He was dying.
That's all he could think as he lay wide awake, staring paralyzed at the ceiling as he tried to ignore the malicious giggling originating from the closet and the steady pounding on the window. He felt exhausted but couldn't sleep, mind racing too quickly to process. He wanted-no , needed -it to stop, needed to be left alone, but his thoughts were so loud it felt as if he were suffocating.
Choose, boy.
What's wrong, Spence?
You killed me.
You killed me.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-"
It's your fault.
You chose me.
Why?
Why, Spence?
Why would you do this to me?
"No," he pleaded. "No, please ." But the voices weren't stopping and he was trapped and everything was so, so dark and he hated the dark so fucking much. He hated the unknown, hated how he couldn't even tell what was happening with his own mind, and he wished on every fiber of his being that he could go back all the way to when he was 22 and entering Quantico for the first time as an agent. He wished he could go back and tell himself to turn away, to go and actually do something instead of wasting all his opportunities on the FBI.
Now, he was nothing.
Now, he was just a random name in a list of employees.
Now, he didn't matter.
Now, he was disappearing as a nobody, as no one .
Now, he would be leaving the world without having ever cured schizophrenia or made a breakthrough about cancer-cells. Now, he would leave the world without having ever had children, without having ever continued the Reid bloodline. Now, he would leave the world without making a change, without making a difference, without leaving anything that could remember him and keep him alive at least a few years after he was gone.
You don't deserve to be remembered.
You don't deserve to be praised.
You don't deserve to live.
He shut his eyes, trying to ignore the tear of weakness, the tear of insignificance, trickling down his face.
A couple hours later, the sun began to rise, dispelling the darkness yet not riddening him of the shadows and smiles and voices. He must have been staring at that ceiling for hours, must have memorized every texture, before the door creaked open.
"Reid?"
It was Hotch.
His stomach sank. He didn't want his boss, his friend, to see him like this. He didn't want anyone to see what he had become, didn't want them to see how low his life had become. He was weak and he needed to be strong but he was so, so tired, and he couldn't even muster the energy to reply as the other man slowly entered the room.
"How're you feeling?" the older man asked, voice more gentle than Spencer had ever heard it.
He swallowed thickly. He didn't want to be worried about, didn't want to be pitied. The lie that he was fine, that everything was okay, was on the tip of his tongue but he knew that Hotch would never agree to just letting it go. And so, he just said, "I messed up."
Hotch took a seat at the edge of his bed and suddenly Spencer felt like a child. Suddenly he was reminded of the rare nights in which his mother was fully lucid, the nights in which she would read him one of her favorite literature pieces until he slipped into a peaceful slumber. And suddenly he was overwhelmed with all the memories, with all the times he had laughed and smiled and lived , and he came to the horrible realization that he would no longer make any more of those memories.
"I fucked up, Hotch…I-I didn't mean to, I just…" his voice trailed off but he knew that the older agent knew what he was saying, knew that he understood everything.
"It's going to be okay. You're going to recover from this, okay? Do you hear me, Spencer?"
Spencer. Hotch had never called him that.
Hotch had never called him that.
"No," he said, hoping, praying, pleading that this was all a dream. He edged away from the man sitting at the foot of his bed, trying to get as far away as possible. "No. No, no, no."
"What's wrong? Spencer, are you feeling alright?" the man, the imposter , asked and this was all wrong. He couldn't trust his own mind and he felt as if he were about to throw up because of how horrifying, how terrifying, all of this was.
Spencer.
Reid.
Spence.
Crash.
Pretty boy.
Kid.
Boy wonder.
It was everybody's voices, all of his loved ones calling out for him, calling out his name, and it was so loud and he clamped his hands over his ears, squeezing his eyes shut and praying that it would all go away.
The liar, the stranger pretending to be Hotch, shifted and Spencer just knew he was trying to get closer, just knew that he was trying to attack and kill him and the young genius lunged before he could, effectively sending the two of them toppling to the floor.
Hotch entered the guest room cautiously, not wanting to alarm the man inside or awaken him. Unsurprisingly, Reid was wide awake, staring upwards distantly as he fidgeted with his fingers. The room was quiet- too quiet, he thought-and it felt as if he were suffocating in the silence, but he continued approaching until he was completely inside.
"How're you feeling?" he asked, not sure if Reid would reply or not.
To his surprise, he did, simply saying, "I messed up."
Hotch took a seat at the edge of the bed, studying his fellow profiler with probably less professionalism and more concern than advisable. The genius shifted, mind evidently racing with thoughts that always seemed too complex for such a young mind. Finally, he spoke, "I fucked up, Hotch…I-I didn't mean to, I just…"
It broke his heart, hearing one of his agents, one of his friends, one of his family in such a state. "It's going to be okay. You're going to recover from this, okay, Reid?" The other man wasn't responding and he just felt so hopeless, so desperate. "Do you hear me, Spencer? Everything's going to be okay."
The agent stiffened, eyes going wide, and Hotch couldn't help but feel confused. The feeling only doubled as the younger man shot into a sitting position as if in some kind of frenzy. He was muttering a singular word under his breath, over and over again, and Aaron had no idea what to do because the man before him was obviously suffering from something worse than relapsing.
"What's wrong? Spencer, are you feeling alright?" Spencer. He had never called the young genius that, had never risked the boundary beyond strict formality, because unlike the rest of the team he wasn't like that. It wasn't as easy for him to settle in, to expose his emotions, so he had thought that doing so while Reid experienced some kind of episode would help.
Obviously, it didn't, because before he could even react, the younger agent was wrestling him to the floor. He shouted in alarm, the two of them tumbling and tossing and turning. By the end of it, he found himself laid flat across the floor, Reid's arm pressed firmly against his throat.
"Reid, what're you doing?" he asked, keeping his voice calm and stoic just as he did when talking down unsubs. There was something in the agent's eyes-frenzied, distressed, agitated, panicked, and also…unfamiliar. He didn't recognize Aaron and that was what scared him so much. "I'm Aaron Hotchner, your boss and friend. I am a federal agent. My son's name is Jack Hotchner-"
" Stop ," Reid hissed.
He lifted an eyebrow, trying his best not to react when the arm against his throat pressed tighter. "Stop what, Reid?"
"Stop lying."
"I'm not. I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. I've known you ever since you were recruited for the BAU at the age of 22, in which you were noticed for your eidetic memory and 187 IQ. We have worked countless cases together as coworkers."
"No. No, I work with Hotch. You're not him, so tell me who you are ."
"I'm Aaron"-he wheezed slightly as the grip became even tighter-"Hotchner. My son, Jack, is the most important person in my life. I…I have a brother, Sean, who lives in NYC. My ex-wife, Haley, was murdered by serial killer Foyet in 2010. I used to profile in Seattle before beginning work in Quantico. Reid, I am Hotch, okay?"
The agent was studying him, studying him like a predator observing his prey. But that wasn't a look that belonged to the team's Reid, to J.J and Emily's Spence, to Garcia's boy wonder, to Morgan and Rossi's kiddo. It was so wrong, so off, that Hotch wasn't even trying to get the man off of him, too distracted, too disturbed , to do so.
"I swear, Reid. It's me. I would never try to hurt you or cause you harm. I hope that all our time together has proven that," he said as soothingly as he could, alarmed to find his voice turning shockingly similar to how he spoke to Jack when he was sick. "Do you trust me?"
The agent hesitated for a moment before offering a small nod, finally releasing his arm from Hotch's throat and he could finally breathe clearly. The older man coughed-a raspy, wheezing sound that made himself wince-as he rose into a seated position.
As he caught his breath, he observed Reid, observing the way his expression never turned into one of regret or horror out of his own actions. Instead, he appeared to zone out again, dissociating from the world as his eyes flickered throughout the room, staring at things that weren't there.
Something was wrong and while he didn't have any confirmation, he was sure he knew.