This is my Last Resort (Chapter Seventeen) by Lexikal
Spoilers: None.
Warnings: Dark themes; violence; missing children/implied child abuse, lots of Reid angst...
Summary: Spencer Reid, third season-ish (2008-ish), is kidnapped/taken hostage and abused/terrorized along with a host of other "unwanted" children. Please see chapter one for more info.
Author's Note: Please review. Reviews are kicks-in-the-pants for writers that tend to procrastinate.
Immediately after the conference call with Lise Miller's- Elle's- maternal uncle Gregory Miller, Reid retreated to the little table in the bullpen that served as his desk. He pulled out a pad of yellow, lined paper and a pen and began to write down everything he could remember of his time with Elle, anything he could remember at all, all in note form, bullet form. A few minutes later there was movement and talk behind him, and a minute or so after that, he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around.
"Reid?" It was Morgan, staring at him with warm, concerned eyes.
"I'm making a list of everything I can remember about her, Morgan. I need to write it down. What did the uncle say about sending us her stuff?"
Reid had asked, shortly before the conference ended, if Gregory Miller had anything of Elle's- any previous possessions of the little girl's, or any home movies or photographs. At about that time Reid had began to feel eerily unwell and the room had seemed to retract and expand, shimmering strangely and he'd felt a sudden rush of panic. He'd gotten up and retreated, willing his heart to beat normally and for the crazy waving wall to slow down, become solid again. At his desk, he kept his eyes focused on the paper, and it looked strange, too, but it wasn't quite as overwhelming as trying to take in a room all at once and at least if he was writing, he felt like he was doing something productive.
"He said he would look through the old photo albums and videos, see if he could find anything. Said he didn't think there was anything, but that he had some of his sister's home movies and no doubt Lise would be on at least a few of them."
"When is he going to send them?" Reid said quickly, eyes darting up to Morgan's, then back to the paper.
"Kid? You okay?"
Reid nodded, but it wasn't a very convincing nod.
"What did the doctor say?" Morgan said, a touch softer, a touch quieter.
"Uh... you know. My brain is reacting, most likely, to whatever drugs I was force fed and is in some kind of withdrawal, and it is impossible to know when the effects will subside or even if they will subside, or if the visual and spatial distortions, the time distortions are permanent, something called HPPD- that is, Hallucinogen Persisting Perception Disorder. I haven't had much time to research it, and what I did research throughly creeped me out, because, I mean... I can't feel this dreamy and crazy all the time. I am not a danger to others, but my reaction time is off, and no way I can drive like this-" Reid was talking extremely quickly, trying to tell Morgan everything without drawing it out. Morgan nodded.
"Hotch know?"
"Yeah, I told him. I can't have a gun in the field while it persists, and obviously I can't drive in this state," Reid blinked hard. Blinked even harder and rubbed at his eyes. The sense of everything being 3-D was starting to fade on him. He was looking down at his own hands writing with a pen on paper, but everything looked flat, like a photograph, and the edges were indistinct.
"Kid, slow down. You're breathing too hard. You feel odd right now? Right this second?"
Reid nodded miserably, then turned back to look at Morgan with haunted, glassy eyes. "Yeah. I do. What if... what if this never goes away? What if it is permanent?"
"Brains heal. They adapt. They change. You know that." Morgan said gently, hoping that his words would calm his friend, but they seemed to have the opposite effect.
"Yes, brains change, but not always for the better. Consider young children who suddenly stop making progress and develop what we call autism- for no known reason. Or brains that change themselves right into permanent schizophrenic psychosis, Morgan or-"
"It won't be permanent, kid, and you're not helping yourself by thinking the worst. You're scaring yourself. Everything might seem off, but you know what reality is. You sound like you do."
"Yes, I am not psychotic. But visually and in terms of time... those are off."
Morgan was silent for a moment, thinking, but there wasn't much he could say. Finally: "Want me to ask Garcia what she can find? That way you can focus on this case and she can probably be a little bit more objective about long term results and stuff. You start researching this and you are likely to spin off into other scary possibilities. But Garcia can find just as much valuable information online as you can, Reid, and she can act as a filter?"
Reid considered this, head bent over the pad of paper, one hand still rubbing at his eyes. He wasn't writing anymore. The writing had been a ruse. Finally, he nodded. Not a hard nod, just slight enough to be noticed.
"And kid?"
Reid looked up at him. Squinted. Morgan's face was rippling, was strange and wrong and not Morgan. Reid felt like he was looking through the wrong end of a telescope. Close and far away at the exact same time. Why people ever intentionally fucked with their brain chemistry with hallucinogens, Reid would never, ever understand. The things were nightmarish. There couldn't be anything much worse, Reid was sure of it, then losing your sense of what was real.
"It won't be permanent. Hold onto that. Try not to let your fear make life worse for you than it absolutely has to be. Worrying never helped anyone, not a soul."
"I know," Reid said quietly. Almost added that worrying didn't change anything, no, but sometimes the worst-case scenarios came true. Wanted to add that just because something wasn't helpful, didn't mean it was easy to stop doing.
"Hell, Reid, people can feel spaced out and trippy when they quit smoking because of the way nicotine affects serotonin transit. I bet you know much more about it than I do- but if cigarette withdrawal can make people feel derealized and strange, then hallucinogens are definitely going to have you a little bit off while your body responds and your brain heals itself. You have to know that."
"I've read about nicotine withdrawal inducing feelings of derealization," Reid said, licking his lips nervously. "But I always wondered how bad it really was. I mean... cigarettes?"
"Bad enough that Stephen King himself wrote about it in a short story. Lunch at the the Gotham Cafe, I think the story was called, if you want to go read it now. Been a while since I read any Stephen King. Based on his own experiences, I think. The spaciness, I mean, not the crazy waiter who attacks everyone with a butcher knife. If Stephen King writes about cigarette withdrawal, you know it's bad."
This got a small smile out of Reid. Morgan smiled back.
"And what you're going through is bound to be worse than nicotine withdrawal-"
"I know that. I just don't know it's not permanent." Reid's voice was shaky, filled with dread.
"I know," Morgan sighed. "Does anything help? Or make it worse?"
"Artificial lights-" Reid motioned the desk lamp to his left, "like this one make it worse. And being too hot. Not enough fresh air. Those all make it worse. Adequate sleep, fresh air, regular meals seem to help a little. Not much. But a little."
"Which just means that your system is really sensitive right now. To everything."
"Just tell me about how soon Gregory Miller thinks he can have those tapes sent out to us. Oh, and the kid's stuff from the White property? Is all that stuff in evidence?"
"I don't know. I can check with Hotch."
"Would you?" Reid's voice was tense. Morgan knew the kid was going to have a migraine in an hour if he kept squinting like that at the paper. He was already absently rubbing his temples, and his left hand was drumming on the fake wood formica surface of his "desk". Morgan made a decision, reached over and switched Reid's desk lamp off. The room was light enough without the lamp's 60 watt bulb burning away angrily, but Reid still whipped his head around, looking confused.
"Come on, Reid. Get up. I want you to go rest on the couch in the lounge. Go rest in there with the lights off for a while."
"I'm not an invalid, Morgan, and I have to work. We have to find this... child."
"I know you're not an invalid, Reid, but right now... right now I think you're sitting there thinking about scary possibilities that have nothing to do with this case. So please, kid. Go rest for a bit. Hell, I'll even sit in the dark with you and we can talk if you want. There is a window in there, fresh air. And that couch is pretty damn comfortable. I know. I've seen you asleep on it once or twice, myself."
Reid looked back up at Morgan, obviously torn.
"You have a headache, anyway, don't you?" Morgan asked gently.
"How did you know?" Reid said, rubbing across his forehead with his long, pianist's fingers. Morgan grinned good-naturedly. "I am a behavioral profiler, Reid. It's my job to notice these things. Come on. Get up. Go sit in the dark and I'll get you some excedrin."
Reid nodded and followed after his friend.
"Derek?" He said, when they were out of earshot of the rest of the team.
"Yeah?"
"You're sure... this... is going to go away?"
Morgan inhaled. Reid was getting awfully obsessive about whatever it was that was wrong in his head being permanent. He could say he didn't know, that nobody could know the answer to that, but he guessed that wasn't what Reid wanted or needed to hear right now. Reid needed comfort, he needed hope.
"Yes, I am sure it will go away. It's temporary, like most symptoms induced by drugs. Even withdrawal syndromes for most people, even those eventually go away. You'll be fine."
Reid nodded silently, followed Morgan into the lounge. Two large windows ran along the outer wall and the "fresh air" came in from the direction of the BAU's parking lot, but at least the air was fairly cool and wasn't stuffy. Morgan dropped the venetian blinds down and steered Reid to the ancient, ugly but all-too-comfortable orange couch they had all used as a bed at one time or another. There was also a love seat in the room, against the other wall, a desk with a sink, a mini fridge, a microwave, a pepsi machine and a laminated sign Derek Morgan was sure was posted above most public sinks in most offices: Please clean up after yourself, your mother doesn't work here.
Morgan wasn't sure who had put it up, but the sign had been up for years. Written on the shiny, laminated surface of the sign in black indelible marker was the childish response: "I'll make a mess if I want to!" Morgan had always wondered about the sign, not just where it originated from, but also, who had written that juvenile graffiti on it. While the BAU worked out of the bullpen, other agents and even friends and relatives all had access to this lounge at different times.
An all-purpose bottle of extra strength Excedrin usually rested with the washed coffee mugs above the sink and, as expected, Morgan found the bottle. Shook two pills into his hand and filled a mug with tap water. He brought the painkillers and water to Reid, handed them to his younger friend.
"You promise you will come get me when the home videos arrive, right? Or when Hotch lets you know about any of the stuff from the White house?"
"I promise, kid, second anything changes that I think you might want to know about, I'll come and get you. Let the painkillers work. Chill for a bit. Nobody expects you to be 100 percent right now."
Before Reid could say anything more, Morgan shut the door. He went back to his own "desk", grabbed a pen and some tape and a piece of paper from the copier and wrote "Not feeling well, please use the lounge on floor 2" on the paper, went back to the lounge and taped up the sign. Reid needed every second he could to destress. Kid was running on fumes and looked fit to collapse or panic or puke or all three.
Morgan was pretty sure that the only reason Hotch hadn't sent Reid home on a medical leave was because he knew how scared Reid was of anything going wrong with his brain or his mind, and wanted to keep an eye on him.
"Come in," Hotch said from behind his office door. Morgan entered. Hotch looked up at him.
"Reid is having some problems," Morgan said softly. He knew Hotch knew already, but Hotch probably didn't know just how scared Reid was.
"I know," Hotch said simply. He knew Morgan was here because he was concerned about the agent he called "kid".
"He worries his sense of... unreality... might be permanent. Says he can't drive in this state, that he's going to have to relinquish his gun?"
Hotch nodded. Looked as if he was about to say something. Stopped.
"What is it, Hotch?"
"I haven't officially recorded anything Reid has told me about his... current state of mind. With his past Dilaudid history I feel a formal recognition of his current symptoms, which I have no doubt are a temporary withdrawal from whichever drugs he was dosed with- might be viewed as a sign of psychiatric instability by those above me who do not personally know Reid."
"They might be worried about his stability as field agent?" Morgan asked, voice dropping just a bit. Hotch nodded somberly.
"Even if it was made clear that his current symptoms are the result of hallucinogen withdrawal?"
"We don't know for certain that Reid was drugged with hallucinogens," Hotch said simply.
"Hotch..." Morgan started, annoyed, but Hotch cut him off.
"Morgan, I know. But a hunch is not going to look like anything but a hunch on paper. The people who make the most powerful decisions about Reid are not the ones who know him. They also aren't involved with this case."
"So you haven't recorded anything he has told you about his symptoms? Not officially?"
Hotch shook his head. He looked more pensive than usual. Aaron Hotchner was a man who was wired to follow standard operating procedure. "No."
"And that's why you haven't sent Reid home? Why he hasn't been discharged on medical leave?"
Hotch nodded.
"You have a special bond with Reid. He trusts you... like a big brother, I would say. Right now, I am adopting a wait-and-see policy regarding what Reid has disclosed to me. Obviously, I don't need to tell you the legal problems the bureau could face if Reid decompensates and I had reason to suspect it. If his symptoms persist past this case I will have to officially document them, but there is a small margin of forgiveness here, right now. I want him here for his own good, but also to keep an eye on him. Where is he right now?"
"He was looking a little loopy. I got him to go lie down in the lounge," Morgan said.
"Good. Can you check and see with Reid if he has a go-bag here? If so, I would appreciate if you tell him I want him to stay here for the immediate future. He can sleep in the lounge."
"You can't tell him yourself?" Morgan asked, but he already knew the reason why Hotch was delegating this responsibility to him.
"Reid, as you pointed out, is scared. And though I feel we have developed a personal relationship, he is still bound to view me as the disciplinarian I am. I don't want him to think I am asking him to stay here because I don't trust him or because I think he is mentally or emotionally unstable. He doesn't need the stress."
"There is another reason, though, too. Right Hotch? You officially ask him to stay here, you officially have to write it down?"
Hotch nodded, eyes sharp as a falcon's.
Morgan nodded and turned to go.
"I take it I don't need to tell you this entire conversation was off the record?" Morgan said, at the door. Hotch smiled. Someone who didn't know him wouldn't have called it a smile, but it was. The corners of his mouth curled just the tiniest degree. There was a somewhat amused light in his eyes.
"Morgan, for the same reasons I am not predisposed to officially record Reid's symptoms and behavior in his file right now... if you could speak to the rest of the team... just the basics?"
Morgan nodded. He would fill the others in. Though no doubt they already had some idea of what Reid was experiencing. They were profilers, after all. And Reid, for his part, wasn't entirely reserved about inquiring their opinions about the permanency of his condition.
"Reid is going to be fine," Hotch said then, with the commanding, powerful certainty of someone who has previously been a district prosecutor. Morgan nodded and slipped out of the office, shutting the door quietly.
"Hey, baby doll," Morgan said brightly, popping into the wonderful world of computers that Garcia called both home and work. She smiled at him with that huge, neon smile of hers.
"Studmuffin," she acknowledged playfully, tilting her head in mock flirtation.
"I'm here about Reid. Hotch... and I.. Hotch asked me to talk to you guys," Morgan started, not sure how to say what needed to be said without sounding entirely too shady.
"About Reid's current symptoms?" Garcia asked, and some of the levity bled out of her features, her voice. Morgan nodded.
"Yeah. Hotch officially doesn't want to record Reid's... concerns... right now because of the possible long-term effects such a formal admission might have for Reid's career but..."
"Morgan? I get it," Garcia said with knowing eyes. She looked sad for a moment, before brightening up. "How can I help our little genius?"
"Reid is driving himself crazy right now with what-if type thinking. He is obsessed he might have something called HPPD- that is, Hallucinogen Persisting Perception Disorder- and I could see him tailspinning out obsessively about it. I told him I'd ask you to do some research, see what you could find that might be pertinent to his experiences. In other words, see what you can dig up that isn't so scary the kid will be paralyzed with fear?"
Garcia nodded. Her fingers sounded like machine gun fire on the keyboard.
"I will look up this HPPD thing you speak of," Garcia said brightly, almost jovially.
"Reid... he's gone a little obsessive right now, so anything scary or that hints at permanent dysfunction..." Morgan started unnecessarily. Garcia looked up at him, half amused, half sad.
"Morgan? I get it. I know. I have dealt with our eerily intelligent little Mensa Monkey before and I will censor the scary stuff out as I see fit."
"Thanks, Mama." Morgan said, grinning widely. He turned back to Garcia, the grin even bigger. "Mensa Monkey?"
Garcia just laughed.
Okay, review. Like I said, each review gets 5 paragraphs written within 24 hours of me reading said review. Capitalize on my obsessive nature. Review today. Also, I just have to tell you guys... I love you. Not because you give me compliments (although, come on, who doesn't like compliments?), but because when you give constructive criticism it is actually helpful. I once took a creative writing class in my late teens (maybe early twenties) and the old schoolmarm type that ran it ripped my stuff apart, not for poor grammar or spelling but for creative freedoms I took, which didn't fit her "Tess of the D'urbervilles" notion of what fiction was. Apparently ghosts can't bleed (news to me). My ego was still as fragile as a baby's soft spot back then and I ditched writing for a few years, so thanks for the constructive criticism. It actually is constructive. I'm also fully aware just how insanely over-the-top unrealistic this story is. It was started at a different time in my life, and I am pretty sure the first 15 chapters of it weren't written by a sober person. ;)