Spencer opened his eyes and immediately regretted it.
The last time he was awake (an hour ago? a day ago?) he had a headache and he felt a little sore. Now he had a migraine digging into his right eye and sharp pains running through his muscles. He bit back a groan.
So this was withdrawal.
He had never gotten this far in the process. At this point- long before this point- he would have given in and sought comfort from the little glass vial hidden under his sink. For a dizzying moment he contemplated going in search of it…
...but then he remembered. It was gone. It was all gone.
He didn't know if he should feel grateful, or angry, or upset, or...he couldn't feel anything correctly. Hadn't felt anything correctly in months, if he thought about it. His memories of the past few months had a haziness, a drug-induced sepia filter.
He wanted to feel like himself again. He just didn't remember what that was.
His headache pulsed behind his right eye like a heartbeat and he groaned audibly as he forced himself to sit up, his sheets and blankets tangling around his legs. Thirst pulled at his throat and dried his mouth, and it outweighed his desire to stay safe in his bed. Maybe Morgan was still asleep. Or better yet, had gone home.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and walked unsteadily towards the door, catching himself on his dresser. The horizon tilted and he waited, holding his breath, until the dizziness faded into a manageable gray fuzz at the edges of his vision. When he felt like he could take the risk of staying upright he opened the door and made his way into the living room.
"Morgan?" he called tentatively.
"Morgan went home."
Spencer's heart dropped. Morgan was gone. Hotch was in his living room.
He blinked, willing himself to wake up from whatever fever dream this was, but no such luck. His boss was in his living room, sitting on the couch, dressed down in an FBI Academy tee shirt and jeans, reading a Tom Clancy novel. "Oh, hey, Reid," Hotch said, glancing up from his book. He checked his watch. "You've been asleep for eleven hours, I was starting to wonder if I should check on you."
"I'm fine," he responded automatically. "What are you doing here?"
"Garcia made a schedule. It's my turn."
Embarrassed heat crawled at the back of his neck. "That's unnecessary," he said.
"How are you feeling?" Hotch asked. "You're well into your second day without taking-"
"I don't want to talk about it," Spencer snapped. The horizon tilted again and he braced his hand against the wall. "And I don't need any of you guys here."
"That's fine," Hotch said. He was so calm and Spencer wanted to shake him. "I'll be here today and tonight. Someone else will be here tomorrow. Even if you don't want help, there ought to be someone nearby in case you need us."
"Yeah, well...I'll call you if I need you," he said sharply. His mouth was so dry it was hard to speak, but his knees felt like jello and he wasn't sure he could make it all the way to the kitchen. Instead he fumbled his way the shorter distance down the hall to the bathroom and slammed the door behind him.
On instinct he reached for the cabinet door, but he paused, clenching into a loose fist. His heart beat too fast in his chest. It was gone, it was all gone, his safety net was gone, and all he could do was stare at himself in the mirror with a painful clarity he hadn't felt since he knocked on Tobias Hankel's door.
Spencer touched a shaky hand to his face, his fingers drumming staccato on his jawline. His cheekbones had always been a little too high and a little too sharp, but now he was gaunt, his cheeks sunken, his skin pale and waxen. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, the hazel irises dull and cloudy, and the bruises underneath were mottled purple and and blue and green.
His heart pounded against his ribcage. The tee shirt he'd put on yesterday hung on him like a scarecrow's clothes, sliding on his shoulder and loose around his chest, his collarbone jutting sharply through his skin. Nausea clawed at the pit of his stomach and he pushed his hair back from his face. His whole hand was shaking now; he could almost hear the clattering of his bones, and the tremor spread to his shoulders.
His heart beat too fast. It was too fast, and his blood rushed in his veins, and the gray faded edges of his vision threatened to turn black. It was too fast, and he tried to slow down his breathing, tried to control it, but he couldn't control it-
You're pitiful. Just like my son.
Spencer grabbed at his chest, his fingers pulling at his shirt, his breath catching in sharp strangled gasps.
This ends now.
Spencer's knees buckled. He tried to catch himself against the edge of the sink but his shaking hands found no purchase. Instead he hit the floor hard, striking the back of his head against the wall with a solid crack.
Confess your sins.
His vision blurred. "I haven't done anything," he tried to say, but he couldn't hear himself. His heartbeat was a violin string, vibrating too fast, and the room swam around him as he slumped farther down against the wall.
"Hotch," he screamed, but it didn't come out as a scream, it didn't even leave his parched throat, and no one could hear him, no one was coming for him, the midwinter wind blew through the cracks in the cabin walls and he was going to die here…
A broad gentle hand cupped the base of his neck. "You're not going to die here," a voice said, strong and sure, and Spencer closed his eyes. "I'm here. I'm right here."
His heart threatened to snap his ribs and tear out of his chest, taking on a life of its own outside his body. He slumped forward, his forehead pressing into his knees. "Take a breath," the voice said. "Just one slow breath."
He struggled to obey. "My heart," he gasped. "Hurts."
He wasn't sure if he'd managed to say the words aloud and correctly. "I know it hurts," the voice said gently. "Your heart's beating too fast. You need to slow your breathing down."
He was dying but he was alive, pinned to the floor, tasting blood against his teeth, his chest clenching tighter and tighter. He was in the cabin, he was home, Hankel was staring at him in disgust, Hotch was watching him with concern written all over his face.
"I'm gonna pass out," he mumbled, and his eyes slid shut.
At first he was only aware of the pain in his chest, squeezing and releasing, losing momentum with every beat of his exhausted heart. His eyes were dry and so heavy he couldn't open them, and his arms and legs didn't seem attached to him anymore.
"Slow, Reid. Slow."
He knew that voice, knew the firm hand holding his limp clammy fingers. He remembered.
he was crouching in the cold red clay, feral and terrified, the blisters on his palms torn open and dripping, a flashlight catching in his eyes so that all he saw was a circle of white light, and Hotch knelt beside him, taking him by the arm and pulling him from his own grave back into safety, holding him around his waist and keeping him from falling.
"Hotch?" he mumbled.
Hotch held his hand, his thumb rubbing in gentle, grounding strokes. His other hand rested on his chest as if he was making sure he was still breathing, still alive. "Take it slow," he said again. "I don't want you passing out on me again."
Spencer shifted against the floor. Feeling was coming back to his disembodied limbs in little icy prickles, and he cracked his eyes open. He was lying on the hard tile floor of his bathroom, his head pounding and the floor cold against his exposed skin. Hotch sat beside him, one knee bent and the other stretched out, watching his face carefully.
"Hey," Hotch said. "That's better."
Spencer licked at his dry lips. "I passed out?" he rasped.
"You went down hard," Hotch said. "Tachychardia can happen with withdrawal, your-"
"My heart was beating too fast," he said.
"It's slowed down now," Hotch reassured him. He let go of Spencer's hand and leaned back. "Reid, this is why we wanted someone to stay with you. I understand you're self-reliant, and you value your privacy. But this isn't something you can fight safely on your own. You understand?"
Spencer rubbed at his mouth. He wanted to argue. He wanted to fight back. But his heart still shook in his chest like a terrified bird in a cage and his head throbbed and his stomach twisted and he was afraid to close his eyes for fear he would wake up chained to a chair in a long-forgotten cabin.
He sighed, and Hotch reached for him again, raking his hair back from his forehead. "Reid, you need to allow us to help you," he said.
Spencer tilted his head, looking up at the white lights overhead. He had never learned how to accept help. But then again...no one had ever offered before.
He closed his eyes. "My stomach hurts," he said quietly.
Hotch half smiled, and Spencer knew he understood. "Are you going to throw up?" he asked. "Because I'd really prefer you didn't vomit on my shoes again."
He sighed. "Not at the moment, I don't think," he said. "But...maybe later."
It was a little easier now. His heart felt steadier, like it was part of his body again, and the room had stopped spinning quite so fast, and the threat of the cabin and the graveyard felt farther and farther away with every breath he took. He almost felt a little foolish in the bright light.
"I think you should go back to bed," Hotch said, and it was definitely not a suggestion. "Do you think you can stand up?"
Spencer braced his palms against the floor and heaved himself up. Nausea pulled at his chest and he closed his eyes, and Hotch caught his shoulders. "Hey, hey, not so fast," he coached. "Take your time. There's no rush."
He breathed shallowly through his nose until his equilibrium evened back out. "Okay," he said at last. "Okay, I can get up."
Hotch helped him to his feet, holding him up by his upper arms, and waited until he found his balance again. "You think you can walk on your own?" he asked.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, thanks."
His legs wobbled under him, but he made it back to his bedroom on his volition, only catching himself on the walls once or twice. As soon as he reached his bed he collapsed, pulling himself back into his nest. He sank into the pillows with a heavy sigh.
"What do you need?" Hotch asked.
Nothing, he wanted to say. I'm okay. This was a momentary lapse in judgement.
"Water?" he asked aloud.
"Sure."
Spencer shifted around, trying to make himself comfortable. Nothing made him feel better, but he felt safer somehow. His heart felt like his own again, no longer betraying him with a rapidfire beat, pumping blood at a safe and reassuring rate.
Hotch handed him a water bottle with a straw. Spencer drank eagerly, flooding his dry throat, quelling the fire that was beginning to burn under his skin. "Let me know if you get hungry," Hotch said. "Your kitchen's stocked with actual food."
Spencer's mouth tugged up in a half smile. "For once," he quipped.
Hotch didn't laugh. "Drink your water," he said. "And get some rest. Even if you don't sleep, just take it easy, okay?"
"Okay," Spencer echoed.
Hotch pried the empty water bottle in his hands. "I won't hover," he promised. "I'll be in the living room. Call me when you need me."
When, not if. "Okay," Spencer said again, a little quieter. Hotch smiled at him this time, before he walked out of the room and left the door half cracked, and Spencer pulled his sheets and blankets back around himself and picked up the book from his nightstand.
Hotch balanced his phone against his jaw. "So everything's fine?" he asked.
"Yes, Aaron, Jack's fine," Haley reassured him, her voice soft and crackly over the phone. "Ate all his carrots, had a bath, fell asleep halfway through the first story. Don't worry."
He smiled. "I can't help it," he said. "And you're doing okay?"
"Absolutely fine," she said. "And honestly, I'm glad you're over there. I'm not surprised Spencer's sick. I don't think I've ever seen him eat anything that wasn't covered in sugar, he probably has the immune system of a wet paper bag."
"Yeah," Hotch echoed. They'd agreed to not discuss the real nature of Reid's illness outside of their group; he'd told Haley that Reid had come down with a bad case of the flu and needed a little help. It wasn't a total lie, at least.
"Is he doing okay?" Haley asked.
"I got him to eat something, and he's resting now. Or at least he was the last time I looked in on him."
Haley clicked her tongue in sympathy. "I'm sure he's feeling awful. And right after the whole...Georgia thing. Poor thing can't catch a break, can he?"
"No, apparently he can't," Hotch said. He got up from the couch, listening to Haley talk, and peeked into Reid's room.
The kid had finally fallen asleep, his book open on the bed and his long slender fingers splayed out over the pages. His hair spread across the pillow in a tangled halo and his chest rose and fell just a little fast. Hotch frowned. Reid's face seemed flushed, bright spots of red rising on his cheeks.
He brushed Reid's hair back from his forehead. "Hey, babe," he interrupted gently. "He's running a fever. What's going to be the best thing for him?"
"Oh, same you would do for Jack, probably," Haley said. "Give him medicine to bring his fever down, put a cool cloth on his forehead, keep him hydrated. Maybe see if he's up for taking a bath or a shower."
He left the room quietly in hopes he didn't wake him. "He's not a toddler, Hay," he said.
"So?" she said. "He's, what...twenty-three? Twenty-four? He's young. He's probably still having a tough time with that whole kidnapping thing. And I'm guessing he doesn't have any family nearby, or a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend? I don't want to assume."
Hotch bit back a rueful smile. "You could be a profiler yourself," he said.
"Oh, shut up," she laughed. "I'd be a terrible FBI agent. All I'm saying, Aaron, that he probably feels incredibly shitty, and maybe a little lonely and homesick. Just...think about Jack being in his shoes."
He did. He thought of Jack lying in his bed, alone, fighting off a fever. He thought of Jack with track marks in his arms, too scared to tell him the truth and trying to take care of it himself. He thought of Jack handcuffed to a chair in an abandoned cabin, beaten within an inch of his life and begging for help that wasn't coming.
"Aaron? Are you still there?"
He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I"m still here."
"Just be gentle with him, okay?" she said. "Maybe ask him what his parents did for him when he was sick as a kid. Make him feel a little more comfortable."
"I can do that," he said. "Thanks, Haley. I love you."
"Love you too, babe."
"Give Jack a goodnight hug and kiss for me."
"Already done, Agent Hotchner," she said, and he could hear the warm smile in her voice. "Night, babe."
He closed his phone and slid it back into his back pocket. Haley's perception left him a little unnerved. He forgot sometimes how young Reid was. And he was brilliant, but there were gaps here and there in his emotional maturity, highlighting the difference between his coworkers who were five, fifteen, twenty years older than he was.
Just be gentle with him.
Hotch got another water bottle out of the fridge, then went into the bathroom and rummaged around in the medicine cabinet. There wasn't much there, but he found a bottle of ibuprofen. He dug around in the cabinet under the sink and found a washcloth; he ran it briefly under cold water and folded it into a neat rectangle.
At first he thought Reid was still asleep, but he realized that he was flexing his fingers, his face screwing up as if he was in pain and his legs twitching under the blankets. Hotch set everything down on the dresser. "Hey, Reid, what's going on?" he asked, his voice slipping into his accustomed patterns of I am in charge.
"Hurts," Reid said through his teeth. "Everything hurts."
Hotch sat down next to him. "Yeah, Garcia said muscle pain can be a symptom of withdrawal," he said. "I've got ibuprofen and some water, let's see if that will help."
Reid struggled to sit up, his hand catching on the pages of his book and crumpling the edges. Hotch held him by the arm and moved his pillows behind his back to prop him up. "God, this sucks," Reid mumbled.
"Yeah, I imagine," Hotch said. He tipped three pills into Reid's palm. "Take those. And drink all the water."
Reid did so without arguing, popping the pills in his mouth and sipping at the water bottle, his eyes half-lidded. On one hand, Hotch was relieved that Reid was obeying. On the other, he wasn't used to Reid listening and following instructions without a fight, and it was unsettling.
"How's your stomach feeling?" he asked.
Reid shrugged. "I'm gonna...I'm gonna throw up at some point," he said unsteadily. "It's only a matter of time."
Hotch smiled. "Just give me warning, okay?" he said. He touched his hand to Reid's forehead, and his smile dropped. "You're burning up. Do you have a thermometer?" Reid shook his head, sipping apathetically at his water. "I'll have whoever's coming tomorrow bring one."
As soon as the water bottle was empty, Hotch tugged it out of his hands and picked up the cool damp washcloth. Reid wilted as he draped it carefully over his forehead. "That feels better," he said, his eyes sliding shut.
His arms were limp at his sides, and Hotch could see the track marks in the soft crook of his elbow, some of them faded pink and some of them still fresh and red. His heart sank. He'd wondered why Reid had started wearing long sleeved shirts buttoned tight at the wrist, instead of short sleeves or rolling the cuffs to his elbows. Never in a million years would he have expected what he was hiding.
He pressed his fingers to Reid's inner wrist, feeling his veins jumping. His pulse was still a little too fast, but not as terrifyingly rapid as it was earlier. At least if Reid passed out now, he'd be safe in his own bed.
He had heard the crash of Reid falling to the floor from his spot in the living room, and he'd gotten up and crept up to the door, holding his breath, torn between breaking in or waiting it out. Maybe he was fine, maybe he had dropped something, maybe he'd be even more upset if he tried to interfere…
"I haven't done anything," he had heard him whimper through the door, and then softer, scared, strangled- "Hotch."
He had wrestled the door open then, and found him crumpled on the floor, gasping for breath, his whole body shaking with the erratic beat of his heart, and all he could see was Reid lying dead on the cabin floor in a grainy livestream feed, Reid crouching in a graveyard with wild eyes that didn't see him. He had been the first to reach him that night, pulling him tight into his arms, shielding him from the sight of the open grave and Tobias Hankel's wide open eyes.
Now Reid was safe, but he wasn't out of the woods yet.
"How are you feeling?" Hotch asked. "Scale of one to ten."
Reid sighed, slow and sleepy. "Actually, in a recent survey fifty-nine percent of people diagnosed with arthritis said that that kind of scale is inefficient because pain is subjective," he said, his eyes still closed.
Hotch smiled. "On a Spencer Reid scale," he said. "And be honest."
Reid's mouth drooped. "Seven," he said. "Maybe eight."
That wasn't good. That wasn't good at all.
He thought back to his conversation with Haley, and for a moment he wished she was there instead. She was a good mom. That's probably what Reid needed. A parent. Someone could shoulder his burdens for a little while.
"How can I help?" Hotch asked. "What did your parents do when you were a kid?"
Reid was very quiet for a moment, and slowly his eyes opened, staring blankly at the ceiling. "When I was ten," he said, and Hotch felt his pulse jump under his hand. "I...there were these...these older kids, the popular kids, and they...they tricked me."
He spoke slowly, stumbling over his words, and Hotch wondered if he'd be telling him this story if he didn't have such a high fever. "They tied me to the goalpost, on the football field," he said. "I was...they took my clothes, and they tied me there, and they left me there to burn."
Hotch thought of Jack, small and vulnerable, and he squeezed Reid's wrist a little too tightly.
Reid swallowed hard. "It was so hot," he said. "Hot, like it is now, and I...the sun burned me, all over, and I walked home in the dark, and my mother…" His chest heaved. "She didn't notice. She didn't know I was missing. I could have...I could have been out there for days and no one would have looked for me."
Somehow, Hotch got the feeling that Reid had never told his mother about what happened in Georgia.
Reid struggled to sit upright, the damp washcloth slipping to fall in his lap. "And my dad, my dad just...didn't care," he said. "He didn't. My mom asked…" His head tilted unsteadily. "'You can take Spencer, at least for a little while.' And he...he didn't. He didn't want me. Anymore."
Hotch hesitated. He knew what that was like. But his words stuck in his throat.
Reid pulled at the loose neckline of his tee shirt as if it was strangling him. "His mother didn't want him either," he said. His eyes were too bright, and his words spilled out in an uneven ramble. "His mother left and his father, his father beat him, and he...that's all he wanted, in the end."
"What did he want?" Hotch asked. "Who are you talking about?"
"Do you think I'll see my mom again?" Reid said, soft and plaintive.
"Of course you will," Hotch reassured him. "You'll see your mom again soon. Once you're better. You can take more time off, fly to Vegas. As long as you need."
Reid's chest heaved and his pulse skipped under Hotch's hand. "He just wanted to see his mom again," he said, and his eyes clouded over, and he kept pulling at his shirt.
"Reid, talk to me," Hotch said, raising his voice. "Reid?"
But Reid was gone, lost in his own private misery, a rhythmic whimper breaking from his vocal cords, and his hand trembled in Hotch's gentle grip.
He'd watched him seize on the livestream, watched him seize on the emergency room floor, watched him seize on the flight home. He had hoped that the seizures would fade away as he recovered. But he was realizing now...Reid never recovered.
And Garcia had done the research. Some dilaudid users in withdrawal experienced seizures during the process. And for a kid who'd undergone cardiac arrest, a concussion that went days untreated, ignored psychological trauma, and months of constant drug abuse...well, it made sense.
He checked his watch, timing the seizure. Morgan had said the one he had the day before wasn't too intense and didn't too long. And sure enough, after a while Reid's hand began to still in his loose protective grip, and he started to blink, and his breathing evened out.
"Hey, buddy," Hotch said gently. "You all right?" Reid murmured something indistinct, his hand wandering from the neckline of his shirt to touch his forehead in visible confusion. "Hey, hey, don't worry about it. Lie down. Get some sleep."
He tugged the blankets back and Reid laid himself down, cautious and shaking, as Hotch readjusted the pillows underneath him. "Did...did I have a seizure?" Reid asked, his voice thick.
"You did," Hotch said quietly. "But you're okay. You're safe."
Reid exhaled like the weight of the world was crushing him, and maybe it was. He rolled onto his side, like he always slept on the jet during a long flight. Hotch pulled the sheets and blankets up around his shoulders and Reid hugged them to his chest. Thankfully he gave in without a fight, his mouth falling a little open in sleep. Hotch brushed his hair back from his hot forehead.
He didn't go back to the living room. He dragged a chair into the room instead and settled in his with his book, watching Spencer sleep in the warm light of the bedside lamp until the sun began to rise.
Author's Notes:
Oh, man.
Emotions. Just...a whole lot of feelings.
I've been loving dad!Hotch a whole lot. I've written a lot of dad!Hotch for Patron Saint of Lost Causes, and it sort of bled over into this. But I love it! I love Hotch being a protective dad.
Thanks to sweetkid45, ssdub, fishtrek, ferret54, tearbos, and Cat for reviewing! And lots of love to expecto-weasleys and Dayanna for their help.
I'm on tumblr at themetaphorgirl if you'd like to chat!
Up next: Spencer slides farther, and JJ finally confesses her guilt