this chapter is LONG
warnings: mentions of drug addiction, mentions of death
ALSO FROM THIS POINT ON, IF I SEE ANY COMMENTS MAKING FUN OR JOKING ABOUT DRUG OR ALCOHOL ADDICTION, I WILL STRAIGHT UP BLOCK YOU. ADDICTION IS NOT A JOKE. YES, THIS INCLUDES COMMENTS ABOUT STRAUSS.
Spencer flips the gold NA chip with his fingers as he sits on the metro, brows crinkled together. Not his NA chip—John's. John's a bigwig in the FBI, actually one of Hotch's supervisors. And he gave his one-year chip to Spencer. Spencer runs his thumb over the letters on the coin—Out of the darkness of addiction, into the light.
As the metro comes to a stop, Spencer carefully puts the chip in his pocket. He's only ten months—and John wants the chip back when Spencer gets his own one-year. Gripping his bag, Spencer walks up the metro, clumsily jogging up the steps and onto the sidewalk. He's late. Hotch has called him at least six times.
He bites the inside of his cheek as he bolts up the stairs, pushing the glass doors of the BAU open and beelining to the roundtable room, eyes set on the floor below him.
"Officer Letts shot this just before he was killed."
JJ's voice carries through the doorway of the room, and Spencer glances at everyone as he enters, breathless. "Sorry, I'm late."
"I hope she was worth it," Rossi says as Spencer sits down.
"I hope it was a she," Derek replies, glancing at Spencer.
Spencer glances down at the notepad in front of him, picking up a pen. "Oh, sorry, I was at the movies."
"Oh, really? Why don't you tell us what it's about."
Spencer scratches his jaw with his left hand, the annoyance in him growing. "Uh, I had to leave early so I can't really..." He trails off, eyes flicking to Y/n, seated across from him. She's glancing down, reading the file in front of her.
The past two weeks have been weird. She acts like the incident at the bar never happened—like Spencer hadn't witnessed how defensive she had been in front of her apartment. But her attitude hasn't changed—she's still nice and friendly with the team. With him. She's quiet. She goes home after every case, and Spencer never sees her at the apartment complex.
Her eyes flick up, meeting his, and she gives him a small smile. He returns the smile, eyes glancing over to Hotch.
"I know it's late. I know we're tired, but we've got two dead cops."
"The resident, Rod Norris, was DOA. They're still trying to ID the remains of the second victim," JJ explains, holding up Rod Norris' picture, "whom they believe is his sixteen-year old daughter, Jordan." She holds up Jordan's picture. "From the condition of the remains, she would've had to be inside the house close to the source of the blast."
"Clearly, they used the bombing to set the officers up for ambush." Prentiss rests her chin in her left hand, glancing at Hotch.
"It's a well-established terrorist tactic," Spencer explains. "First wave, takes out civilians, the second wave takes out the first responders."
"The locals are thinking terrorism?" Y/n asks, leaning forward in her seat. "In West Bune, Texas?" Spencer notices her shirt—a long-sleeve dark purple turtleneck. Purple. His favorite color.
"Not exactly a tier-one target, but DHS did issue a terror alert." JJ sighs, tapping her fingers on the table.
"It is close to the border," Prentiss says, shrugging. "It could be traffickers sending a message."
"Whoever it is, they gunned down two cops and blew up a teenage girl," Rossi mutters, not sounding too happy.
"'Till they're stopped, no one in that town is safe," Y/n says, glancing down at the photos of the victims.
"We need to be cautious of the locals—they've lost two of their own. They're anxious. They're scared, and they're gonna want revenge." Hotch's voice is calm, and his eyes flick to Spencer. "Wheels up in thirty."
The group breaks, and Spencer pushes the cap of the pen down onto the collar of his sweater, keeping it securely in place as he closes the file and notepad, picking them both up. He ignores the team's eyes on him as he throws the strap of his bag over his shoulder, heading to his desk to get his go bag.
The NA chip feels like it's burning an actual hole through Spencer's pants, almost like everyone can tell the little secret he has in his pocket. Spencer chews on his bottom lip as he picks up his go bag, trying to ignore the feelings. What's worse is the team dancing around the topic—never fully outright asking if he's addicted. They beat around the bush and ask double-edged questions, like maybe if they ask enough, Spencer will admit it to their faces.
It's never going to work.
Shaking off the feeling, he opts on taking the stairs down to the first floor, the light thud of his Converse echoing off the walls of the stairwell. He pushes the door open, walking out into the almost dead FBI lobby before making his way to the small hallway that leads out to the tarmac.
Spencer boards the jet, deciding to take one of the seats at the table. Prentiss, Morgan, and Hotch join him at the table, and as the jet ascends, Spencer cracks open one of his books. He passes the time by reading, occasionally looking up to see Y/n resting her head against the window, seated toward the back of the jet. Her nails—yet again—are scratching her palm, and even from here, he can see the dark circles under her eyes.
The three and a half our jet ride passes quickly, and because it's almost 1 in the morning by the time they touch down, they go straight to the hotel. As soon as Spencer's inside his room, he yawns, locking the door behind him. He strips, making sure to transfer the NA chip to his bag. He pulls on a pair of pajama pants and an old sweater before collapsing into bed, falling asleep quickly.
•••
"Sheriff Hallum?"
"Ma'am?"
"Jennifer Jareau. This is the team." JJ shakes the sheriff's hand as she introduces the team one by one, Spencer giving him a small wave.
"Where do we start?" Hallum asks, his voice laced with a Southern twang.
"First victim, Rod Norris," Hotch states.
"Manager of a chemical plant over at IBIS. No arrests in ten years since his wife left him. I can't blame her for leaving him, but it's a shame she left Jordan behind."
"What can you tell us about Jordan?" Y/n asks, shifting her weight onto her other foot. Her long-sleeve baby blue button up is tucked into a pair of black slacks, her hair half-up, half-down.
"Sweet girl. A bit slow."
"Slow? Was she mentally challenged?"
"Not quite. Special Ed and all that stuff. Takes some talking to her to notice it. I think her mother's leaving took its toll."
Hotch nods at JJ, and she fiddles with the file in her hand. "Sheriff, I'd like to gather your people back at the office so I can brief them all together."
"Sure. But I'm staying here."
"Of course. Thank you." JJ turns to leave, heading toward one of the cop cars and a couple officers standing near it.
The team moves into the damaged house, an absolute mess. Spencer pulls a pair of surgical gloves over his hands, looking around at the remains of the house. Wood, personal belongings, and burnt food were strewn about, the pictures on the walls crooked. He tilts his head, glancing around the kitchen.
"The blast was localized here," he explains.
"The room's been sealed off," Y/n says, pointing at the plastic hanging from the doorway. "There's plastic and duct tape on the doorsills, windows, too."
"Cordite. Gunpowder," Rossi says, standing up from where he was hunched over on the ground.
Spencer looks down at his file, reading over the report. "Yeah, they found a dozen cannisters, it says."
"Well, the concentration of damage puts those cannisters right here by the door," Prentiss states, crossing across the room.
"He seals the kitchen," Rossi states, "blows out the pilot light, trapping the gas in here near the primary charge."
"If she was here," Y/n says, walking over right in front of the fridge, "between the charge and the window..."
"Boom," Prentiss says. "Rod Norris ends up in a tree, Jordan ends up in the field."
Spencer furrows his brows. "They didn't care about the rest of the house, so the whole thing's designed to focus the blast on whoever came through that door."
"Yeah, but what was the trigger?"
Y/n tilts her head, picking something up off the ruined kitchen counter. "Rod Norris, he was a smoker. And they knew he would be coming through that door."
"And they knew he'd be smoking when he did it," Spencer says, glancing over at Y/n.
She bites the skin on her bottom lip, her eyes narrowed. She sets the box of cigarettes down before her eyes flick back up to Spencer. She holds his gaze, and Spencer turns his head away, the unmistakable feeling of heat creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, heading outside to meet Hotch and Morgan where the cops had been shot.
"This was personal," Hotch states.
"They knew each other?" Hallum asks.
"Enough to know Rod Norris would enter through the back door while smoking," Spencer says, walking over to the group. His eyes land on the pools of blood and he walks toward them.
"And they knew Lou Savage was on duty and would respond."
"This wasn't terrorism," Hotch says, "domestic or otherwise. Terrorists rarely know their victims, at least not personally."
"Because they knew Rod Norris was a smoker who used the back door?" Hallum asks, his voice laced with disbelief.
"And shot Deputy Savage in the face at pointblank range," Derek says, his voice firm. "He walked past Letts, who was alive, shoots Savage in the face when he knows he's already dead."
Spencer bites the inside of his cheek as he looks at the pools of blood, tilting his head before standing up and glancing at the three men in front of him.
"Overkill means rage. Rage means a close personal relationship," Spencer states.
"Can you think of anyone with a close personal connection to Rod Norris and Lou Savage?" Derek asks.
"I didn't think about it because of the terror alert..."
Hotch tilts his head. "Think about what?"
"Owen Savage. Lou's son was dating Jordan Norris."
•••
Spencer glances at the Johnny Cash poster in front of him, turning around when he hears Derek and Y/n enter Owen Savage's bedroom.
"The gun safe is empty."
"That's a surprise," Spencer says, his voice full of sarcasm, his eyes settling on a picture of a crashed car on Owen's wall.
"That's James Dean's Porsche," Derek says, looking around the room. "No pictures of James Dean though. That's a bad sign."
"Especially when your mother died in a car accident," Spencer mutters, turning around and walking away from the poster. "Still haven't found the father of the year award."
Spencer turns around, biting the inside of his cheek as he bends down, looking at the objects on Owen's bedside table. He knows he sounds like an asshole—but he can't help it.
"You already check his computer?" Y/n asks, glancing at the computer sitting on the desk.
"It's password encrypted," Spencer says, standing up straight.
"Smart move if your dad's a cop."
"Assuming he cares enough to snoop."
"Reid. Check yourself." Morgan's voice is firm.
Spencer shrugs, internally rolling his eyes as he looks at the room around him. He opens the closet door, glancing at the black clothes inside, the back of the door painted black. He turns back to look at Derek and Y/n.
"So he identifies as a misunderstood loner. You know, I wish all our unsubs would tack their profiles on their walls like this for us." Derek looks at the Johnny Cash poster.
"It doesn't mean anything." Spencer's voice is slightly defensive, and for some reason, he can't help but feel a little bit angry. "What, you grew up in Chicago, a high school jock, you had pictures of Scottie Pippen and Michael Jordan all over your walls? Trophies everywhere?"
"Yeah," Derek says, raising his eyebrows.
Spencer can't help but empathize with the boy he doesn't even know—a misunderstood loner, as Derek said. Loner. Loser. Alone. A pang of hurt hits Spencer's chest, and he chews on his bottom lip, avoiding Y/n and Derek's gaze.
They descend the stairs, running into Hotch. Hotch looks at Morgan and Y/n, nodding at them. "Stay here and work the room. Reid and I will go to the high school to talk to Owen's counselor. We need to get a profile and figure out where he's going."
Spencer nods at Hotch, his brows still crinkled. He can't help but feel...a little angry at how Derek is acting. He doesn't understand—he doesn't get it. He doesn't understand what it's like to be a loser. To have no friends. No one. Alone.
•••
"As Owen's counselor, what can you tell us about Jordan and Owen?"
Spencer has his left hand in his pocket, the other holding the file tightly as he and Hotch walk down the hallway with Owen's counselor. He glances at the older man, the wrinkles sinking deep into his face.
"Not much. They started dating last year when Owen moved to Special Ed."
"Junior year—isn't that a bit late?" Hotch asks, tilting his head.
"Yes, if he'd been put there for academic reasons."
Spencer opens up the file, glancing down at it as he walks. "So what was the problem?"
"Bad attitude, lack of effort. Owen applied himself in some classes. He did very well. But it didn't last."
The counselor opens the door to the front office, and Hotch and Spencer walk through, Spencer still glancing down at the file in his hands. He's growing more frustrated by the second.
"The problem wasn't lack of effort or bad attitude," Spencer states. "The As in math and science tell us he's a gifted student. The Ds in English and history, that tells us that he had difficulty reading. And the F in geometry, that indicates a severe problem with spatial relations. That's further confirmed by his atrocious, illegible handwriting."
"All consisted with a brilliant but severely learning-disabled student." Hotch takes the file from Spencer's hands.
"Yeah, but his standardized tests didn't support that kind of intelligence," the counselor states.
"A spatial relations handicap affects your hand-eye coordination," Spencer says, his voice frustrated and condescending. "He couldn't fill in an answer bubble any easier than he could...hit a baseball."
"Which is why he stayed away from sports," Hotch continues.
"Sports were a sore spot with his father," the counselor says. "I mean, he joined the wrestling team freshman year just to appease his old man, but...that didn't work out. Excuse me."
Spencer watches the man pass him to grab the phone, turning his attention back to Hotch. "He was probably the smartest kid in class. He just couldn't prove it." He crosses over to Hotch. "Being the smartest kid in class is like being the only kid in class. He missed all of it."
"But schools like this can't meet the specialized needs of every student," Hotch explains to Spencer.
"He gives everything he's got, over and over and over again, and continues to fail!" Spencer's visibly growing more upset. "And the whole time—the whole time—they tell him that it's his fault! I mean, it makes sense!"
"No, it doesn't." Hotch's voice is quiet, glancing at Spencer with his intense brown eyes. "An undiagnosed learning disability does not add up to this level of violence, not without severe emotional abuse. You know that."
Spencer does know that—but he doesn't care. Reason isn't something that seems to be resonating right now—only that feeling. The feeling of isolation and fucking empathy for this kid. He averts his gaze, looking down at the floor, chewing on his bottom lip as Hotch's phone rings.
"You got something?" Hotch listens for a moment before nodding. "Okay, send it to us." He hangs up, looking at Spencer. "Morgan's sending us an MPEG."
It takes a few moments before the MPEG pops up on the school computer, Hotch, Spencer, and the counselor crowding around to watch it. The sight makes Spencer sick to his stomach. Owen Savage is in a bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Being filmed by what Spencer can only presume is the wrestling team.
"He didn't know he was being filmed," Spencer whispers. "Did Owen tell you about this?"
"He didn't have to," the older man says. "It was posted on the school social networking site. We pulled it down immediately."
"Once it's on the internet, it's out there forever," Spencer argues. "Owen knew that."
"Did Owen tell his father?"
"Not at first, but when Owen quit the team, his father confronted him. I mean he blamed Owen for the whole thing."
"Owen joined the team to get his father's approval." Spencer taps his foot on the ground, clenching his right hand into a fist.
"How were these boys punished?" Hotch asks, glancing down at the screen.
"Owen identified them, but on film, all we have are their voices. I mean, even if they'd admitted involvement, all they'd have to do is say Owen didn't have to do it."
"He didn't know he was being filmed!" Spencer's voice is rising, the anger bubbling beneath the surface of his skin.
"Look, it's his word against theirs! I mean—parents will get involved, the school board, lawyers. I mean, cyber bullying is a hot issue right now."
Spencer flares his nostrils, nodding his head sarcastically. On the inside, he's fucking screaming. Because he knows what it's like to be bullied. He knows what it feels like and how fucking traumatizing it is.
"What did you tell Owen?" Hotch asks.
"I told him that dealing with bullies is part of growing up."
"Sounds familiar." A humorless smile crosses Spencer's face.
"Boys have a way of sorting things out for themselves," the counselor says defensively.
Spencer gives a small laugh. "Yeah, they sure do. Right now, Owen's out there sorting it out with an assault rifle."
"Reid."
Spencer looks at Hotch before turning back to the counselor, throwing the file on the floor before flinging the door open and exiting the room. Leaning against the wall, he closes his eyes, trying to take deep breaths to calm himself. This is wrong. Empathizing with a murderer is wrong. And he knows it.
After a few minutes, Hotch, Rossi, and Prentiss—who he didn't even hear walk into the room—come get him, dragging him back inside. They all stand in front of a computer, Garcia's face popping up on the screen.
"You need to see this. It's...you need to see it."
The screen changes, three boys on their knees, stripped of their clothing except their boxers. Spencer's blood runs cold, biting the inside of his cheek as he watches. Spencer looks away as he hears the gunshots, anger radiating inside of him, about to fucking burst. All it'll take is one comment, and the bubble will pop.
The team heads back to the station after looking at the bodies to give the profile. The officers aren't willing to hear it though—arguing with JJ that they're wasting time waiting around instead of going to catch Owen.
"Owen's watching," Hotch states, his voice stern. "He's monitoring the news. Right now, he thinks you think he's gone. He feels safe. If we start knocking on doors, he's gonna know that he's not. He's going to feel trapped."
"Why the hell should we care about this little bastard's feelings?" The officer says.
"Alright, we're here to help you bring in Owen Savage with minimum loss of life," JJ says, her tone a smidge condescending. "The profile tells you the best way to do that."
"Owen Savage fits the profile of a type of school shooter known as an injustice collector," Spencer explains. "He's trying to avenge perceived wrongs."
"If he's a school shooter, why hasn't he hit the school yet?"
"Because of Jordan." Prentiss explains. "Jordan gives him a reason to live."
"Otherwise, he's a textbook case. His life was one torment after another. His teachers gave up on him, his classmates bullied him, and his father blamed him all while giving him access to guns. Given these conditions, you're actually quite fortunate." Spencer's so close to snapping, his voice on edge.
"It sounds like you're saying the victims deserved this."
"We're not. Nobody deserves this," Hotch says.
Spencer snaps. "But you could have prevented it."
"Reid, can I talk to you?"
Spencer angrily follows Hotch into the hallway, slamming the door shut behind him. "It's the truth! They could've done something. They work with his father, they knew Owen."
"So what?" Hotch asks, shaking his head. "All adolescents profile like sociopaths. There's a reason you can't diagnose them until they're eighteen."
"Yeah, and they could've seen the signs!" Spencer argues, clenching his hands into fists.
"Nobody sees the signs, Reid! You know that! And making it their fault is not only unfair, it's dangerous." Hotch takes a step toward him. "I want you to go back to the Savage house and I want you to go through Owen's room."
"Morgan and Y/n are already doing that."
"Yeah, and you're gonna join them."
"Oh, you're punishing me?!"
"No. I'm using you. You know this kid better than anybody. Go find us something we can use."
Spencer glares at Hotch before opening the door and storming out of the station.
•••
"Garcia restored those emails," Morgan says, walking into the room.
"Mmm. Where's Y/n?"
"She's snooping around downstairs."
"Well, I'm sorting through the emails right now," Spencer says, staring at the screen.
Derek's quiet, and Spencer hears the bed squeak as he sits down. "Reid." Spencer turns his head, glancing at Morgan. "You know, you're not the only one who identifies with him." Spencer swivels around in his chair, turning to look at Morgan full on. "You said I was a high school jock. I was. But not at first. My freshman year I was five foot three. I weighted a buck twenty soaking wet." Spencer smiles at Morgan. "So trust me when I tell you I got my ass kicked every day. So the following summer, I hit the weights. And I got lucky. I grew six inches. But it was never about vanity, Reid. It was about survival."
Spencer scrunches his brows, clearing his throat. He feels an old feeling stir in his chest—one he's tried so hard to forget. If he closes his eyes, he can still feel the rope around his wrists, feel how sore his throat was from yelling so loud. He can feel the cold seeping into his bare feet, traveling up his body.
"I was in the library, and uh, Harper Hillman comes up to me, and she tells me that Alex Lisben wants to meet me behind the field house. Alexa Lisben's like...easily the prettiest girl in school." Spencer bites the inside of his cheek, flashing back to that dreaded moment in his life.
"So what happened? Alexa wasn't there?"
"She was there," Spencer says quietly, eyes downcast, focusing on the floor. "So was the entire football team. They...uh...stripped me naked and tied me to a goal post. So many kids were there, you know, just watching."
"Nobody tried to stop them?"
Spencer shakes his head. "I begged—I begged them to, but they just watched. And finally, they got bored, and they left." Spencer swallows the lump in his throat, and he can feel the stupid prickle of tears in his eyes. "Um...a girl actually found me, at like, ten o'clock at night. And she untied me and gave me her clothes. She...it was like she was my savior; you know? She helped me when no one else did." Spencer smiles softly before his lips turn back down into a frown. "When I finally got home, my mom didn't..." Spencer pauses, his lower lip trembling. "Mom was having one of her episodes, so she didn't even realize I was late."
"You never told her what happened?"
"I never told anybody. I thought...it was one of those things that I thought if I didn't talk about it, I'd just forget. But I remember it like it was yesterday." Spencer's voice cracks, and he looks down at the floor, trying to will the aching in his chest to go away.
"Ah, Reid, you don't need an eidetic memory for that," Morgan says, sighing. "You know, we forget half of what they teach us in school, but when it comes to the torment and the people who inflicted it...we've all got an elephant's memory."
"Owen just wants to forget," Spencer whispers, leaning forward in his seat. Forget. Spencer wants to forget. He scratches his left forearm, nails digging into the skin so hard it leaves marks. He wishes it were the prick of a needle he was feeling instead. "I know what that's like."
Someone clears their throat, and Spencer's head shoots up, meeting the gaze of Y/n standing in the doorway of the bedroom.
——————————————
Author's Note
ITS STARTINGGGGGGG
Yay yay yay, I'm so glad I'm finally at the part where it starts getting good.
Also...this fic is a SLOOOOW burn. Like it's a big fat slow burn. Stay aware of that.
I hope y'all enjoyed this chapter! :) <3