Hello, there. Enjoy! :)
I don't own Criminal Minds or any of the characters. I also don't own "The Great Escape" by Patrick Watson.
The Great Escape
A heavy black bag was shoved into his hands, and the rough canvas of the medical bag was hot against his skin in the blazing California sun.
"Hotch, I – I'm not qualified for this. I'm not a – " he stammered.
"You're the only option we have right now, Reid. We need you," Hotch replied, answering his cell phone as he walked back toward JJ, who was managing the press.
Spencer gripped the bag tighter, suddenly feeling as if it weighed a thousand pounds. He may have been a doctor, but that certainly did not mean that he had any medical training whatsoever. The paramedics had been held back by a bombing at the hospital, leaving the BAU alone to handle the target of the second bombing – a professor in her late 40s. A professor in her late 40s who was currently bleeding out on the asphalt of the college parking lot.
Kneeling quickly beside her, Spencer opened the medical bag and rummaged around inside. He had read several medical books, but he was struggling to keep his mind clear and calm in the face of trouble. He put his hand in hers and took two deep breaths.
"Ma'am, my name is Spenc – my name is Dr. Spencer Reid. Can you hear me? Can you squeeze my hand?" The woman squeezed his hand gently, and Spencer breathed a small sigh of relief as he realized that she was still conscious. "Okay, ma'am, I need you to listen to me. You've been in an accident. It is important that you do not try to move. I'm going to help you."
Spencer pressed two fingers gently against her throat; her pulse thudded faintly against his hand. He shifted them to her wrist and checked her radial pulse. It was absent, a sure sign that she was in the beginning stages of shock. He leaned down and listening to her breathing, which was shallow and labored.
He quickly pressed an oxygen mask over her nose and mouth before moving to try to work on her injuries. She was missing her right leg below the knee and there were quite a few heavily-bleeding cuts in her abdomen, which Spencer assumed were due to metal shrapnel from the car bomb.
Spencer grabbed an elastic tourniquet from inside the medical bag and tightened it around her right leg to impede the bleeding. He carefully wrapped the open wound with shaking hands. Moving on to her stomach, he wrapped the cuts just tight enough to keep her from bleeding out.
He paused. This was the part that he had been scared of. Placing his hand back in hers, he asked, "Ma'am, I'm going to put in an IV but first I need to know if you are allergic to any pain medications. Squeeze my hand once for yes and twice for no." She weakly squeezed his hand twice.
Spencer tied another elastic tourniquet above her right elbow and pulled the morphine and syringe out of the bag. He filled the syringe and prepared it with practiced ease, feeling himself quickly slip into old habits. He smoothly injected it into her arm, fully aware that Hotch and the rest of the BAU were watching him carefully.
He pulled out a saline bag as well, hooking it up. He quickly injected the needle into her arm again and set up the drip.
Spencer sat back on his heels, squeezing the woman's hand again and trying not to look at the discarded morphine syringe lying on the pavement.
"It's alright, ma'am. I'm right here, and you're going to be okay."
oOoOo
Dr. Spencer Reid crossed his legs and slumped against the side of the BAU jet, staring out the window at the clouds they were skimming the top of. The sun was setting somewhere behind them, casting long golden rays across the airy white clouds.
Spencer could feel Hotch eyeing him from across the aircraft and returned his gaze back to his book. The last thing he needed was the interrogation that was sure to follow if he started a conversation with the Unit Chief.
It had been a rough case, more so on Spencer than on any of the other agents. The last thing he had expected while flying out to Los Angeles on a case was to be forced to take the place of the paramedics on a bombing scene. Of course, he had read book after book in the past, and that somewhat prepared him for the experience. But what he wasn't prepared for was the familiar feeling of a syringe in his hands, the longing in his veins as he propelled morphine into the injured woman's system.
Derek walked past on his way back from the restroom in the back of the plane and clapped a hand on Spencer's shoulder reassuringly. Spencer met his gaze and the other agent smiled slightly.
Spencer looked back toward his book without returning the smile. He knew the rest of the team had probably had a good idea about his dilaudid addiction not long after his kidnapping by Tobias Hankel, and if they hadn't, they definitely knew now.
But his problem wasn't with the fact that the team knew about his former addiction. His problem was with the fact that suddenly his body was longing for the drug – every fiber of his being yearned for hydromorphone to flow through his veins.
Searching for distraction, he tried to read his new book about quantum mechanics, but he was unable to focus on the words and theories. But he continued to try to force himself to read until the jet touched back down in Quantico.
Spencer was the last one off the plane, stuffing his hands roughly into his jacket as he strolled lankily across the runway toward the FBI building. He kept his head down as he walked to his cubicle in the BAU office and dropped off his go bag.
Bad day, looking for a way home,
Looking for the great escape.
"Reid?" Hotch's voice echoed through the room and Spencer froze on his way to the door. He looked up to see the Unit Chief standing just outside his office, looking expectantly at him.
"Yeah, Hotch?"
"Come meet me in my office."
Spencer grudgingly trudged his way up the stairs and took a seat in one of the smooth leather chairs opposite the man's desk. He breathed deeply and prepared himself for the stern agent's scathing lecture.
Hotch followed Spencer inside but didn't move from the door. "Don't sit down; I'm not going to lecture you. Neither of us has eaten. Do you want to get dinner somewhere?"
"With all due respect, Hotch, we're all tired. I wasn't expecting to be called upon to try to save a woman's life today, and it certainly doesn't help that I failed. As much as I appreciate the offer, I think I'm just going to go home," he declined.
"Then I'm driving you home. We'll get some coffee or scotch on the way," Hotch replied in a no-questions-asked tone.
"Hotch, you have to get home to Jack. I don't want – "
"That wasn't an offer, Spencer. You and I both know what is going on here, and I'm not willing to leave you alone right now to struggle on your own."
"But Jack – " he protested defeatedly.
"Jack will be fine."
Spencer met his gaze hesitantly, and in that moment, he knew. Hotch was aware of what was going on – all of it. He knew not only the fact that Spencer had been and was struggling with addiction, but also that he was craving the drug now and that he would give anything and everything to have it.
He nodded and stared at his hands, pale against his black dress slacks. Spencer stood up and followed his boss out the door, running a hand through his hair agitatedly.
"Will you take me up on that dinner offer now, Spencer? I don't want you to go home as much as you don't want to be there," Hotch said as he accompanied Spencer to the door of the BAU office. They rode down the elevator and walked to Hotch's car in silence.
They both climbed into Hotch's SUV and the older man started the car, pulling carefully out of the parking lot and out onto the main road.
"You didn't have to do this, Hotch. You know that, right? I could have gone home and gone to my old NA meetings again."
Silence hung thickly in the car before Hotch answered. "Would you have?"
There was another bout of silence. "Probably not," Spencer offered honestly.
"Exactly," Hotch said simply. "Look, Spencer, we have talked time and time again about this. The only way that this unit functions properly and smoothly is if the team members are a family. We are a family, Spencer, and that means that I'm not going to let you go home alone when you are struggling with something beyond your control. Even if you had declined all my offers of dinner or drinks, don't think for one second that I would have let you out of my sight."
Spencer watched the headlights of the passing cars as he debated his answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and ashamed. "I haven't used in over two years, Hotch." He pulled out his two-year chip from Narcotics Anonymous and ran his thumb over it, examining it in the darkness. "I considered it a couple times, but I went to my meetings. I stayed strong. But I've never filled a syringe and watched it slide into someone's skin like that. All I wanted was for it to be me on the receiving end of that needle, and I don't know how to feel about that."
Hotch parked the car and waited a moment before turning it off. "You don't have to know how to feel. This is a really difficult situation, and there's no template for exactly how the recovery process pans out. I'm sure there are going to be times when you will want to use more than you want to eat – more than you want to breathe. Those are the times when you have to be strong, but know that you don't have to do it alone. Every member of the team is willing to help you through anything, Spencer."
They got out of the car and walked toward the entrance of the restaurant. Spencer was halfway to the door when he caught the distinct scent of curry in the late-night breeze. He looked up to see that Hotch had brought them to Spencer's favorite Indian restaurant.
"You don't even like Indian food," the younger man quickly pointed out, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk.
Hotch pushed him forward gently. "I don't care. This is about you."
When they were seated in the restaurant, Spencer continued the conversation. "Does the rest of the team really know what's going on?" Morgan's reassuring smile and shoulder clap were fresh on his mind.
"Most of them do," Hotch replied. "Of course, they don't know the details – none of us do – but they're profilers like you and me. They study people's behavior for a living, and they can all recognize the behavior characteristic to a drug addict."
"I feel weaker than the rest of the team. No one else is struggling like this. None of the others are fighting addiction like I am."
"We all fight different battles, but the important thing to realize is that we are all fighting. You may struggle with addiction, and I know that it seems like you are weak or alone, but we are all struggling with something. Nearly every member of the BAU has had an exceptionally rough past, and that is something that I think we all need to realize so we don't trivialize each other's struggles." Hotch took a sip of water before continuing. "No one in this department looks down on you for this, Spencer. We genuinely care for you and all that we really want is for you to get better."
They ordered their food and an uncomfortable silence descended on the table. Spencer cleared his throat and excused himself to the restroom, where he splashed cold water onto his face and leaned over the sink. He just needed a moment to think. For just a second he was grateful that he didn't carry the dilaudid with him anymore, or he might have shot up right there in the bathroom of the little Indian restaurant. And he was doubly grateful to Hotch for forcing him to come out to dinner with him. If anything, the man deserved an explanation.
As soon as Spencer returned to his seat, he began talking. "It started all those years ago, when I was kidnapped by Hankel. I don't know how much you saw on that video, but Tobias – he, he was addicted to this drug called dilaudid. He would inject me with it when I was in the shed, claiming that it 'made it better.' And it did. I had these flashbacks of my childhood. Sometimes they were memories I didn't want to remember but a lot of times, they were good memories of my mom reading to me before her schizophrenia got bad. And when I would come back, I would still feel like I was floating – like nothing in the world could touch me, especially not Tobias Hankel and his split personalities."
Hotch was listening attentively, his hands folded on the table in front of him.
"When I shot him and the team showed up, I grabbed the syringes and the rest of the dilaudid from his pocket. I've regretted it every day. I should have left the drugs there in his pocket as he was dying. If I had, I wouldn't be here struggling so much now."
The waitress brought their food to the table and Spencer eagerly dug into his chicken tandoori. Hotch took a few bites as well, giving him time to think and formulate a response to Spencer's honest confession.
"Spencer," Hotch began, but the boy kept his eyes firmly fixed on his meal. He was full of nervous energy, his legs shaking enough to move the table. "Spencer, look at me. Do you believe that you are weak because you are struggling as a result of what Tobias Hankel did to you?"
Spencer nodded and averted his eyes again. "I wasn't – I couldn't – You saw what – "
Hotch shook his head and set his own fork down on the table. "Do you know what I saw over the course of those three days?" The younger agent looked up slightly to meet the man's gaze, his eyes partially hidden by his hair. "I saw a boy show incredible courage in the face of the greatest danger he had ever experienced in his life. I saw a young man endure being drugged, tortured, and beaten for days in a shed, trusting that his team was going to find him and save him. Spencer, that case took its toll on all of us, especially you. You had to be stronger than all the rest of us put together, and you did it. You were stronger than any of us, you were stronger than the three fragmented personalities of Tobias Hankel, and you were strong enough to fight your way out of that graveyard without our help. You didn't let him break you."
"But I did let him break me. In the end, I did. When I took those drugs and continued to use them, I was letting him win even though he had already been defeated. I gave the dead man more power than the living man ever had." Spencer's voice was cold and matter-of-fact.
"Stop it," Hotch demanded, his gaze sharp and piercing. He pointed to the nearly full plate of tandoori in front of the young man. "Eat." Spencer picked up his fork and took a few more bites of the dish. "You didn't prove that he had won when you took the dilaudid. The only thing you proved that night and every night thereafter is that you are human. You struggle just like everyone else, and no amount of desensitizing or detaching yourself from reality can ever change that."
Spencer felt irritation begin to churn in his stomach. He gritted his teeth tightly. "I was and still am fighting addiction!"
"You were drugged repeatedly, Spencer. You can't act like it didn't happen and you especially can't act like this addiction is your fault."
The younger agent dropped his fork and scrubbed his face roughly with his hands. With shaking fingers, he pulled out his two-year chip again and set it on the table between them.
"You have no idea how frustrating it is – you know – to think that I've moved past this and finally conquered it, just to be dragged right back down. Two years down the drain like water from a faucet." Spencer's voice was tired and defeated, his long, pale fingers running over the edges of the small token in front of them.
"Today's events were an understandable trigger – "
"It scared me, Hotch. It was so damn easy for me to slip right back into the familiar rhythm. . . . It felt so familiar, so right, to fill that syringe. I don't know what to do. I'm not supposed to crave dilaudid anymore. I can't even trust myself to go home because it's all I want right now," he confessed, his hands shaking as he began eating again.
Hotch frowned and looked at him in concern. "Just because you have made it this far doesn't mean the rest of the road is going to be easy. It doesn't necessarily ever get easier with time; you just get stronger." He paused to finish the last few bites of his dinner. "Come on. Let me take you home."
He paid the check and led Spencer out of the building in silence. They got in the car and Hotch drove the young man home, parking the car outside the apartment building in order to walk him to his second-floor apartment.
Spencer turned his key inside the doorknob on the door of apartment 23. He pushed the door open and turned back to where Hotch was quietly lingering in the worn hallway.
"Hotch . . . I don't know how to thank you for – I don't know – everything," Spencer began uncertainly, awkwardly. "It, um, it means a lot."
"What is family for?" Hotch replied. He flashed a rare smile. "Look, I know this is hard right now. It's okay to struggle sometimes, and to be honest, you're not always going to win the battle between shooting up and staying sober. But please don't run from this, and don't let it make you feel weaker than anyone else on the team. It may not seem okay today, but one day it will be. And if at any moment along that journey you need help or support or even just a distraction, my door is always open. Don't ever hesitate to call me, okay? I'm always here. Got it?"
Spencer toed the carpet in the entryway of the apartment, staring at his shoes. "Yeah, I got it, Hotch. Thank you again." He offered a sheepish half-smile of his own.
"Don't give in, Spencer. You're stronger than this addiction, and you're going to make it through."
Hotch stood awkwardly in the doorway for another moment before turning and walking down the empty hallway toward the exit. Spencer watched him turn down the well-lit stairwell before closing the door to his apartment and slumping against it.
Hey child, things are looking down.
That's okay, you don't need to win anyways.
Don't be afraid, just eat up all the gray
And it will fade all away.
Don't let yourself fall down.
Spencer let himself slide down the door to the carpet floor. He put his head in his hands and fought off the cravings again. Everything had seemed all fine while he was eating food in the restaurant, when he was hearing Hotch reassure him that the addiction wasn't a result of his own weakness or stupidity. But now that he was alone again, all he wanted was the drugs coursing through his system and giving him just a few moments of peaceful emptiness. No facts and statistics running through his head, no buzzing subconscious reminding him of all the cases he's worked, no incessant worry about his mother in the back of his mind. Just blissful emptiness as he floats high upon the clouds.
He shook his head to clear his mind and stood up, moving around the apartment to distract himself. He tossed the leftovers of his dinner in the refrigerator, taking in its sad, empty state in silence. Spencer grabbed the milk and sniffed it experimentally; it had long gone sour. He screwed up his nose and threw the half-full quart of milk in the trash.
Making his way down the hall, he came to his bedroom. Books lined the bookshelf in the corner, the stacks of tomes overflowing and making their way onto the floor as well. Spencer bypassed them and pulled a change of clothes out of the closet.
Finally, he reached the moment that he had been dreading most. He entered the bathroom and leaned on the counter, studying his reflection intently in the mirror. He knew that the dilaudid was carefully hidden in a bag under the sink and after a moment, he bent down and retrieved it, holding the small bottle in his uncertain hand.
An internal battle waged itself in Spencer's mind as he stared at the tiny bottle full of his personal weakness. Part of him desperately wanted to shoot up, wanted to forget everything that had happened that day. But the other part of him felt some strange urge to throw the dilaudid to the floor, to smash it against the tile beneath his feet, destroy anything connected to his addiction.
His fingers tightened anxiously around the bottle. He wanted more than anything to feel the prick of the needle piercing his skin one more time, but he knew that he shouldn't. Hotch's calm voice echoed in his mind. You're stronger than this addiction. You're stronger than this addiction. You're going to make it through. You're stronger than this addiction.
With one final sigh, Spencer unscrewed the lid from the drug and tilted the bottle, letting the substance pour into the sink and down the drain. He was never going to make it out alive if he kept torturing himself like this. But there was one thing that he was determined to do: he was going to beat this addiction or die trying.
Bad day, looking for the great escape.
Hey says, bad day, looking for the great escape.
On a bad day, looking for the great escape,
The great escape.
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