Part 3- Reaching Out
Author Note: Trigger warning for DSH.
Spencer Reid paced the small, clinical looking lounge, his left hand dug deep into his black dress trouser pocket, the other pressed harshly into his right eye. The previous twelve hours had sapped every ounce of Spencer's energy. He had finally managed to get his mother to settle down to sleep in one of the safe house bedrooms on the premise that he was literally in the adjoining room so would not be leaving her any time soon. Ironically, he needed some space to himself to think. His limbs felt like lead weights, his body burning with exhaustion. Spencer was afraid to go to sleep. He was afraid that if he fell asleep, he or his mother would be killed. He was afraid that he would wake up screaming from a nightmare and disturb his mother into a psychotic episode. His hands ached to throw something, anything. To lash out. His rage was boiling to an explosive level. Spencer came to a halt. Tears pricked at his hazel eyes. The adrenaline was starting to crash. His throat yearned for a glass of water.
Spencer dragged himself to the kitchen and ran the cold water as he searched the cupboards for a glass. All he could find was plastic beakers. Selecting one, he gently closed the door and turned back to the sink. Water crashed into the beaker. Spencer twisted the faucet to stop the flow of water and brought the beaker to his lips. He relished the cool liquid sliding down his throat. He wasn't entirely sure what drove him to look in the cutlery drawer. With the beaker in one hand, he tugged open the drawer. His eyes fell upon the plastic picnic cutlery inside. Self hatred and self loathing burned in his chest as he selected a knife. Spencer numbly carried his water and the knife back to the lounge. He dropped heavily to the floor in front of the sofa and curled his knees tightly to his chest. He set the beaker down on the wooden floor beside him. Hot tears trickled over his chiselled cheeks as he focussed his attention on the knife. Pinching the object between his thumb and forefinger, he pressed down hard, snapping it in two. He choked back a sob and eyed his bare wrist. His silver watch glinted in the dim light. He had rolled his white shirt sleeves to his elbows earlier in the night. A bandage remained wrapped around his forearm. Spencer picked at the bandage, allowing it to fall gracefully to the floor, revealing a crudely stitched laceration. He was transfixed on the criss-crossing of the stitches, the way they pulled the edges of the wound together.
Spencer was startled out of his daze at the sound of his cell phone ringing. He twisted his position slightly, fishing his phone out of his trouser pocket. He frowned at the name on the screen.
"Hello?" said Spencer, desperately trying to steady his voice.
"Hey, kid. How's it going?"
"Uhm... This isn't a good time, Morgan."
"Listen, Reid. I've just been to the BAU. I got a weird text from Garcia. You've been in prison?" Spencer whimpered, "Reid?"
"Morgan, I'm scared. Please..." Spencer was unable to prevent his voice from cracking.
"Reid? Where are you?"
"Safe house. On Eleventh. Apartment 2C."
"Hold on, kid. I'm coming." Spencer listened to the dialling tone, tears running down his face and dripping onto his shirt. The cell phone slid from his sweaty palm and softly clattered against the floor. With a trembling hand, Spencer brought the sharp, jagged edge of the broken knife to his stitched wound. He quickly and efficiently severed the thread, forcing the wound to spring open. He forced the knife into the wound. Warm, sticky blood oozed out of the cut and dripped steadily onto his trousers. Moving the knife further down to his wrist, Spencer made a further gash into his flesh. He was numb to the pain. He was numb to everything. The crimson liquid flowed over his pale skin. Spencer's throat tightened and his mouth widened in anguish. He tucked his head into his knees, his arms resting on his forehead. Blood mingled with his hair and smeared his face. For the first time since he was released from prison, Spencer howled with sorrow, his entire body shaking as he cried.
Derek Morgan cradled a brown paper bag under his arm and clasped a tray of take out cups of coffee as he looked up at the apartment block the FBI used for housing agents under protection. The warmth of the baked breakfast goods emanated through his dark grey t-shirt. With a sigh, he stepped inside. The foyer was dark and silent. He slowly made his way up the stairs to the second floor. The second floor corridor was dimly lit by a few fading lamps. Derek stopped at apartment 2C. The brass number on the door was dull and the varnish appeared to be stripping away from the wood. Curling his dark fingers into a fist, Derek knocked twice. He listened hard. He could make out the muffled sounds of crying.
"Reid? It's Morgan." There was no response. Derek tried the door handle to find the door opened easily. Brows knotted in concern, Derek quietly closed the door behind him and edged down the pitch black corridor. He wasn't prepared for the sight before him. Spencer was seated in an upright foetal position, his head resting against his bloodied arms, his thin fingers tightly grasping his long, brown curls. He was sobbing softly. As if he were nearing a wounded animal, Derek gently set the bag and cups down on the floor and cautiously approached the broken genius. He knelt down beside Spencer and carefully pried the doctor's arms away from his face. He was horrified to find Spencer's hair and face smeared with blood. Tears left tracks in the blood on his cheeks.
"Reid? Talk to me." Derek's only response was a choked cry. Derek's almost blackened eyes noted the fresh gauges in Spencer's arm, "Spencer? Please. Talk to me."
"I'm... Sorry..." pressed out Spencer, his voice strained. Derek spotted a towel on the kitchen counter and came to his feet to retrieve it. Spencer's arms were held straight out, elbows balanced on his knees. His eyes were fixed to a spot on the floor. Derek returned and pressed the towel to Spencer's wounded arm to stem the bleeding.
"Reid? What happened?"
"I didn't do it. She planted the evidence to make it look like I did. She drugged me. She gave me heroin. I feel so... Dirty."
"Who did?"
"Cat and Lindsey."
"Wait... Cat Adams? As in, the hit woman, Cat Adams?" Spencer nodded as another rattle of sobs shook his shoulders.
"And Lindsey Vaughn. They took my mother while I was in prison..." Spencer's fingers numbly searched for the remnants of the knife, "Prison... Locked in... Like a caged animal..." Spencer's voice trailed off as he blindly clasped the knife.
"Reid? Come on, man. Talk to me."
"Beaten up in my cell... I couldn't scream... The towel..." Spencer was lost in a trance, his mouth bobbing and his watery eyes staring into space. Spencer moved the knife to his neck and pressed down. Derek had been too focussed on stopping the bleeding on Spencer's arm to notice the bead of blood on the jagged edge of the plastic.
"Shit! Reid!" Derek quickly snatched the knife away and pressed his palm against the small cut on Spencer's neck. The sharp edge of Spencer's jaw rested against Derek's thumb. Spencer's lip quivered, fresh tears spilling from his bloodshot eyes. No words were shared between the two men as Derek pulled Spencer in close. Spencer's head was cradled in between Derek's neck and shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around Derek's waist. Blood seeped through Derek's t-shirt from the spindly arms curled around him. Spencer's back rose and fell rapidly, tears soaking into the fabric of the t-shirt his face was nestled into, as he crumbled, sobbing hysterically. Derek rested a large, calloused palm on the back of Spencer's head, his fingers entwined in the genius' dark brown curls.
Spencer felt thinner than ever before underneath Derek's embrace. His vertebrae could be felt through his shirt and his ribs were pressed into Derek's torso. His hair was longer than it had been in years, but it was messy and wild. He was unshaven. In the space of a year, Spencer looked as though he had aged ten years. He was no longer the innocent, nerdy looking Spencer with garish shirts and sweater vests. Instead, he was this hardened, almost colder man who looked like Spencer. Spencer had seen more trauma in a few short years than most people would ever see in a lifetime. Prison was the straw that broke the camel's back.
Derek felt Spencer's breathing slow. Spencer slowly drew back, unable to meet Derek's eyes. He sniffed and ran the side of a shaking hand across his nose and mouth to wipe away the saliva and mucus, clearly too frazzled to realise that the action went against his germophobic tendencies. All of his wounds stung mercilessly.
"I'm sorry, Morgan."
"You've got nothing to be sorry for, kid. You're allowed to get upset. It's okay not to be okay. It's hard for us men to talk about our emotions at the best of times, but when you've spent your whole life shutting yourself away, it's hard to reach out. When you bottle it up and hide away, this is what happens." Spencer sniffed once more and lifted his eyes to meet Derek's. Derek observed the wounds that had slowly stopped bleeding, "Is there a first aid kit?"
"Bathroom, I think." Derek nodded, gathering up the broken shards of knife, the bloodied towel and the old bandage from the floor. Spencer remained seated in a daze, his hands brushing against the floor between his parted knees, as Derek could be heard fumbling around in the bathroom. Derek returned with a small green box. He knelt beside the young doctor and popped open the box. Gathering some gauze and the peroxide, Derek turned to Spencer.
"I'm going to clean these wounds and bandage them. I'm not gonna lie, kid, this is going to hurt. Here, bite down on this. It'll make this easier so you don't wake your mom." Spencer nodded, his glistening eyes falling upon the roll of bandage that Derek held out. Spencer took it and considered it briefly, "Trust me, Reid. It'll help." Spencer opened his mouth and stuffed the roll between his teeth, "Okay, here goes." Derek pushed Spencer back so that his spine was flush against the sofa. Derek pressed the gauze to the opening of the bottle and inverted it, soaking the material with the harsh smelling liquid. Spencer closed his eyes and braced himself. As the peroxide soaked gauze came into contact with the oldest wound on his arm, he jerked back, a muffled shriek leaving his throat. Derek quickly moved on to the second cut. Spencer panted behind the roll of bandage. Taking another bandage from the box, Derek expertly wound it around Spencer's forearm.
"Okay, last one." Spencer was not prepared for the fire that spread in waves through his jugular and carotid as the peroxide came into contact with the small laceration on his neck. His fingers weakly clawed at the floor, his head twisted away from the source of the agony. The gauze was removed and a small dressing taped over the cut. Derek gently removed the roll from Spencer's mouth.
"It's over, Reid. Do you feel up to some breakfast?" Spencer turned his pain-filled eyes to the dark-skinned man before him. He watched silently as Derek retrieved the bag and tray of cups. Derek sat down in front of Spencer, folding his legs underneath him. He handed a cup over. Spencer accepted the cup gratefully with shaking hands and offered a small smile. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee tickled his senses. He had forgotten how much he missed coffee. Derek held out a bread roll filled with layers of bacon wrapped in paper to the doctor. Spencer's mouth watered at the smell. His stomach gave a growl, reminding him that he had not eaten in almost twenty four hours. Derek chuckled to himself as he opened his own sandwich and took a bite, grease dribbling down his chin. Spencer set his cup down and unravelled his sandwich. He bit into it, savouring the salty goodness from the bacon.
"Thank you, Morgan," mumbled Spencer, his mouth still full of bacon.
"What for, pretty boy?"
"Everything. For being the best big brother anyone could ask for." A smile graced Spencer's lips. Derek patted Spencer on the knee and bit into his sandwich.
"Anytime, kid."
