Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.
Author's Note: So sorry for the long wait for this chapter! I had some severe writer's block regarding this!
Chapter Twenty-Three: Two Thieves
'Many of us crucify ourselves between two thieves- regret for the past and fear of the future.' -Fulton Oursler
"Dementophobia," Rossi said, sitting himself down on the swivel chair and leaning back upon entering the board room. The others were already seated around the table, three chairs empty where Morgan, Reid and Varney would have been and another chair filled where Garcia sat, her head bowed and her curly pigtails concealing her face. She had left the hospital in order to hear the results of the interrogation and help wherever she might be needed, her slim laptop opened in front of her and ready to search at a second's notice.
"Dementophobia?" Emily asked, furrowing her brow.
It took a brief, momentary pause for Rossi to answer, as though he expected the absent Spencer Reid to jump in and provide a complete psychological and statistical background to it. But when the timid yet enthusiastic voice didn't pipe in, he cleared his throat. 'Right. Hospital,' he reminded himself, shocked that he had forgotten something so important. But then again, he had spent years listening to Reid interrupt with facts. So expecting the same outcome, though impossible at the time, wasn't too bizarre of a thing.
"The fear of insanity," he said finally, as his mind said, in a voice very similar to Reid's, 'The phobic fear of insanity. There's a distinct, psychological and physiological difference between a fear and a phobic fear. The amygdala-' He stopped the voice before it could continue and added, "Rather, the phobic fear of insanity. I think Wright has a very mild case of paranoid schizophrenia as well as an extreme manifestation of dementophobia."
Hotch raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, interested. "Why do you say that?" he asked.
Instead of answering, he turned to Garcia, drawing the blonde's attention away from whatever was on her screen and to him. "Garcia, could you look up Wright's records from about twenty years ago and onward?" he asked.
She nodded, pressing her lips together as she turned back to her computer. She stared at the image of Reid she had pulled up, a picture of him wearing a goofy birthday cake hat and puffing his cheeks out as he tried, fruitlessly, to blow out the candles. She swallowed her throat to the tears that threatened to come before opening the needed programs and typing away, pushing the image of a happy, healthy Reid from her mind.
"Dr. Andrew Wright, Andrew Wright," she muttered to herself as she worked, all too aware of the waiting eyes of her colleagues. As unnerving as it was, she couldn't snap at them to mind their own business as it was, in fact, their business. 'Technicalities,' she thought, as she found the needed records.
"Ah, here we go," she said, scrolling down the page. "His mother was young when she had him- only fifteen years old. And was...oh." She stopped speaking, her eyes going wide and her jaw falling down as she stared at the sentence, rereading it several times in her head.
Rossi, understanding the source of her distraction, asked, "When was she diagnosed, Garcia?"
She jumped and looked to him, the rest of the team turning confused eyes in the same direction. But before they could ask, Garcia returned to the screen and said, "His mother was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia when she was twenty-six."
Rossi nodded in thought. He had thought that the ages of the victims were based on Wright's age when his mother was diagnosed, but it would seem he was wrong. The ages were chosen based on her age when she was diagnosed. Hadn't Reid celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday only several months ago?
"Oh my god," Emily said as her dark eyes widened. It made so much sense...
"So his mother was a paranoid schizophrenic and he inherited the disease but was unaware of it," Hotch speculated, biting his lower lip. "Dementophobia...Rossi, was he trying to find a cure to schizophrenia?"
Rossi nodded. "Reid was right. He wasn't hurting them for gratification. He was hurting them for experiments. He was trying to make them insane and then work backwards and try to make them sane," he said and was met with gasps of disgust from the team members around him. They had let Andrew succeed with half of his plan...
Shaking the thought from his head, he then said, "Their deaths were accidental. They would die as a result of the stress from all the experiments."
"So, he was so afraid of becoming insane, that he actually worsened his insanity?" JJ asked, her mouth pinched together and an extremely nauseous look about her.
"Yes," Rossi answered and then looked back to Garcia, saying, "What else does it say?"
"Um..." she hummed, scrolling down the screen. "His mom was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and when he was seventeen he moved in with his grandparents after she was hospitalized from a severe episode. He went on to go to medical school and..." She licked her lips and looked up to everyone, adding, "There's a report here, from his roommate. His roommate requested a room change after Wright accused him of plagiarizing all of his work and then poisoning his food. He was granted the change and no one looked into it further."
"His paranoid schizophrenia set in around college then," Hotch mumbled. Speaking clearer, he asked, "Keep going?"
She scrolled down the page, trying to find more relevant information when she stopped and said in a small, sad tone, "Oh no..."
"What is it? Rossi asked, sitting forward and moving closer to her. "What did you find?"
She swallowed. "About three years ago, his mother was found dead in her apartment. Coroner reports said she died from dehydration and accounts from friends and family said that she believed the city was tampering with her water supply," she said, looking up at her team. "She had been discharged from a hospital a year prior to that and was supposedly doing better."
Hotch stared down at the table, his nails digging into the leather armrests of his chair. She was in the Residual Stage and no one was paying enough attention to her to realize when she slipped back into the Active Stage." Sighing, he looked up to his team and said, "I think we found our trigger."
xXx
"Mommy?" said an eight year old Spencer, his voice small and shaking as he cocked his head to look at her, thick framed glasses covering half of his face. The woman before him raised her head from where it had been laying in her crossed arms and looked at him, sniffling as she tried to force a smile on her face.
"Yes, Baby?" she asked.
His lip twitched slightly as he wrung his hands together, turning away from her gaze and looking out the window. Hues of purple, orange and pink tinged the clear blue sky as night began to fall, the colors coating the underside of fluffy white clouds that strolled lazily by. Had he not been gifted- for lack of a better word- with an eidetic memory, the scene would've made him forgot what he was about to say. Or perhaps, that he was going to say something at all. He wasn't entirely sure how the mechanics of forgetting worked, being that he always remembered everything with near perfect clarity, so he couldn't say with certainty what exactly he would've forgotten. But that was neither here nor there, as he remembered his question- not once forgetting it- and turned to his mother, his eyes large and watery.
"Are you in pain?" he asked in a whisper, not wanting him to hear his query.
His mom stammered for a moment before saying, "No, it doesn't hurt, Spencer."
He stared at her for several long minutes, as though he didn't quite believe her, before saying, "One day, Mommy, I'm going to stop him."
Her lips tightened and she swallowed, the familiar sting of tears burning her eyes. Diana Reid had always been very proud of her son- he was intelligent, he was ambitious, he was loving. But as much as she wanted to feel pride at those words, at the obvious display of courage, a different side of her won out and it felt like a hand was wrapping icy fingers around her heart and clenching. Between moments of clarity and lucidity, she was never sure which was best for Spencer. Give him two, unstable parents or one stable parent? As abusive as her husband was, there was a benefit to staying with him, one she couldn't throw away without consideration: he would take care of Spencer when she was unable. While she was ranting and raving about some imagined threat, he would take their son to his room and make sure he was alright.
Even though Will Reid would take his drunken anger out on her and sometimes even their prodigal son, she had to admit that he was nothing but kind to the boy when she was too far gone from reality to care. Part of her wondered if it was her fault- he had shown that he could care for Spencer, and could be a fantastic parent, but only when he was the only parent to be attentive to him. As reluctant as she was to admit it, and she would never admit it to anyone but herself, she often considered leaving the two. Leaving so that Will would no longer feel the need to work stress away with alcohol and could be the parent Spencer deserved.
She had heard the stories from her son, and they did nothing to help these plans to leave she had been thinking on.
"Dad brought me out to play baseball! He says I'm getting really good at it! Did you take your medicine?"
"Dad let me read my thesis to him. He said it was really well done and that he's proud of me. Are you listening to me?"
"Dad brought me out for ice cream today. I got vanilla with sprinkles but it fell so Dad gave me the rest of his. Mom? What do you mean? Of course I'm your son! No, your real son!"
It seemed that Spencer could always have a decent parent to rely on, but never at the same time. Either Will was abusive and Diana was comforting, or Diana was delusional and Will was comforting. He had no consistency to his life. He woke everyday wondering which parent would be the one he had to hide from and which would be the one he would run to.
Her melancholic thoughts were ended when she heard the hopeful voice of her son start up again, and she listened to him as well as she could despite the taunts her mind reeled at her.
"I've been looking into some things online. You know, there's this job where you use psychological precedent and profiles to catch criminal. I think I'd like to do that. Doesn't it seem cool?"
She smiled and nodded, telling him he would be the best at whatever he did. He said he wanted to do it because he could help people and learn about the human mind. But she was schizophrenic, not stupid. She knew the real reason he wanted to do that was so that he could live the rest of his life helping people like his parents.
People caught in between two worlds.
Caught in between reason and action.
Caught in between wanting to help and wanting to hurt.
Caught in between insanity and sanity.
xXx
Diana Reid rubbed at her eyes, a damp tissue in her hand as a calloused finger ran over the plastic sheeting of the photo album. A school picture of Spencer, age eight, sat beneath the clear cover, his small face looking even smaller behind his long hair and big glasses. He looked so innocent, so frail.
But that day...that day he told her what he wanted to be, that he wanted to join the FBI, he seemed the exact opposite. Strong, determined, unbreakable.
And now he was in a hospital, prognosis unclear, all because of the job he seemed so passionate about.
Deep down, she knew it wasn't Agent Hotchner's fault that something had happened to him- he had no control over what individual members of his team got up to. But she couldn't stop herself from saying what she said.
Spencer was her baby, her one and only child. Knowing that he was out there, doing what he loved and doing it well, got her through the cold and unfeeling institutional nights. What would get her through it now?
The real reason she had gotten so angry at the agent wasn't because she felt he had let Spencer get hurt. No, the reason she got mad was because she couldn't help the constant screaming in her ears from inside her head.
'If you had just left and let Spencer and Will live together, he wouldn't feel the need to help you by helping people like you. You should've just left them alone.'
A tear slipped down her chin and landed on the plastic film, a new page opened. It was a twelve year old Spencer, graduating from high school and preparing for college. He had to have a specially tailored gown made for him- not too many of the graduates were, as it turned out, four inches short of five feet. Yet despite the obvious height and age difference, he looked so happy, so accomplished.
She sighed, closing the book shut as she lied down in her bed, looking up at the cheap, drop in hospital ceiling. And as she fell into a fitful sleep, she wondered if her son was staring at the same ceiling in whatever hospital he was in.
xXx
"A nightlight?" Reid asked, holding the small device in his palm as he turned it over, inspecting it. Dr. Ostheim stood beside him, his green eyes lingering over the young man's face. He had gained weight, though not much, and the sickly yellow sheen to his skin had faded, leaving only the white paleness that, according to Agent Morgan, was his usual complexion. The bags were still deep and heavy under his eyes, but had gotten better, the color no longer resembling a poorly healing bruise. He was making good progress in the physical aspect of things, but it wasn't the physical aspect everyone was worried about.
"Yes, for your room. I know you don't like the dark, so I thought this might help," he said with a shrug, feeling completely and totally uncomfortable about taking credit for the gift.
Reid nodded, smiling slightly as he looked up at the man. "Thanks. It will," he said as the doctor took the light and plugged it in to a nearby outlet, pressing the small switch on top of it to bask the corner in a bright, yellow light. It encompassed a large portion of the room, and Dr. Ostheim knelt back on his haunches, surprised by how much light came from a little bulb. Shrugging his shoulders, he stood and turned off the main light, checking to see just how much light it maintained in the dark.
The golden glow of it fell across the room, illuminating Reid's smiling face as he looked at it. He hated his fear of the dark- not only was it embarrassing, but it was inconvenient as well. He was unable to sleep when it was too bright, and too frightened to relax when it was too dark. But this nightlight was perfect. It gave just the right amount of light to set his mind and heart at ease. No dark shadows, no unseen objects in the room...everything was in view, everything was clear. He could go to sleep without struggling to block out the glaring light and without having to worry about what he couldn't see. This just might have been the most practical gift he had ever received.
"I really appreciate it," he said to Dr. Ostheim, who was once more standing beside his bed, blocking the golden circle the device held. But Reid didn't mind- he knew the light was still there.
Dr. Ostheim smiled, making a mental note to tell Garcia about the success of her gift. She would be pleased to know he liked it so much. But now it was time to turn to unpleasant matters and tell Reid about what would be occurring in less than a week's time.
"You know, Spencer," he started, sitting down on the foot of his bed, creating a dip in the mattress that made the young man flinch involuntarily. "I found this one hospital that can help you out a lot. A lot more than we can. And I think it would be best if you go." There. He said it. No going back now. But he wished he could when saw the look of pure panic and fear that made Reid's face lose any semblance of color it had.
"I don't want to leave," Reid mumbled, looking at the doctor with wide, hazel eyes. Dr. Ostheim shivered with not only the intensity of his stare, but with the hollowness he saw in it. He never thought eyes could seem so flat, so devoid of shine. But he also never thought anyone could be so cruel to someone so innocent.
Shaking his gaze away from the listless eyes before him and looking to the floor, he said, "I'm sorry, Spencer. But this place can provide much better treatment for you than we can."
"But...what about Andrew?" Reid asked, shaking as he made his query. They couldn't take him away from him. Not twice.
Dr. Ostheim forced a smile onto his face. He hated lying to him, even though he needed to play along. He hated looking into the face of somebody so confused and so hurt, and just spouting out more lies and deceit. But regardless, he said, "Once Andrew is better, he will try to become your doctor there."
Reid sat up in his bed, chewing his lip in thought. Finally, he turned to the man and said, "I won't go unless you let me say good-bye to Andrew."
'Damn,' the doctor thought. He had been afraid that Reid would hand out a few stipulations of his own. But now he was afraid of the responses he would receive when he told the team what Reid requested. And when he told them his professional opinion on the matter.
xXx
Hotch ended the call and placed his cell phone down on his bedside table, rubbing his eyes tiredly as he looked around the hotel room he shared with David Rossi. His roommate was currently in the shower, which he was very suddenly thankful for. He wasn't sure he could handle the questions that he would have to face after that particular phone call.
Rossi would have asked him who it was who called and what it was regarding, and Hotch would be forced to tell him the truth: That Reid refused to leave the hospital unless he could say good-bye to Andrew. Wonderful.
Sitting up and pushing his book to the side, the book he hadn't quite read in two weeks, he stood and kicked off his pajama bottoms, finding a pair of jeans to replace them. He needed a walk. Needed to clear his head and think everything through. And it was with perfect timing that Rossi came out of the shower then, his hair scrubbed half-dry with a towel and pajamas on as he looked at the fully dressed Hotch, his eyes wide.
"Where are you going?" he asked, and Hotch shook his head, hoping he would let it go but knowing Rossi too well to actually expect it. So when Rossi folded his arms over his chest, he sighed. He would have to tell him about the phone call earlier than he planned to.
"I need a walk," he said, slipping his shoes on as Rossi did the same.
"I'll go with you," he said nonchalantly, looking down at his state of dress and shrugging, deciding navy blue sweatpants and an oversized gray shirt was alright for a nightly stroll. Hotch wanted to tell him no, that he needed the walk to clear his head and have time to himself, but one look at the experienced profiler told him he was out of luck.
But Rossi was too good at his job to not see that Hotch needed a moment of his own. He just chose to ignore it as he also saw that Hotch was highly distressed over something. And he'd be damned if he let the man wallow in his own uncertainty.
Together, they left the room, Hotch pocketing the key and taking the lead as they walked through the dimly lit halls off the hotel, neither willing to speak.
It wasn't until they left the town square of Phoenicia, nearly thirty minutes later, that anyone spoke.
"Dr. Ostheim called," Hotch said in a low, breathy voice and Rossi stopped suddenly, turning to face him as he narrowed his eyes. "When you were in the shower," Hotch added, continuing to walk which resulted in Rossi needed to sprint forward to catch up to him, no longer standing still as they walked side by side.
"And? What did he say? Is everything okay with Spencer?" he asked.
Hotch hesitated a moment, keeping his stride consistent as they walked past cabins and houses, recalling the conversation in his head. After what felt like five minutes, he said, "Spencer wants to say good-bye to Wright before he leaves."
Rossi said nothing. He just raised his brows and turned slightly to Hotch, walking a little slower as he examined his teammate's face. He then said, after much scrutiny, "And you think it's a good idea?"
There was no distinguishing tone in his voice that said whether or not he was for or against it, and Hotch once again cursed the fact that he was always surrounded by profilers. There was no hope of lying or even omitting certain aspects of something when they were around. But, then again, he assumed he wasn't much better when he was in the other position.
He sighed, looking around the darkening streets as he said, "I honestly don't know. On one hand, we can't control what Wright will say in those minutes. Even if we drag him out of the room, he'll still be able to say something to Spencer that could make it worse. On the other hand-"
"Spencer won't be able to move on without the closure?" Rossi interrupted, and Hotch breathed deeply through his nose, in and out, as he nodded.
"We probably won't even be able to make a deal with him," Hotch then added, shaking his head as he thought about the UnSub. "Chances are, he'll be deemed incompetent and sent to a criminally insane ward. So telling him we'll keep him from the death sentence won't really matter."
"Well," Rossi said with a shrug. "We could always get on his level of the playing field. Dr. Ostheim is playing along with Reid's delusions, and so, we should play along with Wrights."
Hotch looked at him, a small smile creeping on his face. "That could work. That way, they could both get the closure," he reasoned and Rossi nodded.
"Exactly."
They continued in silence for a near ten minutes after that, the dark shroud of night wrapping itself around the small town that was tucked into the mountains. The sound of the Esopus Creek running over pointed, clay covered rocks echoed in the open air as it intermingled with the chirping choruses of crickets. Every-now-and-then breezes would create a chiming whistle as it ran through the leaves and tall grass, cooling the already chilly air. Yet the air, so fresh and clean smelling, was a welcomed change, and felt wonderful to Hotch and Rossi's lungs. The protective mountain ranges stood tall above them, wrapping stony and dirt covered arms around the town in an embrace and it was hard to believe that not one, but two monsters once resided in such a sleepy, peaceful area.
"Do you think he'll be okay, Dave?" Hotch asked, his voice quiet and uncharacteristically lacking in conviction. Rossi was so thrown off by the tinges of hopelessness in his voice that he almost forgot to answer.
"He's a tough kid, Hotch. He's been through a lot in his life and he'll get through this."
If Rossi had been shocked by Hotch's defeated tone, it was nothing compared to the surprise he felt when Hotch rounded on him, his eyes like saucers as he said in a trembling voice, "What if this was the last straw? What if he can't fight...doesn't want to fight anymore?"
They stared at each other, dark eyes meeting darker eyes, as nobody spoke. Nobody but the crickets and lapping water broke the fragile silence, the question that remained swinging in the air. What if Reid didn't pull through? What if he couldn't? Or what if Reid did, and everything got worse? What if the realization of what really occurred at the hands of Andrew became too much for him. Was he better off not knowing the truth, better off living in a world constructed by trauma and fear? He might be living a delusion, but at least he seemed content with it.
So what if they pulled him out of it, got him stable, got him lucid...and he hated them for it? What if being sick was the better option? Would ignorance truly be bliss?
Hotch sighed and sat down on the guardrail, leaning forward as he bent towards the ground. They could be doing a disservice to him, trying to get him well. But for once, he didn't know what to do. Didn't know which option was the best option. And for the first time in a long time, this experienced profiler didn't know whether someone could be better off sane or insane.
"Hotch?"
He was barely aware of the sound of Rossi's voice calling to him. But after the third time his name was said, he looked up and saw the man in front of him, his eyes glazed over and his lip twitching nervously. His eyes narrowed. What was wrong? What had set him on edge? Following the direction of his gaze, which was set to his side, he saw what it was that had caused Rossi to grow uneasy and jumped from the guardrail, feeling as if he had been burned.
Together, they both stared at the offending bend in the guardrail that led down to the Flats. The offending, well-worn trail that led down to the rocks and water. The offending rocks and water that had been home to Reid's kidnapping. He hadn't even been aware of where their walk was taking them, but now deeply regretted stepping foot outside of the hotel room. The memories from that day- the day Reid was taken- came to the forefront of his mind, painted in perfect clarity, and he gulped uneasily, needing to find oxygen as the air around him seemed to run dry of it.
"Let's go," Rossi said, tapping his shoulder as he turned and walked back to the hotel, Hotch quickly catching up to him. But the waters that made up the Flats seemed to call to their retreating backs, whispering of the day they had officially lost Spencer Reid.
xXx
Reid pulled out the waistband of the jeans, raising an eyebrow at how big they seemed. Was Dr. Ostheim sure these were his clothes? They seemed too big. But, he supposed the were better then hospital gowns- and far less revealing. It had taken only nurse to see his exposed backside for him to realize that clothing was clothing and he would even wear a dress so long as it provided a proper back- which the gowns didn't, as he was sure the nurse would attest to.
Sitting back up on the bed and grabbing a simple white tee shirt, he tried to pull it down over his torso, but winced at the pain that pierced through his chest and sides as he reached above his head. He hissed, dropping the shirt and clutching the gauze covered wound below his collar bone with one hand while the other wrapped around his waist, trying in vain to soothe the throbbing ribs. Well, this would make getting dressed harder than he had originally planned.
While getting dressed wasn't necessary by any means, Reid had readily jumped at Dr. Ostheim's offer to procure clothes for his journey to this new hospital. He was not too keen on the idea of wearing a backless gown all the way from his room to an ambulance, even if he was being pushed around on a wheelchair. In fact, it was two days ago when the unfortunate incident with the nurse had first occurred that he decided clothing with backs was no longer optional. It wasn't his fault, and, being that she was a nurse, the human anatomy wasn't an unexplored thing to her. But still, walking in on a patient's solo attempt at working crutches while he was turned opposite from the door, the slit in the gown leaving little to the imagination, was probably not something she had been prepared to see. And it was certainly not something he would let happen again.
But the fact that he couldn't put his shirt on was already cracking a dent in that goal. His pants had been extraordinarily difficult, especially with his bulky cast, and he had been forced to lay down on his bed in order to pull them up without falling over. He had gotten them on though, which ignited an almost pathetic sort of victory in his mind. 'Feeling triumphant because you could put on pants by yourself. Oh, how much you've overcome adversity,' his mind sarcastically spat out at him and he rolled his eyes at the thought. It mattered little now, as that triumphant feeling was being slowly washed away as every second passed by and he still remained shirtless.
Taking a deep breath and stealing himself to prepare for the pain, he raised his arms again and tried to pull the shirt on, this time crying out in agony as his side lurched and his aching bones burned with an entirely new intensity. He grasped his side, cringing when the applied pressure only worsened the pain and choked out a sob, rolling his head to the side as his vision blurred.
Not only did it hurt more than he had thought it would, but it meant that if he had any intention on wearing a shirt today, he would need to have someone help him.
But part of him screamed at the idea of having hands on him, and his stomach did somersaults and played jump-rope with his intestines. He couldn't have someone help him into a shirt- just the thought of it made him queasy for reasons he was unsure of. But there was no way he was going to take the pants off after all the effort it took to put them on.
A knocking at the closed door made him open his tightly shut eyes. "Spencer?" Dr. Ostheim called, and he groaned in response. Why couldn't it have been a nurse? Telling a nurse he would need a hospital gown as he couldn't put his shirt on was one thing. But Dr. Ostheim was an entirely different thing. He had made such a big deal about being dressed and created such a fuss about getting dressed himself that having the man come in to this...this embarrassment made it more than embarrassing. It was now mortifying.
But before Reid had a chance to tell him to go away, that he was still changing, the door opened and the doctor poked his head in, smirking when he saw the sight before him. Spencer was lying on the bed, though he was sitting perpendicular to it in an almost capital T shape than lying down the proper way. His feet- one wearing a red sock and the other covered in plaster, were placed on the floor and his long legs were clothed in dark blue jeans, with the right leg of the denim pulled up and over his cast. Yet it was at the jeans that the clothing stopped and his bare torso was revealed to the world, his arms spread out around him and his shirt clenched in his hand.
Dr. Ostheim, now accustomed to the dark purple bruises along his side and the covered gunshot wound above his pectoral muscles, simply chuckled as he moved forward, crossing his arms with a dramatic flourish.
"Need help, Spencer?" he asked, bemusedly and Spencer groaned once more, his eyes clamped shut as though he refused to even look at the man who had, apparently, won the fight over whether or not Spencer could dress himself.
"I got the jeans on," he said, rather pitifully with his eyes still closed.
"Well, at least now you can't flash any of the staff."
Reid felt his cheeks heat up in humiliation. He just had to bring that up, didn't he? He was in the works of thinking up a witty, scathing come back when he felt a tug on the cloth in his hand and Dr. Ostheim say, "Here, let me help you get your shirt on."
As if switching gears, Reid instantaneously jumped to bend at the waist, whipping his arms out in front of him and shoving the doctor hard in the chest, a satisfying 'oomph' and crash meeting his ears. He pulled himself quickly into a standing position, adrenaline rushing through his veins at the idea of coming so close to being touched. But when he left the stabling comfort of his bed, his knees wobbled and his injured leg strained with his weight until both knees gave in, Reid falling to the floor in a moaning pile of contorted limbs.
Yet his heart still raced and his veins still seemed to burn, as if they were pushing corrosive acid instead of blood through his body. And when he felt hands grip his arms and try to pull him up, the racing and burning increased tenfold, his unreasonable fear driving him haywire.
He didn't know why touch was setting him off so much, and somewhere in his mind he was embarrassed and outraged about his overreaction. But he couldn't stop himself from kicking his legs and flinging his fists around, clawing into everything they collided with. He wasn't even aware that the deep, throaty growls were coming from him, or that the high-pitched shouts of "Nononononono!" were being said in his own voice. He was aware of none of it, sent into overdrive by the hands that seemed to be itching along his skin, fingernails digging into him and raking their way up and down his body. They felt like bugs, burrowing into him, and he screamed with the desire to be rid of them, to scratch them all off.
But a pinching sensation and then a rush of sedatives in his shoulder ceased all movements and protests, and he fell reluctantly into the hands he tried to escape from.
xXx
Dr. Ostheim hoisted Reid's unconscious body up from the floor and placed him gently in his bed, calling for nurses as he began checking every inch of him to see if had been hurt during their struggle. Being a specialist in trauma, he knew all to well that even if Reid had no idea of what abuse Varney put him through, he would still react violently to contact. But he had no idea that even the mention of possible contact would be enough to send him into a post-traumatic rage. Certainly something to add to the files.
As two nurses rushed in and proceeded to take vitals, Ostheim ran two fingers across most of Reid's body, feeling for any abnormalities that could have occurred and happily finding none. Aside from an all-too-high heart rate, which was to be expected, Spencer was fine.
Ten minutes later, the nurses left and he took the opportunity to put Reid's shirt on, feeling particularly traitorous as it was this exact thing that had sent his young patient into a frenzy in the first place. But he had been so insistent on wearing clothes for his ride to the hospital that it seemed even more rude to simply put on another one of the much hated gowns. And he most certainly would not take off his pants- he couldn't imagine what Reid would feel if he awoke without them on.
He pulled the shirt over his head and then gently pulled his arms through, all the while apologizing repetitively as he worked. This was the part of his job he hated: seeing the effects of a trauma on someone so innocent.
He sighed, pulled away as he finished dressing him, deciding that he would take his lunch break to finish packing for Reid, seeing as he wouldn't be able to now that he was unconscious. Grabbing the duffel bag his team had brought in for him, he began to place everything inside it- and by that, of course, he meant the large quantities of gifts his friends had brought him. Thankfully, he had been able to play it off as if various nurses and other hospital staff had purchased the objects for him, as he was unable to morally accept credit for so many.
A stuffed giraffe, stuffed penguin, and traditional style teddy bear were the first of the gifts to go in the bag. Then came a blue and green quilt, followed by a hand-knitted hat- one of Garcia's proudest. The night-light was the last to be put away, and he took extra care to wrap it inside the quilt to ensure it had some padding for the trip.
Zipping it up, he placed the bag on top of a separate suitcase, which was filled with some clothes the team had given him. From what he understood, they would be taking the rest of his luggage back with them and had set aside some of the more leisurely outfits he had brought with him for his long-term hospital stay. Of course, the word leisurely was being stretched in its definition, as Reid's idea of leisure suits were still far dressier than most. But his suitcase was still full, with several jeans, button down shirts, various tee shirts and flannel pajama bottoms along with multiple changes of undergarments. His laundry days would be erratic, but it would get him through his stay, provided he didn't gain or lose too much weight.
Surveying the room one final time, he saw that he had gotten everything and with a final look to Spencer, left in order to prepare for the team's final visit, Andrew Wright being dragged with them.
xXx
Morgan had been sitting in his usual chair besides Reid's room when Garcia came in, biting her lip and moving her rings around her fingers as she approached. He stood, his brow knitting as he immediately sensed something was off. Very off.
"Baby Girl, what's wrong?" he said, grabbing onto her elbows as she continued to worry her lower lip, glancing away from him as he tried to search her eyes.
"You're not going to like it," she mumbled, settling her eyes on the plague beside Reid's door that denoted his room number. She had about five minutes to tell Morgan that the team was on their way with Wright in tow, explain why they had brought him in the first place, and calm him down. Five minutes. She swallowed harshly, knowing she probably should've headed up sooner. He wasn't going to respond well, and she knew it.
"You're scaring me, Sweet Thing," he said, his deep voice rising an octave as he tried to meet her eyes once more.
'Just get it out,' she thought, clearing her throat nervously. 'Just say it and spare yourself the wait.' Taking a deep breathe, she said, in one long, exhausting exhale, "Wright is coming up here with the team because Reid refused to leave without saying goodbye to him!"
There was a slow, deathly minute that ticked by where she was thoroughly convinced time had stopped, Morgan gaping at her openly after her confession. But just as she was raising her arm to snap her fingers in front of his eyes, he jumped, anger pulsing through him.
"What? They're bringing him up here?" he shouted and Garcia grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away from Reid's room. She wasn't sure, but she didn't think hearing his hallucinations would be any better than seeing them. Surprisingly, she was able to move him down several feet, his attention too focused on what was said to really care about whether or not his feet were moving.
"Alright, relax!" she said, waving her hands in front of her. How much longer did she have? Whatever it was, it wasn't enough time.
"But...why..." he said, too furious to speak and Garcia jumped in, taking the initiative.
"He needs the closure, Morgan. If we can get Wright to say that he won't be taking care of Reid anymore, than Reid will be able to get the notion out of his head!" She looked at him, reaching out to hold his hand and rub her thumb into his palm as she said, "It will be better this way."
He shook his head, looking back to the room as he licked his lips. "What if he tries to-" he started, but Garcia cut him off.
"He won't. Rossi and Hotch made sure he wouldn't."
His eyes never turned away from the room, not even when he heard the shuffling sound of many footsteps behind him, his mind lurching at the sound. He knew that one set of those steps, one of the people marching down the hall, belonged to Andrew Wright.
"I hope you're right," he said, letting the team pass him, the UnSub in the middle of the group, much to his chagrin.
xXx
"Is Andrew almost here?" Reid asked impatiently, kicking his feet in the air as he sat in the cushioned chair beside the little table, a barely-touched meal in front of him. Dr. Ostheim smirked at his actions, perched on the empty and bare bed as he finished signing off some discharge papers, slightly sad to see the young man go. He had grown quite attached to him- not just the case or the peculiar situations surrounding it, but the man himself. He would most definitely be checking in on him, he already knew.
"Finish eating," he said, ignoring the question which caused Reid to huff, his shoulders slumping forward.
"It doesn't taste good," he said. It was true, the food wasn't exactly what he would consider of high- or even medium- caliber. But the real reason he wasn't eating was because he was too nervous. Seeing Andrew for the first time in two weeks and then leaving for an entirely new, far away hospital had been more than enough to pull the strings surrounding his stomach tight. His appetite was effectively cut off and he would use any excuse- no matter how childish- to not have to force it down.
Dr. Ostheim chortled. "It's going to be a long ride, Spencer. You'll be hungry."
He shrugged. "I'll be hungry then."
The doctor looked over to him, frowning and sighing in defeat as he said, "I'll get you some granola bars for the trip." Reid smiled wide, grateful for having such an understanding doctor working his case. Well, not anymore. He was being transferred.
His smile slipped and he turned down to his meal of "grilled" chicken and yellow rice, biting his lip in thought. He wasn't sure which doctor he would miss more, now that he thought about it. Part of him, a larger part than he'd care to admit, was more fond of Dr. Ostheim while another part of him seemed to hold almost obsessively onto Andrew. He hated not knowing the origins of his feelings, and hated even more the dependent way he felt whenever he thought of Andrew. But he supposed it was just an unfortunate side effect of the schizophrenia and hoped that it, too, could be treated.
Dr. Ostheim reached over and pulled the tray away, walking to the door and handing it to a passing nurse as he asked for some granola bars and whatever snacks the male nurse could find. He nodded and continued on his way as the doctor returned, smiling at Spencer.
"Andrew should be here soon," he said, and Reid nodded.
"And then I'll be leaving?" he asked, raising a brow.
"Yes, you will be. Are you upset about that?" he asked, and Reid shrugged, looking back down at the table. He sat like that for ten minutes, ignoring Ostheim's attempts to start a conversation. He only jumped when he heard a deep, booming voice shout.
"What? They're bringing him up here?"
His eyes widened and Dr. Ostheim thought fast, trying to distract him from what he obviously thought was a hallucination.
"Andrew should be here in a couple minutes, actually," he said.
That worked.
Reid was literally sitting on the edge of his seat now, his hands gripping it as if he would float away if he wasn't supported to something. It would've been amusing if it weren't so tragic, but it had at least been effective in keeping his attention away from Morgan's shout.
Dr. Ostheim turned away from him then, taking the time to prepare the wheelchair for Reid's departure when he heard the door opening and the sound of a chair falling to the ground. He looked up at the noise, watching as Reid wrapped his arms around Andrew's waist.
xXx
When Andrew walked through the door, flanked by two armed, unfamiliar police officers, Reid felt his heart swoon and was out of his chair in an instant. His arms wrapped around Andrew's waist, and tentatively, the man returned the gesture, holding him back tightly as he heard the police officers move closer. A throat cleared and Andrew was gently pushing him away, although Reid had the suspicion that it was at the unspoken request of the officers that he did so.
Come to think of it, why were there police officers?
"Andrew, what are the cops here for?" he asked, his brows knitting together as he looked to Andrew and the two men in question, each obviously trying to avoid his eyes. Andrew licked his lips and sent a fleeting look to the uniformed men.
"I'm in some legal trouble, Spencer," he said.
Dr. Ostheim moved closer, clearing his throat as he added, "Yes, his license is being revoked."
Reid's eyes widened. If he was having his license revoked than he wouldn't be able to be his doctor anymore! No! He needed him to be his doctor! He needed him to get better, to become sane! His head was shaking to his sides rapidly, brown curls bouncing with the movements. They couldn't take him away again. He was his!
"Spencer, don't worry. There are many other doctors who can take care of you," Andrew said, but Reid continued to frantically shake his head, biting hard on his lower lip.
"No, you...you were going to help me! You were a good doctor! You were helping me!" he argued, and Dr. Ostheim curled his hand into a fist, knowing very well that it wasn't Reid's words, but the words Andrew had instilled in him. The thought of what torture Reid had gone through in order for them to be so engraved in his mind that he was convinced they were his own angered him. But he knew throwing a punch at Andrew would in no way help the situation. So he stood back, watching the interaction as indifferently as he could.
"Other doctors will help you, Spencer," Andrew said. He then looked to one of the police officers and added, "I need to go now. Will you be alright?"
Reid looked at him, his hazel eyes wide and pleading as his lower lip stuck out and trembled. No, he wasn't going to be alright. They just told him Andrew wouldn't be his doctor anymore. Why would he be alright?
"The doctors over there are very competent. They'll take good care of you, you know," Dr. Ostheim cut through his thoughts and Reid blinked in response, reaching his arms out and hugging himself. He believed him- he really did. He knew the kind doctor wouldn't lie to him. But he couldn't help but feel like part of him was being taken away, thrown to the side as if it didn't really matter to anyone. He needed Andrew...didn't they see that?
"But...I..." he stuttered, and Andrew interrupted him.
"Don't worry, Spencer. You'll be fine. You're in good hands," he said, his lips twitching into a timid smile. Reid simply stared at him, suddenly angry that he had turned his back on him. How dare he? How dare he promise him a cure when he was unable to give it to him? How dare he promise so many things, just to turn tail last second and leave? He wanted to scream at him, yell at him for not following through with him. But he couldn't move his mouth. He couldn't bring himself to form words and instead, folded his arms over his chest and turned away from him, angry.
"Spencer?" Andrew called, and he made it a point to not turn around.
He didn't need him. He wouldn't let him promise his help, only to have it taken away again.
Andrew sighed. "Good bye, Spencer." He refused to turn around.
He didn't turn around when the door opened and closed.
He didn't turn around when Dr. Ostheim said he would be back in five minutes.
He didn't turn around when the door opened and closed, again.
He didn't even turn around when he heard his father's taunting voice from the doorway.
xXx
Author's Note: Am I the only one who's jealous of the nurse who walked in on Reid? Must've been a nice show. Haha. Anyway, OFFICIALLY the longest chapter. Over eight thousand words! God, that would have been awesome if it was over nine thousand. Epic Vegeta moment. Anyway, about two more chapters left. Woot!
Chapter Twenty-Four: Photographic Memory Part. 1 (Preview)
The sunken, graying faces surrounded him, chilling the air and filling it with the gut churning smell of death. Hands reached out to him, bloated and cold with death and Reid cringed away from them, trying to disappear into the mattress. Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Why were they here?
Black thread hung from their lips, as the same bloated fingers reached up and pulled away the stitches that held the eyes shut, stretching them out until they snapped. He flinched involuntarily, the action making his stomach tighten into knots as he curled more into himself, swallowing.
"Go away!" he roared, covering his head with his hands as the five corpses surrounded him, freeing their eyes of the thread so that they could see him. How come they wouldn't leave?
"Spencer!" a voice called, and he groaned, knowing it was the voice of another hallucination. Morgan came into view then, a folder in his hand as he walked through one corpse, causing the illusion to evaporate into a foul smelling cloud of gray dust.