Disclaimer:Criminal Minds and all its associated characters are property to CBS and no profit is being made from this story.
Chapter 31: The Hanging
'There is no man so good who, were he to submit all his thoughts and actions to the law, would not deserve hanging ten times in his life.' -Michel de Montaigne
The first thing Reid thought of as he sat down in the witness stand, his hands shaking nervously as they reached into his pocket to produce the stress ball, wasn't what one would assume. He didn't think about what to say, what he might be asked, or how the jury might respond. No, the first and only thing Reid thought about upon sitting down and looking out in front of him was how uncomfortable the seat was.
Essentially a wooden slab, the seat lacked even a slight indent so as to better shape to form the natural curves of the body, causing Reid to awkwardly shift against it, trying hopelessly to find comfort. He then speculated on how odd of a thing it was to make the witness stand so painful to sit on; didn't they want the witnesses to be relaxed?
His thoughts were disrupted by the sharp tone of the prosecutor, throwing him back to the present as she said something to the jury. He watched as the Bible was placed down- had he already spoken the Oath? Shaking his head, he realized he must have been so preoccupied with his thoughts he had put himself on autopilot. Before the idea could be considered any further, Angela directed a question at him.
A tall woman - made even taller with pointed heels - and a gray, slim suit, she pulled her lips up in facsimile of a smile before letting it waver as she returned to business. "Please state your name for the jury," she said, nodding in the direction of jurors, a large variety of civilians.
Clearing his throat, Reid said, "SSA Dr. Spencer Reid."
"And what is your position within the FBI, Agent Reid?"
"I am a Behavioral Analyst for the NCAVC in Quantico, otherwise known as profiling. I hold my team's specialty for geographic profiling, linguistics, and pattern solving," he stated, his head feeling like a chunk of mortar on his neck. He imagined that if he tilted his head slightly to the left or right, his skinny neck would snap as his disembodied body part fell down to the parquet flooring. His heart would continue to beat blood through his body, resulting in a bloody spray from his torn neck that covered the judge, the jury, the prosecutor…
Oh yeah, the prosecutor. He was in the middle of a trial.
Sitting up straighter, he eyed Angela as she began the real round of questioning. "Agent Reid, could you describe to me, in your own words, what happened that day that Andrew Wright abducted you?"
His fingers twitched. Straight and to the point, wasn't she? Clenching and relaxing his jaw, he took a deep breath before delving into the story. His perfect memory, a blessing or a curse, had allowed him to relay the day perfectly, each event in exact order and told exactly as it happened. But, while his lips moved and words were produced from his throat, he was nowhere to be found behind his eyes. The mentioning of that day had caused his mind, panicked and overwhelmed, to hide. He dove into his subconscious, sinking into his mind like one would a deep pool, letting his limbs become heavy and dissociate from him as a whole. It was like falling into an unknown world where you were merely an observer, not an active participant. A cloudy film separated him from the world, in an immovable partition that encased over him, letting only his words pass through.
He imagined himself moving between different worlds of isolation. In one world, he was a foreign invader who couldn't speak the same language- his diction and syntax far different from that of those who surrounded him. In another, he was a musician, limited to only several keys and unable to properly play a song for the audience before him. In another still, he was speaking through a membrane, his voice muffled and too incoherent for human ears.
But no matter where he let himself sink, his mind separating from the memories as best as possible, he still lulled beneath the surface. And as his account of the day ended, him explaining how he knew the drug was Ketamine, he resurfaced once more to pay close attention.
"Now, Dr. Reid, could you describe Dr. Wright's behavior during your captivity?" Angela asked, folding her arms and digging her hands into the bends at her elbows, her lips pressed tightly together. A thin, plucked eyebrow was raised high as she threw her weight onto her right heel, letting her knee bend with the position.
Shifting uncomfortably in the seat- the question still ringing in the back of his head- he shrugged his shoulders thoughtfully, letting his eyes lift to the top of his head as he said, "Well, um, he talked to me like I was a..." He hesitated, the fingers of his left hand gripping at the hem of his dress shirt and tugging on the sleeve, his tongue stumbling over the words. His mouth dropping open several times, he stammered before swallowing air in a large gulp and saying, "He treated me like a...m-mental patient. With schizophrenia."
Hazel eyes flitted down to his feet, hidden behind the witness stand at his confession, his neck shrinking into his shoulders. 'Deep breaths,' he told himself, the fingers of his right hand pressing into the stress ball, watching the red latex cover dip in with the pressure and crinkle.
"How did he treat you, exactly?" Angela asked, her voice softer than its usual clipped tone as she noticed the way Reid fell into himself.
After a moment, his fingers loosening their hold on the ball, he said, "He would say things like I was suffering from paranoid schizophrenia and had created a world that didn't really exist. He would talk about treatment options, he even prescribed me medicine. He'd bring me food on a tray, like they do in hospitals, too."
Sinking back into that place, where the world was separated by a screen, his words came back to him as nothing but white noise, the murmured accusations rattling and fuzzy in his mind. He wasn't sure if it was the extra medication that had made it so easy to dissociate, or simply just a learned mechanism. Either way, he was thankful for it, knowing full well that beyond his veil, his pulse and heart beat sped up dramatically as his blood, fevered and pulsing, coursed through his body. His jaw, ankles and wrists would clench while his fingers would fidget with his sleeve or the stress ball, which was currently crumpling into an indented form in his palm, slick with sweat.
Reminding himself to breathe, he trained his eyes on his polished shoes, letting himself sink deeper into his fabricated world that offered solace in this entropy ridden moment.
He was sitting in the cabin of the jet, engaged in a game of poker that he was- inevitably- winning. He was sitting on the couch in his mother's room, listening to her read Chaucer, believing him to be her lecture class as opposed to her son. He was in his apartment, curled up in his favorite armchair- the overstuffed one with an indent that molded perfectly around his small form- reading a book and drinking coffee while Doctor Who played in the background, a soothing and familiar soundtrack to his happiness. He was...
He was in the court room, sitting witness to a murder trial in which he was a victim.
'Funny,' he thought dryly. 'It's not often that the victim of a murder trial can be witness to it.'
Sighing, he looked at Angela, waiting for the next question.
Not disappointing, she then asked, "So, he acted like the doctor working your case?"
"Yes."
"Did he do anything else, something that a normal doctor wouldn't?"
Something seemed to get caught in his throat, feeling remarkably like a lump of undigested bread, stuck in his esophagus. He swallowed, but he was unable to push the cluster down, his throat bruising with the effort. Desperately, he looked over to his team, his eyes falling on Hotch and begging him for help. It was not plausible, he knew. There was no way Hotch could impart any words of guidance to him, no way he could lend him some of his strength.
'Stupid laws of physics,' a part of his mind mumbled angrily as he continued to look at Hotch, his breath getting caught in his throat when he met the man's eyes. The dark eyes seemed to sear into his vision, melting away anything else that might've surrounded them. Had he ever seen so much emotion come from that man? He was so boggled by the sheer intensity of the emotions reflected to him, he was unable to give them a name.
If it weren't for Hotch letting his eyes stray away Reid's gaze, he would've forgotten about the trial entirely. But he didn't. Jumping, startled, he looked back at Angela, closing his eyes for a moment to compose himself.
His nails were digging so deeply into the ball he was cutting through the coating, but he managed to take a shuddering breath before saying, "If I refused to cooperate with what he told me, he would either drug me or...torture me, depending on the severity of what I did."
There. He said it. Breathing easily, he could feel himself sink like jelly into the uncomfortable seat.
But it wasn't over.
"If you could, please, Agent, describe the torture you went through at the hands of-"
"OBJECTION!" Olivera roared, rising to his feet and turning his eyes to the Judge. "Your Honor, I fail to see how the manner of torture is an accurate depiction of my client's ability to be held responsible for his crimes."
Angela shook her head. "The behavior and manner of the tortures can indicate Andrew's cognitive process; it is an entirely admissible question to ask."
The judge didn't answer, his left hand reaching up as he tapped his index finger thoughtfully against his chin. His eyes were glazed over in thought and Angela tapped her heeled foot in annoyance, her arms folding tighter around her chest.
Eventually, he sighed and turned his attention to Hotch. "Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, if I were to ask for your honest opinion on the importance of the manner of the tortures, would you be able to provide it, unbiased?"
Hotch nodded, not letting his eyes stray to Reid, who was busying himself with picking at the torn cover of the stress ball. "Yes, your Honor."
Judge Philips nodded, waving a hand for him to begin. Rising to his feet, Hotch said, "Certain actions involving a crime are indicative of what we called organized behavior. Behavior of this type is seen in someone exhibiting forethought and planning before executing a crime. In instances of torture, an organized person will come prepared with devices to be used, as well as a goal in mind, or something they wish to gather from the torturing. A disorganized person would act violently, lashing out and using anything that is on hand- a knife, gun or slab of wood."
Hotch sat himself down as the older man nodded. Turning to Angela, he said, "I'll allow it, but your witness must understand that he is under Oath and subject to charge of perjury should he be dishonest in anyway." As he said this, he turned to look at Reid, his voice growing louder and louder until the young genius tore his eyes away from the stress ball and looked up at the judge, his eyes wide and watery.
"Understood," Angela said, smiling in triumph as Olivera grumbled angrily and plopped back down to his seat. She turned her attention back to her primary witness and asked, again, "Could you please detail the torture for us now, Agent?"
It took a second for Reid to nod, his head making the tiniest of movement before letting his eyes fall down to the ledge of the witness stand, a place for his hands to rest should he choose. Tapping his foot anxiously against the podium landing, he said, "The first time he did anything other than drug me when I was in his...when he captured me, was after I refused to acknowledge that everything was a fantasy. I..." he shifted, rising and sitting back down on the seat only to repeat the movement. Biting his lip, he said, "I was tied down to the hospital bed, m-my wrists were. I had tried to tell him that if he let me go, I could get him the recognition he wanted, and he tried to tell me it was fake. I denied it, and he slapped me. Then he took a knife out of a bag, saying it was for my own good. He...He called it...reinforcement."
He stopped, letting his words hang in the air as the memory assaulted him with perfect clarity. 'No!' he told himself, forcefully. He needed to stop, needed to bring himself back to the world around him. He couldn't get lost in his thoughts, not when so much rested on his words.
His nails dug deeply into the stress ball as he buried his teeth into his lower lip until it stung, the copper taste- like a penny- staining the inside of his cheeks. The pain was enough to bring him back as he winced, hoping too late that he hadn't cut so deeply he would need stitches. But he opened his eyes, unaware he had closed them in the first place, and grimaced through the searing pain in his lip. He let his lip slip from his hold on them with his teeth, fighting the urge to hiss when the air hit his minor injury.
Unaware of the struggle he was undergoing, or too caught up to care, Angela plowed on, her questions the equivalent of throwing more and more objects at Reid and expecting him to juggle them with ease.
"What did he do with this knife?"
Didn't she see how uncomfortable he was?
Swallowing what was easily two teaspoons of blood, he said, "He stabbed my thigh. To the bone."
"And that was all he did to you? For the first session of torture, at least."
Was that all? Did it really seem so trivial, so unimportant? 'That's not what she means, and you know it,' he scolded himself as he willed out the answer, the taste of metal on his lip as he spoke.
"Yes."
"And what about the second torture session?"
"He stabbed my shoulder." He shifted again in the seat- why was it so uncomfortable?- as he let his fingers burrow so deep into the ball that he felt them probe against his palm on the other side. The memories kept bubbling, deep in the pit of his stomach, and as the surface evaporated, gas bubbles filled with snapshots- snippets of that week- rose upwards, popping in front of his mind and attacking him with images. Images of Andrew looming over him. Images of the hallucinated visages of his friends, insulting him. Images of Varney...
"What else?"
What else? What else did happen in that one particular instance? His memories and thoughts seemed to intervene with each other, like a race in which several cars weaved in and out of the slower ones. He couldn't keep track, the neatly organized filing cabinet was spilling over with everything that had been so meticulously placed. He couldn't remember. His damn memory had failed him!
He remembered the knife being dragged down his legs- but in what order did that occur? Or the feeling of the blow torch, as flames licked over his bloodied soles?
Air was escaping the room, thinning out so quickly as though it were water down a drain. Did no one else feel it? Was he the only one unable to find a breath to hold onto?
A whine escaped his lips, now tacky and wet with blood. He was no longer sinking willingly into that place where no one saw or heard him, but falling into it, headfirst. And before he landed, settling into the pool and resting until it was safe to reemerge, hand reached out and grabbed at him- hands of all things!- fingers snatching and clutching, bones and tendons and blue veins sticking out from the back of the hand, grotesque and rising like high mountains on otherwise flat plateaus. He tried to avoid the hands, attempted to crawl back up or form a parachute to trail out behind him, but gravity took over and he crashed into the pit of hands.
So many hands.
They clutched at him, pulling at his sleeves, his pant leg, his tie, anything and everything they could to keep him down, to keep him submerged, to keep him away from the trial.
xXx
He had been doing so well.
Hotch had watched with what could be called pride as Reid pushed himself through each question. He watched as the young genius struggled to answer the questions through the storm of memories that he knew were battling with his mind. He could see the way he pointedly avoided looking in Andrew's direction and how, when he did look up at the sea of faces when answering, his eyes were glassy, as though he wasn't truly behind them.
It was, in one word, admirable to see him fight and struggle with himself to give the answers necessary. But it became clear to Hotch he would not be able to see his testimony through to the end. Maybe it was when he saw the frantic, almost feral, look of need and help in those hazel eyes when Reid turned to him. Or maybe it was when he could see the agent wince and the tinge of red on his lips. Either way, it wasn't all too surprising when, instead of telling Angela what had happened during the second torture, he looked outwards, the same glassy-eyed expression in place.
He was shaking, his shoulders trembling as he swallowed, almost compulsively, and moved around in the seat in discomfort.
Angela stared at him, slowly becoming aware of what was happening as she looked over at the judge, arms snapping to her sides now as she said, "Your Honor, my Witness appears to need a moment to gather himself. He is currently suffering from a severe case of PTSD as well as several other anxiety disorders." She looked over to the jury as though adding, 'I hope you understand that all of this is because of the man you decide the fate of,' before letting her sharp eyes rest once more at Judge Philips, awaiting his awaiting.
Sparing a glance to Reid, who was still sitting, the picture of calm yet unfocused from the world, he sighed sympathetically. "The court will allow for a recess," he said.
The instant the words were said, Hotch jumped to his feet, striding confidently over to the witness stand and gripping onto the ledge, leaning in close to Reid and whispering so only he could hear him.
"Reid? Reid, it's me, Hotch."
His brows knitted, the skin folding as the younger man clenched his jaw.
"Reid, you need to come back."
His grip on the stress ball loosened.
"Please, we need to have your lip looked out."
Hotch was aware of the urgency growing in his voice, fully aware that he became more and more panicked. He wouldn't dare touch Reid in this state, but he needed to remove him from the witness stand. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hotch growled in frustration as he leaned in even closer, inclining his head to get a better look at him.
"Spencer, we're all waiting on you."
He sighed in relief when he watched the man blink, shaking his head blearily as he looked up in disorientation. "Hotch?" he asked, his voice sounding forced as though he were trying to speak through a glob of tears. He looked up at his boss, his eyes no longer glassy but still covered in a sheen of tears and unidentifiable emotions, a sort of emptiness and confusion to them. After a moment, he said, "I don't...I don't feel good."
That was no surprise. Not only was he in emotional duress, but his lip was now bleeding profusely, the crimson liquid filling his mouth and slipping down his throat. Cringing, Hotch realized how that must taste and motioned for Reid to step down. "Come on, we have a recess."
The words didn't register fully for a moment, but when they did, Reid shook his head, blinking rapidly as he leaned forward and gripped the ledge. He pulled himself up and stepped down, sucking his lower lip into his mouth to conceal the blood. He hissed as his tongue came into contact with the small cut, but continued to lap up the blood anyway.
His legs didn't even feel like they were connected to his body as his he walked with Hotch down through the benches and out the door. He was floating- floating far away even though he was being pushed down onto a bench in the hallway, Dr. Ostheim coming to squat in front of him, lifting his pant legs as he did so.
"Is he alright?" JJ asked, standing beside Morgan and Rossi at a safe distance away from the doctor so he could examine the genius.
Latex covered fingers reached up and clamped down on the lower lip, his thumbs and middle fingers holding the bleeding tissue out as his index fingers lightly probed and prodded the cut. He gently pulled onto the edges of the cut, apologizing when Reid winced and shirked back. After a moment, he let his hands fall and said, "It's pretty deep, but it shouldn't require stitching." He then grabbed his briefcase, awkwardly shifting his weight so as to remain in front of Reid, and pulled into his lap, opening it and producing a small first aid kit.
He looked up, his eyes meeting Reid's as he grinned. "Always have to be prepared, right?"
Even if Reid did feel the desire to speak, he wouldn't have, afraid of letting blood drip everywhere.
But his lips were pried open anyway as Dr. Ostheim slipped several folded pieces of gauze in between his lip and his teeth, causing a lump to form in his mouth. He could feel the gauze become saturated with his blood, but the layers of it would prevent it from soaking through too soon or quickly.
"I'm not exactly the best medical doctor- as you know, I'm a psychologist- but your lip should be fine, it will just sting for awhile," the doctor said, smiling as he grabbed a small flashlight. "Prepare yourself." He pressed the button, shining the bright circle of light into the hazel eyes, which Reid was trying not to close, pulling away unconsciously as he resisted the urge to blink.
After what seemed like too long for the genius, the light turned off and he blinked, bright red and orange blotches swimming into his vision.
"Well?" Hotch asked, slipping his hands into his pockets as he tore his gaze away from Reid and looked at Dr. Ostheim.
"Just a little confused. He was suffering a flashback, I think," he answered, sending a sideways glance to the genius, who was trying to talk through all the layers of medical gauze that stuck to his gums. Using his tongue, he pushed down on the material experimentally and looking up everyone for the briefest of seconds before he offered a weak, strained smile, letting his eyes fall down to the floor.
"I'm shorry," he mumbled, the gauze disrupting his speech.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Hotch said, igniting a wave of nodding heads and agreeing words from the group of agents surrounding them.
"Hotch is right, man. You did better than most people would have," Morgan chimed in.
"You did really well, Reid. You kept your cool," Emily added.
"I'm proud of you." That was JJ.
"There's no way those jurors will feel sympathetic for that slimy son of a bitch." Garcia.
"Your testimony was more than enough to get him into jail, where he belongs," Rossi finished off.
And just like that, a new round of agreements- this one centering around the man being thrown in jail for sure- began. Reid shook his head, the chorus of voices overwhelming. He wanted to plug his ears, he wanted to go somewhere quieter, he wanted...he wanted...
"Shut up!" he yelled, pulling the bloody gauze from his mouth so that he could speak without the lisp it created. The saturated material sat nestled in his clenched fist, the blood smearing all over his fingers as he felt more blood from the wound seep into his mouth.
Startled, the team and Dr. Ostheim turned to look at him, their eyes wide and questioning.
"Reid-" Morgan tried to say, but he was cut off as the young agent shook his head and began speaking over him.
"Just...stop, okay? I don't care anymore if he gets locked up in a hospital or a prison cell. It's all the same, isn't it? It's not like either of the facilities will just let him walk out of their door, so why should it matter?" He paused, swallowing the blood that had gathered in his mouth. Thankfully, it seemed the flow was settling down, as the substance felt thinner and had taken longer to collect.
Garcia moved closer, saying, "Don't you think he deserves prison though?"
Reid jumped to his feet now. "Why should I care? It's not like it's going to change anything. I'll still be...be this!" He gestured to himself, his hands waving up and down. "Whether he's in an asylum or a cell, I'm still going to be messed up."
He stopped speaking, letting quiet fall over his team as they stared at him, their mouths slung open. Uncomfortable under their gaze, he balanced his weight between his feet, turning his eyes down to the parquet floor. He didn't know what exactly had set him off, truth be told. He hadn't even been aware he was the one yelling at everyone to shut up until they looked at him, confused and not sure of why he was getting so worked up. But, quite simply, he didn't care. How could he? It seemed that there were so many things more important than making sure a man who may or may not be insane gets into a certain place, where, either way, he will be locked up. How could he care about this man's inevitable, yet slightly ambiguous, future, when Reid was still unsure about his own?
"I...I want to go back to the hotel," he said after a long while, deciding that, at the moment, there was nothing more he needed than a hot shower and long nap.
"But the trial-" he heard someone start to say - Angela, he thought - but he interrupted her.
"It will be fine without me. I'm a mental patient, no one will question it." He was thankful he didn't look up, certain that he would have watched his teammates cringe at the wording and the term he had used to define himself. In reality, he knew he was more than just a stigmatized patient, but he was not in the mood to argue with the sharp-tongued prosecutor. He really just wanted to be anywhere but there at the moment.
Someone sighed. "If you really think it's best." It was Hotch.
"I do."
"I'll take him back," JJ volunteered, stepping forward so that she was standing beside Reid. She reached out her hand, her fingers brushing his knuckles in feather light touches before she pulled her hand back, deciding that now, after his flashback, would not be the best time to touch him. So instead she stood beside him, waiting patiently for Morgan to fish the keys to their hotel room out of his pocket.
He handed them over and she turned to Hotch, who had started speaking. "He can have another dose of the anti-anxiety if it gets too bad, but only one more. He can also have some Seroquel if he can't get to sleep, the doses are naturally really low. We'll call you and let you know what happened once we're done for the day."
She nodded, thanking him as she followed Reid out the door.
xXx
"How fast does it work?" JJ asked as she watched her friend pop the little blue pill called Seroquel into his mouth, trailing it with a cup of water that he drank half of. He placed the glass back down on the bedside table, shrugging slowly.
"Really fast. I don't think I've ever slept so deeply, either," he answered, glancing up at her with misty eyes.
She was sitting opposite him on Morgan's bed- something she felt very awkward about- and he was sitting on his own, his hands gripping the edge of the bed as though he would fall off at any given moment. Go flying up and up and away, never to be seen or heard from again.
"I'm sorry," he said, breaking the tense silence.
JJ narrowed her bright blue eyes as she tilted her head to the side, blonde hair falling across her shoulder. "Sorry? For what?"
He let his eyes slip down to the floor as he turned and started arranging the pillows, raising himself off the mattress so he could pull the covers back. "For messing up the trial," he mumbled, slipping under the blanket and pulling it up to his knees.
She frowned, letting her eyes soften in sympathy. "Spencer, you did very we-"
"Don't. Not you, JJ," he begged.
She stopped speaking, her mouth agape.
It wasn't necessarily what he had said that stopped her in her tracks, but how he said it. The words were said in a sigh, breathy and exhausted. He sounded, not broken, but just unwilling to fight or listen anymore. Like his entire mind and body were moments from sleep, and not because of the medicine slowly working its way through his system.
Swallowing, she asked, "What do you mean?"
He stared at the silver pillow, frowning. "Everyone keeps saying that I'm strong, and that they've never seen anyone with as much courage as me." He paused, taking the opportunity to turn and look up at her, his eyes wide, the darkness that was always around his eyes like a permanent bruise stood in stark contrast to the rest of him. Before she even had a chance to respond, to tell him that he was strong and did have a lot of courage, he continued, saying, "But they don't really think that. I know they don't, because they're treating me like I'm going to...going to break!"
He huffed in exasperation as he shook his head. "They act like I'm a delicate little child who's going to shatter at the slightest movement. And I know I haven't been handling this well, but..." Sighing, he closed his eyes as he pressed his lips together, his shoulders and face trembling. "How can they say how strong they think I am when they won't even treat me like they used to."
JJ sat in silence, her hands slowly and absentmindedly smoothing over the folds in her dress pants. She didn't know what to say.
Well, that wasn't entirely accurate.
She did know what to say, she just knew Reid wouldn't want to hear it. He wouldn't want her to apologize, he wouldn't want her to say that they were just being careful, he didn't want her to say he really was strong. And those were the only things she could think to say. So, with nothing else, she sat in the quiet room, her hands running up and down her own thighs.
"You know," he started, laughing slightly as he smiled at her. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually miss Morgan making fun of me. He's made some jabs here and there, but nothing like he used to."
She raised a plucked brow as she laughed. "You want Morgan to tease you?"
He grinned. "I never liked what he said, sometimes it could really hurt, but...at least, he wasn't afraid to hurt me." His wide grin faltered, a frown taking over as he sighed, grimacing as he swallowed hard. "It would just be easier for things to seem...normal if everyone else was acting normal too. I know I don't make any sense but-"
"No," she said softly, almost dreamily as she found a loose thread from her blouse and began picking at it. "No, I understand."
That was exactly how she felt when her sister died. Everyone would always tell her they were sorry, that it was so unfortunate. They would fuss over her and the rest of the family, assuaging their worries and anxieties. 'How could anyone have known?' 'She always seemed so happy.' 'It's not your fault- no one saw it.' And then, when the concerns were pushed away, she would hear new statements. 'It will get better.' 'You'll move on.' 'You've been handling this so well!' Right afterwards, they would turn around and contradict themselves by treating her as if the very act of breathing could harm her.
'Don't worry about your homework, I'll talk to your teacher.'
'You don't have to do your chores today.'
'Go take a nap or watch some television- I can do this on my own, dear.'
It was truly a maddening thing. How could you feel strong and like your accomplishing something when people all around you are regarding you like a precious glass sculpture, rare yet so very fragile?
"JJ?"
She looked up quickly, her eyes meeting Reid's. For a moment, they simply stared at each other. But then Reid smiled softly, as if he knew what she was thinking and, like her, wasn't sure of what to say. She couldn't help but smile back, sighing in relief that she didn't need to explain herself. Reid was the only person who seemed to know just what to do when words wouldn't work, at least in this instance.
He yawned, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
JJ chuckled.
"Is it working?"
"Mhm," he answered, nodding as he closed his eyes sleepily, only to open them again.
"Do you want me to leave so you can sleep? My room's right across the hall," she asked, unable to hide her smile when he started to lower himself down onto the mattress, his hips twisting as he rested on his back but kept his knees together and lying on their side.
He grumbled incoherently.
Stifling her chuckles with a hand, she stood up from Morgan's bed and hovered over Reid, asking, "What did you say?"
"Dun matt'r," he murmured, falling closer and closer to a deep sleep. She sighed, knowing she would not receive a clear answer from him in this state. It was really quite endearing, to see him so tired. His hair, damp from his shower not too long ago, was shaggy and mussed up even more from the pillow, his eyes twitching slightly behind his lids. His lips were parted slightly, his nostrils flaring with his breaths as his chest rose and fell in a slow and calm motion.
"Spence?" she asked, her voice nothing more than a whisper.
When he didn't respond, she could only come to one conclusion- he was fast asleep.
Smiling, she folded her arms over her chest as she let a small chuckle escape. He wasn't exaggerating when he said the Seroquel was fast-acting.
She sighed as she looked at Morgan's bed, the blankets slightly ruffled from where she had rested, and wondered if she should stay or go to her own room, checking on him every so often. Biting her lip, she looked back at the sleeping genius, smiling wide at the sight. In the short time that she had had her back to him, he had managed to wriggle further under the covers, the duvet now tucked under his chin. He was twisted more to the side, his hands hiding beneath the blanket and wrapped around the fabric at his chin. If she listened closely, she could even hear the soft sounds of him breathing.
"I think I might need to borrow some of those pills, Spence," she said quietly, shaking her head as she laughed softly and sat herself down on the bed. 'I should stay here in case he has a nightmare,' she thought, biting her lip and closing her eyes as she realized exactly what she was doing. She was coddling him, acting like he needed someone to wait on him in case he broke and needed to be put back together. She was doing just what he said he didn't want anyone to do.
But how did he expect her, or anyone, to act like they did before? How could they overcome the guilt, self-loathing and anger so quickly? How could they push away the fear they harbored for Reid when he had been so close to falling away from them forever?
It was like having Reid fall from a cliff, plummeting to an unmerciful crash of waves and jagged rocks, and the only thing to save him was a rope connected to a harness. They had grabbed the rope at the last minute and, after struggling and working harder than they ever had, they managed to pull him up, bloodied and scarred, but safe nonetheless. And, too afraid to make such a close call again, they all kept a strong and sturdy grip on the rope, never letting Reid wander too close an edge.
They couldn't help it- it was a learned instinct.
Protect him.
Keep him from needing help in the first place.
It was a lesson learned too late.
Sighing, she slipped her feet out of her heels and pulled her bag towards her, deciding that now would be an opportune time to get some work done. Using a large folder of paperwork as a surface, she began filling out forms and reviewing records, a tedious but necessary job.
It was nearly two hours later when the till of her phone broke the silence. Swearing, she pushed the pile of paper off her lap and twisted around, frantically reaching for her phone before it could wake up Reid. Flipping it open and pressing it to her ear, she jumped from the bed and quietly but quickly made her way onto the balcony.
"Jennifer Jareau," she answered, closing the glass door behind her with a click.
She immediately regretted her decision to take the call outside, her skin prickling with cold and forcing her to fold into herself to keep warm. But Morgan's voice managed to distract her from the chill.
"The trial just ended for the day."
She swallowed nervously. "And?"
A sigh. "Angela was able to work with Reid's panic attack, but then Olivera tried to say Reid was too incompetent to be a viable source of information. Not really sure which way they jury will go, to be honest."
"Do you think Reid was right?" she asked, biting her lip. "That it doesn't matter where he goes?"
Morgan paused on the other line, carefully weighing the options before speaking. "If he goes to the hospital, he can be cleared at any time. It's not like jail- if you could commit the crime once, you could commit it again. But in the hospital...if you commit the crime because you're sick, then when you're better they could let you go."
"Would they really let someone like Wright go?" she asked, incredulous.
"They could. It would be inhumane otherwise, if they deem him healthy."
She scoffed. "Inhumane? He's the one they're concerned with being treated humanely?"
"I know, Jay. I agree with you, we all do. But that's how it works, as much as I hate to admit it. Which is why we need to make sure this bastard ends up where he belongs."
She nodded, knowing he couldn't see her. It seemed so wrong, for someone like him to be given a chance at life simply because he was deemed 'healthy'. But something didn't feel right. Frowning, she asked, "Didn't you think Reid would have known that?"
"I think he did, but didn't want to acknowledge it. He's going through a lot- he doesn't want to admit that he could be put in danger again so easily."
"No one does."
A moment of silence passed before Morgan spoke again.
"How is Pretty Boy?"
"Sleeping," she answered, smiling. But her smile faltered as she thought back to their prior conversation. "You know, I've been thinking..."
"About?"
She bit her lip. "I think it will be better if we try to give Spence some space." Before he could respond, she quickly added, "Not leave him alone type of space. But...I think he's getting annoyed. Like he feels that we're babying him."
She could almost feel him analyzing her words in the way that had become unintentional to the profilers. "You think, or he said this to you?"
"Either way, I think we should all lay off on the mothering, okay?"
He chuckled. "Alright, I hear you."
"So, are you guys on your way back to the hotel?"
Hesitating, Morgan sighed and she almost imagined him running a hand over his bald head. "Actually, we need to go over the discovery(1) to some of Varney's case and get prepared for that too. The Prosecutor for that case- some guy named Phelps- is letting us sit in on it. Is that okay with you?"
She nodded vigorously, more than willing to step aside from anything having to do with Varney in the time being. But then, realizing that she was unseen to the dark-skinned agent, cursed her stupidity and said, "Yeah, I'm fine. Spence and I will probably grab some pizza or something when he wakes up."
"Sounds good, JJ. Call us if you have any problems, alright?"
"I will. Call me when you find out everything."
"Will do."
They said their good byes and hung up, JJ tucking her phone into the crook of her arm as she hugged herself tighter, shivering against the cold. Fall was turning quickly into winter, it seemed.
'And it's only the end of September,' she thought, shaking her head as she turned to enter the hotel room once more. 'End of September. Spence's birthday is coming up soon, then, isn't it?' She was quickly disrupted from her long list of birthday gift ideas by the hazel eyes looking up at her, hazy from sleep.
"Oh, Spence...I didn't wake you did I?" she asked, guiltily approaching the genius's bed and sitting down on the side of it, turning to look at him.
He smiled tiredly. "No. Your phone did." His voice was groggy and thick with the overtones of drowsiness, making him reach up for the glass of water, which he downed.
She offered an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I tried to answer it as quick as possible."
He waved her words away as he settled back down on his pillow. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure I'll pass out soon enough anyway," he said, laughing dryly. When JJ frowned, knitting her brows, he sighed and added, "I never wanted to live my life by a regime of pills, you know."
"But Spence, it's better for you this way," she said, lowering her voice so it was more soothing.
He turned his head to side, diverting his eyes as he mumbled, "It was better for my mom, too."
She swallowed nervously, once more unsure of what to say. She knew his fear- everyone did, especially now, after Andrew had exploited it. But why couldn't he understand that he and his mom were different? He was on the medications temporarily, and for a treatable illness. The exact opposite of his mother's situation.
"Do you...do you think she'll be mad at me? "
Startled by the sudden question, she felt her eyes narrow in curiosity. "Think who'll be mad at you, Spence?"
He waited a moment before answering quietly. So quietly, JJ found herself leaning in only inches away from him to hear him say, "My mom. I haven't written to her at all since...since before. Will she be mad at me?"
She knew it was stupid- knew it was completely unjustified, dangerous even, considering how sensitive Reid had become. But she couldn't help herself. At those words her heart just melted, her arms dying and needing to reach out to him like one would to a child just roused from sleep by a horrific nightmare. And before she could even register what she was doing, stop herself, she lied down beside Reid and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into an embrace. He stiffened against her touch and even shrank back slightly, a low whimper escaping his lips.
That was when her senses came to her- too late, she knew. She was ready to pull away from him and apologize over and over again when she felt it.
He relaxed in her arms and even reciprocated the gesture, wrapping his right arm around her and slipping his left arm underneath her body so as to properly hold her, burying his face into the crook of her neck. Thankful that she hadn't frightened him or triggered any unwanted flashbacks, she sighed and began to rub his back slowly.
"Thank you," he murmured.
She didn't say anything, just let her hand continue to trace circles on his back as she closed her eyes and together they fell asleep.
xXx
Author's Note:Discovery (1)- The discovery is pre-trial, where all the evidence working against the Defendant is revealed to both parties so that it may be used in the proceeding trial.
Before you guys want to put my head out on a stick (and I'm sure some of you do) I thought, realistically, Reid would have difficulties in giving his testimony. But! I'm sure that the end of Varney's trial will more than make up for it. Yes...?
Ah, we'll see.
Also! A special thanks to my BETA- TheMidnightOwl! All of the correct grammar and punctuation and whatnot is all because of her!