TW: mentions of drugs and drug abuse, descriptions of drugs
It's been a month. A month since that incident in the closet. A month since you and Spencer have actually spoken to each other about anything personal. You had tried texting him, tried catching him at work to talk—but he ignores you. And the worst part is that you see him getting worse. He's still using—you can tell. Not just by his moods, which are severely unstable, but he shows up late. He's unfocused. The bags under his eyes just keep getting darker. He looks so fucking tired. It hurts you that he's hurting. You've never experienced PTSD, but you've profiled it before. You can't imagine what he's going through, and all you fucking want is to try to help him.
You still haven't talked to JJ. The two of you barely glance at each other. You know it's not her fault that she and Spencer split up—Spencer had made that very clear when talking to the team. You regret what you said to her in Georgia, but part of you is too proud to say anything to her. But you know she's struggling, too.
The worst part about watching Spencer struggle is that no one else seems to notice. Sure, they share glances. Morgan seems to be staring at Spencer more than usual, Emily giving him questioning glances. But no one says anything—no one tries. Your anger stays stagnant in your chest all the time, threatening to explode.
The team staggers back into the office after a case in Louisiana—men dying outside of bars. The unsub was a woman who killed sleazy men because she got raped once. In your opinion, she was doing the world a favor, but the United States government does not see it that way. You drop your go bag on your desk, groaning.
"Why was that case so tiring?" You complain, inhaling deeply through your nose.
"It wasn't that bad," Prentiss says, leaning against her desk.
"It's just tough when the lines are blurred," Hotch says.
"My loves, you're back!" Garcia waltzes into the room, arms wide open. Morgan gives her a hug before she moves to you. You hug her tightly, watching as she gives everyone a hug. Spencer declines, a small smile on his face.
You frown, eyeing him. You bite the inside of your cheek as the team continues talking. Spencer quietly gathers his things, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He looks up at the team, eyes landing on everyone before settling on you. The look in his eyes isn't anger—it's something else. Regret. Sadness. Hurt. Loneliness. Helplessness. He holds your gaze for a moment before turning away, swiftly pushing the BAU doors open.
You watch him walk past the doorframe, closing behind him before swiveling to the team. They're laughing and joking—talking about going out to the bar. Your hands curl into fists.
"What the fuck is wrong with all of you?" Your accusing tone cuts through their conversation, five heads swiveling in your direction.
"Wha—"
"Are you guys dumb? Do you guys not pay attention?" You look at the faces of your coworkers, your voice steady. You point toward the door. "That boy was kidnapped. He was kidnapped and he was drugged—with a very highly addictive drug, might I add." You put your hands by your sides again, clenching them. "Are you guys fucking blind? He comes in here late every day. He's unfocused. His moods are erratic. He's angry all the time. Wow, I wonder what that sounds like." You point accusingly at your team. "He's struggling. And you guys just go about your normal lives every day like everything's okay. God, you guys are some of the best profilers in the entire world, but you are so fucking blind to what's right in front of you." Tears fill your eyes, the lump in your throat growing bigger. "The fact that you can just sit there and watch a member of your team—of your family—struggle and descend into drug addiction is beyond me. What were you guys gonna do, wait until he overdoses to say anything to him? Wait until he dies? He deserves better than all of you, because obviously, none of you care enough to help him." Hotch walks toward you, his hands raised like he's going to comfort you. You hold your hand up, stopping him. "No, just...don't." Your voice breaks and you grab your bag, turning around to sprint out the doors. "Spence!"
You run out of headquarters, swinging your head to see if he's anywhere. Fuck. No. You run to your car, throwing your purse in the backseat and getting in quickly. You start your car, buckling your seatbelt as you back out of the parking spot. You practically shred the rubber on your tires as you speed to Spencer's apartment. A thousand thoughts run through your head—the fact that you just yelled at your whole team, the fact that you just cussed at your boss. The best feeling though? The anger dissipating from your chest as soon as you were done speaking to your team.
You park outside of Spencer's, shutting off your car and pushing your keys in your pocket as you get out. You run up the steps outside of Spencer's apartment two at a time, finding yourself standing breathless outside of his door. You knock three times, biting the inside of your cheek.
"Spencer, please open the door," you plead, knocking again. "Spence. Please." No answer. You curl your hand into a fist, banging harder. "I'm not leaving, so either you let me in or—"
The door swings open, revealing Spencer still in his work clothes. His eyes are bloodshot—but not from drugs. They're puffy. His cheeks are red. He's been crying. He stares at you, a blank expression on his face.
"Please let me in."
He doesn't move, one hand on the door, the other by his side. You grow frustrated, pushing past him into his apartment. Your eyes glance around, noticing the mess strewn around the place. He shuts the door and turns toward you abruptly.
"Why are you here?" His voice breaks, and it takes everything in your power not to cry in front of him.
You turn, tilting your head. "You're going to tell me what's wrong with you. And you don't get to pull the 'it's nothing' excuse, because I know you're not fine. I know you're using, Spencer. I'm so fucking worried about you." You take a step toward him, your eyes never leaving his tired hazel ones. "I care about you."
His bottom lip trembles, averting his gaze away from you. "I...I..."
You cross the short distance to him, one of your hands immediately moving to the side of his face. Surprisingly, he doesn't move away from you, instead he leans into your touch. His sad eyes look into yours, tears springing in his eyes.
"It's okay," you whisper. "You can say it, Spence. Say it."
"I am a drug addict," he whispers, his voice breaking. The tears fall freely down his cheeks. "I...I don't want to be. I just—I'm struggling, I'm struggling and I feel so alone and—" His own sob cuts himself off. You watch him break in front of you, his body shaking.
You pull him into you, wrapping your arms around him. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling his arms wrap around you and squeeze. He buries his head in your neck, his body shaking as he cries. You feel the lump return in your throat.
"It's okay, baby," you whisper, your voice quiet. "I'm here. You're not alone. I'm here."
You hold him like he might break—which he might as well be doing right in front of your eyes. Eventually, he pulls back, his eyes red and puffy, his cheeks tear stained. You move your hands to the side of his face, wiping the tears away. His arms stay around your back.
"I'm s-sorry," he stutters, his voice catching in his throat.
"Spencer, don't apologize. Please." You run your thumb along his cheek.
"N-No, I'm s-sorry for treating you like that last month," he whispers. "That's not me." He searches your eyes. "That's not me," he repeats. After a second, he takes in a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek. "I...I need help." His eyes are sad, his hands clutching the fabric of your shirt.
"I can help you find some help, okay? We can look at programs, at NA meetings, whatever you want, okay?" Your voice is gentle and caring.
He clutches you tightly, a sad, little smile appearing on his face. "R-Really?"
"Yes. Whatever you want."
He bites his bottom lip. "I...I feel so stupid. I feel weak. This...this drug takes me away—it's distracts me from my reality. My reality...sucks right now."
"Spence, I'm here for you, okay? I care about you so fucking much. I..." You stop yourself, biting your tongue. No. Not now. Not like this. "I want you to get better. I miss you. This past month has been hell without you."
"I've missed you, too," he whispers, leaning in so he can touch his forehead against yours.
"Come on," you whisper, tugging him into his bedroom. He follows, standing in the middle of his room.
"What?" He asks, raising his eyebrows, wiping his eyes again.
"Where is it, Spence?" You ask quietly, searching his face. He doesn't speak for a moment, the wheels turning in his brain. "You need to get clean. I need you to get better. And if that means you hate me for a while for taking away Dilaudid and your needle, then I can live with that."
He's silent, contemplating. You can literally see the internal struggle. Then, "It's in my closet. In a little box."
You turn to his closet, opening it and pushing clothes aside until you find a rectangular box tucked away in the corner. You grab it before standing up, opening it to find two small bottles full of clear liquid and a needle. You close the box, turning around to look at him. After a second, you take the box into his bathroom, opening each of the vials and pouring the liquid down the sink. You dispose of the bottles and the needle before returning back to his room. You put the box on his dresser before walking over to him, tugging at his tie.
His hand flies to your wrist, clutching it. "No, I don't want—"
"We're not having sex, Spence," you murmur. "Let's get you in some comfy clothes, okay?"
"I don't want you to see my—" He cuts himself off, his eyes wide.
He doesn't want you to see the bruises.
Your eyes soften, your hand rubbing up and down his arm. "Spence. Let me...let me see you. Let me help you. Please."
He hesitates a moment before nodding, releasing his grip on your wrist. "O-Okay."
You resume pulling his tie off, pulling it over his head and tossing it to the floor. You pull his shirt out of his pants, slowly unbuttoning the buttons from the bottom up. You expose his pale chest, pushing his shirt slowly off of his shoulders and down his arms. He crosses his arms in front of him, hiding himself.
"Spencer," you say softly, gripping his wrist lightly.
He looks into his eyes as you slowly pull his arms away from him. You look down, biting the inside of your cheek as you take in the sight of his arms. Small bruises line the inside of his arms, especially by the inside of his elbow. You gently run your fingers over the bruises, Spencer flinching slightly. You look up at him, eyes searching his before you lean down and gently press your lips to his bruises. He inhales sharply, body tensing for a moment before he relaxes, letting out his breath. You stand back up, dropping his arms before you move to his pants. You unbuckle his belt before unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down. He kicks out of them.
You rummage around his dresser before you find a pair of pajama pants and an old Caltech t-shirt for him to wear. He steps into the pants, pulling them up. You slip the old shirt over his head. You lace your fingers through his, your hand moving to his face. You push the hair out of his eyes, a little smile on your face.
You lean in, pressing your lips against his so softly, you're afraid he might break. He kisses you back with just as much gentleness, his arms snaking lightly around your waist. You run your fingers through his hair gently. He's fragile. So fragile.
After a moment, you pull away, still holding his face in your hands. A little smile plays across his face, his fingers rubbing softly against your back.
"Will you...can you stay with me? Please?" His eyes are pleading, his voice small.
"Of course I'll stay, Spence." You kiss his forehead.
He holds your hand as the two of you climb into bed together, slipping underneath the covers. You turn off Spencer's lamp, lying on your side in bed behind Spencer. You wrap your arms around him, your nose by his hair. You inhale his scent, the smell seeming to calm you. He rests his hands on top of yours, snuggling into you.
"Thank you," he whispers.
"I care about you, Spence," you whisper back. "I want to help you."
"I know," he replies. "Thank you."
You don't answer; instead, you kiss the back of his head, feeling him relax further into you. And that's where you stay all night, slipping into sleep as you hold a very broken Spencer Reid in your arms.
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Author's Note
TWO TIMES IN ONE DAY??? I was on a roll so I figured why not. This chapter was by FAR my favorite to write. I teared up while writing it. I'm sorry for all the angst and tears, but jeez, do I love writing it.
Thank you all for the lovely comments and votes! I love you all so much omg. This is just a reminder that I don't mind comments like "can't wait for the next update!" or things like that, but what I don't like is "update now" or "can you update again?" I take pride in my chapters, and I've been busy lately so I'm sorry I can't update as frequently. But I love y'all.
Anyway, hope you enjoyed this chapter! :)