Trigger warnings: psychosis
I let myself in—it is a habit. I don't know if he agrees to it or not. I've never asked him. He does however submit. I wouldn't force myself on him in any way. Everything is neat, cleaned up, filed, books where they belong, dishes done, mirrors uncovered, as it should be. But he is still chasing her.
I don't look up. I know he is here. I haven't said it, but I expect him, and I wouldn't do this without him. I'm ready, ready to go looking. Perhaps Haley is heaven; perhaps she is watching over Jack, maybe there is some easy path for those who did their suffering here. But I am chasing Mauve.
We don't talk. He doesn't talk much anymore. I became quiet in grief also. Less than a month and he has not begun to move on, he has simply moved deeper. He is more lost than I have seen him before, and I help him, for what it is worth.
He slides in behind me. So easy, is that his place now? He holds me up, in his arms. I can feel the five-o'clock shadow on his face. Not like Rossi or Morgan, just like him. I wonder what it would have been like with his full beard, but only for a moment. He is not here for that. At first he was here to bring me back from the darkness that was becoming my friend, now he helps me look for her. I cannot allow her to be gone.
The first time I saw him with the vials and the needle and the latex strap I asked him to give them to me. I broke our rule, I spoke. Maybe that was when we made that rule. We don't talk to each other, maybe it is part of the silence of his grief. I've always struggled to talk. Silence is comfortable for me.
After that first time Hotch has never asked me to hand it over. He holds my arm for me, he tightens the tourniquet if I need it, I imagine he would find the vain if I asked. We will probably find out. I feel afraid, because I know I will go over and over again.
I know how to find the vain and tonight I take the needle from him. It was drawn up and his hands were shaking. I rationalize that I don't want him to hurt himself, he gets panicky when he can't find the vein. I can tell on a case when he needs more. He did this time. I don't enjoy doing this. I don't find any power in it. Just sadness. I am helping him find her, even if it destroys him. I wish I could say no to him, I've never been able to.
Then I slip into the velvet. For a moment there is fear, it is just the rhythms of my body changing to accommodate the drug. It does matter. I know she is here. The place where she belongs in me, my life, my body, is empty—I wonder about accepting her into my body, and how that would work. I let my weight sink back into him. I am careful not to speak; I don't want to frighten him. There is a city, and I know this place, the map is clear, and I know that if I walk to each room, and I pause, because I don't have a gun, and I look for it, but it doesn't matter, because I think I see her. I I call lout for her, and he closes his arms around me. There is still part of him holding onto me. And it is all that holds me, I don't shake him loose. I walk, each place has lights, they are older, art deco, with courtyards, I didn't know she had been to vegas, I try to remind myself that his isn't really her, this is my mind, but I can see her, and she is walking ahead of me, I can smell her, the combination of books, and clean labs, and violets, and terror. The terror is catching; I must make a noise, because his hands grip me tight. I start to run along the brick alleys, and she is gone, but when I ask she was just here. And I am surprised that I know all these people. I see Tobias, but he doesn't recognize me, am I that changed? Every time I see him and he doesn't see me, and I can see her and I wonder if she is running away from me, and I am so tired and I am falling.
He is crying out, and I resist the temptation to wake him. He is too far gone, it will only disturb him, I could do with him as I pleased, as I please. I run my hand over his hair. The time for crying is done, and it isn't mine to kiss him, so I stroke his hair off his forehead, and promise him that she is waiting for him. And I wonder if this is what she wants for him, I would think not, I wonder if it is what I want for him, I won't explore that answer. I should tell someone, at the least I should tell Rossi. I truth I should tell Strauss, but I look away. Would I confess my complicity?
My feet are wet, I am wet, but it feels right, like the thickness has transposed itself onto me, I pause, I have always paused in the final moment, I pause when it counts, when I should have told her I love her, so I call that out, but she walks into what I know is her house, and I follow her, and the wide, big windows set in the old adobe walls, and wide veranda, and the slate and wood floors on the first floor remind me of something, and I can't place it, but there is a taste of it in my mouth where my tongue is thick and as I start to call out to her again I can't, and I can't cry and I can't breathe, and there is a downstairs, a basement, did I know about that before, this is where she lives now there are books everywhere, I would pause to read them but my heart is beating too fast for me to stop and she walks in, I see her walk into a black dark basement and I don't pause because every time I have paused I have lost her and I can no longer breathe and I no longer care about the pain did I know my body hurt like his it feels good I want to know about that and the blackness looks solid and she is gone and there is no light like a black hole wants her but it looks to be a dining room I know that in the dark and I cannot leave and I follow her
He calls out, loudly, I think he is calling for her; and the he mutters, and I believe he is trying to shout it to her, "I love you." And for a moment, as I watch his face in concern, I realize I wish that was for me. He needn't know that. He is too restless, he is afraid, and perhaps this once I should try and wake him; so I shake his shoulder, and his powerful hands grip me, and he sits up and I can't read the look on his face.
I look straight at my reflection in the window pane, and I realize it is me, reflected in the glass black against the night, and I look back down on myself held in Aaron's arms grasping him in unspeakable horror, that word isn't enough, fear? Dismay? Revulsion, no, not that? Maybe I have been silent too long and maybe it is the drug. And I watch from the window and then I leave.
I see him looking at his reflection and suddenly I am taken up in his horror, and my brows crease, and I shake him, hard, and I call his name. I call him Spencer, and that isn't our habit anymore, but in that moment I want all of him, I need to call him back before he goes. And then he is begging me to take him.
Author's note: Well yes, idk if Spencer is out of character or not, I'm not sure if I'm writing about addiction, grief or schizophrenia or some horrid perfect storm. I expected this to take more out of me to write, I will revise it if I ever find the words for that blessed darkness. Oh my darling Muse—I got a real person, honest—just pointed out to me that I am holding back in all my tumblr blog things also.