighborhood?"

Luckily the phone rang before anyone had to say anything and JJ pressed the speaker button. "Hey, Garcia," she said. "We have Mrs. Woodridge here with us."

"Oh," Garcia said, sounding flustered. "Uh, well….I found an '02 white Ford F150 pickup truck."

"Oh, my god," Mrs. Woodbridge said. "That's his truck."

"It was impounded," Garcia said. It sounded like she was trying to pick her words carefully, but unlike Hotch, she probably wasn't going to be successful. "Uh, it had a flat tire and was picked up on Lyon Street about a quarter of a mile from Highway 59."

"He takes the East Tex Freeway to work every day."

"Mrs. Woodridge, I'm very sorry... but this is definitely your husband," Emily said. The woman's face crumpled.

Things moved fast after that. Spencer stayed out of the way, under the radar, hiding with his maps. Everyone else was busy and distracted, and he didn't mind. If everyone else was distracted, it was easier to keep them from noticing.

It wasn't real withdrawal, he told himself. There was no way he had been using long enough to go through withdrawal. But he wasn't going to go back and take any. He wasn't. He was done.

They called out the SWAT team, and he assumed he'd be left behind again, but to his surprise Hotch handed him his flak vest. "I want you and Prentiss to help secure the scene," he said. "They're already setting up a perimeter a couple of blocks away, close to the river."

"Yes, sir," Spencer said, even though it took multiple tries to fasten the vest because his damn hands wouldn't stop shaking.

He sat in the back of the SUV, resisting the urge to press his hands over his ears at the shriek of the sirens. His headache twisted behind his eyes like a clamp; the ibuprofen he'd snuck from the precinct's sorry excuse for a first aid kit did nothing to ease the pressure. He was at forty...forty-three hours since his previous dose. His last dose.

He climbed out of the SUV, closing his eyes against the bright late-morning sunshine. Emily was already chatting with the lead officer on the scene, her hands on her hips, and he started to cross the cracked pavement towards her. He could hear sirens wailing over the roar and clang of construction and smell the sharp scent of riverwater and something heavy and hot that seemed familiar and strange all at once; the glare of the sun and spiraling emergency lights blinded him. God, he wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and pull the covers over his head, but Emily was already spitting instructions at him. "..we're in communication with SWAT on the scene, most likely we'll-"

He froze. Emily's voice and the sirens and the ever-present crash of construction blurred in his ears and his vision went white.

"Hey, Reid, we're going to block off the street here, but the lot behind us shouldn't be an issue. It's just the truckyard for a fish processing plant and we've already talked to the managers, they're making sure all their employees are staying inside until the situation is resolved-"

Fish. Burning fish.

They're burning fish hearts and livers. Keeps away the devil.

Emily was still talking but he didn't hear anything. He was lost, sinking fast.

It was so cold in the cabin and his hands were like ice but the rest of him was fever bright, smoke soaked into his throat and his clothes were damp with sweat and his dry lips tasted like blood and the air smelled like rotten fish and flames-

"Reid?"

The fish was supposed to keep the devil away but the devil was here, the devil was here and there was no one coming to save him, no one would find him-

"Reid?"

He was going to die here, and they wouldn't find him till it was too late, and he would be trapped here in this frozen cabin, surrounded by the smell of burning fish-

"Reid!"

He jerked like he'd been electrocuted. "Hm?" he said, his voice garbled.

Emily searched his face. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she said. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he choked out. He was going to be sick, he could feel the saliva pooling in the back of his mouth. "F-fine."

She turned back to her conversation with the officer, but he could feel her watching him out of the corner of her eye. "We don't think he'll get out this far, but with SWAT and helicopters on the scene we need to keep the area clear," she said. "The man in question is a war veteran that we believe is suffering delusions as a complication of PTSD…"

His ears roared.

The mind divorces itself from reality so it can cope with the trauma

Does he display any sort of, uh...behavioral tics. Certain everyday things that make him jumpy or startled?

He has a hard time with loud noises. He can't be in crowds. He has nightmares and wakes up in cold sweats. The smells are the worst. He...if he smells something burning, like a barbecue or gas or fire...he gets sick.

"Reid, come on, they need us over here."

And Spencer obeyed. Spencer did what he was told, because Spencer wasn't there.

Emily leaned as far back in her chair as she could. It wasn't that she had been expecting the case to have a happy ending, but it still shocked her. Maybe it was a good thing that she could still be shocked in her line of work.

Reid sat on the far side of the room, huddled in a chair, his flak vest heaped on the floor at his feet. As frustrated as she'd been with him over the past day and a half, she'd rather have him snapping at her than his terrible silence. He'd gone pale and quiet as soon as he got out of the car at the scene and he'd barely spoken since. She wished someone else was there to talk to him, but JJ was taking Mrs. Woodbridge to the hospital and Gideon and Hotch were still on the scene. Maybe Morgan would be back soon.

She couldn't keep sitting with nothing to do, so she pushed herself up and started setting the room back to order, taking down photos and lists and Reid's maps. They didn't need it anymore.

She dropped a pile of glossy eight-by-tens and Reid jumped. "Sorry, sorry," she said. "I didn't realize it would be so loud."

He didn't acknowledge her. His eyes were glassy and far too bright.

"Hey," she said tentatively, fiddling with the stack of photos until the edges were perfectly aligned. "I know...we're not super close, but...did something happen? Because you can talk to me if something did." He rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth, still not making eye contact. "It seemed like something happened when we got to the scene earlier. I've never-"

Reid bolted. He ran out of the room, nearly knocking the table over in his haste. She stared after him in confusion. "Reid?" she called.

Out of all the reactions she'd been expecting, this was completely off her radar. She followed him hesitantly. "Reid, if you don't want to talk to me, it's fine, I get it, but I hope you're not angry with me because-"

Her voice trailed off midsentence. The bathroom door was half open and she could hear the unmistakable sound of retching.

Emily recoiled. She did not do vomit. Bodies at a crime scene or a morgue, fine. Blood, fine. Virtually any other bodily fluid, (probably) fine. She did not do vomit.

But she could hear Reid hacking and coughing, his breaths coming in desperate gasps, and she pushed the door open the rest of the way.

Any misgivings she had flew out the window. "Holy shit, Reid," she said, kneeling on the cold tile floor beside him. He was half collapsed, his arms visibly shaking as he tried to hold himself up against the toilet. "Hey, calm down. Calm down, take a breath."

She placed her hand on his back, hoping the weight would reassure him somehow, and she could feel every bump in his spine through his shirt. Worry spiked in her chest. Reid was thin, was thin long before Georgia, but she hadn't noticed he was this thin.

He was dry heaving now, nothing left in his system to bring back up, and she waited until he was a little calmer, a little quieter. "What's wrong?" she asked gently. "Are you sick?"

He pushed down on the handle and leaned back stiffly against the wall. His face was mottled white with red splotches on his cheekbones and his eyes were watering. "It was the same," he mumbled.

She wrinkled her nose. "What?" His head dropped in a drunken tilt. "Hey, hold on, look at me." He cracked open one eye. "What was the same?"

"The fish," he slurred. "They burned it...keep the devils away."

"I don't understand," she said, frustrated. "What about the devils?"

Suddenly Reid's eyes went blank, blinking too rapidly, his long lashes dark against the pallor of his skin. His shoulders sagged and the fingers of his left hand curled into a fist, unclenched, clenched again.

"Reid?" she said hesitantly. The fast blinking unnerved her, sent adrenaline pumping in her veins. Something was wrong. His hair drooped over his forehead and without thinking she smoothed it back. His skin was like ice. "Spencer?"

His head jerked sharply, but when he looked up he blinked slowly, staring at her as if he was seeing her for the first time. He swallowed hard and mumbled something under his breath.

"Spencer, who was keeping the devils away?" she pressed. "Who was burning-"

Her mouth tightened, and then it hit her. She remembered it too, but differently- remembered that distinct scorched bleach smell in an abandoned cabin, cold air biting at her exposed skin as she stared in horror at the sight of the empty chair and the shining silver handcuffs and Spencer's discarded shoes.

"Oh, my god," she breathed. He closed his eyes, rubbing at his eyes with visibly shaking hands. "Spencer, that's not okay, that's...you said it yourself, that's PTSD and you-"

"Don't tell," he said hoarsely.

She leaned back on her heels. "What?"

"Don't tell," he pleaded. "Don't tell the others. I don't want them to know."

"I won't, I won't, but...Reid, don't you want to tell somebody?" she said. "JJ, or Morgan?"

He shook his head. "They don't need to know," he said.

"Why not?" she asked.

He looked down at his shoes, biting his pale lower lip. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Yeah, sure, anything," she said.

"Can...can you get my bag?" he asked. "It's on the floor under the table."

"Yeah, don't worry," she said. Her legs screamed in rebellion as she got up from the cold floor. "Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head, his damp hair hanging over his eyes. "Just that."

She got the bag from the conference room quickly and handed it over to him. His eyes still had that horrible faraway look. "Thanks," he said. "I...I just need a minute."

"Sure," she said. He looked like a dropped doll sitting on the floor like that, his long legs splayed out and his chin tilting towards his chest. "Call me if you need anything, okay?"

He nodded and she slipped out of the bathroom and back to the conference room. She was rattled, and she couldn't put her finger on exactly why. The day before he'd swung from angry and argumentative to sullen and petulant, and now he was silent and distant and puking his guts out.

"Hey," a familiar voice said, and she nearly jumped out of her skin.

"Shit, Morgan, you scared me," she sighed. "You just get back?"

"Yeah, Hotch and Gideon should be here soon too," he said.

Emily sank down in a chair and pushed her hair back. "Then we're just waiting on JJ, I guess, she's with the widow at the hospital," she said.

Morgan frowned. "Where's the kid?"

"Oh, he's…" She paused. "In the bathroom."

"He doing okay?" Morgan asked quietly. "I've been worried about him."

Emily jumped up and went back to pulling pieces down from the board. "He's...I mean, no different then how he's been acting lately, I guess," she said. She was usually good at keeping a cover story but damn, all she wanted was to blurt out what had just happened and let Morgan step in and fix it.

Morgan exhaled through his teeth. "He needs to talk to somebody," he said. "I had Garcia check, he's supposed to be checking in with the company counselor on a regular basis. He hasn't gone once."

"Is there anything we can do about it?" Emily asked.

He shook his head. "Can't force him to go," he said. "But if he keeps on like this, acting out and not talking, he's going hit rock bottom fast." Emily slid the photographs into an envelope and closed the tabs. She didn't know what to say.

Reid walked in the room, slow and shuffling, his bag over his shoulder and his fingers holding tight to the straps. "Hey, pretty boy," Morgan said. "How's it going?"

Reid eased into a chair as if his legs had forgotten how to bend properly. "Are we leaving soon?" he asked, almost dreamily. The color had come back to his face but his cheeks were too flushed now.

"Yeah, kid, we're just waiting for the others," Morgan said. "Not too much longer."

Emily watched Reid out of the corner of her eye as she erased the whiteboard. He curled up in his chair like a child, drawing one knee up to his chest, and closed his eyes. She thought of him crumpled on the floor, begging her not to tell, and it would be so easy to turn and tell Morgan the truth, but any trust that Reid had in her was fragile, and she wasn't sure if she was ready to break that.

Author's Notes:

oh, boy. The Spencer suffering is real.

It's been really interesting to watch the episodes and focus on Spencer's decline. He falls from sad and sick to angry and bitter to silent and resigned. Granted, the show should have done a LOT more with this plotline and really focused on his addiction, but it's still a very clear throughline. I hope you like how I've expanded on it! I have one more chapter for the addiction arc (the Jones) episode) and then a withdrawal chapter.

(also: give me all your headcanons on Spencer's addiction and withdrawal, I LOVE them!)

Also, Spencer definitely had an absence seizure in from of Emily and she didn't realize it. I already had in mind that Spencer became more prone to seizures after his kidnapping, and do you know what a symptom of dilaudid withdrawal is? Seizures. I like it when a plan comes together.

Special thanks to fishtrek, tearbos, ferret54, Sam the duck, and firepoppies for reviewing! I appreciate y'all so so SO much!

My tumblr (themetaphorgirl) is already open for chatting and filling prompt requests!

Up next: Spencer is fading away, and soon there won't be anything left of him